38. Too Late
Too Late
Ihopped into the last patrol car as fast as I could when it pulled up.
Belle didn’t wait, of course. She practically jumped on the hood of the first one and demanded to be taken to the hangar.
I could hear her yelling into her phone as we went at full speed to the farthest hangar on the runway.
The surrounding area was dark. I could see lights on posts or the hangar itself, but not much elsewhere; except the runway, which was lit up.
We arrived fairly quickly, but as we came to a crawl, I noticed that the inside of the hangar was dimly lit.
A single lamp cast a mustard-yellow light over the side entrance, and that light reflected inside.
Either no one was home, or they were waiting for us.
I urged the airport cop driving to turn off his headlights, and the others soon followed.
I didn’t want to notify them of our arrival.
Belle ordered them to park in front of the hangar doors to prevent the jet from escaping.
And to set up a firing position; she had several men cover the front.
But Belle couldn’t wait any longer. She bolted out of her car and ran straight for the side entrance.
“Open up. It’s the FBI. I have a search warrant,” Belle screeched.
But no one answered. It was quiet outside.
Only the seldom-arriving or departing flight interrupted it.
After a minute passed without a response, she stepped away from the side door, pointed her gun at the lock, and disengaged the safety. “Stand back.”
“Wait!” I said.
“We can’t!”
Just as she was about to pull the trigger, I pushed her arm away.
“What are you doing! This is my case! I’m in charge, not you!” Belle said.
“And if there’s someone inside? What then?
” I said. Belle, irritated with me, gave me a nasty stare.
But she knew I was right. This case had gotten to her.
She was compromised. Emotional and prone to mistakes.
A wrong move could upend the entire investigation and give the criminals the edge they need in court to dismiss charges.
We needed to do things by the book. “I’ll check the door. ”
I grabbed the handle gently, twisted it, and pushed the door in. It was unlocked.
“See?” I said.
Belle scoffed and pushed me aside. She barreled in, and I followed closely behind, along with three airport cops as backup.
The jet was gone. Although it was pitch black, I could tell there was nothing here.
The giant white fuselage of a plane would stick out in the darkness, even if I could hardly see my hand.
Belle herself was already out of view. I could hear her in the dark, fumbling about.
Zig zagging like a headless chicken with a small tactical light that was probably better suited for a doctor’s visit.
“Anyone got a better light?” I said.
“Yeah!” one of the airport cops replied. He grabbed his flashlight from his belt and turned it on. At that moment, I heard Belle plop to the ground. I couldn’t see her, but the sound of her falling echoed through the empty hangar. Like dropping a sack of flour on the floor.
“Shit! I can’t see anything. Can someone please turn on the lights! I slipped on engine oil,” Belle cried out.
“Engine oil?” I muttered.
Suddenly, all the lights came on. Half a dozen floodlights illuminated the hangar radiantly. It was disorienting. At first, I couldn’t tell what was going on with Belle. She was at the far end of the hangar, on the ground by some boxes, covering her eyes.
“Sorry about that,” an airport cop said, standing by the light switch. “Should’ve warned you first.”
“No shit!” I replied.
“I’ll call for medical,” he replied.
As I approached Belle, it became apparent that she hadn’t slipped on engine oil at all. It was blood. Dried, old blood. Sticky and somewhat black in parts. Belle was covered in it.
“That’s not oil,” another cop said.
“Belle, you’re sitting on a pool of dried blood,” I said. I reached down to her and grabbed her free hand. Then pulled her up. She was disheveled.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Belle said as she holstered her weapon. She turned and headed for the exit, saying nothing else. Not long after, I could hear her retching her guts out by the entrance.
“Whose blood is it?” I said. I walked away from the pool of blood up to the front hangar doors and then back to the rear entrance. There was nothing else in the hangar but a stack of boxes piled haphazardly in the corner.
“Do you think they dumped the body in the trash?” One cop said.
“Or took it with them?” the other cop quipped.
“Actually,” I said, moving one of the top boxes nearby. A large foot and a rotund belly were sticking out of a box, upside down and inside a crate, covered by stacks of boxes. The blood was dripping from his leg and had pooled where Belle slipped.
“Who’s that?” A cop asked.
“Good question,” I replied.
It looked as if another loose end had been cut before they fled the country. More and more people were ending up dead, all for a hard drive that was now well on its way to Europe.