Zella—or anyone who is being questioned—can scream their head off and no one will hear.”
My nostrils flared as I exhaled, willing myself not to give too much thought to Mason’s questioning process and screaming subjects. “Impressive thought process regarding location.”
“Logical,” he corrected.
It was logical.
“Have you spoken to the capos who are watching Zella?” I asked.
“I just received another text. It seems Mommie Dearest is now demanding smack.”
Another name for heroin.
“Fuck,” I said, staring out to empty parking lots, boarded-up windows, and giant empty buildings. “Her argument for mother of the year is eroding by the minute.”
The SUV entered a chain-link-fenced area, the tires bouncing on the dilapidated parking lot pitted with potholes and cracks. We passed five or six cars lined up near a loading dock. Romero continued driving around until we reached the other side of the building. This side appeared more abandoned. As he slowed, he hit a button. A large garage door opened before us. He drove us inside.
The only light inside was the white illumination from our headlights, glowing into a dark cavern. The only exception was the presence of other vehicles.
“This place gives me the creeps,” I confessed.
Mason smiled. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”
Reid
Romero held a light and his handgun, ready to react as he led Mason and me through the darkness. Particles of dust stirred and floated in the stale air within the tunnel of light. Over Mason’s shoulder was the strap of a duffel bag he’d removed from the back of the SUV. His gun wasn’t in his hand, but I knew from experience that it could be in a millisecond. My hand itched to once again free my gun from its holster as every little noise had me on full-alert.
The cold, damp chill penetrated my clothes, making me wish I’d worn a coat. With each step, my nose scrunched as I took in a multitude of offensive odors. Every now and then a stronger odor, one I couldn’t place, would tease my gag reflex.
When Romero lifted his sleeve to his nose, I asked, “The corrugated-box company?”
Mason nodded. “Keeps transient people away.” He kicked a plastic bag lying in our path. “Most of them.”
Slowly, my vision adjusted to the shadows beyond the flashlight’s beam. Debris littered the concrete floor, including leaves that had made their way inside along with rodent droppings, trash, and the occasional carcasses that crunched under our boots.
When we finally reached the far end of the cavernous empty shell, Romero opened a large metal door. The hinges creaked, echoing in the emptiness, as he pushed it open.
At one time, the area we were entering appeared to have been the office area for the warehouse. The center of the large room was empty, yet when the light hit the floor, tracks for the type of dividers used to separate desks and work spaces were visible. Around the perimeter were multiple doors. Without hesitation, Romero took us to a door that led to a stairway. My ribs hurt and the metal steps creaked under our weight as we climbed two stories. The higher we went, the more intense the odor from below became. Mason reached for Romero’s arm and turned to me.
“Reid, after you’ve heard enough, come back out here. You can either wait here or Romero will take you back to the car.”
I wanted to remind my brother-in-law that I’d been the one to gut Maples. I’d served beside him for two tours in the desert and made my occasional appearance when needed on the streets of Chicago. I wasn’t exactly a newbie to this world. While I considered reminding him of those things, as my arm throbbed and my chest ached with each step, I simply nodded.
When Romero reached for the next door handle, a loud, squealing noise reverberated through the stairwell. The high-pitched sound reminded me of the noise of a power saw cutting through a hard surface.
We all stilled as Mason lifted one finger.
Nearly a minute later, the awful noise ended, reverberations echoing off the cold cement-block walls.
“That was from the machines next door. They come in thirty-minute intervals,” Mason said. “A series of five—”
The squealing began again.
When it ended, he added, “There will be three more and then a nearly twenty-five-minute pause.”
After the fifth loud squeal, Romero opened the door to a hallway.
The three of us stood taller as Romero placed his gun back in his holster and the Sparrow standing guard outside a door stood up from the chair where he’d been seated.