Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [58]
But they didn’t storm the premise of Alpha Building Four.
They locked it.
The motherfuckers locked me in and surrounded the place with firearms readied and aimed at every visible in-and-out of the joint. Whether or not they’d be able to shoot me upon exit I couldn’t say, but I didn’t like the prospect. Did they know how I’d gotten inside? Were they watching the ventilation windows upstairs?
I would’ve had to climb back up there to find out, and I didn’t, because the clock was ticking and I was a little worried. I don’t like it when people get unpredictable on me. Not at all.
I distracted myself from my worry by ratcheting up my search. While the men outside chatted back and forth in barked commands and responses, I found a set of crates that were approximately the size of a pair of high-school lockers side by side, and both of these crates had return addresses stamped ST. PETERSBURG, FLORIDA. Close enough, right? There were more islands in Florida than just the ones dangling off Miami, I knew that much, and Ian had said it was on the west coast.
Besides, out of all this crap, it was the first sign of “Florida” I’d found so far.
When I ripped the crates open I found whole filing cabinets nestled within. In a stunning display of laziness, haste, or apathy, the cabinets had been duct-taped shut and shipped that way.
I pulled my flat, fixed-blade knife out of my Useful Things Bag and started cutting the tape for the same reason the bear went over the mountain: to see what I could see. Also, because someone didn’t want me to see it. So let this be a lesson to you—about 80 percent of all research is boring as hell. Legwork sucks, but it’s necessary, and if I didn’t do it, nobody else was going to do it for me.
I spied the word JORDAN and almost choked with surprise. I seized the folder and everything inside it. It wasn’t the prayed-for lead on The Other Thief, but I didn’t have time to pick and choose my clues.
“On my command!” ordered somebody new. Without taking a breath he hollered, “Now!”
But I didn’t hear anything new or exciting, so I kept on flipping through those files. My fingers moved in a blur as I shuffled the contents, dumping everything pointless right onto the floor. PBS declared one folder’s label, and BSHOT said another. I grabbed those, and added them to my stash, looking up just long enough to wonder exactly what order had been given, and why no exciting action had followed.
Then I smelled it.
Gasoline. And moments after the gasoline, I heard that whoof sound of something flammable meeting an open flame. A warm, orange glow came peeking in through what precious little exterior glass was available to let it inside.
“Awesome,” I declared. Then I saw JROE and said with more enthusiasm, “Awesome!” I swiped that file, too, and stuffed my collection deep into my Useful Things Bag. I zipped up the thing and strapped it down across my back, in case it might stop a bullet or something. Because baby, I was ready to dash—and I had no intention of letting them catch anything but my figurative taillights on the way out the door.
Or out the window.
The stink of smoke was wafting inside now. The warmth of the orange light was growing ever brighter as I stood there, collecting my loot and my wits as I prepared to bolt. I felt like I had little choice but to take the same way out. I didn’t see any other promising options, and I’d already popped the glass. Even if they were watching it, if I could move fast enough—if I could fire myself out of that thing like a goddamn bullet—they’d never hit me.
Right?
I monkeyed myself back up to the loft and pushed a couple of crates under the window—which was far enough off the ground that I couldn’t just flop myself out. They’d see me doing that worm-wiggle of escape and open fire on the spot, I was sure of it.
I was even more sure of it when I peeked out from a distant corner window and saw that the commando