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“That’s Cordova Tobacco.” She frowned. “I thought they went out of business recently.”
She turned into a parking lot with overgrown cobbles. He transferred the beacon to his phone before they left the vehicle, moving quickly over the rough stones. A heavy, musty metallic and garlicky odor hung in the air from the smelting of iron.
The morning dew sheened on metal surfaces. Trucks and forklifts were moving all over the site, the scent of oil and fuel blended in the air with the pungent scent of tobacco. Workers didn’t pay them any attention as they hurried past. Preacher glanced at his phone to judge location, then stopped and backed up in the shadows of a warehouse. Workers hosed down the concrete, moving loads of iron. Others were standing around tankers, metal funnels transferring fuel into the trucks.
They moved alongside the warehouse, a shabby metal building with three wide doors. Only one was open and Preacher glanced inside. The place was basically in the process of getting cleaned out, with laden wooden pallets, plastic sheeting, and cardboard filling most of the area.
“The marker is stationary.” He nodded ahead. “He’s somewhere in that direction.”
“This is extremely strange,” Karasu said. “Doesn’t feel right.” He touched her arm and they backed into the shadows of the tobacco plant.
“Maybe this is where NSH is basing their operations.”
Preacher, aware threat came from everywhere, looked upward. Two men sat on the steel girder of an unfinished warehouse. About twenty feet above the ground, the pair drank from Styrofoam cups and stared out toward the mountains. Several yards across the loading dock, a small work crew checked in at a toll booth-sized shack. One dark-skinned man lingered back, dressed a bit heavy for the current weather. Preacher couldn’t tell if they were tearing the structure down or building it; the area below the warehouse row road was packed with construction equipment sitting idle.
He studied the faces again, the position of the marker. A few yards ahead, men pushed open the tall steel doors, metal-to-metal shrieking like a nails on a chalkboard. At the oil refinery, trucks were heading onto the access road. He moved forward and glanced inside the warehouse. Against the back wall, nothing moved. Why here? He wondered.
His gaze swung to the girders. The men were gone. His gaze lowered over the skeleton of the building. He saw the muzzle flash and threw himself back into Karasu. The round hit the warehouse, ringing the metal wall.
“Silencer,” she said, huddled behind pallets, her weapon drawn.
Aiming his gun, Preacher glanced up at the bullet hole in the metal where he’d been standing. “I’d say we know the reason the signal is here.”
“They used Volk. Son of a bitch.”
“The signal is moving again. Slowly. It’s fifty yards from here.”
Karasu darted out for a quick look at the road bordering the warehouses. “It’s got to be that box truck. It’s the only thing moving.”
“I’ll take care of the shooter,” he said, searching the location of the last shot. “We need to have a chat.”
Karasu snickered. “Save some for me.” She looked after the truck. “I’m going after Volk.”
He kissed her, deep and quick. “Watch your six,” he murmured, and she squeezed his arm. He handed her his phone.
“You too. Don’t be…what the hell am I saying? You are a hero, one of those guys who run toward the bullets.” She shifted past him and walked inside the warehouse. She crossed the damp concrete and out the right-side door. Preacher turned his attention to the shooter. NSH enjoyed these cat-and-mouse games. He was about to show this guy that Navy SEALs didn’t play games.
* * *
Trackingthe signal on Preacher’s phone, Karasu crossed the damp concrete to the far side of the open doors. Sunshine streaked over piles of crates and debris pitched against a fence and when she cleared the mess, she broke into a run. The truck slowed and she pushed harder, zigging around a vendor’s truck and the men buying breakfast. When the truck stopped and started backing into a garage, Karasu walked behind a neat row of forklifts and slipped up to the open doorway. It was full of fruit likely earmarked for the beverage warehouse. She moved closer when the driver climbed out, then opened the tailgate. From her position, the cab looked vacant. Workers lined up to unload the cargo. She watched as it emptied and no Volk.
She decided to search the truck herself. But when she moved, a man stepped out and stared straight at her.
She had no doubt he’d been sent to lure her here, but why?
“What do you want?” she said, her tone seething.
Her cell phone chimed, and she looked down. It was a text message from an unknown number. Most likely a burner. She opened it and froze, every cell in her body screaming to move and capture the guy.
It was a picture of Volk and Zorra, both of them naked and tied to chairs, their heads on their chests.
The message was clear.
We want you to bring Officer Rose Sinema to us. Don’t try to trick us. If you don’t, they die. We are watching you.
When she looked up, the bastard was gone. She wouldn’t rest until she hunted them all down and made them pay, one way or the other. All she knew right now was she had to find a way to keep Volk and Zorra alive. But first, Preacher was out there after a sniper.
* * *
