Page 155 of Lone Star

“Look at this fence. If they do, there aren’t any aimed at this spot. Let’s go.”

In truth, there were cameras, and he’d already spotted them, one on each corner of the rear of the building, but stationary, rather than oscillating, and pointed forward to catch any movement coming around the sides from the front. The psychology of it was simple to him: This ratty old fence, this rarely-used alley, felt like a wall to whoever worked and plotted inside this building. Any watch they kept would be on the street, on the front of the house; a braggart’s false sense of security.

A quick check proved all the roll-top doors were cinched tight from the inside, but it was laughably easy to pick the lock on one of the pedestrian doors; one with a shade pulled down over the window from the inside, and patchy rust on the unpainted metal face of it. He checked that Albie had his gun drawn, drew his own – suppressor screwed securely onto the barrel – let them in.

The hinges squeaked. He gritted his teeth against the noise, tensed for an attack. Waited a few moments, a count of four breaths. No one came running.

They entered a narrow, linoleum-floor hallway that smelled stale and unused. Doors were set in the wall to either side, and ahead, the hall took a hard right turn. Fox pressed his ear to both doors before he tried them, and opened them to find a janitor closet that looked like it hadn’t been touched in a decade, and a storage room lined with shelves of dusty boxes. Whatever went on here, this wasn’t a high-traffic area.

The only way to go was forward.

Fox moved silently, and Albie nearly managed, the occasional bit of grit crackling under his boot soles not enough to give them away. Th turn opened into another hallway, lined with more doors, but there were signs of foot traffic on the lino here, a clean, shiny path down the center, and turning in at the thresholds. Fox heard voices, echoing as if in a large space.

A window lay ahead on the left, waist-high, covered in cheap miniblinds. When Fox reached it, he gapped the blinds with two fingers and peeked through. He had a view of a vast garage space, bay after bay, all open to one another. Several had car lifts, but most sat empty. He spotted the truck, black, and covered in dust and debris, with a camper shell on the back and big chrome towing mirrors, just as Ray had said.

A knot of four guys dressed in black stood chatting in Spanish. A younger man, a lackey, was unrolling a water hose toward the truck, where a bucket topped with soap suds waiting. They were going to wash away the evidence of the crash.

He couldn’t see anything else that looked like office space, though the tall, industrial cabinets along one wall warranted a closer look.

Fox released the blinds and stepped back. “We’ll search these rooms first.” The clock was ticking on Candy’s arrival, and he wanted to do his snooping before the shit hit the fan.

Albie wore an impatient expression, but nodded, and they split up.

Fox checked the rooms on the left. A bunk room with a few messy cots, a TV, and a microwave. A bare bones office with one filing cabinet it would take too long to search; he nicked the scribbled-on notepad by the phone and stuffed it in his pocket.

When he stepped out into the hall, he found Albie hanging out of a doorway, motioning him over.

“Come look,” he whispered.

Fox looked, and felt his brows jump.

It was a work room, a series of folding card tables laid out in a horseshoe pattern; large flat squares of glass, boxes of plastic wrap, rolls of tape. A few tightly-bound bricks of cocaine, and more along the walls, peeking out of plastic tote bins. The bins on the opposite wall contained cases of small vials, all full of cocaine, ready for retail distribution – of a sort.

“They’re distributing locally out of here,” Fox said, pulling out his phone to snap photos. He pocketed one of the vials, and crossed to the door, peered out into the hall. Still clear. Went to the window, and peeked through. A car was pulling into one of the empty bays in the garage, and the knot of chatting men were moving to meet the driver: a pimple-faced white kid smiling through white-lipped terror.

Albie appeared at his shoulder, gapping a section of blinds for himself, and they watched a roll of cash get traded for a paper lunch sack through the window of the car.

“Recognize him?” Albie asked.

“I don’t remember his name. Something with a D. Part of this little group of wankers always wanting Candy to cut them in on the business. I think he tried to prospect, once, but he couldn’t even cut it as a hangaround. Somebody got knifed at a party and he puked all over himself.”

“So he goes and gets himself tied up with the cartel.”

“No one in the cartel cares if he’s a right fit. If he fucks up, they’ll kill him.”

He let the blinds fall closed as the beat-up Dodge was backing out of the garage. “There’s a staircase out there, which means these offices have an upper floor. I want a look.”

“And how will we get to the stairs, genius?”

Fox shot him a grin, and Albie rolled his eyes.

Forty-Five

Jenny had always found that keeping busy in moments like these was the best way to keep upright and keep from giving in to despair. “Do you know where the shop vac is?” she asked Nickel.

“Yes, ma’am.” He headed to fetch it immediately. She had no idea why his nickname was Nickel, because he’d been solid gold since this madness started. When they were past it all, she was putting in a good word for him with Candy.

She turned to survey the room for what felt like the thousandth time. Darla had wanted to help, but she’d sent her to look after Jack and TJ. Darla was a godsend in all things, but her nerves were shot, Jenny could tell, and Jenny had plenty of stomach for this sort of thing.

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