10. 10 – Enzo
“Why am I here?” I mutter irritably.
Ryder elbows me. “Because this place gives me the willies, and I want to go in.”
I purse my lips, taking in the dilapidated warehouse. It looks abandoned. “Why?”
Ryder checks his phone. “Because Moore spends a fuck load of time here, and I want to see what he’s up to.”
“Storage,” I suggest. Breaking away from the wall, we make our way to the entrance we saw Moore slinking out of a few minutes ago, his eyes shifting around him before he slid into his car and pulled off. “He’s an art collector.”
Seems fairly simple to me, but Ryder shakes his head. “Building’s not registered under his name,” he points out. “No record of any leasing arrangement. I checked and it’s linked to an overseas company that doesn’t actually exist.”
I look upwards with a little more interest. “So he's hiding something.”
“Maybe.” Ryder shrugs. “I ran it past Maverick, and he told me to check. So here we are. Can you hold my hand?”
“Fuck off.” I sling my bag over my shoulder as we push the doors open. They screech as if disused, but the handle is clean, the entrance clear of dust and debris as we walk in and Ryder flicks a torch on.
“Empty,” I deadpan, as the light flashes around the bare walls. Peeling plaster and old wooden floorboards. How exciting. “I’m so glad I came.”
“Will you shut up?” Ryder pokes at a rickety chair, left lying against the wall. Ahead of us are boxes piled up in a makeshift sleeping area, but it’s covered with dust.
We split up silently, moving around the edges of the open space to check we haven’t missed anything. I’m about to call it when I glance down.
Ryder pops up from nowhere, peering over my shoulder. “What is it?”
I poke the floor with my shoe. “There’s dust everywhere,” I observe, shining the light of my own torch to make sure. “Except this path.”
We follow it, and Ryder whistles. “A wall. Nice.”
But I lean in, inspecting it and scanning the floor. “This isn’t a wall. Not a proper one, anyway.”
It’s clearly fake, the height not tall enough to reach the ceiling. Stretching up, I grab the edges and pull it. Ryder grabs the other side, and we manage to push it out of the way.
“Jackpot,” he breathes, sliding me a sly look from under his lashes. “And you thought this was going to be boring.”
I grunt. “He’s probably one of those paranoid fuckers who hides their art stuff.”
Ryder prods at the shiny, dust-free buttons on the gleaming metal elevator. A light comes on, but nothing happens.
“It’s locked.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious.” He pulls out his phone, checking something before he types a number in. The light on the elevator flashes green, the creaking of pulleys and metal announcing its arrival. “See? Not just a pretty face. It was his birthday.”
“You got lucky,” I point out drily. Nine times out of ten, a code or password is obvious as fuck. Our faces reflect back at us as the doors slide open.
Ryder sweeps his arm out. “After you, dearest.”