Page 98 of A Little Naughty

RAIF

Leaving Jemima is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. The only thing keeping me going is the belief it’s all going to work out. I have the power to walk away if things go bad. I’ve scouted my location, and I located a position where I can beat it at the first sign of trouble.

I’m not a part of this.

I’m only a lookout.

It’s going to be okay.

The job is scheduled to happen at 4 a.m. The shipment will arrive, and just as fast, the trucks will be loaded and will roll out with whatever illegal cargo has been added. I’ll be back in Jemima’s arms before the first rays of dawn.

Bull never told me which branch of law enforcement they’re worried about, and I’m afraid it’s drugs. I’m afraid it’s fucking fentanyl, and I don’t like being a part of it getting into the supply chain.

The entire drive, my mind works overtime on a way to alert the authorities without getting caught. If I see something, sound the alarm, and everything stops, that’s a win. Stopping it is my main concern—so if I alert the DEA, then tell my brother it’s a raid, I’m clean.

It’s an enticing idea, but I need to know what I’m working with first.

When I reach the road leading to the dock, I cruise on by the entrance, hitting the throttle loudly so they’ll know I’m here. It’s my signal to Bull. The sound of my bike means the watch is in place.

I circle the perimeter like I did the last time, and I see no signs of anyone or anything. It appears everything’s going according to plan. When I arrive back at the entrance, I turn off, taking a narrow road leading away from the gate and up a wooded hill.

At the top, a picnic area stands dark and empty. I pull off into a copse of trees and park the bike behind an old green dumpster. I have my phone and a small pair of binoculars that fits in my pocket. Normally, I’d also have my gun.

Thinking of it at the house with Jemima twists the pain in my chest. It’s pain and anxiety and worry and heartbreak. If she knew what I was doing right now, would she understand? I said I wanted her to be proud of me. How could she be proud of this?

My hands are in my pockets as I walk down the hill. Palmettos, wax myrtles, and juniper bushes form a scratchy barrier on both sides of the road. I wish I had my denim jacket, but I can’t risk being spotted in the darkness.

As it is, I’ll have to push through the brambles. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I look down to see it’s a call from an unknown number. It’s my brother letting me know he heard me. Now all I have to do is get in place and watch for an hour or so, until he lets me know they’re done.

This is where I deviate from the plan.

I have to know what I’m allowing to happen here, and if there’s something I can do to stop it. It’s a big risk, and I’m taking it. It’s the only way I can try and redeem myself for this bad decision.

Walking down the hill carries another risk. If their fears are justified, and law enforcement knows something is going down here, if it’s a sting operation or a SWAT team shows up, I’ll be arrested right along with them. It won’t matter what my intentions are now. I won’t be able to run away, and I’ll go to prison.

Swallowing the knot in my throat, it’s a chance I have to take.

I creep down to the side of the fence, to the opening behind the guard shack and through the narrow space beside the post. Staying low, I creep along the edge of the parking lot, doing my best to duck behind the line of dumpsters, the discarded wooden palettes, and the occasional parked car.

Lights blaze up ahead, and I hear the sound of voices, the metallic sliding of a cargo door. They’ve opened the semi truck, which means I don’t have much time now. The truck is loaded, and once they’re done, neither the driver nor the logistics company will know what’s been added to their shipment—unless someone tips them off.

Leaning out carefully, I look down the long side of the warehouse. The truck is parked beside the loading dock, ready to take off at sunrise. I see shapes, but I’m too far to make out if one is my brother.

I count four guys, which doesn’t seem like enough to move stereos or televisions. I try to rationalize—four could be enough if it’s virtual-reality goggles or iPhones or some other type of small, digital equipment. It doesn’t have to be drugs… or worse.

Fuck, I want this to be an old-school robbery so bad, and the dark sensation creeping up the back of my neck tells me it’s not.

Swiping my hand over my forehead, I keep low as I jog up the side of the long truck to the midpoint. I’m not getting any closer. I can use my binoculars to try and make out what’s happening. I just need to find the best hiding place to spy.

One step to the right, and my eyes land on a girl about Nikki’s age. Her straight, dark hair is parted down the middle, and she’s wearing jeans and a gray shirt. Her eyes are downcast, and she looks behind her as she crosses the space between the dock and the truck.

Sickness tightens my throat. I’m pretty sure I know what’s happening. I need to bolt, but I’m still not certain. Taking a step closer, I peek around the side of the truck. Sure enough, I see another one. This time it’s a short man passing money and papers to another, leaner man in a black suit coat. His back is to me, so I can’t see his face.

The leaner man waves him away. A little boy in aSpongeBob SquarePantsT-shirt holds onto the smaller man’s jeans pocket, and anger burns in my stomach. He could be Ryan or Owen. He could be Nikki.

I’ve seen enough—it’s time to go. It’s time to put an end to this.

Taking careful steps, I do my best to quietly get away. I know who to call now, but I also know the clock is ticking before these trucks pull out and are gone. They’ll disappear into the night, and it’ll be too late to do anything.

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