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CHAPTER
75
DICK JOHNSON WENT ON THE move late that night. And Robie and Reel, who had changed clothes and looked as different as possible from earlier, were right there with him.
The town was actually larger than it looked, and there were many
streets and back alleys off the main roads. Johnson took one of these and kept going for about fifteen blocks until the snow globe town turned into something a little less picturesque.
As before, Reel and Robie took turns trailing Johnson. They were wearing layers, and when one broke off from the tail they would shed a layer and stuff it in the knapsack each of them carried. With different clothes and staggering their surveillance, even someone as trained Johnson would have been hard pressed to spot them.
But he was taking steps to make sure he wasn’t followed. He continually crossed the street. And occasionally when he would pass a darkened plate glass window he would stop in front of it and pretend to look at the merchandise while he used the reflective surface to check who was around. Sometimes he would simply stop, turn around, and start walking in the opposite direction, his gaze swiveling in all directions. Robie and Reel knew all of these tricks but still had to hustle to keep their cover.
The trail finally ended at a large old building on the outskirts of town, far away from the scheduled event and security perimeter.
Johnson went inside and Reel and Robie stood next to each other in the deep shadows of a nearby alley.
“Warehouse?” said Robie.
“Or operations center more likely,” said Reel.
“Then we need to get in.”
“Tricky. It’s probably better guarded than the Middle East event.”
“And yet here we are just a few feet away with a target under surveillance.”
The front door of the place opened and a man came out.
Robie lifted his night optics to his eyes and took a peek. He handed the optics to Reel, who watched the man slowly walk down the street.
“Judge Samuel Kent,” said Reel.
“They brought in the big gun for the finale.”
“That validates our decision to come here.”
“validates, but that’s all.”
“We need to split up,” said Reel. “I’ll take Kent. You take the warehouse.”
She started to head off, but he gripped her arm. “Follow, don’t kill. We need him alive. For now.”
She pulled free from his grip. “Do you really think you need to tell me how to do my job?”
“I’m thinking about your lost friends. Sometimes the temptation can be too great.”
“I don’t want just him. I want them all, Robie. And if he needs to keep breathing in order to do that, so be it.”
“Just so we have it straight.”
“We have it straight.”
She headed off into the darkness.
Robie watched her until she and Kent disappeared into the night.
He turned his attention back to the building. Slowly he made his way around its footprint, checking out all entry and exit spots as he went along. Most of the windows were dark, but not all.
Three lighted windows, and he saw movement at two of them. They were all on the lower level.
He figured perimeter security was posted 24/7 if this was really their command center. And because Kent had been here, Robie had to assume it was. So how to get in and then out with what they needed but no one the wiser?
“Pretty much impossible,” he told himself as he crouched in the alley staring up at the building. But then another idea struck him.
He spoke into his mic. “Progress report?”
“very little, actually. Still walking,” answered Reel. “Don’t think he’s staying at the same place as the hired help. You?”
“Gonna try something.”
“What does that mean exactly?” she said, sounding a little startled.
“It means exactly that I’ll let you know when I’m done.”
“Robie, if you’re going to go in there I’m coming with you.”
“I didn’t say I was going in there.”
“You didn’t say you weren’t either.”
“I’ve been doing this sort of thing solo for a long time, okay?” he said harshly.
“Right, okay,” she said, sounding sheepish. “Report back when you can.”
Robie took a few careful steps out of the alley and peered upward. The front and rear doors were out. They would be guarded. The lower-level windows were out for the same reason.
That was why Robie was peering upward. He figured this strike team didn’t have unlimited manpower. They would have to conserve what they did have and utilize it optimally. That meant not wasting it guarding portals that were literally out of reach.
But few things were truly out of reach. And this building was old. And the veneer was brick. Uneven brick.
That meant there were handholds.
The back of the building faced an abandoned structure. Robie gripped an edge of brick with fingers that were nearly as strong as steel. Handling a fifteen-pound sniper rifle, pulling triggers, and bracing for recoil to immediately fire again had made his grip one of the strongest things about him.
It would come in handy tonight.
He had to make the climb in darkness, because even a penlight would seem like a ship’s beacon. But there was a dull glow of moonlight. That was both good and bad. Good if it made him see a handhold he ordinarily wouldn’t have seen. Bad if they had a patrol passing around the outside of the building and one of them happened to look up.
He kept going, slipped twice, nearly fell once, but his hand finally gripped the ledge outside a darkened window and he lifted himself up and perched on the narrow space. The window was locked.
He pulled out his Swiss Army knife, which the security checkpoint had missed, and a few seconds later passed through the open window and dropped noiselessly to the floor. Now he used his penlight to see, because the darkness was nearly complete in here.
The room was empty except for a few odd pieces of furniture, some old paint cans, tarps, and rusted tools. It seemed someone was going to renovate the space and then thought better of it.
He moved to the door very slowly. The floors were wooden and old, and such floors creaked. He didn’t take actual steps. He slid his feet along the floor to minimize the noise. He reached the door and put his ear to it.
He could hear sounds. But they all seemed to be coming from downstairs.
He shined his penlight on the hinges. They looked old and rusty. That wasn’t good. They might sound like a fighter jet shrieking in when he opened it.
Robie looked around and his gaze lighted on the stack of paint cans, tools, and tarps. He slid over there, quietly rummaging around until his hand snagged a can of oil.
He went back over to the door and soaked the hinges with it. He let the lubricant seep deeply into the metal joints and then he slowly opened
