Page 49 of Just Friends

In position outside the office door, Ty kicked it in, and they entered, guns drawn. The wood-paneled room was filled with junk and an old wooden desk covered in piles of papers. A safe sat in the corner, a ratty old couch that needed burning, and no Duane Hartwell in sight.

He noted an open window on the far side of the room.

A flat-screen television was mounted to the wall, and it was split into six rectangles, each with a security camera view. Four were black. One showed the main room of the club and the front parking lot. He’d seen them coming.

A new Mac computer sat in the middle of all trash, which stuck out like a sore thumb. Ty motioned to the desk. Hartwell might be hiding under there.

Weapon aimed, Weasel inched his way around it. Nothing. “Clear,” he said.

“Where did the fucker go?” Ty scowled. Weasel inspected the paneling for any signs of a secret door; not finding one. He pulled the radio off his belt, “Hartwell’s office is empty. Units be advised that Duane Hartwell is on the loose.” Confirmation came back that K9 units were dispatched into the woods.

“This,” he pointed at the television screen, “is something we needed to know.” He crossed to the window. It looked out on a wooded area. Of course, it does. “Window’s open.”

“Could he fit?”

“Yep. Why do people keep jumping out of windows?” No sign of Hartwell running away. He couldn’t be that lucky, again. Going out after him would make Weasel a sitting duck; he’d have to use the side entrance.

“That been a problem?”

Weasel only nodded. He needed to get out to the shed. Things were much too quiet.

“We got company,” Ty motioned to the television then held up two fingers.Two people.

He crossed behind the remainder of the broken door hanging halfway off its hinges. Ty took the other side. With weapons ready they waited.

“Shit,” a voice said. “Did the boss get robbed?” Two guys walked past both officers only focusing on the desk.

“The computer’s still here,” the other man said, pulling a cell phone from his pocket. “We need to call the b—“

Before he finished his sentence, they ambushed the men and took them to the ground. The element of surprise worked well as neither man put up much of a fight before their hands were zip-tied behind their backs. Screaming came from the main stage area of the club as other agents barged in rounding up everyone. A topless woman ran in hollering. Her teased up bleach blond hair had about four inches of dark roots that had grown out. Her eyeliner appeared to be thick magic marker giving her the look of a coked out raccoon. She stopped dead when she spotted them and the restrained men prone on the ground, and she turned.

“Stop,” Weasel commanded. “Police, put your hands on your head.” She glanced at the door like she was considering making a run for it. “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

The stripper sighed and did as ordered. There weren’t any visible weapons, and she was only wearing a pair of thong underwear. As Weasel pulled the zip tie, she said, “I could do some stuff for you if ya want.” Her teeth were blackened from meth abuse.

Weasel shuddered at the thought. “Do you want to add a solicitation charge here?”

Weasel exited the side door of the club leaving Ty to help deal with the half-naked women and customers. He headed to the shed where the swat team had entered, but only found two individuals; neither was the ringleader. With the building cleared, a parade of people in hazmat suits wandered in and out. A sweet and pungent smell permeated the air. Ether, ammonia, and Sulphur.

“There’s something wrong,” Weasel said stomping up to Bonnie Willem.

“We have taken a building full of meth that now won’t be sold on the street.”

“No Hartwell and nothing but low-level players and strippers.”

“Patience.”

“Patience? How about your informant screwed us by not mentioning the camera in that shithole that let Hartwell see us coming?”

“How about you learn how to speak respectfully to your superiors?”

“Oh, did I upset your delicate sensibilities? We’d had him if we took out that camera. Your guy dropped it on surveillance.”

Agent Willem glared at him. “Tact is not your strong suit is it, Detective?” A commotion and yelling from the shed caught his attention.

“There’s a hatch,” someone called. Weasel also heard the name Hartwell. He and Agent Willem were at a full sprint toward the shed while hazmat suits fled the opposite direction.

They hit the entry, and he choked out a cough on the stench of chemicals, which brought him to a screeching halt not wanting to go too far inside. He backed up, pushing Willem out onto the step––there was no need for both of them exposed to the poisonous fumes. The sweet scent was overwhelming, and the level of ether indicated they were in danger of igniting the flammable gas.

---