“Oh, that’s clever,” Sorenson breathed, eyes alight. “Old-school clever. You think they’re moving the drugs into the city via the river.”
“It’s a good strategy,” Matt said. “They drive the drugs to one of the state parks south of here, then move them upriver on fishing boats and unload into one of the warehouses at night, when no one’s around. We don’t patrol the river, so it’s less risky than driving through the city.”
“You don’t patrol the river?” Caleb said incredulously.
“Lost funding two years ago,” Hawthorn said without looking at him.
“I’m developing a strong opinion about the current bond issue,” Caleb muttered.
“Get out.”
The room went silent as everyone stared at Matt’s cell, relaying the drama unfolding in a back alley. There was a scuffling noise, then, “Ouch! Good grief, Lyle, take it easy!”
A rumble, slow then speeding up before clunking to a stop, obscured Eve’s next words. “Sounds like a garage door,” Hawthorn said.
“The loading docks down there all had big manual doors,” Caleb said. “We used to pop the locks off the doors and set up skateboard ramps inside until the cops ran us off.”
Matt shook his head in increasing frustration. “Still nothing that tells us which warehouse.”
“She’d tell us if she could,” Caleb bristled.
“I know she would,” Matt snapped back, then took a deep breath. “But if we head to the wrong one—”
Caleb couldn’t understand. Every second counted. Milliseconds counted. Sweeping the wrong warehouse would waste precious minutes, not to mention the possibility of losing the tactical advantage of surprise if someone saw them and called Lyle.
She could be beaten, raped, or killed on the filthy cement floor of an abandoned warehouse while he listened, unable to find her, helpless to stop it.
Hawthorn looked at Matt and Sorenson. “We go with Matt’s instincts,” Sorenson said. “First and Hancock.”
“Dorchester, you’re on the roof,” Hawthorn said as he handed Matt a rifle, then pointed at the four uniformed officers. “You two take Harrison to the river and come up along the canal trail. You two, come around from the north,” he said, pointing at the map to the alley running behind the warehouse at First and Harrison. “Let us know when that alley’s secure. Sorenson, you’re with Dorchester. McCormick, you’re with me.”
A logical division of duties, given that Matt achieved expert marksman status before he left the Army, and he’d kept up his skills. But he wasn’t operating on logic. “Sir, put Sorenson on the roof,” he said. “She’s as good as I am, and I want point.”
Caleb looked at Sorenson, both eyebrows raised. She met his eyes without flinching, then looked at Hawthorn. “I am,” she confirmed.
“No,” Hawthorn said.
“Sir.” Matt fisted his hands on his hips, squared up, and looked his lieutenant right in the eye. “I want point.”
Hawthorn heard Matt on multiple levels—Army, cop, man. His LT studied him for a moment, his gaze completely expressionless. “Sorenson, you’re on the roof.”
Matt swapped Sorenson the rifle for extra clips for his Glock and shoved them into his vest pocket.
“Lyle, who’s that?” Fear made Eve’s voice high, uncertain.
“Oh, no,” Caleb said. His gaze locked with Matt’s across the room. “No.”
A laugh filtered into the room from Matt’s cell phone, a low, derisive, mocking laugh, taking pleasure in her uncertainty and growing fear. Eve’s voice rose, loud and panicked, and cut off his train of thought. “Oh my God!” she cried. “Dad!”
*
Eve stumbled across the cracked, dirty cement floor, twisting her heel on a loose chunk of concrete before falling to her knees at her father’s side. The sun streamed through broken windows high above, light and shadow lying in jagged angles over him.
“Dad,” she said again, reaching out to steady him. His face was waxy gray, the skin slack and shining with sweat. His arms trembled as he pushed himself up.
Lyle, circling the two of them, kicked and knocked her father’s hand out from under his shoulder. He dropped heavily to the floor again, and this time made no move to get up.
“Stop it!” she screamed at Lyle over her shoulder. “Stop this right now! Do you hear me?”
Under the cover of hysterics, she slid her hand down her father’s arm, the comforting move intended to cover transferring the cell phone to his palm. He pressed his palm to his chest, either to conceal the phone or assuage the pain.
“He had a heart attack last year,” she continued, no need to fake the tremor or fear in her voice. “Please, let him go!”
In response Lyle spat on the floor by her father’s head. “Ready to talk business, Evie?”
“First, let him go.”