Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 69242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
It took another twenty minutes to arrive at the train yard on the edge of town.
“Okay, what’s the deal?” Cal asked as we got out of the car and studied the layout. A maze of tracks wound through the busy freight yard, some bearing cars and locomotives waiting to be reconfigured before departure to their next destination. Semis and cranes stood waiting on standby to load and unload their cargo.
I’d been here before and signaled Cal to follow me to a lookout point.
We crossed several tracks and climbed around idle freight cars before we came to a structure in a clearing made of three cargo containers stacked on top of one another to create an office. The metal stairs snaking up the side promised a brutal climb, nevertheless, I said, “Up there and I’ll explain everything.”
Cal grumbled, “You’re kidding me,” but followed me up to the first level. An open door beckoned, cut out of the side of the metal. I knocked before entering. Our highly paid logistics manager, Owen looked up from a bank of monitors in a cramped office and waved me over. It took minutes to get what I needed, and I waved Cal up the next tight, narrow flight of steps.
We climbed in silence, both of us lost in our own thoughts. I imagined Cal was second guessing his decision to tag along because this was the dirty little secret of this type of work. Waiting around. Watching. More watching. But this gave us the best vantage point of the new arrivals without being seen.
“Fuck, I need to work out more,” he groaned. We’d barely reached the second level.
“Get some real muscles instead of hiding under that fucking button up shirt.”
“The ladies dig the plaid, old man. The hip hop look is over. Get a smaller pair of jeans.”
I flipped Cal off and he laughed when we finally made it to the top, a narrow walkway around the repurposed box car.
“The Crusaders shipment is here,” I said, squinting in the sun to check the numbers marking storage locations. “But Owen didn’t know the box number. Lot D was all he could say for sure.”
“Which means they’ve got someone higher than Owen helping them out.” I had the same thought, and it pissed me off.
“Likely.”
“There!” Cal pointed off to the right on ground level, his face smashed up against some black plastic device that looked like binoculars.
“Fucking Crusaders,” he growled and handed them to me. “Turn the wheels on the side to focus.”
I did and sure as shit, The Crusaders were practically below us, clear as fucking day, a half dozen milling around a container car. “Does this thing record?”
“It already is,” he said sarcastically. “What’s in there? Drugs or guns? Either could have come in from Tijuana or maybe even Texas.”
It could be anything in those containers because, like the Ashbys, The Crusaders did a bunch of shit to stay relevant in the game.
“Does it really matter what?”
The point is that those motherfuckers shouldn’t be doing any business in Glitz. Period.” No way in hell would Crusaders ever be allowed to operate in Glitz. Not on my fucking watch.
Cal pointed to a rig manned by a guy in a safety helmet and goggles. “Must be heavy since they’re using the electronic arm.”
Shit. I realized he was right and smacked his arm. “We need to get back to the car. With that thing, they’ll be on the road in a few minutes.”
We double-timed it down the stairs, stopping only to drop an envelope of cash off to Owen for his help. “Find out who’s helping them and I’ll double it,” I told him and continued down the stairs until we landed on solid ground.
Two trucks, both of them eighteen wheelers stayed close as they drove away from the train yard and toward downtown Glitz. Not the nice downtown part filled with fancy restaurants, casinos and nightclubs. No, they were headed to the Green Zone, the dirty, grimy part of the city. The seedy underbelly where property was cheap and abandoned, perfect for conducting business away from the prying eyes of the law.
We hopped in the car and I said, “They have to be going to The Hangar.”
“Yep,” Cal said, buckling himself in for what he knew would be a rough ride as I started out on their tail.
The Hangar was exactly what it sounded like, a long block of hangars that were perfect for any and all types of storage. From planes and other vehicles to containers and more importantly, the things inside those containers. “Means we don’t have to break in to get in.”
We got there as they began to load the containers into the hangar first, this time there was no high-tech solution, just a basic pulley system until the crates fell with a loud thud to the cement floor.