26. Hunter
Hunter
My head pounds, eyes twitching at the screen. This week has dragged on. All I want to do is get back home to Sutton. Even running on empty, she’s worth returning to. Her face when I surprised her with her new office days prior reminded me she’s why I push myself so hard.
The remodel. The open house. The case. The relationship we’re growing. It’s a lot. Too much actually. But thanks to Easton calling in a favor for the roof, we’ve got one less thing to worry about.
I lean back in my chair and glance around the office. Chris tinkers with the ancient coffee machine like it’s a bomb. The rest of the officers scattered about the station poke at paperwork or stare off into space. It’s quiet. Almost too quiet.
“Still alive over there, Detective?” Chris calls. He waves a screwdriver like a white flag.
“Barely,” I mutter, rubbing my temples. “This week has felt thirty days long.”
“Maybe that’s why the coffee tastes like death,” says Cooper from the corner, holding up a cup with a grimace.
“No,” I respond, “the coffee tastes like death because Chris won’t leave that damn machine alone.”
“Hey, now,” Chris says, “this is temporary. I’m one tweak away from brewing actual coffee instead of jet fuel. Plus, at least it keeps me awake long enough to make me think I’m working.”
I manage a grin. “At least one of us is working today.”
“Speak for yourself, sir,” Rachel mutters from the front desk. She flips through a file at lightning speed. “Some of us actually do paperwork.”
“Paperwork is overrated.” Chris groans. “We want the action. The thrill. The chase. It’s what keeps us young.”
Before I can reply, my phone buzzes on the desk. An unfamiliar number flashes across the screen. I frown.
I tap the screen, reading the short, clipped messages I suspect are from one of the Daley brothers.
Unknown: It’s happening tonight.
The words land like a punch.
Over the last several days, we’ve checked out every property on the list of addresses.
Some of the buildings were barely holding themselves up, so it wasn’t likely that anyone was running a large operation out of those.
Chris and I scoped out an abandoned grain silo, lumber mill, and an old equipment yard off the highway.
Though they all could’ve been prime locations, they were ghost towns.
If this is going down tonight, we need the location.
Me: Location?
Unknown: Lumber mill.
My pulse spikes. I glare at Chris.
“You just had to say something, didn’t you, asshole.”
He comes over. “What’s got your panties in a twist?”
Chris peers over my shoulder, and I show him the texts.
“Shit.”
“Shit is right,” I say. “Let’s go.”
We march into Chief Rhodes’s office. He reads the texts, grunts, and drags a tired hand through his gray hair.
“Looks like it’s going to be a long night for you, Detective.”
“Stakeout?” I ask, even though I already know his answer.
Chief rests his hands on his paunchy stomach. “You two already checked this place out, right?”
“It was one of the first places we went. Not a soul in sight.”
“This message could be someone messing with you,” he says, “or maybe not. Get a few hours of sleep before you head out later. If it looks like something, you call for backup. Got it?”
Chris and I make a plan to head out around five. It’ll give us time to check out the lumber mill and surrounding buildings and be out of sight before the sun sets. Instead of heading home, I create a makeshift bunk room in the rear of the station, hoping to get a few hours of shut-eye.
As soon as my head hits the pillow, I should sleep. But I don’t. Luke’s on shift, so I shoot him a text.
Me: Going to check out the old lumber mill tonight.
Luke: Anything I need to be concerned about?
Me: Got a random text.
I send him a screenshot.
Luke: That’s ominous. You’re not going alone, right?
Me: Nah, it’s me and Chris and backup too if we call it in.
Luke: Be careful, bro. Call me when you get home.
Me: Okay, Mom.
He responds with a middle-finger emoji. I check in with Sutton, but my messages go unread. I set an alarm, shut the lights off, and drift off into the worst nap in the history of naps.
We arrive at the lumber mill as the sun melts beyond the horizon. The metal structure sits silent, the long-abandoned building hulking against the sky.
We do a quick sweep of the property. The mill’s been closed nearly twenty years, the once white metal facade now covered in rust. Shards of glass cover the asphalt beneath the few office windows.
It’s nothing but a skeleton of what used to be a functioning business, and it doesn’t look much different than it did a few days ago.
Chris peers through a busted office window. “This place still gives me the creeps.”
The office is barely more than a supply room with an exterior and interior door and a narrow window that looks into the main warehouse. I’d hoped it would give us a better look at the interior of the lumber mill but no such luck.
Technically, the property is still owned by Pinedale Lumber, and without a new warrant, we don’t have grounds to enter the building unless something happens and we have probable cause.
“We should get set up,” Chris says.
We head back to our SUV hidden behind a copse of trees. It’s not a perfect location, but far enough off the road that we’ll see them before they see us.
Hours pass. The cab grows stifling. “I’m getting air.” Chris steps out, stretches, and slowly walks toward the edge of trees.
I’m watching him when headlights briefly flash across the property. Chris spins and sprints back as a large box truck rolls through the gate.
The engine cuts. A man in head-to-toe black jumps out of the driver’s seat and shouts into his phone, pacing and gesturing wildly. With sunglasses and a hat low on his head, it’s hard to get a good look at his face.
Chris presses his binoculars to his eyes. “He looks like he’s in a good mood.”
I elbow him to be quiet.
The man ends his call and disappears around the corner of the main building. Over a half hour passes, but he never returns.
Chris lowers the binoculars. “Should we take a closer look?”
“Yeah, but be careful.”
We slip from the SUV, leaving the doors cracked, and draw our weapons. We creep to the back of the box truck. The rear doors are locked.
“You smell that?” Chris murmurs.
I do. A sharp chemical bite burns my nostrils.
I nod in the direction the man disappeared. We slowly round the corner of the building and find a sliver of light leaking from a side entrance.
“We don’t have a warrant,” Chris murmurs.
“We’re not going in,” I say. “Just looking.”
Chris eases the door open enough for us to see inside. A whiff of something hits me hard. My headache that’s been simmering all day spikes. “Fuck.”
Chris approaches on my right. “Is that—? Shit. That’s ether. And acetone.”
I look past the crates near the door. Inside, folding tables stretch across the warehouse floor. Glass flasks, tubing, and portable burners sit arranged beside chemical barrels. Coffee filters are piled beside plastic bins. Plastic piping snakes toward a window fan taped into place for ventilation.
My stomach sinks. “This isn’t a supply shipment. It’s the damn lab.”
The speed of it—how they got everything set up in a couple of days—only makes me more suspicious. These guys aren’t beginners. Whoever they are or whoever they’re working for knows how to move fast.
Movement inside the warehouse startles us. A shadow crosses the doorway, followed by the metallic crash of something being knocked over. We don’t wait. Instead, we turn and race back to our SUV.
“That’s a lot of chemicals, right?” Chris asks as he slams his door, grabbing his binoculars from the dash.
“Enough to light this whole place up.” I send Chief a text. He doesn’t want us making a move, especially if the people currently here are the grunts. Better to wait it out for the big guns. We’re to stand down and gather intel.
Soon, more vehicles arrive at the lumber mill. The same man we saw earlier emerges and directs the others to unload the box truck. Inside are boxes and unmarked barrels of what we can only assume are more chemicals.
Just after midnight, it happens.
The night splits open.
Boom!
A pressure blast punches the bay doors outward, and a column of fire rolls through the opening like a blowtorch. Flames lick along the roofline. Men scatter into their vehicles and peel out into the dark.
“Call 911!” I fling my door open and start toward the building. There could be people trapped. The chemical smell slams into me.
Another burst of flame rolls through the doorway as Chris grabs my arm. “Hunter, we can’t. This whole place is a bomb waiting to go.”
He’s right. If we aren’t careful, the entire structure could be engulfed within minutes. We jump back into the truck as fire surges out the doorway.
Over the radio, dispatch says a fire truck is on the way. At the main gate, Chris pulls over, and I jump out to wait for the fire crew to approach the gate. I know well enough not to be in the way when they arrive.
Sirens tear through the night. A fire engine and ladder truck roar through the gate, red lights painting the rusted mill in flashes of color. My heart flies to my throat when I see Luke in the captain’s seat. His eyes lock on mine, meaning clear:
Be careful.
The rig skids to a stop, and Luke’s crew is already moving. Doors slam. Boots hit pavement.
“Charge that line!” Luke’s voice cuts through the chaos.
Firefighters move like a machine. Two firemen wrestle a thick hose from the engine while others pull on breathing masks. The pump kicks on with a mechanical growl, and the hose jerks alive in their hands.
Heat rolls across the asphalt.
The first stream of water slams into the flames, exploding into a cloud of steam. For a moment, the fire pushes back. Waves of orange claw through the broken doorway.
“Watch those barrels!” someone shouts.
“Keep water on them,” another shouts.
Smoke blankets the area, Luke and his crew disappearing behind it.