“I don’t advise you to tell him that.” He hung up.
Jaden took a deep breath and tried to smother his rage. Hutchinson wasn’t important. He was only a high-priced mouthpiece who was afraid to get his hands dirty. But he didn’t mind relaying orders to him to do it. But this time Jaden would have welcomed that order. He’d only remained safe during his career by leaving no evidence of his passing. Now the Michaels woman was starting to shine a spotlight on Powers, and Powers might be a weak link that might lead to him.
Not to be tolerated.
So find a way to stop Kendra Michaels once and for all.
Croyden, England
Middlesex Lane
Rye walked down the main drag of the depressed industrial town sixty-five kilometers north of London. He had no reason to go there since he was a boy, and it looked almost nothing like how he remembered it. More than half of the shops had been shuttered, and those that remained were mostly secondhand stores, pawnshops, and the occasional Laundromat. At the end of the street he saw the reason for the financial despair—the closed clothing factory, which he’d just learned had supplied many of England’s military uniforms for two world wars. Now, however, the gray brick buildings towered above the wrought-iron gates, silently taunting the town that had once so depended on it.
He walked to the factory entrance and looked through the gate’s iron bars. It looked as if no one had been there in years.
Except …
High on the stone flanking, there was a relatively new opening mechanism with an articulated arm attached to the gate. A tiny red light beamed down from the apparatus, indicating that it was on and receiving power.
Nothing else about the grounds indicated that anyone had been there in years. No sound emanated from the factory and no exhaust was emitted from the twin smokestacks and numerous vents.
He turned back toward the street. Dapper Dan’s Pub was on the corner next to the tiny sundries store that probably made most of its sales from lottery tickets. He crossed the street and walked into the dark pub.
A curling match, of all things, was on all three televisions above the narrow bar. Two elderly men, obviously regulars, stared absently at their beers.
The bartender, a plump woman in her seventies, was wiping off the stools. She didn’t acknowledge him even after he sat down on one of them.
“A pint of Pride,” he said.
Still no acknowledgment.
After a few moments, she walked behind the bar and pulled his beer from a well-worn tap. She placed it in front of him.
“Appreciate it,” he said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been here. My uncle used to work at that factory.”
The bartender snorted. “Everybody’s uncle used to work at that factory. At least around here.”
Rye smiled. “How long’s it been shut down?”
A patron with a Santa Claus beard spoke up. “Twenty-three years last March. But most of the workers were let go five or six years before that.”
“And the place has been empty ever since?”
The bartender nodded. “There was talk about building computers there, but it never came to anything. The local government bent over backward to make it happen, but the company went to Taiwan instead.”
He shrugged. “Well, someone’s been going in and out of there lately.”
The bartender and her patrons stared at him. He’d tried to make it sound casual, but his tone had probably been a bit too insistent, he realized. “I mean, the gates look like they’ve been automated. Recently. I thought it might mean the factory was opening again.”
The second bar patron shook his head. “No such luck. There have been some people coming and going from there, but no one local.”
“I don’t think they’re workers,” the bartender said. “The cars are too nice. A couple Bentleys, a Mercedes, Range Rovers, those kind.”
“I think they’re stripping the place for parts,” the Santa Claus look-alike offered. “Or maybe there’s a crew in there designing a remodel.”
The bartender shook her head. “The only remodeling that’s gonna be done there is to level it to the ground.”
“Those cars come every day?” Rye asked.
“Yeah,” the bartender said. “Saturday and Sunday, too.”
“Huh. Just cars? No trucks or construction equipment?”
“A few trucks last year. Lately, just cars.”
Rye turned in his stool and looked out the front windows toward the factory. “It’s right across the street. I’m sure they must stop in for a pint once in a while.”
“Never, and they don’t go next door for chewing gum or a pack of smokes. Me and Alfie, the owner there, were just talking about it. Those people are too snooty to bother with the locals.”
“Huh.” Rye stared at the factory for a moment longer. “They’re there right now?”
“Sure. I’m pretty sure there are always people there around the clock.”
“Strange.” He downed the rest of his beer and stood. “Well, good day to you all.”