They moved as a four-man stack, weapons up, sweeping the main floor. It was exactly as empty as Jones had reported. The silence was the only threat. They cleared the ground level, finding nothing but rust and rot.
“Start looking,” Iceman commanded. “They’re masters at concealment, even something seemingly unnoteworthy could be something hidden.”
They began to search, the crunch of their boots on the concrete the only sound. Breakneck ran his hand along a row of massive, metal vats, their interiors stained a dark, blood-red. Carver kicked at a pile of wooden crates, which crumbled into dust. Jones checked behind a rusted boiler. It was Carver who found it.
“Hey,” he called out. He was standing by a far wall, a section that looked no different from the rest, corrugated iron, rivets, and peeling paint. He rapped his knuckles against it. “Sounds hollow.”
Iceman moved to where he was standing, running his hand over the surface. He found it almost immediately, a small, nearly invisible latch cleverly disguised as a rivet head. He pulled it. With a groan of protesting metal, a ten-foot-wide section of the wall swung inward, revealing darkness.
They swept their lights into the opening. It wasn't a room. It was a narrow, hidden corridor built between the inner and outer walls. Lining the corridor, stacked on simple wooden shelves from floor to ceiling, were duffel bags. Dozens of them. All packed tight. The air that billowed out was thick with the sharp, unmistakable scent of cash.
“Jackpot,” Jones breathed, a low, greedy whistle.
Iceman ignored him. “Breakneck,” he said, his voice low and serious. “Overwatch. High ground. I want eyes on every possible entrance while we prep this for confiscation. You see anything, you call it out. We don’t move until we know we won’t have company.”
Breakneck nodded, his mission clear. He didn’t need to be told twice. He moved quickly, finding the metal staircase and beginning his ascent to the crane operator’s cab. He needed to secure the perimeter and make sure this place was as empty as it felt before they called in the authorities to come and take it all away.
When he got inside the steel-and-glass coffin, high above the main floor, it was tactically sound. Breakneck worked with methodical precision, locking his rifle into its mount, and settling in behind the scope, in a typical sniper position, flat on his stomach. The glass was grimy, but the view was clear. He had a god’s-eye view of the entire processing floor, the main entrance, and the catwalks that webbed the ceiling. He ran his eyes over the duffel bags being carefully pulled from the hidden wall by Iceman and Carver. Jones stood watch, his posture deceptively relaxed.
He keyed his mic. “Iceman, I’m set. I have eyes on everything.”
“Copy,” Iceman’s voice came back, calm and steady. He keyed his own mic. “TOC. This is Iceman. We have jackpot.”
Breakneck kept them in the crosshairs, his scope swinging left, then right, covering the perimeter. The time stretched out. Ten seconds. Twenty. No response from TOC.
Ice keyed his mic again. “TOC, this is Iceman. How copy?”
Nothing. Not even static. Was the signal blocked by all this metal?
A cold dread, sharp and metallic, flooded his veins. He took a breath, breathing carefully, his scope swinging back to Iceman.
Suddenly, Jones moved. In a single, fluid motion, he raised his rifle, the buttstock heading for the back of Iceman’s head. Iceman moved, a sharp pivot that was almost a blur, and Breakneck wasn't sure if it was pure instinct or if he'd been prepared for treachery from the DEA agents all along.
Ice’s hand went for his sidearm, but a shadow moved in his periphery. Carver stepped into Iceman’s space, a knife flashing in the dim light of the cannery and sank it deep into Ice’s side. He grunted, a sound of pure shock and pain. This time, Jones’s rifle butt connected with a sickening crunch, and Iceman went down hard.
Blair was going over her final report to Darrow, making sure it was thorough, as it would be passed on to Chief Superintendent Desjardins. Every word had to be perfect. The quiet hum of the TOC was a familiar comfort, a world she understood.
The door slammed open and Ayla sprinted in, breathless, her face pale, her eyes horrified. Her tone was grave. “Blair! You have to see this.”
Blair was on her feet before she knew it. Ayla hooked her laptop up to the main screen, her fingers flying across the keyboard. The scene played out. Grainy, thermal drone footage. She watched Carver execute her two Mounties in cold blood, his line as he stepped over their bodies infuriating her. “Thank you for your service.” She watched them drag Valdivia from the area, the interrogation carried on between the foliage of the trees, but was nothing but a prelude to a brutal, calculated murder.
A cold, hard dread settled in her gut, heavy and suffocating. This had been their plan all along. The stash house, the false leads…it was all a setup. A get-rich-quick scheme paved with bodies.
Breakneck… Iceman… They were in terrible danger. They were alone out there with two traitors, not just to their partner force, but to their country. They weren’t going to let two SEALs stand in the way of their savagely won payday.
“Where are they now?” Blair asked, her voice firm but filled with an anguish she couldn’t hide. “They should have logged the sites.”
Ayla looked at her, her expression blank with confusion. “They didn’t.”
Blair’s heart dropped. Of course, they hadn’t logged them. Carver had made sure of that.
“Where is the team?” Blair demanded.
“Just getting back to the airfield,” Ayla said, her voice trembling. “We have to do something.”
Blair’s shoulders squared, her mind racing, every instinct screaming at her to move. Nothing was going to stand in her way. She picked up the secure phone, her hand steady despite the tremor in her soul. She didn’t wait for permission. She gave the order.
“Get me a helicopter. Now. Armed. Patch me through to Preacher.” She spoke quickly, and Preacher’s response was visceral and final.
