One Minute to Midnight (Black Ops: Automatik) (12 page)

He put the shaker down and busied his hands rearranging little cups of garnishes. “As soon as you clock out, let me know.”

It was just the two of them in the bar. She had a feeling that would change when the evening descended. The security men clearly knew each other and were familiar with the hotel. They’d take over.

From the size and weight of their luggage, she assumed they carried pistols and submachine guns. Small arms for intimidation but not real fighting. If they’d fired any shots protecting the cargo over the years, there would’ve been news and it wouldn’t have taken Automatik so long to track the center point for the gunrunning operation.

By now, Ben had informed the rest of her team about the escalation. He’d gone about his own business during the day and was now perched at one of the tall tables at the back of the lobby where the breakfast was served. Another working stiff who didn’t arouse suspicion.

She couldn’t see him but trusted his presence. He had her back, just as she had his. Teammates. And something else. She couldn’t name it, but she couldn’t ignore it.

“Is your job going to keep you in Morris Flats long?” Will ran out of things to organize.

“A few days, I think.” She shuffled papers. “It depends on how things pan out.”

A silent alert appeared on her phone. She opened Ben’s message:
Hitter
in
the
gray
coat
currently
armed
.
9mm
on
right
hip
.

She glanced into the lobby and saw the man leaning on the front desk, talking to the girl behind it while she politely smiled and went about her tasks.

Will came out from behind the bar and sat on one of the stools with a groan as he stretched his back. “Days get long out here without much to do. Sure you can’t bounce early?”

“Not unless I want to find another job.” She texted Ben back: Identified.

“Too bad. This place kind of sucks.” He stared out of the bar and through the front doors of the hotel. “And this is a shitty season.”

A hint of pain in his eyes. Just like that little flinch when she’d mentioned the rail yard on her first day. Kit Daily and his operation had crushed this town.

“You making your own escape plan?” She put down her work and focused on Will.

For a second he looked like a high school senior posing for his portrait and having no idea what was coming next, then he rallied and gathered more swagger about him. “It’s all in motion. A few more paychecks, and I’m up to Chicago. There’s always work for a bartender. And I can cook a little.”

“A friend of mine owns a restaurant in California. Tough business.” Being in Hayley’s kitchen when it was in full dinner mode was like trying to dance between helicopter rotor blades. “But she’s a tough chick.” An understatement, considering the story Art told about Hayley going toe-to-toe with a Russian mob goon, armed only with a cooking spoon. And she showed her grit fighting not just for herself, but to protect what she had with Art.

Will kept gazing out of the hotel. “Just a few more paychecks.”

That dream might stay alive if he kept his head down and let Daily and the others roll over him. Just like the rest of town. She saw it in the teachers Ben had introduced her to. No ability to fight back. The crime was too entrenched. And when Mary and Ben and their team shined a light on it, aimed their weapons at it, the gunrunners were going to fight hard to keep their bloody dollars. Morris Flats could crash quickly into a battle zone. Civilians would be in the crossfire and her blood ran cold thinking of any of them being hurt.

Will got off his stool and walked back behind the bar with more purpose. “I’m out of here soon. And you should be out of here sooner.” It was the most serious she’d ever seen the bartender. He seemed to age ten years with just the somber look in his eyes.

She shrugged and fanned her hands over her paperwork. “I can’t.” She had to stop Daily and the Limerts and Pulaski. She had to stay for the fight, shoulder to shoulder with Ben.

Chapter Twelve

Dead of night, she came alive. It was after 3:00 a.m. when she opened her hotel room door and crept into the hallway. Like before, she kept her tactical gear bundled so it looked like she was carrying her coat, but no one was out to observe her silently move to the service stairs and descend.

She reached the cold, abandoned terrace, pulled on her vest and secured the buckles along the front. Every strap was squared away and silent. Any piece of metal—from her knife to her pistols—had been muted to the point that it would reflect no light and give away her position. She climbed down to street level and started the route to the rail yard.

The private security forces who’d arrived at the hotel wouldn’t be patrolling tonight. As she’d suspected, they’d taken the bar over around five and closed it down by eleven. Their loud conversations and barking laughs had echoed into the hotel lobby. They were sloppy. Small bits of intel had slipped, and she’d picked them up as she’d passed by on the way to her room. More than one man had mentioned “last year” or “three years ago.” The gunrunning was systematic and long running. A guy jeered another about not having the right clothes for his shitty detail in a cold freight car. Another man alluded to trouble he’d avoided at a truck weigh station, “Just sitting and eating my apple, looking pretty and innocent.” Their voices lowered when they spoke of collecting and transporting money, but they were still reckless enough to let anyone within fifty feet hear. So they rode shotgun with the guns, collected the money at the final destination and carried it back to the base of operations: Morris Flats.

She’d communicated everything she’d gathered to Automatik and Ben while resting in her room in preparation for the night’s action. He’d been in the bar, surrounded by the security men, for about a half hour, pretending to drink a beer and watch a basketball game. From their reckless conversations, he’d been able to identify most of them as former Marines, even down to two units out of Florida. The connections to Kit Daily were strong. Ben had understood when he’d worn out his welcome at the bar and had retreated to his own room as well. Both of them had communicated via their app when they’d heard the drunk men stumbling and laughing and insulting each other along the hallways.

The security men weren’t on alert yet. They felt safe in Morris Flats. First mistake. She knew to feel safe was a sure way of getting blindsided. But what did it mean that she felt safe with Ben?

Separated by the floor and only in electronic contact, Ben’s presence had surrounded her. He was an operator who could be relied on. His awareness extended to minute details about the men and the environment. It wasn’t just his training or time in the wars. Ben had an innate ability to zero in on just the necessary details. It was how he’d found her.

Out in the night, she dissolved into the shadows of the street and followed the deepest corners like an inky river. No one could see her. Except Ben. If she was brave enough. If she could trust him to be caring and gentle with the delicate, newfound hope she carried.

Two blocks away from the hotel, her senses prickled. She wasn’t alone. Her hand hovered over the pistol on her chest. A figure separated from the angular silhouettes of the building before her. Ben. He stood in his black tactical gear among the gas pumps of the derelict service station they’d chosen as rendezvous. She approached, and the features of his face emerged in the dim streetlights. His face was still all business, but his eyes were keen. He gave her a nod and extended a fist. She bumped it, and the two of them moved away from the gas station and to a weedy ditch behind it.

Train tracks striped the other side of the ditch. Without speaking, the two of them slipped into the shadowed side of the ditch and trekked forward toward the train yard. Their steps were quieted by soft dirt. Ben led and avoided any extra noise by looping around collected trash and fallen branches from nearby trees. He’d point all these obstacles out for her, always moving, always scanning forward and to the sides. She maintained her own watch of their perimeter and rear, keeping a hand on Ben’s upper shoulder for silent communication.

His strong body balanced perfectly as he navigated. She’d known those muscles, not just in combat. Holding her. Giving her his power to crash against. Matching her and challenging her to find more pleasure. And now he was out on a secret detail with her. The memories of their sex made her breath run hotter in her chest, but they didn’t cloud her judgment. She and Ben had fit together in the backseat of that SUV, and they fit together during a silent insertion into hostile territory.

She only needed to tighten her fingers for Ben to halt his progress. He looked at her. She tipped her head behind them, in the direction of a solitary civilian car two blocks away. The two of them remained completely still until the car continued away and disappeared into the north side of town.

When the sound of the engine faded, replaced by the brittle weeds shivering in a biting breeze, she and Ben resumed their progress. The smell of engine oil and axle grease announced the approach of the rail yard.

Ben suddenly stopped and crouched low. He motioned with his hand toward their eleven o’clock position. A police car patrolled up and down the streets in a serpentine pattern that covered all the corners. It wasn’t a normal scan of a quiet town, keeping the citizens safe.

She brought her ear close to Ben’s mouth. He whispered, “Perimeter sweep.”

For the rail yard. They both waited until the police car finished the sector and cleared to another area. Silence descended again. Ben climbed up the opposite side of the ditch while she followed. A ten-foot cinderblock wall now separated them from the train tracks they’d been following. He made quick hand gestures to indicate that he’d help her up first, then he put his back to the wall. She readied herself and approached him quickly. His cradled hands supported her first step. Her other foot pressed off his shoulder, then she was easily on top of the wall.

The tracks glowed like a spiderweb covered in dew on the other side of the wall. Lights shined farther north in the heart of the train yard, and exhaust billowed from idling engines. The warehouses were black rectangles, voids in the landscape. She spotted no movement in the immediate area and waved Ben forward.

He ran up the wall toward her. She leaned down with her hand outstretched. His momentum and her strength carried him to the edge of the wall with her. They both swung over and jumped down to the other side.

They clung to the thick shadow at the base of the wall and remained motionless. The border had been crossed. Hostile territory stretched out in front of them. Once she was sure no one had detected them, she attached her night vision monocular to a telescopic sight and scanned the area around the warehouses four hundred yards away.

Ben crouched next to her. She knew he was watching their immediate surroundings as her visual recon eliminated her peripheral vision. His hand rested on her back and would communicate any trouble.

She finished her assessment, brought her body closer to his and whispered in the smallest breaths, “Motion lights on the corners. Eighty percent coverage. We can shoot the gaps in the overlap.”

He tapped his hand on her back to signal his readiness. She sprinted away from the wall and across four sets of tracks until she found the next pool of shadows in a hollow between two switching towers. Ben slid in right behind her.

No detection. She pointed in the direction of the next run, and Ben nodded. Now that she was on point, he covered their rear. The switch was seamless. He showed no ego about following her orders. She slipped out of the hollow and ran to the broader swath of shadows created by the warehouses.

Ben stayed on her hip and ran backward the last few yards until they settled into the new cover. They were still about three hundred yards from the warehouses, but there was little between them and the tall, wide buildings.

She and Ben crouched low and approached slowly. Their boots crunched on the gravel, but someone would have to be right on top of them to hear it. She recalled the position of the motion lights and angled their path so they’d be between the spread of the sensors. The two of them stopped every ten or so paces to assess their surroundings. So far, no one had spotted them and there were no people working on this side of the warehouses.

But there was activity on the far end. A metal door screeched open and slammed shut. The sound cycled again. She pointed to her ear, and Ben nodded. He’d heard it, too. It could be one person coming and going, or two people entering the warehouse. At two hundred yards, she and Ben were still too far to hear any voices. Tension charged her limbs. She had to be ready. They had no cover if there was trouble coming.

She pressed forward with Ben in careful increments. The warehouse was silent after the two door slams. One hundred yards away, the voices emerged. Clipped, orderly sentences, but she couldn’t make out the words.

The pressure of the stealthy insertion increased and her pace became even more deliberate. They were twenty yards from the side of the warehouse. The motion detectors would be able to see them from this point forward. A row of unlit windows, ten feet off the ground, lined the short side of the warehouse they approached. If a light turned on outside, the men inside would be able to see it. But whoever had hung the security sensors hadn’t done as perfect a job as she would’ve. If she was correct, there should be a narrow gap in the spread she and Ben could ride to the wall of the warehouse.

She charted her path and still expected a light to turn on with each step forward. She had to be ready for anything. Quick gestures told Ben that if the floods hit them, she’d break to the right. The train yard continued in that direction but gave way to a scrubby swamp, which would be easy to hide in. Ben nodded, then held up three fingers and made the symbol of a person walking. At least three men in the warehouse. He’d picked out the voices. She gave him a thumbs-up and motioned for them to continue.

Ten yards. Now she heard the distinction between the talkers inside. It sounded like they were on the far side of the building, muffled by quite a few crates. No laughing or joking. The talk seemed to be all logistics. Whatever their business at the moment, they had yet to turn on any interior lights on this end of the warehouse.

She and Ben made it over the last few yards of open ground and pressed their backs to the warehouse wall. From here they’d have about six feet of leeway to work along the building’s perimeter before the sensors caught them. She breathed to calm the tension and drew imaginary borders around the safe zones where they could operate.

Pointing at her eyes then the window above them, she told Ben she wanted to take a look inside. He again cradled his hands, and she stepped into them, then onto his shoulders. The man was like a steady mountain beneath her. She slowly peeked up into the window. Stacks and stacks of crates stood in stark, black contrast to a pool of light glowing on the far side of the warehouse. Three men gathered around a work table and stared down at a laptop computer. One of them periodically pointed to different areas of the warehouse. She couldn’t identify the men, but they had the same bearing as the collected truckers and guards who she and Ben had spotted at the state park meeting. And they wore assault rifles slung over their shoulders.

She tapped Ben with her toe and conveyed what she saw via hand signals while still scanning the warehouse. He squeezed her ankle as he received the information. The men inside continued their business. She remained on watch. Ben didn’t move or show any signs of fatigue.

The smell of military gun oil filled her nose. She ached to get inside the warehouse to see what was in the crates. She’d get her chance. One of the men closed the laptop, and the three of them filed out of the warehouse. The last man turned out the light, and welcome darkness blanketed the space.

A quick inspection of the window revealed foil tape around the glass and magnetic contacts poised at any opening point. The security system couldn’t have been any newer than the 1990s and hadn’t been well maintained. She unsheathed a slim knife from her boot and slid it between the corroded metal frame and window near a latch. The blade flaked rust away and tripped the latch. The hinges squeaked, and the window swung away. Quick panic flashed. She grabbed the window before it swung away from the magnetic switch.

Two centimeters. Any more, and the alarm would go off. She steadied herself, put the knife handle in her teeth and freed up a hand to dig into one of the pockets of her tactical vest. Delta operators were more than shooters. She’d been trained in safe cracking, security systems and lock picking, and equipped herself for most eventualities. Tonight’s countermeasure was a simple magnet she attached to the tip of her knife and slipped through the window and onto the alarm sensor.

But there was always the chance the technique would fail. She tapped on Ben’s shoulder, prepping him for the possibility to run. He squeezed a response, ready. She eased the window open, past the point where the alarm would trip. Silence. Tension released from her neck and jaw. She and Ben remained ghosts.

The window louvered to the point where it was wide enough for her to crawl through. She hauled herself up and lined her belly on the edge. As he’d done before, Ben took one step back, then ran at the wall. He clasped her hand and brought himself into the open window next to her. They swung to the interior of the warehouse and dropped down to the floor.

She hit the hard concrete and hurried to cover behind a tall stack of crates. Ben disappeared just a few feet away from her. Neither moved for a moment as they assessed the new environment. As soon as she was sure they were alone, she returned to the wall and pulled on a long chain attached to the window to close it.

Their tracks covered, the two of them pressed farther into the warehouse. Yellow rail yard lights shined into the space from the opposite windows, giving just enough detail to navigate. The pallets and shipping boxes around them were coated in old dust and smelled of damp wood. These weren’t the guns. But she and Ben couldn’t just rush to the other side of the warehouse, as much as she wanted to. Their path curved, methodical, through the stacks of goods.