The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(72)

They had the fertilizer. They had the fuel oil. They had the blasting caps. But they still needed the plastic. Everything pointed to the Marine.

But Midden would make sure it worked.

He needed to be done with all of this.

He wasn’t sure he could make it much longer.

He was tired of those dreams.





33



Peter saw the black Ford SUV. It was still parked on the block behind the veterans’ center, in front of an ancient crumbling brick warehouse complete with a loading dock for trucks and its own railroad siding for freight car access. Heavy goods had gone in and out of that building for years. But now the steel rails were gone, maybe stolen for salvage, leaving the creosoted timbers loose in their gravel beds and rotting from the inside out. Urban renewal in this part of town was clearly a hit-or-miss thing.

A plain white Mitsubishi box truck was parked at the loading dock, the kind with the engine under the driver’s compartment and the big windshield out front. It was big enough for cargo but small enough to thread through the narrow city streets. There was no logo on the truck or the cargo box.

Lewis parked the Yukon at a hydrant with a view of the Ford. The Yukon’s idle was so quiet that the truck might not even have been running, but for a subtle vibration that carried though the frame into the seats. Not like Peter’s truck. Peter’s seats weren’t heated, either.

For two hours they watched as the light faded to twilight, then full night. Peter looked up and down the narrow street. On one side was the four-story brick warehouse built almost right up to the sidewalk. It had rusting security grates over the windows to discourage thieves and squatters. The other side was packed with narrow old houses, with no driveways in sight. Cars lined both curbs.

Lewis checked the GPS on his phone when they arrived. The Ford hadn’t moved since he’d found it earlier that day. Despite all the activity from the houses, the warehouse remained quiet and dark.

“This could just be a convenient place to park,” said Peter. They’d talked this through several times already. “Our guy could be anywhere in a couple of blocks. The parking’s bad all around here.”

Lewis had been on his laptop since they’d gotten there, looking up the owners of the houses. Most of them were owned by small companies, probably landlords, so that didn’t tell them anything. The scarred man could be renting any one of them. Lewis shut his computer and looked at Peter. “That big ol’ warehouse is owned by a giant holding company stuck in court for the last three and a half years,” he said. “Our guy could be living there too, ’cause nobody paying attention.”

Peter was impressed. “Data skills, too,” he said. “Man, I’d hate to see your hourly rate. Good thing you’re working pro bono on this.”

“This ain’t pro bono, jarhead. This eighty percent less expenses.”

“I’m glad you’re keeping a positive attitude.”

“That glass always half full.”

“So what’s next, partner? We going to sit here all night or what?”

Lewis smiled his tilted smile. “I figure we break into that warehouse. See what we can find.”

“He was a tricky bastard with that license plate, wasn’t he?” said Peter. “Two layers of slippery. He’d like someplace empty.”

“Gotta start somewhere,” said Lewis, turning off the Yukon. “What do you like for ordnance?”

“What, there’s a selection?”

The tilted smile got wider. “Step around back, son.”

Under the rear cargo deck, where the spare tire and jack should have been, lay a folded Mexican blanket. Lewis unfolded the blanket with a slight flourish.

Peter blinked. “Tell me exactly,” he said, “what is it you do for a living.”

“If I told you,” said Lewis, “I’d have to kill you.”

Gleaming under the rear dome light was an Ithaca combat shotgun with the big magazine, along with a sawed-off Mossberg street-sweeper, an ugly, alien-looking Steyr automatic rifle with a folding stock, and a selection of handguns ranging from a big chrome Dirty Harry .44 to an Army-issue Beretta to a pair of flat black Glock .45s. And the enormous 10-gauge shotgun that Lewis had been cleaning on the day Peter and Dinah had walked into the storefront. It made every other weapon look a little bit like a toy.

“Where’s the Thompson?” said Peter. “It’s not a real collection without a tommy gun.”

Lewis shook his head sadly. “Can’t get ’em. Illegal as all hell. However, these here fine specimens all legally purchased by a nice old lady on the North Side.”

“And you’re just holding on to them for her.”

“She don’t like to clean ’em. I find it calms my mind.”

“I imagine it does,” said Peter. “You’re kinda freaky, you know that.”

“Naw,” said Lewis. “I don’t sleep with ’em or nothing. They just tools. Get the job done.”

Peter still had the Sig Sauer he’d bought from Lewis three days before. He took one of the Glocks to supplement and tucked it into the pocket of his Carhartt. An extra clip went into his hip pocket, in case they ran into zombies or bears or other dangerous wildlife.

Lewis propped the 10-gauge over a shoulder like a man carrying lumber. “What’s our primary objective?”