***
“How the fuck did this happen?” I shove a burned wooden pallet out of my way. The massive warehouse where our most popular weapons are stored is in ashes.
“Three separate explosive charges,” Callum says gloomily. “Before the interior camera short-circuited, it showed the break-in. They took out forty-two shipping crates before setting off the C02.”
“Let me guess,” I say, “the assault rifles?”
He nods uncomfortably. Everyone else around us steps back. I do not scream or shout. But I have been known to shoot when the incompetence is inexcusable.
“That was, I believe, about thirty percent of the initial shipment for the U.S. military arms contract?”
“Yes,” Callum says.
Putting my hands on my hips, I walk through the smoldering ruins, nearly melting the sole of one of my Bruno Cucinelli dress shoes. Sucking in a deep breath, I look at the drag patterns on the scorched concrete floor.
“The González Cartel?” I murmured, “Or perhaps the Abioye Syndicate?”
“I’ve already sent our people onto the dark web, looking for any unusually large new weapons offers,” Callum continues, “but this feels different.”
“Agreed. Retribution is my thought, though this could not have happened without someone on the inside,” I say, “our most trusted people run this warehouse. But the attackers knew how to get in and where the charges would cause the most destruction.”
“There is nothing salvageable,” he says. “The men have swept the warehouse to cover up anything that could look illegal to the fire safety inspectors.”
“Contact Ben Downington in the East London department,” I say, “have him write this off as a gas explosion. Don’t allow any inspectors in here. There are too many chemical traces that we can’t cover up.”
“That might be tricky,” he warns, “there’s already two self-important arseholes outside, waving their badges around and demanding access.”
Kneeling down, I pick up a scrap of reddish-brown cloth. It’s impossible to tell if that was the original color, it’s stiff and sticky from being soaked in blood. I drop my head, letting out a sigh.
“Have you accounted for all the warehouse crew members?”
Callum waves over a man who I recognize as the night foreman. He’s holding a bandage over a burn on his shoulder.
“Richards, correct?”
“Yes boss,” he says, his voice thick and distorted from breathing in smoke.
“Have you had your injuries checked?” I ask.
“They have, I’m fine,” he assures me. He doesn’t look fine, but I appreciate his courage.
“Who was here before the fire?”
He shifts position, wincing. “We had sixteen of the night crew here, moving equipment, maintenance, that sort of thing. We didn’t have a shipment tonight, so there were only five guards on duty.”
“How many did we lose?” I ask.
His sooty face drooped. “Two guards had their throats cut. Another two were shot. Six of my men died in the explosion, four others are on their way to the A&E.”
“Where’s the fifth guard?”
“He’s not been found,” Richards says. He nods dismally to the smoking pile of burned wood and ash. “I’m thinking he’s in the wreckage.”
“Callum, pull everyone who survived. Get them medical care and isolate them. Put guards on the four already at the hospital,” I say, still looking at the bloody scrap of cloth. “Find me that fifth guard.”
I hold off the fire inspectors - two petulant little bastards clearly bent on making a name for themselves - and head home to shower off the soot and ash. My suit, a bespoke Armani, is fated for a trip to the rubbish bin. Just as I’m turning into the parking garage, I get another call.
“Mr. Taylor?” It’s Milo Hughes, my overseer for our transportation company in Manchester.
