The van slowed for another turn. Sharper, probably onto a side street. The turn sent Will’s shoulder into Beau’s. Across from them, the kids struggled to maintain the space between them.
The van’s speed stayed around thirty for a few minutes. Will listened for the sound of other vehicles. He heard the occasional hum of traffic. They were still close to the highway. Or maybe it was an interstate. Or maybe he’d been in this van so long that he’d lost his sense of hearing.
The floor felt like it was dipping. The van was going up a ramp. Will heard the rumble of an idling diesel engine. Close by, probably parked next to the van. There was a whirring sound. A motor, chains hitting metal. The click-click-click-click of a brake preventing a gear from rolling back.
Will recognized the sound. He had worked at a shipping company to help pay his way through college. He knew what a receiving dock door sounded like when it was rolled up for a delivery.
The van shifted as Gerald got out of the front. He was talking to someone. Will couldn’t make out the words. He assumed money was being exchanged.
Not a lot of risk. We’ve done it before. There’s a guy on the inside.
The doors to the van finally opened. Will had expected a blinding light, but all he got was more darkness. Gerald had backed directly into the receiving bay. The thick black seal around the open door blocked Will’s chances of seeing the outside. A man who looked like he’d just come from the gym was walking toward the exit. His back was to Will. He had an envelope in his hand that was so stuffed with cash that the flap wouldn’t close. Red ball cap, baggy shorts, black Nike T-shirt, thick in the waist.
“Let’s go.” Gerald kept his voice low as he waved for them to hurry.
One through Four quickly scrambled, pairing off in different directions. They kept their hands on their firearms as if any second, this could turn into the O.K. Corral.
Will’s eyes darted around the warehouse as he climbed down from the van. Most of the lights were off, but there were spots to see by. The warehouse was around the size of a football field. Rows of metal racks contained stacked, sealed cardboard boxes. They were all the same dimensions, around thirty inches square. Each was stamped with numbers that corresponded to the different signs on the racks below. Every single box had a plastic sleeve with a shipping label inside.
Will had to get one of those labels. The contents, shipping and receiving addresses, company names and contacts would be on the forms.
“Beau.” Gerald nodded him toward the rear of the warehouse.
The Glock was already in Beau’s hands. He walked in a low crouch, weapon pointed down, looking for security guards or anyone who might cause trouble.
“Wolfe.” Gerald’s hand was on Will’s shoulder. He spoke quietly. “That way.”
Will saw the bathrooms, an employee breakroom, the shipping office, a door that probably led to the administration side of the warehouse. He drew his Sig, pointed it down at the ground, and crouched his way toward the bathroom.
Before he went inside, he glanced behind him. A second bay door was open onto the back of a box truck. Cardboard boxes that looked identical to the ones on the racks were packed to the ceiling. Two and Three started unloading them. Whatever was inside was heavy enough to require two men per box. Gerald went to the racks. He had a piece of paper in his hands. He was looking for a corresponding number. He pointed to a row in the middle. One and Four got to work taking them down.
Why break into a warehouse to replace a bunch of boxes?
Gerald caught his eye.
Will went into the women’s bathroom. He checked the stalls. He needed something—a name tag, a newspaper, that could help pinpoint his location. There were lockers, but they were all unlocked and all empty. He cleared the men’s room with the same bad luck. He went back into the warehouse. More boxes coming out of the truck. More boxes being taken down from the racks.
The door to the shipping office was locked. Will looked through the glass. Papers were everywhere. It was too dark to make out any logos or addresses.
Behind him, the kids were working quickly. The boxes were out of the truck. Half of the new boxes had been loaded in. They were working by rote. They had all done this before. They were afraid, but not terrified. Their nervous energy came more from the excitement of being criminals.
Will entered the breakroom. Vending machines, kitchenette, sink, two refrigerators, tables and chairs for around thirty people.
One person sitting at the table by the Coke machine.
Security guard.
At first glance, he could’ve been dead, but Will realized that the man was asleep. His head had dropped back against the chair. His mouth gaped open. His hat covered his eyes and nose. His hands rested on his large belly. The uniform was black cotton. No logos or name tag. Black work boots. White gym socks.
Will started to edge out of the room, but then he clocked the ID badge on a lanyard around the man’s neck.
The card was turned around. The back was white. The other side of the card would show the man’s name, the company, the address.
Will debated.
He could hear a bay door rolling closed in the warehouse. They had loaded up the semi. They were probably looking for him.
Will tucked the Sig into his holster. He flicked open his knife.
He took a step toward the sleeping guard. He was snoring hard, had probably been out for at least an hour.
Will took another step. He clicked his tongue, testing the amount of noise he could make before the guard woke up. The rolling door hadn’t stirred him. The smell of hard liquor was pungent as Will got closer. He clicked his tongue again. The man did not stir.
Will took another step. He reached out with his blade to cut the ID card off the lanyard.
“Ssst!”
The noise had come from behind Will.
Gerald was in the doorway. He furiously shook his head, motioning for Will to leave the guy alone. There was something like fear in his eyes.
He’d thought that Will was going to stab the guard.
“Wolfe.” Gerald waved for him to leave.
Will looked down at the ID card. He was so fucking close.
But Gerald had told him no. Will’s mission was not to locate the address to a warehouse. He was here to work his way into the IPA.
He kept the knife in his hand as he backed out of the room. He stared at the ID card with the same kind of longing he felt for Sara. He scanned the room for identifying features. The usual signs about choking and chemical burns on the walls. An eye-washing station. A first-aid kit. There was nothing that would differentiate this breakroom from every other breakroom inside the hundreds of thousands of warehouses in the country.
Will jogged behind Gerald to the van. His eyes found the boxes on the metal rack. They all had the same number: 4935876.
“Wolfe.” Gerald’s hand went to Will’s shoulder. His voice was low. “Next time, check with me before you do something like that.”
Will nodded. He climbed into the van. One through Four were already inside. Beau had taken his place behind the driver’s seat. He was silent, looking down at his hands. They were all quiet. They had all expected, maybe even hoped, for the worst to happen, and they didn’t know what to do with the letdown.
The drive back to the nursing home passed in silence. Four hours, by Will’s watch. One through Four had fallen asleep. Beau stayed tensed beside him. He was thinking, probably planning how he was going to get out of this once the van stopped. Run. Fight. Kill.
Will was thinking, too, but not about that.
4935876.
The numbers on the sides of the boxes.
He kept chanting them in his head like a mantra. The tires kept rolling. The kids kept sleeping. Will’s tailbone started to ache from the metal floor. The display on his watch had flipped to midnight by the time the van finally slowed to a stop.
The kids did not wake up. Beau grunted as he edged along the floor. The shrapnel in his back was probably killing him. He’d stopped reaching into his pocket about an hour ago. Either his pills were gone or he wanted to be clear-headed for what was about to come next.
Gerald opened the van doors. They were at the mouth of the driveway to the nursing home. He had their wallets, Beau’s phone and keys.
He said, “Thank you very much for your service. Money’s under the seat of your truck. Good doing business with you fellas.”
Beau took his belongings, started shoving them into his pockets.
Gerald headed toward the front of the van. The driver’s door was open. The engine was idling.
He was going to leave. He couldn’t leave.
Will asked, “That’s it?”
Gerald slowly turned around. He studied Will. He couldn’t quite make up his mind. After too many seconds had passed, he said, “You want more, Major Wolfe?”
Major.
They had gone through Will’s wallet, run a background check on Jack Phineas Wolfe, honorably discharged, former Airborne.
Beau cleared his throat. “Come on. Let him go.”
Will couldn’t tell who he was talking to.
Gerald asked Beau, “What’s this pussy shit, Ragnersen? You taking away your endorsement?”