But the real kicker was the containers. I could hear soft noises from inside—whispers, someone sobbing, then a cough that sounded like a child’s. There were air holes punched along the top seam, and the metal was cold even in the heat of the warehouse. Human cargo, straight out of the Old Testament. My hand shook as I snapped photo after photo, using the phone’s silent mode and praying no one in the guard shack checked the security feed too closely.
A soft clang echoed from the far end of the aisle. I ducked behind a stack of fertilizer, heart in my throat. From my hiding spot, I saw the approach: a pair of boots, black and gleaming, slow and measured. The shadow hit the corner and kept coming, and then I saw the man himself: Bart “The Hammer,” in a dark jacket, hair buzzed to the scalp, a cross pin gleaming at his collar like a fucking bullseye.
Bart was the Reverend’s pet pit bull. He didn’t walk so much as he prowled, arms swinging just a little too loose, like he wasalready warming up for violence. He paused at the end of my aisle, glanced down at a clipboard, then scanned the row with dead blue eyes. I flattened myself against the nearest drum, counting each breath, hoping my leather wouldn’t squeak or sweat. I’d been told Bart could smell fear, but I figured that was just old Army superstition.
He started down my row. Each step sounded like a countdown. I palmed a hex nut from the floor, flicked it up and caught it on the second try, then rolled it under a crate on the far side. It hit metal, loud enough to echo. Bart’s head snapped toward the noise, and he moved, just like I wanted. While he detoured, I risked a fast scuttle out the other end of the row and made a hard right toward the main offices. My hands were slick with sweat, and my phone nearly fumbled from my grip. I found a cluster of metal cabinets, half-open, crammed with paper files and what looked like church donation ledgers. I started scanning, flipping pages with rapid-fire efficiency, my eyes catching donation codes that matched the numbers from the gun crates and Sudafed. Every “Angel Fund” contribution was a proxy for some kind of shipment. It was all here, neat as tax returns.
Footsteps thundered again—closer this time. Bart was circling back, and I was out of exits. I jammed the last file in my waistband and ducked into the gap between the cabinets, barely a foot of clearance. Bart’s boots stomped up the row, slow, methodical. I could see his silhouette in the reflection off a steel locker, head tilted as if he was already picturing how he’d snap my wrist.
He stopped right in front of my hiding spot. I heard him mutter something—maybe a prayer, maybe just a curse. He was close enough I could smell the aftershave, cheap and stinging, undercut by something medicinal. Then, from outside, there was a sudden crash—the sound of a glass bottle shattering againstthe loading dock. A voice started yelling. Shivs, playing the decoy like a pro.
Bart hesitated, then turned and stalked toward the sound, radio already in hand. I took that as my cue to get the fuck out. I broke into a sprint, ducked through the nearest door, and found myself in a narrow hallway that reeked of mildew and copier toner. I followed the exit signs, counting every footstep behind me, until I hit the back stairwell. Three flights up, then out onto the roof, my lungs on fire. I saw the maroon van pull around the side, Shivs waving a butterfly knife out the passenger window, DJ at the wheel.
I made the leap from the roof to a loading ramp, landed in a perfect roll that would have made my old gym teacher weep tears of joy, and sprinted to the bike. I heard Bart’s voice echoing in the dark, barking orders. I didn’t bother to look back.
My Harley fired on the first try, loud as a thunderclap, and I peeled out of the lot with Shivs and DJ right behind. We didn’t stop until we’d put five miles between us and the holy fortress.
I killed the engine outside an abandoned car wash, hands still shaking. Shivs passed me a can of warm beer. DJ just grunted, like it was all in a day’s work.
“Get what you needed?” Shivs asked.
I took a pull, then grinned, my lip splitting open again. “I got the whole fucking gospel.”
The evidence on my phone felt heavy in my pocket—proof that the church was dirtier than any cartel, running guns, meth, and people right under Lexington’s nose. I thought about Darla, about the kids in the container, and about what would happen when this all came crashing down.
But mostly, I thought about the next move.
***
Vin pounded the gavel—a weighted ball-peen he’d taken off a dead rival and mounted to an axe handle. The patched members—Moab, Shivs, Canon, a couple hangarounds—clustered around the scarred oak table. Red was already there, her laptop open and fingers tapping like machine-gun fire. Even the dogs shut up.
Vin nodded me over, eyes glittering under a thick brow. “Axel. Give me the fucking gospel.”
I slid the burner phone across the table. Vin scrolled the photo reel, each swipe making his jaw work harder. “Jesus. That’s a lot of firepower.” Another swipe: “And this is… what, Sudafed?” He squinted, then shot a look at Red. “Meth, right?”
Red didn’t look up. “If it’s not meth, it’s the shittiest chili recipe on the planet.” She was already running background on the donor numbers, cross-referencing with public tax returns and the dark-web forum she called “LinkedIn for degenerates.”
Vin tapped a photo of a shipping manifest labeled “Missionary Supplies.” He laughed, a flat sound with no humor. “Motherfucking hypocrites.”
Canon leaned over his shoulder. “So the church is running guns and cooking meth. That’s not news.” He sniffed, wiped his nose on his sleeve. “You get anything on the people?”
“Check the containers,” I said.
Vin swiped to the next batch of photos. His face changed—mouth hardening, nostrils flaring. “That’s… shit, those are kids.”
Shivs piped up, voice lower than usual. “They trafficking orphans?”
Red finally looked up. “Not just orphans. Look at this.” She spun the laptop for Vin to see—a cluster of missing-person flyers from across the state, some with years-old dates, some just a few weeks gone. She flicked between the posters and the blurry faces peering through air holes in my photos, then sat back and folded her arms. “Matches on six, maybe seven.”
Moab let out a slow whistle. “That’s some next-level evil.”
Vin didn’t answer. He stared at the phone, then turned to me. “You got ledgers?”
I nodded and fished the folder from my jacket. Red grabbed it before it hit the table and started flipping through, making noises of disgust every time a new shipment date lined up with a big donor event at the church. “They’re using Bible codes as fucking shipment markers,” she said, jabbing at the margin notes. “‘Matthew 7:15’—that’s a crate number. Holy shit.”
The mood at the table shifted. No more jokes, no more swagger. Just a thick, sour tension. I could see Moab clenching and unclenching his fists, Shivs with his knee bouncing a mile a minute, and Canon dead quiet and picking at the tattoo on his forearm.
I tried to focus on the next steps—building a case, figuring out how to drop this in the lap of someone who’d actually do something—but my head wouldn’t stop cycling to Darla. Her face kept popping up in my mind, ghosting over the faces in the containers. I couldn’t sit still. I paced the perimeter of the table, watching the way the others soaked it all in. The way everyone’s eyes kept sliding back to the pile of evidence like it might get up and bite.
