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“Of course.” As Oliver pulled out his keys, a gunshot cracked, bits of brick hitting them.
Sam stepped in front of Remi as she pulled Oliver next to her in the doorway. The gunman was somewhere to their left.
Two more shots hit the wall beside them from the right. “Remi?” he called out, unable to spot the second shooter.
“We’re fine. I came prepared.” She already had her Sig Sauer drawn.
He gripped his Smith & Wesson, scanning the street. “Not trying to pressure you, Oliver. But we need in. Now.”
“One of these keys,” Oliver said.
Sam kept his focus outward, gun aimed, as Oliver, hand shaking, worked at the lock on the warehouse door, unable to find the right key.
They needed to move.
17
Oliver dropped the keys as several shots hit the building.
“Remi?”
“Got you covered, Sam.”
She fired once in each direction as Sam gave the door a hard kick, but it didn’t budge.
Abruptly, Oliver pushed Sam aside, threw his shoulder against the door, and watched as the Fargos stared, dumbstruck, at seeing it swing open and crash against its hinge stops.
“Where did you learn how to open doors like that?” asked Remi, highly impressed.
“From three years on the Manchester Unified Soccer Team—”
Oliver was interrupted by a spray of shotgun pellets that ricocheted off the bricks beside Sam. Remi wasted no time raising her Sig Sauer, and she fired around the doorway but was unable to spot the gunman. Sam laid down a short barrage of fire at two targets he spotted on the roof of the building next door.
Oliver threw his arms over his head at the crack of the gunshot, as shreds of brick cut tiny furrows in his forehead. Sam shielded Remi when she rammed against Oliver, propelling him through the open doorway. He emptied the Smith & Wesson at the gunmen on the roof. One clutched his shoulder as he fell over the edge of the parapet. He was quickly dragged away by his companions.
The office was black with soot, the floor still wet, everything reeking of charred wood. There was a second door leading into the warehouse that was also locked. Oliver threw his shoulder into it. The moment they were through, Sam slammed the door closed, Oliver pushing a heavy workbench against it. All were breathing heavily when Remi checked the men. The only injuries she found were the lacerations on Oliver’s head.
“We need something heavier to block the door,” Sam said, scanning the concrete floor. He spotted a rusty engine block hanging from a red hoist’s chain and pulleys less than fifty feet away. Sam and Oliver, shoulder to shoulder, rolled the engine block on the hoist’s overhead rail unit until it was hanging over the workbench. Oliver lowered the hoist’s iron hook until the hunk of iron it was supporting thumped on the bench’s surface, securely blocking the doorway. And none too soon.
They heard footsteps in the office, then someone shouting, “Get that door open.”
Sam spoke to Remi in a low vice. “How many shots do you have left?”
“Three. How about you?”
“Just reloaded,” Sam whispered.
“Come closer to the door,” came a gruff voice. “We can’t hear you.”
Sam silently motioned everyone back. Just as they moved farther away, hugging the concrete floor that reeked with rancid diesel oil, a deafening blast of automatic gunfire filled the warehouse.
“Down!” Sam shouted, shielding Remi beneath him. Oliver froze, and Sam reached up and pulled him to the floor as another barrage of bullets ricocheted off the engine block. Lying on his stomach safely below the spread of bullets, Sam looked around the warehouse and took stock. It was empty except for two classic vehicles, a dark green 1929 4½-liter Blower Bentley and a classic 1917 Ahrens-Fox fire engine, against the rear wall. Frozen in time, neither looked like their tires had rolled over a street in a century. They were parked side by side next to a metal tool cabinet and under three skylights coated with layers of soot and dust that only allowed a dim blanket of daylight to leak through to the interior of the warehouse.
To their left, at the far end of the ancient building, stood the impassible corrugated iron doors, unfortunately secured on the outside with the huge chain and padlock. They saw no sign of another exit. Or useable phone.
He checked Remi, who seemed well composed, using her cell phone to call for help. Not so for Oliver, his skin tone ashen, a sheen of perspiration glistening on his forehead. Sam noticed he was cradling his right elbow, blood seeping through his fingers. Sam quickly pulled off Oliver’s coat and saw a deep gash and led him to a seat behind one of the two desks pushed together as a workbench. “Remi,” he shouted, seeing a stack of clean orange rags folded on the counter near a pegboard. “Toss me a couple.”
Remi grabbed several, bringing them to him. He folded one as a compress, pressing it against Oliver’s arm, knotting two others together to hold it in place. At least it wasn’t arterial. He’d survive—assuming they could escape.
