There was also the small issue of recovering each set on their way out, increasing the length of an already perilous exfil for an adjustment to the stated mission that he was already pissed about. David had an uncanny ability to push things too far, never wavering in his desire to ensure that no matter how bad a situation got, he could find a way to make it worse.
Take the current redirect, he thought. Before moving to Lagos, the team found themselves at an intersection where their own audacity and Duchess’s willingness to assume risk were aligned for the first time. They’d infiltrated the Gradsek facility, made their way into an inner office, and miraculously escaped with both intel and, apparently, evidence of international heroin trafficking.
Most team leaders of sound mind would consider that an ideal time to cut their losses and get out of Dodge. Not David, Reilly thought sardonically, because why settle for an impossible victory when you could taunt fate yet again on the same night?
The medic knew from Cancer’s tone over the radio that he was no more thrilled about this little diversion than Reilly himself, and Worthy was nothing if not a pragmatist. Were the Georgian just a hair more willing to voice his opinion rather than stoically follow orders, Reilly was certain he’d have whispered some complaint during their brief halts to peer around the stacked containers.
But neither Worthy nor Cancer had said a word beyond tactical particulars, instead leaving Reilly to pick up rear security as he followed—and brooded—in silence.
David urgently transmitted, “What’s your current location?”
Worthy halted the small formation as Cancer replied, “Route Black, approaching the intersection with Route Green.”
David replied, “Take cover now.”
They were too far down the parallel rows of containers to backtrack and round a corner, so both Worthy and Cancer found the only available hiding place, slipping sideways into the narrow gaps between storage containers as David continued, “Car inbound from the main gate down Route Green, looks like Nigerian Customs.”
Reilly tried to follow suit, only to find that the nearest container gap was fractions of an inch too narrow to accommodate his considerable size. He took a panicked glance forward, seeing the glow of vehicle headlights increasing in brightness as they approached. The routers and cameras weren’t a problem—unless some intrepid customs employee went crawling on the ground shining a flashlight into forklift pockets beneath the containers, they’d never be found.
Reilly, however, was another story altogether.
He could run, but the lines of sight extended for eighty meters to his rear. Climbing was out of the question—the corrugated siding was unscalable, and it would take an expert climber to shimmy up the metal framework of the container door assemblies rising over thirty feet above him.
Reilly was neither a sprinter nor a climber, and his bulk worked against him in both endeavors as much as the option he chose now.
Exhaling all the air from his lungs, Reilly lifted his arms overhead, stretching high to assume the thinnest profile possible as he shuffled sideways into the gap. The metal to his front and back scraped painfully against him as he wedged himself inside, shimmying ever further into the narrow space until finally clearing the edge as the sound of a vehicle rolled by to his front, then faded.
“Should be past your line of sight on Route Green,” David transmitted, “and Duchess has confirmed that all alarms and CCTVs on your route have been frozen. You’re clear to proceed to Building 8.”
The announcement was of little consolation to Reilly, whose lungs were now screaming for air. He tried to sidestep back the way he’d come, making incremental progress before getting stuck and forcing his arms higher in an effort to maintain an even slimmer profile.
Perfect, he thought, all the way from the US to Nigeria only to suffocate between a couple of containers. Could there be a shittier obituary?
Reilly was seeing stars now, struggling to force his body back through the gap. He found the edge of the container with prying fingers, using his arm strength to pull himself obliquely sideways. Finally his head cleared the edge of the containers, where his first ragged inhale caused his torso to become inextricably wedged once more. This was getting absurd, he thought.
Exhaling again, he managed to slide out completely and take his first gulps of air.
If Worthy were filming this with the same phone he’d used to photograph their infil, Reilly knew he’d never hear the end of it.
No such luck—both of his teammates were already continuing to the end of the container row, completely unhindered by his absence until Cancer transmitted, “Doc, we need a camera up here—get your fat ass moving.”
Cancer swept his suppressed Glock across the warehouse interior, moving slowly on his entry team’s initial clearance of the building.
He’d wanted to roll out the second they left their initial target, but David had said to move to Building 8 so that was what he’d do. What drove David to assume that massive risk, Cancer had no idea—but who knew what Ian was whispering in his ear, the slimy bastard.
At any rate, getting into the warehouse was a cinch. Those Agency hackers operating from the other side of the world had removed any sense of accomplishment from the feat, leaving Cancer to pick a few locks before entering alongside Worthy, both men using their pistols to perform a surreptitious clearance.
The warehouse’s overhead lights were on, a disquieting observation until the silence in the building assured him they were alone: a patchwork of cameras mounted along the ceiling framework indicated those lights were on to illuminate intruders, the alarms aided by a network of prominently mounted motion sensors. Both of those systems had been temporarily disabled from afar courtesy of the Central Intelligence Agency, but nonetheless, Cancer took his first cautious footfalls with a better-than-passing expectation that an alarm would blare at any moment.
When none did, he picked up his pace, clearing his sectors for any sign of Gradsek employees and finding none. That provided precious little consolation that no one else would be arriving in the imminent future, however, and he felt his back rippling with gooseflesh as he moved.
Worthy transmitted, “I think we’re clear.”
“No shit,” Cancer replied. “This time, you and Doc have got security. I’m going to find the cargo.”
He expected some objection warranting an angry response—after long minutes of pulling security on the office building doorway while Worthy got to prance about and find the motherlode of heroin shipments, Cancer was prepared to solidify the order with ironclad justification.
But instead Worthy answered, “We’re on it. Happy hunting.”
Now that Cancer was beginning his formal search for the cargo, though, he faced another dilemma: how in God’s name was he supposed to distinguish Y210 and L13 from the seeming miles of shelving and containers packed into this space?