Fallen (Will Trent 5)

Will felt like she was being honest at least about this. In any investigation involving multiple perpetrators, the key was always to find out how they knew each other. Human beings were largely predictable in their habits. If you found out where they met, how they knew each other, or what had brought them together, then you could generally find someone outside the group, just hovering around the periphery, who wanted to talk.

He told her what he’d been thinking since he first saw Evelyn’s upturned house. “This feels like a personal vendetta.”

“Most vendettas are.”

“No, I mean it feels like it’s about something more than money.”

“That will be one of the many questions we ask these imbeciles once we have the cuffs on them.” Amanda twisted the steering wheel, taking a sudden turn that jerked Will to the side. “I’m sorry.”

He couldn’t remember a time Amanda had ever apologized for anything. He stared at her profile. Her jaw was more prominent than usual. Her skin was sallow. She was looking downright beaten. And she had given him more information in the last ten minutes than she had in the last twenty-four hours. “Is something else going on?”

“No.” She stopped in front of a large commercial warehouse with six loading docks. There were no cargo trucks, but several vehicles were parked in front of the large bay doors. Any one of the vehicles would’ve cost more than Will’s pension—BMWs, Mercedes, even a Bentley.

Amanda circled the lot, making sure there would be no surprises. The space was large enough for an eighteen-wheeler to turn around, and sloped toward the docks to facilitate loading and unloading. She made a lazy U-turn, going back the way they had come. The tires squealed as she cut the wheel hard, taking a space as far from the building as she could get without parking on the grass. Amanda cut the engine. The SUV was directly across from what appeared to be the front office. About fifty yards of wide-open space separated them from the building. A set of crumbling concrete steps led to a glass door. The railing had rusted so badly it keeled to the side. The sign over the entrance had a set of kitchen cabinets bolted to the front. A Confederate flag waved in the breeze. Will read the first word on the sign, then guessed at the rest, “Southern Cabinets? That’s an unusual drug front.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “It’s like watching a dog walk on its hind legs.”

Will got out of the car. He met Amanda behind the SUV. She used the key-fob remote to pop open the trunk. In Valdosta this morning, they had locked up their weapons before going into the prison. The black SUV was regulation GBI, which meant the entire back end was taken up by a large steel cabinet with six drawers. Amanda pressed the combination into the pushbutton lock and pulled open the middle drawer. Her Glock rested in a dark purple velvet bag that had the Crown Royal logo stitched into the hem. She dropped it into her purse while Will clipped his paddle holster onto his belt.

“Hold on.” She reached into the back of the drawer and pulled out a five-shot revolver. This particular type of Smith and Wesson was called an “old-timer,” because mostly old-timers carried them. The gun was lightweight, with an internal hammer that made it easy to conceal. Despite the “Lady Smith” logo etched above the trigger, the recoil could leave a nasty bruise the entire length of your hand. Evelyn Mitchell’s S&W was a similar model, with a cherry handle instead of Amanda’s custom walnut. Will wondered if the two women had bought their guns together on a shopping trip.

Amanda said, “Stand straight. Try not to react. We’re just in view of the camera.”

Will fought to follow her orders as she reached under the back of his jacket and shoved the revolver down his pants. He stared ahead at the warehouse. It was metal, wider than it was deep, about half the length of a football field. The whole building was on a concrete foundation that raised the height of the ground floor by at least four feet, the standard height of a loading dock. Except for the steep flight of concrete steps leading up to the front door, there was no way in and out. At least not unless you were willing to pull yourself up onto the loading dock and muscle open one of the large metal doors.

He asked, “Where are the guys you had sitting on this place?”

“Doraville needed an assist. We’re on our own.”

He watched the camera over the door track back and forth. “This doesn’t seem like a bad idea at all.”

“Stand up straight.” She slapped him on the back, making sure the gun was snug. “And for God’s sake, don’t hold in your stomach or it’ll fall straight through to the ground.” She had to go up on the tips of her toes to pull the trunk closed. “I don’t know why you wear your belt so loose. It’s pointless to even have one if you’re not going to use it right.”

Will walked behind her as she headed toward the entrance. The walk was a brisk one, fifty yards of exposed space. The camera had stopped its sweep to track their progress. They might as well have targets on their chests. He concentrated on the top of Amanda’s head, the way her hair swirled at the crown like a spiral ham.

The glass door opened when they reached the concrete steps to the entrance. Amanda shielded her eyes from the sun, staring up at an angry-looking Asian man. He was huge, his body seemingly comprising equal parts fat and muscle. The guy stood wordlessly, holding open the front door as he watched them make their way up the steps. Will followed Amanda inside. His eyes took their time adjusting in the tiny, airless front office. The fake paneling on the wall had buckled from humidity. The carpet was brown in ways that would repulse a more fastidious man. The whole place smelled of sawdust and oil. Will could hear machines running in the warehouse: finish nailers, compressors, lathes. Guns N’ Roses played on the radio.

Amanda told the man, “Mrs. Ling should be expecting me.” She smiled at the camera mounted above the doorway.

The man didn’t move. Amanda dug into her purse like she was looking for her lipstick. Will didn’t know if she was reaching for her gun or if she just needed lipstick. His answer came when the door was opened by a tall, lithe woman with a grin on her face.

“Mandy Wagner, it’s been ages.” The woman seemed almost pleased. She was Asian, roughly Amanda’s age with short salt-and-pepper hair. She was as thin as a teenager. Her sleeveless shirt showed well-toned arms. She spoke in a distinctive, slow southern drawl. There was something catlike in the languid way she moved, or maybe the smell of pot clinging to her body had something to do with that. She was wearing moccasins with beads on the top, the sort of souvenir you’d find at a tourist trap outside an Indian reservation.

“Julia.” Amanda gave a convincing smile. “It’s so good to see you.” They hugged, and Will saw the woman’s hand linger at Amanda’s waist.

“This is Will Trent, my associate.” She put her hand over Julia’s as she turned to Will. “I hope you don’t mind his tagging along. He’s in training.”

“How fortunate to learn from the best,” Julia cooed. “Tell him to leave his gun on the counter. You too, Mandy. You still using that old Crown Royal bag?”

“Keeps the lint out of the firing pin.” The gun made a thud as she dropped the bag on the counter. The dour man checked the contents, then nodded at his boss. Will wasn’t as quickly compliant. Giving up his gun was not something he was comfortable with.