Chapter 16
The warehouse loomed before us, a hulking shadow against the pre-dawn sky.
I assessed it with the methodical eye I'd developed—rusted corrugated metal exterior, broken windows along the upper level, chain-link fence with a gap large enough to slip through unnoticed.
Not ideal, but better than the truck we'd been forced to abandon two miles back when the engine finally gave out.
Matt's hand brushed against mine, a silent question.
I nodded once. This would be our sanctuary for now, however temporary.
"Stay close to the wall," I whispered, leading the way through the fence gap, careful not to catch my clothing on the jagged metal edges.
The lock on the side entrance had long since rusted away, leaving only an empty hole where it once secured the door.
Another small mercy in a week that had offered few.
Inside, the smell hit me first—damp concrete, motor oil, the musty scent of abandonment.
My eyes adjusted to the gloom, cataloging details automatically—vast open space, at least ten thousand square feet.
The ceiling is thirty feet high, with broken skylights allowing thin shafts of early-morning light to penetrate the darkness.
Rusted shelving units stood like industrial sentinels along the walls, some toppled, others still defiantly upright.
The concrete floor was stained with dark patches—oil spills, water damage, perhaps worse.
Not a place anyone would choose to be, which made it perfect for us.
"How long do you think this place has been empty?" Matt asked, his voice low despite the isolation.
"Based on the dust patterns and vegetation growth through the floor cracks, I'd say at least five years.
" I moved further inside, keeping my back to the wall, instinctively avoiding the light beams from the broken skylights.
"The local economy tanked in this district around 2018.
Everything shut down when the shipping routes changed. I read that somewhere."
Matt nodded, his detective's mind following the same analytical path mine had. We'd spent the drive looking for a place exactly like this—forgotten, isolated, but with multiple exit points. The industrial district had been our best bet, and the gamble had paid off.
"I'll secure the perimeter," he said, already moving toward the far side of the warehouse. "Check for any signs of recent visitors. I bet this is a popular place for the homeless."
I watched him go, his silhouette distorted by shadows, the slight limp from his prosthetic barely perceptible to anyone who didn't know to look for it.
My priority was mapping escape routes. I moved methodically through the warehouse, noting each potential exit.
Main entrance at the front, the side door we'd used, two loading dock doors on the east wall, and what appeared to be a collapsed section of roof in the northwest corner that could serve as an emergency exit if necessary.
High windows that could be reached by climbing the shelving units.
A rusted fire escape on the western exterior wall, visible through one of the broken windows.
I circled back to where we'd entered and set my backpack down against the wall, wincing as my muscles protested—days on the run had taken their toll.
My body ached for rest, but my mind refused to quiet.
I pulled out the burner phone—our last one—and powered it on, aware that even this small digital footprint was a risk.
But we needed information more than we needed perfect security right now.
Matt returned as I connected to a public network through the VPN we'd set up. "All clear," he said, settling beside me. "No fresh footprints in the dust except ours. No signs anyone's been here in months."
I nodded, already focused on the search results loading on the small screen. "I need to find out more about Richard Collins. There has to be a reason his body was in my trunk specifically."
"I'll make a supply run," Matt said after a moment of watching me work. "We need water, food, and first aid supplies. That cut on your side needs proper cleaning."
I'd almost forgotten the injury from our escape through the motel bathroom window. The adrenaline had masked the pain, but now that Matt mentioned it, I could feel the sting along my ribs where the jagged edge had caught me.
"Be careful," I said, meeting his eyes. "One hour. If you're not back—"
"I'll be back," he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for doubt. He leaned in, his lips brushing my forehead—a gesture so normal, so incongruous with our current situation that it almost broke my composure. Then he was gone, slipping out the side entrance as quietly as he'd entered.
Alone in the vast space, I returned to the phone, running searches on Richard Collins while keeping my ears attuned to every sound in the warehouse.
Water dripped somewhere to my left, a steady plinking against metal that marked time like an arrhythmic clock.
Rats scurried in the dark corners, their tiny claws scratching against concrete.
The distant hum of traffic filtered through the broken skylights, reminding me of the world continuing outside our temporary refuge.
After twenty minutes of searching through public records, I found something—a court filing from six months ago. Richard Collins had requested a restraining order against someone. The details were sealed, but the timing caught my attention.
I dug deeper. The restraining order had been granted, but the subject's name remained hidden behind legal barriers I couldn't breach with a burner phone and limited time.
The warehouse seemed to grow more cavernous around me as I contemplated the implications.
Collins hadn't been a random victim. He'd been chosen specifically, placed in my trunk specifically, to create a narrative of my guilt.
But why? What had he known or seen that made him both valuable and dangerous to someone?
I closed my eyes, not to sleep but to think, to let my trained mind make connections my conscious thoughts might miss.
The dripping water. The scratching rats.
The whisper of wind through broken windows.
Each sound was registered and categorized, background noise to the greater puzzle I was trying to solve.
Someone had gone to elaborate lengths to destroy my life—someone with resources, knowledge, and a specific grudge. The answer was out there in the growing daylight, while I sat in shadows, a fugitive from the very system I'd served for twenty years.
When Matt returned, I would share what I'd found. Together, we would build a case, piece by scattered piece. Not just for my freedom, but for justice—the principle I'd devoted my life to and refused to abandon now, even when it had abandoned me.