Page 104 of Oddly Fine

“Just so you’re aware—this industrial complex was built on an old marsh. There are swamps and mud pits still in the area—would be nice if you didn’t sink into one,” Hayes informed him coolly. “But I’m sure you’ve already factored that into your incredibly brilliant plan.”

“All I heard was the part about the incredibly brilliant plan,” he told his partner, like the little shit he was, even as he advanced a bit more cautiously now. Falling into a swamp or mud pit would definitely not be covert.

His partner muttered something that was probably less than complimentary regarding Beckett’s as-yet-undetermined-plan and then cut the call. Smiling at Hayes’ typical reactions to his shenanigans in the field, he pocketed his phone, instantly missing ready access to Hayes. They should have worn the comms system they used when guarding Matthew—fuck.

Slowing as he crept closer to the factory entrance, he could see it was designed well. He could not get past security without being spotted. So, that left him with only one way to get in undetected.

Beckett watched as yet another truck appeared and its turn signal blinked brightly in the darkness. Once the truck had completed the turn onto the entrance road, he readied himself, waiting until it was nearing the main gate before springing to his feet and crouching at the back of it. He waited, staying low to the ground to avoid the wide-angle lens of the security gate’s camera. The driver showed his ID, exchanged greetings with the guard, and then drove slowly through the gates. Beckett stood up and shuffled along behind it, adopting a haggard, downtrodden expression. The guard’s booth had a set up that resembled the kind used in collecting highway tolls. The camera next to the gate was angled upwards to capture the faces of the truck drivers, so Beckett was hoping he was too short to get caught on camera.

The guard spotted him immediately.

“Hey! You’re not—”

“Oh, thank God!” Beckett cut him off with a shout. “I was so worried I’d have to deal with one of those damned electronic entry things! Listen, man, my car broke down like—a mile or so down the road, and my phone is dead. Like—dead, dead. Can I borrow yours? Or like—can you call a tow truck for me or something? Shit, this road is fucking scary at night! I swear I saw a rat that was as goddamned big as a cat!”

The poor guard looked at a complete loss. He glanced around furtively, as if expecting a SWAT team to come charging through the gate. Failing to spot any imminent threats, he shrugged and turned back towards Beckett.

“Eh—well, yeah, suppose I can,” he replied hesitantly. Beckett watched him carefully as he reached for the phone in his jacket pocket and handed it over.

Now—Beckett had been around the block a few times when it came to surprise attacks, but using a guy’s arm as a rope was definitely a new one. He bypassed the guard’s wrist and forearm so he could grab him by the shoulders with both hands. Startled, the guard jerked backwards in a move that Beckett had anticipated. He used the guy’s momentum to propel himself up and into the booth. He landed like a ton of brinks on top of the guard. Before the guy could grab his radio, or even attempt to fight back, Beckett had him in a headlock, cutting off his air supply. The guard struggled for a minute, clawing desperately at Beckett’s arm, and then passed out.

“Sorry, Buddy, nothing personal,” he apologized to the unconscious man. He reached in his back pocket for his trusty zip ties, and made quick work of securing his hands. Then he wrapped an old t-shirt he’d stuffed in his cargo pants pre-emptively—mostly in case he ended up having some bullet holes to deal with later, but still—and tied it around the man’s face like a gag. It wasn’t perfect, but if Paul-Blart-Mall-Cop woke up, it would buy Beckett a few extra minutes to get out before he called for help. He grabbed the guard’s radio and checked the road leading to the gate for traffic. Nothing was headed his way.

Without wasting another second, Beckett raced out of the booth towards the armored truck at the other end of the lot.

His phone buzzed in his back pocket, and he quickly answered.

“That was not a well-thought-out plan—” Hayes complained.

“Exactly why I didn’t share with the class,” Beckett said, snickering at his own mad genius. “I have to get out before the next truck rolls up. Can you stay on the line with me and yell if you see anything?” he asked, hating the idea of having to hang up again. Hayes sighed, plenty loud enough to be heard over the speaker as Beckett dropped his phone in his jacket’s inside breast pocket with the call still connected. Thank God he’d worn his work gear. Hayes might favour suits because they were more professional, but nothing was more practical than cargo pants, and his tricked-out, old suede bomber jacket when he was in the field and needed to get shit done.

“I’m at the truck.” He provided Hayes with a play-by-play of his movements since he had to keep his eyes trained on the road. Easing up next to the same truck he’d tagged at the Rosario office building, he reached for the small block of C-4 in his pocket. Hopefully, he’d be able to jimmy the lock since explosives were never silent, but he liked to be prepared either way. He reached for the handle at the back and pulled—nearly falling flat on his ass as the door simply—swung open on well-oiled hinges.

It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dark interior, but when they did, well—Beckett wasn’t sure what he was looking at. Surprised and puzzled, he began bringing Hayes up to speed.

“You know how my mom says I got dropped on my head as a kid? Well—I swear I’m not making this shit up, but there’s—I mean—he’s got coffins back here. Coffins in a cage. I—shit, Nancy. Am I seeing things? I think he’s probably even got Dracula back here!” Beckett climbed into the back of the van and retrieved his GPS tracker. As he stood back up, he scanned as much of the interior as possible. At the realization that there were far too many details for him to be able to recall later, he pulled up the video function on his phone and got busy.

“I think—is that garlic? Jesus, this is either the kinkiest party bus I’ve ever seen, or he’s transporting Nosferatu in this damned thing.” Because really, he didn’t know how else to describe what was in front of him.

“Headlights approaching rapidly. Unclear if it’s a truck yet, but you better get out of there,” Hayes ordered calmly but firmly.

Beckett didn’t argue. He jumped out of the truck, tucked his cellphone back in his pocket, careful to keep the call active, and gently shut the doors. Then, he hightailed it back the way he’d come.

By the time he got to the booth, he saw the truck signaling to turn in the entrance.

“Fuck,” he muttered. It was too late to make a run for it. He’d just—improvise. Beckett slid back into the booth and grabbed the security guard’s cap off his head. The man was still out cold, a rather large obstacle to work around to reach the main window and the control console. Thankfully, there were only three buttons on it. He liked his odds in picking the right one.

The truck stopped next to the booth and the driver rolled down his window.

“Here,” he said, briskly shoving his papers at Beckett.

Beckett accepted the papers, pretended to examine them carefully like any responsible gate guard would do, then gave an approving nod and handed them back to the driver.

“Thought Martinez was on duty tonight,” the driver said, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Called in sick—something about his boyfriend being hospitalised,” Beckett said, shrugging like it was above his paygrade.

“Boyfriend?” The driver looked shocked.