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“He did,” said Noah, walking through the doors.
“Holy shit, what is that?” whispered a Marine. Noah stared at the young man, realizing he was younger than his own son.
“It is not polite to speak of men in such a way. I am Noah Anders, retired SOG.”
“Oh, shit,” muttered the Marine. Noah just gave a smirk, shaking his head.
“As I was saying, Lou Rawlston saw the broadcast. Our motorcycle friends saw him snooping around another site. He received a phone call and immediately turned in the other direction. This one. He should be here soon.”
“Alright, everyone. Lights out and to the back.”
The Marine turned the lights out at the front office space of the warehouse. They shuffled through the door into the massive empty space. All of the toys and donations had been moved to another location for safekeeping.
“Hawk? Eagle? You got him yet?” asked Ghost.
“Yep. He just pulled up and has a friend with him. A friend from the alarm company. That’s how he’s getting into those buildings that have alarms. This guy is turning off the systems for him.”
“Two for one special,” smirked Gaspar.
They could hear the sound of the alarm beeping, then it suddenly stopped. Next was the front door lock being picked, opened, and quietly shut.
“No cameras,” they heard someone say.
“This will be easy. Frank is a few miles away in a field.”
Noah looked at the others and texted their friends on the motorcycles. They had the helicopter in sight and would take it with ease.
“Fucking Marines,” scoffed Lou. “Always neat as a pin and everything exactly where it should be. They’ll shit their pants when they come in tomorrow. Think about it. I’ll be able to show everyone where the toys were taken and be the hero.”
“I don’t know, Lou,” said the other man. “You’re already suspected of being a glory hound. This might not be such a good idea.”
“Are you kidding me? That hick police chief of mine won’t ever know. I’ve covered my tracks, and this will be the feather in my cap. Hell, I’ll probably have women throwing themselves at my feet. Get me a few single mamas that need a little holiday comforting.” When he laughed, Noa and Noah started to move toward the door, but Nine and Gaspar held them back, shaking their heads.
“In time,” whispered Ian.
As the door into the warehouse opened and shut behind them, the two men moved inside, searching in the darkness for some light.
“Find the switch,” said Lou.
“I can’t find one,” said the other man.
“It’s not that fucking hard. Remember, these idiots are just Marines. They eat crayons for fun.”
A blast of lights illuminated the room, the two men covering their eyes. As they tried to turn and leave, they were met with a wall of unforgiving chests. Max, Noah, Noa, and Whiskey stood with arms crossed.
“Take it easy. I’m a police officer,” said Lou.
“And I’m a fucking crayon-eating Marine,” said Whiskey.
“It was a joke,” laughed the man. “I was just joking. We heard this is where the stolen toys were being held.”
“Stolen? In a Marine-owned warehouse?” asked Nine. “Let me clarify some things for you. You’re Sgt. Lou Rawlston of the Picayune, Mississippi Police Department. You’re on extended administrative leave while under investigation for tampering with evidence and possibly suffering from delusions of heroism. Don’t worry, though. Your leave is about to end. Permanently.”
“Who the fuck are you?” he growled.
“Us? We’re just a group of old crayon-eating, fish-swimming, dirt pounders. The guys behind us, though,” he said, swinging his thumb toward the twenty young Marines, “these are the guys that are truly pissed off, and they’re about to take your head off.”
The young Marines stepped forward as Rawlston and his companion tried to leave again. No such luck. Rawlston was in for the beating of his life.
