Chapter 26
Alex
The place doesn’t look like much from the outside, but that’s the point.
A low, rectangular warehouse tucked between two half-abandoned buildings.
It’s paint is peeling and windows are blacked out from the inside.
There’s no signage, and no reason for anyone to be here unless they already know why they’re coming.
It blends in, same as everything else in this district.
Around here, decay is a form of camouflage.
I’d have rather brought my bike here for a quick getaway in case I need one, but Mason figured an unmarked car would provide better coverage in case of a firefight.
I figured he had a point, a potentially lifesaving one, so I went with it.
Now I’m sitting in the driver’s seat and have been for a moment longer than necessary with the engine idling low as I watch the building through the windshield.
There are two guards at the front entrance. One’s smoking, checking his phone too much, and seems bored. The other stays still and alert; he’s watching the street, not the door. At least he isn’t an amateur.
I reach forward and kill the engine. The silence that follows is immediate and heavy.
Now to walk up and pretend like I belong there. This is the part where mistakes get you buried.
I step out of the car, rolling my shoulders once, loosening tension that I can’t afford to carry inside.
My jacket hangs open, a worn brown leather showing a plain black shirt underneath.
Nothing about me is screaming “cop,” even though there’s a hidden camera transmitting everything to the precinct that’s on my jacket disguised as the button on the chest pocket.
I’m just another guy with business. That’s the story anyway.
The CI did his job. “Name’ll get you through the door,” he told me earlier, eyes flicking everywhere but to mine. “But once you’re in, you’re on your own. We’ve got no eyes inside.”
Nothing new there.
I approach the entrance at an even pace, not too fast or too slow. The smoker glances up first, surprisingly, and his eyes narrow scrutinizingly. “Can I help you?” he asks, sounding like an inconvenience during his otherwise tantalizing night.
I nod once. “Here for work,” I say.
The name hangs in the air.
The second guard straightens just slightly. That’s the tell. “Who sent you?” he asks.
I don’t hesitate. “Rivers.” A name the CI pulled from the money transfer records and narrowed in on as someone suspected of not just being involved financially, but also in the transferring of women in the organization.
A silent beat passes, then the smoker exhales, stepping back just enough to clear the door. “Alright,” he mutters. “Go on in.”
Just like that. For such a layered organization, this really shouldn’t be that easy. That mistake will be their downfall.
I step past them, through the door, and into hell. The smell hits first, chemical and sterile. Wrong for a place like this.
Then the sound: low voices and movement, something metallic shifting somewhere deeper in the building.
The interior is cleaner than it should be. The concrete floors are swept, tables arranged with purpose, and equipment that doesn’t belong in a rundown warehouse. And suddenly, everything Mason and I talked about clicks into place. A medical supply front, and this is one of their hubs.
I keep walking, steady and controlled as my mind races, taking it all in.
My eyes move just enough to look around without looking like I’m purposefully looking around.
There are rooms sectioned off with temporary walls and doors that don’t quite match the structure.
One of them is slightly ajar. And for a split second, I see inside.
There’s a metal exam table with wrist and ankle restraints. My jaw squares.
Don’t react, Alex. Don’t slow down.
I keep moving. The bastard’s gotta be in here somewhere or those two bozos at the front door wouldn’t have let me in.
A man steps into my path, keeping me from going further. Mid-thirties and clean, too clean for this place.
“New face,” he points out.
I nod. “Rivers sent me,” I repeat.
His eyes flick over me like he’s assessing me.
“You’re late,” he says automatically.
Can’t be late when I wasn’t expected… and was never actually sent by Rivers in the first place.
“Traffic,” I reply.
He’s quiet long enough to make me worry that he’s figured me out. Just as I’m mentally verifying that my pistol is still along the waistband on my backside, he finally speaks.
“Figures.” He jerks his head toward the back. “Come on.”
I follow, every step deeper into the building feels like stepping further away from safety and sanity. Like I’m walking right into the pits of hell.
But that’s the job.
We pass another room with the door closed this time. But I hear something from inside, muffled movements like someone pacing around.
I don’t know if it’s a trafficking victim or just some worker, the dilemma warring in me and needing resolution. Do I blow my cover when I don’t actually know what’s going on in there?
No. I stick with it even as my stomach turns.
We stop at a table along the side wall of the warehouse. It’s covered in stacked boxes. They all have medical-grade packaging that’s sealed and labeled.
The man gestures toward them. “Shipment came in this morning,” he says. “We’re short a set of hands.”
I glance down at the labels. There are syringes, IV kits, and small unlabeled vials. But I don’t need a label to know what’s in them.
“Move them to the back,” he continues. “Careful with the glass.”
I nod once. “Got it.”
He lingers for a second longer, like he’s deciding something. “You’ve done this before?”
I meet his gaze. “Yeah.”
Finally, he steps away. I wait until he’s gone before I move.
Then I start working, not the job he thought he was giving me, but mine.
I need something tangible; something that ties this place and this operation to everything else we’ve found.
I need concrete evidence, not suspicion or theory. Definitive proof.
I pick up one of the vials, turning it slightly in my hand. No label and no markings. I keep it in view of my hidden camera then check over my shoulders, making sure I’m not being watched before sliding it into an evidence bag and then into my pocket to bring back to the precinct.
The lab guys will have a field day with this.
My gaze shifts, spotting a clump of white beside the table.
I check for eyes on me again and when I’m sure I’m still clear, I slide another evidence bag out of my pocket and pick it up.
It’s a crumpled handkerchief, white with snot stuck inside.
And on the corner, embroidered in black stitching, are letters.
Sealing the bag, I don’t take the time to check the lettering before pocketing it. One smooth, swift motion and it’s already hidden. Then I go back to work. Can’t get caught, can’t be spotted being suspicious, or it’ll all be over.
Minutes pass as I move boxes around, keeping the camera on my pocket clear. When I return to the table again, I don’t even have a new box picked up when I hear it.
“Hey.” The voice is behind me, and too close.
I turn slowly, spotting the same man from before. His eyes narrow slightly. “You drop something?” My pulse kicks once.
I glance down, there’s nothing there, then back up. “No.”
He studies me for too long. Then he steps closer, close enough that I can see the faint scar along his jaw. “You sure?” he asks, a slight tinge of intimidation in his voice.
“Yeah,” I respond, keeping my cool.
He holds his stance for a moment long enough that my insides twist. Suddenly, he smirks too brightly. “Relax, you look like you’re about to bolt. I always give the new guys a hard time at first.”
I force a fake, light laugh. “Long day.”
He nods. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Join the club.” He steps back.
Just like that, the moment passes.
I take that as my sign to cut this off. I grab another box, heading to the back where I’d spotted an unguarded door along the back wall. It’s locked from the inside but that doesn’t stop me.
The air outside hits like a shock to my system. It’s sharp and cold but such a relief after being inside that crapshoot of a warehouse.
I don’t stop walking until I’m halfway down the block and out of view of the front of the building.
As soon as I’ve climbed back into the car and closed the door, I pull the evidence bag back out of my pocket. I use the plastic to push the letters into view, causing my breath to falter. The black embroidery spells out a stylized name.
Malone.
It all suddenly becomes clear, it’s not just any York.
Not a surname “York.” It’s not a different man named “York” who’s associated with this trafficking ring.
It’s the very own York Malone. The York with plenty of money to fund something like this and who has enough paid-off judges in his family’s back pocket to cover it all up.
But that’s not enough to cover all of this up. And he sure as hell doesn’t have access to Succinylcholine.
My phone rings in the glove compartment, making me jump. I’d stuffed it in there before infiltrating the warehouse to avoid it being spotted. But now that precautionary measure has me scrambling to dig it out in time to answer.
Mason’s name lights up the screen. I slide to answer and press it to the side of my head.
“Does that say Malone?!” he practically screams into my ear. He must be watching through my hidden cam still.
“Yes,” I grit out, a bit too irked by the ringing in my ear now. “It’s gotta be-”
“Your best friend?” Mason cuts me off. I can hear the grin on his smug face.
That bastard knows how much I loathe York Malone and his pompous fucking attitude.
That attitude is why I’ve never been surprised that the loser never married, started a family, or, hell, ever dated a woman for longer than two months.
Even the money wasn’t worth putting up with him.
He’s pushing fifty years old and is still painfully single.
Mason says something else, sounding like he’s talking to someone nearby before returning to the phone. “Forensics wants that handkerchief ASAP as well as that vial. Derek says Mikey is giddy about it.”
“On my way,” I bark, already turning the key in the ignition and reveling in the sound of the engine turning because it means I can get out of this fucking place.
I pull out into traffic and disappear into the night.