“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.
