Chapter 4 Quest
QUEST
Every time I turned around there was some shit to be handled. This felt like the longest day I’ve ever had. Dimonte, the recital, and now a damn fire.
“How long ago?” Justice asked. Then, “How much is left?” Then a long silence that told me the answer to that question was nothing good.
He hung up. Looked at me. “Will said by the time he got the alert, the whole east side was already gone. Sprinkler system didn’t activate. Cameras went out about twenty minutes before the fire started.”
“Cameras don’t just go out.”
“Nope.”
“And sprinkler systems don’t just fail.”
“Nope.”
I gripped the steering wheel and felt a calm settle over me. I was done processing emotions and had switched over to the part of my brain that solved problems. Permanently.
We pulled off the highway and turned down the two-lane road that led to the warehouse. Out here it was nothing but industrial parks and wooded lots. A spot like this was perfect. Nobody asked questions and that’s exactly why we’d picked it.
But tonight the whole road was lit up with emergency vehicles.
Three fire trucks, two ambulances, at least six police cruisers from PG County with their lights spinning blue and red across every surface.
Yellow tape was already up. Firefighters were running hoses the size of my arm toward the building while a column of black smoke rose straight up into the sky like a middle finger aimed at God.
Our warehouse—the main distribution hub for Banks Reserve—was engulfed. The east side had already collapsed in on itself, and the west half was burning up fast. I could feel the heat from inside the car with the windows up. That’s how bad it was.
“Call the lawyer,” I said to Justice as I killed the engine. “And the insurance broker. In that order.”
I stepped out of the Maybach and buttoned my jacket because I was about to walk into a sea of cops and firefighters and I needed to be Questor Banks, CEO of Banks Reserve International.
Concerned business owner. Cooperative citizen.
Taxpayer. The man in the suit who owned the building and was devastated by the loss.
Not the man who’d shot somebody in the head three hours ago.
The heat hit me first. Then the noise—the roar of the fire, the hiss of the water hitting the flames, the crackle of wood and metal giving way. The air tasted like ash and soot, causing the back of my throat to itch.
Will was standing near the perimeter behind the yellow tape, arms crossed, jaw tight. He’d been managing this warehouse for the last eight years and I’d never seen him look shook until tonight. His eyes found mine the second I crossed the street.
“How bad?” I asked, even though I could see how bad. I just needed to hear it out loud so it could be real.
“We lost everything in the east side. That’s about sixty percent of our aged bourbon inventory and all of the new batch that came in last week. West is still burning but the firefighters think they can save the structure.” He paused. “The product inside is done though.”
I did the math in my head. Sixty percent of our aged bourbon.
The new shipment. That was millions in product.
Years of production. Contracts we couldn’t fulfill.
Distributors who would start looking elsewhere if we couldn’t deliver on time.
Banks Reserve had spent twenty years building a reputation for reliability and one fire just put a crack in it that our competitors would exploit before the smoke even cleared.
“What about the batch from last week?” I asked. “The new shipment. Where was it stored?”
“In there,” Will said. “All of it.”
I nodded slow. That meant the insurance claim was about to be a nightmare because new inventory plus aged inventory plus structural damage was the kind of number that made adjusters suddenly want to take a real close look at your fire suppression maintenance records.
Justice was already thinking the same thing because I could hear him on the phone behind me giving our broker the address.
Tonight’s problem was standing about thirty feet away in a fire marshal’s jacket, heading in my direction.
“Mr. Banks?” He was a thick white man with a gray mustache and a clipboard, which was a combination that never brought good news. “I’m Captain Whelan with PG Fire and EMS. I understand you’re the property owner?”
“I am. Questor Banks. Banks Reserve International.” I extended my hand. Firm grip. Eye contact. Every bit the concerned executive. “What can you tell me?”
“It’s early, but we’re seeing indicators consistent with an accelerant.
Possibly gasoline, possibly something commercial grade.
Combined with the alcohol in those barrels, it pretty much makes for a bomb.
We’ll know more once the scene cools down and our investigators can get in there.
Your security system—we’re going to need access to any surveillance footage from the property. ”
“Of course. Whatever you need. I’ll have my team send over everything we have.” I kept my voice measured and cooperative. I was a helpful citizen and devastated owner, with nothing to hide.
Will caught my eye from behind Whelan’s shoulder and gave me a look that said the footage was already gone. Whoever did this had taken care of that first.
“We’ll also need to verify insurance documentation and any recent maintenance records for the fire suppression system,” Whelan continued. “It appears the sprinklers didn’t activate, which is unusual for a building of this caliber.”
“Very unusual,” I agreed. “We do quarterly inspections. I’ll get you those records first thing in the morning.”
He nodded, scribbled something on his clipboard, and moved on. The second his back was turned I dropped the smile.
“The cameras?” I asked Will.
“Wiped. Remotely. Whoever did this had access to the security network or knew somebody who did. The system shows a twenty-two minute gap between the cameras going dark and the first sign of fire. That’s a professional window. That ain’t a crackhead with a lighter.”
I stood there and watched my building burn. Thousands of barrels of bourbon that my grandparents’ recipes had perfected over decades. Product that had our family name on every label. Gone.
And then I saw him.
Movement to my left, behind the ambulance parked on the south side of the building.
A motorcycle that was black, no plates that I could see was pulling away from the curb.
The rider was small. Young, from the way he moved.
Helmet on, visor down, face completely hidden.
He was trying to leave quiet, keeping the engine low, easing out like he didn’t want to attract attention.
But I’m the wrong person to try and sneak past because I notice everything. It’s a gift and a curse and right now it was a gift.
He pulled on the throttle and as his right hand gripped the handlebar I saw it. There was a tattoo on the back of his hand that was visible between the glove and the jacket sleeve. It was of a snake that was coiled, detailed, wrapping from his wrist down to his knuckles.
I memorized it in two seconds. He had a snake tattoo on his right hand, a small build, and he was young from what I could tell. The motorcycle was black with no plates and his helmet had a dark visor that covered his whole face.
Every instinct in my body told me to move.
To get in the Maybach and follow him. To run him off the road and drag him off that bike and find out who sent him and why.
I could feel the impulse in my legs, in my hands, in the part of my brain that had been solving problems with violence since I was nineteen years old.
But there were six cop cars within fifty feet of me. A fire marshal who’d just taken my name. Two ambulances. A dozen firefighters. And Justice, who was watching me watch the motorcycle and already shaking his head.
“Don’t,” he said, low enough that only I could hear.
The bike hit the end of the block, took a hard right, and disappeared.
I exhaled through my nose. Unclenched my jaw. Let him go. For now.
Justice pulled out his phone and stepped away. That was the thing about my brother. I never had to explain the urgency. He just moved.
I stood there for another hour while the firefighters worked.
Answered more questions from Whelan’s team.
Gave a brief statement to a patrol officer.
Called our head of operations and told him to start rerouting shipments through the Bowie warehouse, which was smaller but functional.
Called two of our biggest distributors personally to get ahead of the news and assure them that Banks Reserve would fulfill every contract on schedule.
I didn’t know if that was true yet, but confidence was half the battle in business.
You could figure out the logistics later as long as nobody panicked first.
By midnight the fire was mostly contained.
The east section was a total loss, and the west was standing but gutted.
The fire marshal’s team would be back at dawn to begin their investigation.
Our insurance broker was already drafting the claim.
And somewhere in this city, a kid on a motorcycle with a snake tattoo was probably reporting back to whoever paid him to burn down my family’s legacy.
Justice and I got back in the Maybach. The car smelled like smoke now. My suit smelled like smoke. My lungs felt heavy with it. I sat there for a minute with my hands on the wheel, engine idling, staring at the smoldering remains through the windshield.
“First the truck,” Justice said quietly. “Now the warehouse.”
“I know.”
“This is coordinated, Quest. Somebody’s testing us. Poking holes. Seeing how we respond.”
“I know.”
“What do you want to do?”
I thought about Dimonte on his knees this afternoon. I should’ve pressed him harder to find out who he coordinated the robbery with. That was the last mistake I would make.
“I want to find out who’s coming for us,” I said. “And I want to end it before it gets to the people I love.”
Justice nodded. “Yeah, we’ll get to it.”
I put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb. In the rearview mirror, the warehouse was still glowing. Embers and smoke and twenty years of work turned to ash.
Whoever did this thought they could rattle me. Thought they could burn down a building and watch me scramble. Thought they could hit Banks Reserve and I’d be too busy putting out fires—literally—to hit back.
They thought wrong.
I was already thinking three moves ahead. I always was.