We stop at a table along the side wall of the warehouse. It’s covered in stacked boxes. They all have medical-grade packaging that’s sealed and labeled.
The man gestures toward them. “Shipment came in this morning,” he says. “We’re short a set of hands.”
I glance down at the labels. There are syringes, IV kits, and small unlabeled vials. But I don’t need a label to know what’s in them.
“Move them to the back,” he continues. “Careful with the glass.”
I nod once. “Got it.”
He lingers for a second longer, like he’s deciding something. “You’ve done this before?”
I meet his gaze. “Yeah.”
Finally, he steps away. I wait until he’s gone before I move. Then I start working, not the job he thought he was giving me, but mine. I need something tangible; something that ties this place and this operation to everything else we’ve found. I need concrete evidence, not suspicion or theory. Definitive proof.
I pick up one of the vials, turning it slightly in my hand. No label and no markings. I keep it in view of my hidden camera then check over my shoulders, making sure I’m not being watched before sliding it into an evidence bag and then into my pocket to bring back to the precinct.
The lab guys will have a field day with this.
My gaze shifts, spotting a clump of white beside the table. I check for eyes on me again and when I’m sure I’m still clear, I slide another evidence bag out of my pocket and pick it up. It’s a crumpled handkerchief, white with snot stuck inside. And on the corner, embroidered in black stitching, are letters.
Sealing the bag, I don’t take the time to check the lettering before pocketing it. One smooth, swift motion and it’s already hidden. Then I go back to work. Can’t get caught, can’t be spotted being suspicious, or it’ll all be over.
Minutes pass as I move boxes around, keeping the camera on my pocket clear. When I return to the table again, I don’t even have a new box picked up when I hear it.
“Hey.” The voice is behind me, and too close.
I turn slowly, spotting the same man from before. His eyes narrow slightly. “You drop something?” My pulse kicks once.
I glance down, there’s nothing there, then back up. “No.”
He studies me for too long. Then he steps closer, close enough that I can see the faint scar along his jaw. “You sure?” he asks, a slight tinge of intimidation in his voice.
“Yeah,” I respond, keeping my cool.
He holds his stance for a moment long enough that my insides twist. Suddenly, he smirks too brightly. “Relax, you look like you’re about to bolt. I always give the new guys a hard time at first.”
I force a fake, light laugh. “Long day.”
He nods. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Join the club.” He steps back.
Just like that, the moment passes.
I take that as my sign to cut this off. I grab another box, heading to the back where I’d spotted an unguarded door along the back wall. It’s locked from the inside but that doesn’t stop me.
The air outside hits like a shock to my system. It’s sharp and cold but such a relief after being inside that crapshoot of a warehouse.
I don’t stop walking until I’m halfway down the block and out of view of the front of the building.
As soon as I’ve climbed back into the car and closed the door, I pull the evidence bag back out of my pocket. I use the plastic to push the letters into view, causing my breath to falter. The black embroidery spells out a stylized name.
Malone.
It all suddenly becomes clear, it’s not just any York. Not a surname “York.” It’s not a different man named “York” who’s associated with this trafficking ring. It’s the very own York Malone. The York with plenty of money to fund something like this and who has enough paid-off judges in his family’s back pocket to cover it all up.
But that’s not enough to cover all of this up. And he sure as hell doesn’t have access to Succinylcholine.
My phone rings in the glove compartment, making me jump. I’d stuffed it in there before infiltrating the warehouse to avoid it being spotted. But now that precautionary measure has me scrambling to dig it out in time to answer.
