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"Never said you weren't."
"You don't have to - it's all in the look."
I massaged my neck, working out the kinks from a long day of sitting, while trying to forget that my prey was walking straight into a trap as perfect as any I could have set.
Too perfect?
What if Fenniger was the one setting it?
That slowed my thumping heart.
"Do you think he could have made us?" I said. "If he knows we're tailing him, this is the perfect place to get us out and separated."
"Yeah."
"Yeah?"
"Thought about that. Was going to mention it."
"When? As I'm running after him? Were you going to shout after me, 'Oh, by the way, this could be a trap'?"
"Nah. Hate shouting."
I shook my head as Fenniger scaled the eight-foot fence.
Jack continued, "Could always be a trap. Any stakeout. Any chase. Any hit. You think you're in control? Never count on it."
Fenniger was at the top now, dimly silhouetted against the overcast night sky. There were two lines of barbed wire across the top. As Fenniger cut it, Jack cracked down his window. I arched my brows.
"Dogs," he murmured, meaning he was listening for guard dogs.
I suspected the barbed-wire fence was the only security. The cars inside didn't look like they'd have enough salvageable parts to make even fence climbing worthwhile.
Fenniger hit the ground with a thump. No thunder of running paws answered. Not a bark, growl, or whine, either.
"Toolbox?" Jack whispered as he put the window up.
I pulled it from under my seat and checked for wire cutters as he outlined a plan.
When he finished, I laughed softly. "An oldie but a goodie."
"Think you can manage?" he asked.
"I do believe I'll be a natural."
I turned off the dimmer so we could open the doors without the lights going on. I waited for Jack to step out, then crawled across his seat. The fewer doors opening, the less noise.
We searched for a good spot to scale the fence. Clip ping the barbed wire at the top was a noise we couldn't eliminate, so we'd make our cut under a tree, where I couldn't be seen.
After last night's warm evening, the temperature had dropped again in typically unpredictable spring fashion. I could see my breath hanging in the air. Cold always seems to make every noise louder, as if the sound waves bounce off the frozen surfaces. More likely, it's just the absence of competition - on nights like these, most living things hole up.
I helped Jack over the fence - one time he didn't pull the "I can handle it" routine. Then we stood in the dark patch under the tree. After a moment, I picked up the faint scratch of metal on metal - the wind rubbing parts together deep in the yard. A furious rustle erupted to our left. Rats or other night animals. A rhythmic plinking from the direction of the building would be rain gutter runoff or fluid dripping from a car. A cow lowed in the distance. A dog answered, a trio of hopeful barks trailing off in a mournful howl.
Jack's fingers brushed my hip, and he directed my attention to a faint glow behind the wreck mountain closest to the office. The light bobbed, then swung across the building. Fenniger's flashlight.
Was he heading for the office? Junkyards and auto wreckers were popular businesses for both petty criminals and crime organizations - a legitimate business on a big piece of property in an isolated location.
There was unlikely to be anything of value in the office, but Fenniger wasn't a thief. More likely there was a drop box here where he could pick up weapons, fake ID, or other equipment he'd bought.
