Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
B.A.I.T trucks and trailers are backed into the south entrance, the dip of the land disappearing and revealing the port opening to the basement, just as the blueprints showed.
A man-made shaft connects from the opening of the tunnel to a large, enclosed trailer.
We split up into our assigned positions, Jett and Nyx hot on my tail.
There were only few trees on the grounds within a reasonable distance of the building that we scouted, so our only option is to keep our feet light as we make a bee line for the darkened windows.
Moonlight leaks through the gaps of the empty frames in thin silver slashes.
The closer we get, the more the warehouse transforms into a colossal shadow, the broken roof turning the sky into a jagged maw of darkness.
My gloves rub against the rugged brick from the structure as I slither along the exterior to an open gap filled with barbwire.
“Flank,” Nyx commands, crouching into the glowing snow. He removes the pliers from his belt as I position my gun over his shoulder, aiming through the barbed wire at any awaiting danger.
Jett stands opposite of me, scanning over our backs at the eerily quiet field.
“Clear,” he says, then gradually stands, holding tightly to the cut pieces of wire to allow us to cross.
I carefully step through, my hearing sharpening for any hint of movement.
Jett steps over, before removing the wire from Nyx’s hands to grant him entry.
“I’m going up,” Jett announces in a whisper.
The light from the night sky cuts through the shattered ceiling just enough to reveal the maze below.
Collapsed platforms, rusted railings, and deep machinery pits that could swallow a person whole.
Shadows engulf the edge of the walkways perfectly, but it’s also a con for us, as it’s a great setup for an ambush.
The metal beams overhead groan with every shift of the cold Alaskan wind, but beneath us the space holds its breath. A battlefield awaiting us.
Two floors of rusted catwalks line the walls, the railing barely holding on, but giving anyone who reaches them a height advantage.
Jett makes his way above in a matter of minutes as planned, setting up to be our eyes and protection.
The place is rigged with tension; one wrong step or flash of light could give away our positions.
Nyx crouches below me, scanning the open area below.
I move, vanishing between the twisted beams, searching for any weaknesses in the structure as our team slips into the shadows over the gaping hole on the other side.
A buzz vibrates in my ear, the signal that everyone made it in.
That means everyone has two minutes to assess the mangled maze before we move.
My breath is steady under the black cloth, but my mind is racing against the seconds I’m counting down mentally.
Nyx is still squatting on the catwalk, frozen in anticipation.
The only movement comes from his eyes piercing through the beams attempting to focus on my shadowed figure as if he’s locking me into place.
The device buzzes in my ear as a metallic clatter echoes deep within the warehouse. “Nobody move,” I whisper, finger hovering over my earpiece for the next order. Nyx tilts his head towards the sound beneath our feet, his body stiff with predatory stillness.
The hair on the back of my neck rises as his gravelly voice softly answers, “Three o’clock, lower level.”
Nina concurs. “He’s right beneath you Florence. Armed.”
If Nyx moves a muscle the catwalk will creak; he can’t be of help to me now.
My knees are locked, keeping my legs still, but I raise my hand steadily to tap my ear to confirm that I heard.
Looking through the crack beneath my boots, I spot the heavily guarded man, pacing within the dust of the concrete.
I squint around the streaky room to check if any of the team members are visible. None. No movement in the atmosphere. “I can’t get him in my sight,” Jett whispers. I can imagine our sniper only has a clear shot for chaos to break out due to the debris throughout this place.
Heavy footsteps shuffle against the concrete below and my focus snaps back to the potential threat.
A door groans inside the machine pit, before a rugged man stepping into partial view calls out, “Vincent what’s the hold up?” The cries of the wolves flood the vacant interior. “Shut them up!” he scolds.
Vincent stomps to the scaffolding tower against the pit explaining, “Patrolling like I was told!”
The stubby man in the doorway pulls a lighter from his pocket, igniting the cigarette hanging from his lips.
“We load them up in five, just come on.” His raspy words echo with his exhale.
I recognize both the men from their profiles.
Vincent Agapov, age thirty-two. A considered guard to the Alaska B.A.I.T force.
Son to Maxim Agapov, one of the major CEO’s of the wretched business.
Vincent’s buzz cut is hidden beneath his dark toboggan.
A black coat and tie pull tightly at his throat, tattoos decorating his neck up to the sharp angles of his jaw.
I identify the old smoker as Clay: overweight, mid-forties, a longtime truck driver for the market.
Vincent disappears behind the heavy metal door.
If they’re loading in five, it’s either now or never.
I hurriedly tap twice, the signal to go.
Thick black gloves appear in my peripheral, Nyx waving for my attention.
I follow his direction to the crumbled staircase that was once connected to the catwalk we stand on.
With no time to think, Nyx stalks toward me as silent as a panther, boots barely making a creak on the unreliable platform.
He removes his gloves, gripping the fingertips with his teeth as lowers himself on the side, body shifting, steadily lowering himself below, his calloused hands gripping the ledge for support.
I don’t hesitate to follow into the darkness below.
Sweat trickles down my temple at the realization that my feet won’t hit the concrete quietly with my height, I fumble my gloves into my own mouth, digging my hands into the grit at my feet for grip.
My arms are strong enough to hold the drop of my body weight; I manage to twist carefully so my weapons don’t collide with the wall and make noise.
Firm hands wrap around my waist, guiding me cautiously to the floor.
My muscles tighten, cringing at the feeling.
Even in the darkness I can make out Nyx’s concentrated features.
He releases me once I gain my balance, giving me a light squeeze for reassurance.
We adjust the gloves back onto our frigid hands. “Jett, reposition,” I command. Buzz.
He'll make his way back out, taking cover over the hill, precisely aiming himself at the south doors. A shiver runs through me at the thought of lying deadly still in the thick of the snow.
Nyx eyes the scaffolding steps for a beat, running his gloved fingers over his mustache before relaying the next move. “Bear, Greer, I need you two to go scout the trucks. Cut the brake lines and find somewhere to lay low on standby.” Buzz.
“Brake lines?” I ask quietly.
He looks up to the movement over the pit. “I’m not trying to blow up today by cutting the fuel lines again.”
Jasper and Nina slip into the moonlight across the other machine pit. “There’s a door in this one too, but no steps,” Jasper reports.
“Use the grappling hook on the beam— leave it in case you need an exit.” I say, motioning toward the metal beams in between in the pits.
The agent quietly lowers his backpack, pulling the tool from the pouch. The commotion behind the metal door covers the clang of the hook around the beam as he tightly secures it. Nina throws a thumbs-up at us before she hauls herself under, Jasper following right behind her.
My partner faces me. “There’s more of them than there are of us, I don’t need to question if you can handle yourself Florence but?—”
I lift my hand to cut him off. “I know. Team bonding. Got it.”
His mouth opens to say more, but my feet are already moving to the wobbly steps within the pit. I place the toe of my boots along the tip of each step, stealthily balancing myself on the rails to avoid detection.
The thick door is dimly lit by a flickering yellow bulb above. I rip my gloves off to the ground, no longer needing the warmth. My hand slides onto the warped handle as I wait for everyone to confirm their positions. Buzz. One. Buzz. Two. Buzz. Three. My hand jumps to tap my own twice… “Now.”
My blood roars to life, fire flowing through my veins as I swing the door open catching a shorter man leaning against the wall off-guard.
He moves fast, swinging directly for my face, but I move faster, already anticipating the blow.
My left hand connects with the bend of his arm, slamming down hard as he stumbles forward with surprise.
I quickly rebound with a swift right hook to the bridge of his nose before he can catch his balance, sending him tumbling down the steps.
None of my weapons need to be drawn. Yet.
An assortment of men sit silently around a large table placed in dry dirt, holding their cards in place.
The chatter dies as they look toward the male at the end of the table.
The head of the house pulls his navy toboggan off to reveal his platinum hair securely greased back. Maxim.
His crystal-blue eyes examine the cards in his grasp, as he stands with lethal patience.
Displaying his winning deck face up only the table, he places his hands onto his waist to reveal the twin Glocks strapped to his rib cage.
Maxim’s jaw is rough with stubble, his broad face marked with violence.
His Russian accent echoes across the enclosure when he finally speaks: “Oh, we’ve been waiting for you, Florence. ”