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Max lowers the heat sensing goggles. Painted white cinderblocks form the exterior for all three buildings. Two of the buildings are smaller, with one thousand square feet interiors. The largest building is shaped like a traditional schoolhouse from the eighteen hundreds.
All lights are out. The occupants should be sleeping. To the front of the schoolhouse building is a gravel parking lot with a beat-up Land Rover, an open Jeep, top off, and a circa nineteen-eighties Cadillac.
This feels off.
“All the tangos are quiet,” Max reports. “No sign of movement.”
The property encompasses two acres according to tax documents. Security could be roaming the perimeter.
“I count an estimated twenty in horizontal positions in the big house. Cold in the two small houses,” Max says.
“Rex, cover my six,” I say, ready to get this done. “I’ll clear the two small houses. Max, Mateo, stay back. Let’s see if movement stirs anything.”
“Copy.”
The knob on the door to the first house twists easily. Unlocked.
Inside, there are two tables with charging cables. There’s a world map hanging on one wall. Pens. Blank pads of paper. No phones. A small table in the corner holds a dated printer. It’s someone’s office. The windows are high on the wall, so whoever works in here has no view. A dusty bikini-model calendar hangs on a single nail. I step closer. It’s open to May. Lean a little closer. 2022. This office doesn’t get a lot of use.
Outside, I point to the next house, and Rex falls in line.
The white paint is peeling, and there’s rust forming where the nails are below the paint. The knob twists. Locked. I shake the knob, and the door shifts. Based on the degree of movement, the lock is weak. I scan the perimeter. The tree line. Listen to the hum of crickets and crashing waves. On the count of three, I ram my shoulder against the door. The flimsy lock snaps. Stacked boxes line one wall. I flip open a cardboard lid. Water bottles. The brand logo for Frito-Lay is stamped on the side of another box. Some boxes are plain.
Odd. But the contents aren’t important. Sloane’s too big to fit in a box. I pull the door closed.
We retrace our steps back to Max and Mateo.
“Nada,” I say as I approach. “If she’s here, she’s in the big house.”
Rex and Mateo described this place as having military grade security detail. So far, I disagree. Assault rifles don’t equal military grade. Max and I exchange glances. My interpretation of his unamused expression is he’s coming to the same conclusion.
One more building to go. But my instincts tell me it’s highly unlikely she’s here. And if she is, they haven’t held her here against her will.
Based on the floor plans, the schoolhouse building has one central room, but on the south side of the building is a series of four square rooms without windows.
No security system. Lights hang in the corners below the eaves of the big house. They could be motion-detector lights.
We approach the double door on the side of the building with care. By silent agreement, Rex and Mateo cover, while Max and I breach the thirty-foot perimeter.
A light flicks on. We crouch.
No movement. No sound.
We continue to the double doors. Locked. Max unrolls his lock kit. In thirty-five seconds, we’re in. We lower our night vision goggles, raise our guns, and enter.
A television and two sofas are to the left. The cinderblock wall behind the sofa doesn’t reach the ceiling. To our right is a kitchen and a long table with around a dozen chairs. The cinderblock wall behind the kitchen reaches the ceiling. The floor is concrete.
Silence. It appears all the occupants are sleeping. Past the half-wall, there’s a series of metal bunk beds. Adult men and women, maybe some teenagers, sleep. All have dark hair and olive skin.
I twist the knob on the first door to my right. Peer inside. One narrow bed. A man with a shaved head sleeps. Mouth open. Snoring. There’s a rifle propped against the far corner. A table with an AK-47 and ammunition.
Behind door number two, a person with long hair sleeps on the side, face to the wall. Sloane? The door was unlocked. There’s a Bible on the bedside table. The person shifts. A dark beard. Not Sloane. I back out.
In the third room, two people sleep in a larger bed. Possibly queen size. I let my eyes focus. One male and one female sleep in the bed, but judging from the blend of white strands and the wrinkled skin, I’d estimate the woman is in her sixties. Not Sloane.
The last room is a bathroom. A line of four open showers, two bathroom stalls, and four sinks. A ring of rust rims the bases of the sinks.
We exit the building. I flick my finger, giving the hand signal to depart.
