We park two SUVs at the tree line.
I came heavy. Twelve men, two of them carrying long. Two more in the second SUV with the trunk full of equipment we don’t intend to use unless we have to. Lorenzo at my elbow. The remaining eight split between the road behind us and the rear of the building, watching for anyone arriving who isn’t on the guest list.
I don’t trust Victor Moreno. I never have. The meeting he proposed at the end of yesterday—neutral ground, midnight, bring whoever I want—is the kind of meeting that has a knife inside it. He knows I know that. He’s counting on me being the kind of man who comes anyway.
He’s right. I came.
“You really think he’s gonna play nice?” Lorenzo’s keeping pace with me as we cross the gravel.
“No. I think he’s going to try something. I want to see what.”
“And if it’s a trap?”
“Then we spring it on our terms.”
“That’s my favorite kind.”
The side door’s unlocked. I push it open with the back of my hand and let it swing the rest of the way on its own. Lorenzo and I go in low, the four men behind us spreading immediately. The long guns find the catwalk first.
Nothing on the catwalk.
Nothing behind the crates. Nothing in the cage office at the far end. Nothing in the side rooms with the doors hanging on one hinge. The warehouse is a long concrete shoebox the size of a basketball court and a half, and there’s no one inside it but us.
Dust. Stacked pallets. The brown rust streaks running down from the windows. A row of forklifts with flat tires. The smell of standing water somewhere.
Lorenzo lowers his rifle.
“The fuck is this?”
I check my watch.
Midnight. On the minute.
“Spread out. Defensive. Crates, columns, anywhere with cover. Eyes on every door.”
The men move without speaking. They take positions on the diagonals. Two on the back wall, two on the side door we came through, the rest fanned across the floor with sightlines that overlap.
I stay where I am.
He’s not here.
I’m working out exactly which kind of stupid that makes me when I hear the engines.
Outside.
More than one. Three at least, coming down the road from the south, gravel under tires, then the longer rumble of vehicles slowing into the lot.
“Boss.” One of my men. At the side door. Looking out the gap. “Three SUVs. Pulling up.”
“Whose?”
He looks again.
“Conti. That’s Nico’s lead car. I’d know it anywhere.”
What the hell are you planning, Victor?
I don’t get to follow the thought any further before the front door of the warehouse swings open.
