Chapter 7 - Warehouse Nine
Warehouse Nine had officially been empty for eleven months.
That was the first lie.
The second was the inventory list.
Léa, Hale, Thomas, and two investigators arrived after sunset.
The warehouse stood beyond the motor pool behind a chain-link fence.
No guards.
No lights.
Thomas looked at the padlock.
“Looks abandoned.”
Léa touched it.
Fresh oil.
“It isn’t.”
An investigator cut the chain.
The door rolled upward.
Rows of wooden crates waited inside.
Hale stared.
“What the hell?”
Léa walked to the nearest crate.
Military inventory labels had been scraped away.
New shipping stickers covered them.
KESTREL TACTICAL LOGISTICS.
She opened one.
Brake assemblies.
New.
Uninstalled.
Thomas looked around.
“These are the missing parts.”
“Some of them.”
Another crate held steering controls.
Another contained communications modules.
Millions of dollars in equipment.
Hale’s voice was quiet.
“This is theft on a scale that requires more than one officer.”
Léa found a clipboard hanging from a support beam.
Shipment dates.
Truck numbers.
Initials.
MV.
PS.
AD.
Thomas saw them.
“Marc Varenne. Peter Sloan.”
He pointed at the third.
“Adrian Delcourt.”
Léa stared at the letters.
Again.
Delcourt.
Always Delcourt.
Sometimes protecting a soldier.
Sometimes hiding evidence.
Now his initials were inside a warehouse filled with stolen military equipment.
Thomas said, “You still think he’s clean?”
“I think initials aren’t proof.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it keeps being true.”
Hale picked up the clipboard.
“We bring Delcourt in.”
A noise came from the back of the warehouse.
Metal scraping concrete.
Everyone turned.
“Military police!” one investigator shouted. “Show yourself!”
No answer.
Thomas moved left.
Léa followed Hale between two crate rows.
Another sound.
Then a man ran.
Thomas chased him.
“Stop!”
The man shoved a cart into Thomas’s path.
Thomas jumped aside.
The runner reached a side door.
Léa cut across the aisle.
She reached the exit first.
The man stopped.
It was Captain Rhodes.
His face was gray with fear.
Léa stared at him.
“You?”
Rhodes raised both hands.
“I didn’t start the fire.”
“Nobody asked you about the fire.”
His face collapsed further.
Hale approached.
“What are you doing here?”
Rhodes looked toward the open warehouse door.
“They told me to clean it.”
“Who?”
“If I tell you, I’m dead.”
Thomas grabbed the front of his jacket.
“You almost burned evidence.”
“No!”
Rhodes shook his head violently.
“I shredded statements because Varenne ordered it. I admit that. But the fire wasn’t me.”
“Who started it?”
“I don’t know.”
Hale stepped closer.
“Who ordered you here?”
Rhodes looked at Léa.
Not Hale.
Léa.
“Major Sloan.”
Silence.
“When?”
“Twenty minutes ago.”
“Sloan is missing.”
“He called me.”
Rhodes pulled out his phone.
Unknown number.
One short message.
WAREHOUSE 9. REMOVE LEDGER. NOW.
Léa looked around.
“What ledger?”
Rhodes pointed toward an office at the far end.
They moved quickly.
The office door had already been forced.
Desk drawers were open.
Cabinets empty.
But under a loose floor panel, Thomas found a thick black notebook.
Inside were dates.
Inventory numbers.
Dollar amounts.
Civilian bank references.
And names.
Varenne.
Sloan.
Rhodes.
Two civilian contractors.
Three procurement officers.
Then Léa turned another page.
ADRIAN DELCOURT — 60,000.
Thomas whispered, “There.”
Léa kept reading.
Beside Delcourt’s name was one word.
REFUSED.
The next line was worse.
D. MERCER — TERMINATE CONTRACT.
Hale frowned.
“Daniel Mercer?”
The injured soldier.
Léa turned the page.
A final notation had been written two years earlier.
MERCER SAW TRANSFER.
ACCIDENT SOLVED PROBLEM.
Nobody spoke.
Thomas looked at Léa.
“They tried to kill him.”
A sound came from outside.
An engine.
Then another.
Hale turned.
Headlights flooded through the open warehouse door.
Three vehicles stopped outside.
Armed men stepped out.
Not soldiers.
Civilian security.
Kestrel Tactical logos on their jackets.
May you like
Thomas whispered, “We have company.”
Then the warehouse lights went out.
