Outlaws, Matt Rogers [best ereader under 100 TXT] 📗

making up a single conglomeration of industrial sprawl.

The sky was still cloudless.

The sun still beat down.

King used his sleeve to wipe sweat off his face.

He said, ‘Any idea what I should be expecting?’

‘The cargo?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You’re not going to believe me,’ Quinn said, ‘but I honestly have no idea. If anyone knows in advance, it’s Duke. And usually he doesn’t, either. Discretion is key for the clients we work with.’

‘Ignorance is bliss, right?’

‘I know you hate me.’

‘I don’t feel anything towards you.’

‘That’s good, at least.’

‘It doesn’t mean I won’t kill you if I need to.’

Quinn shivered. ‘I know.’

They took a left into a cargo zone filled with stacks and stacks of TEUs. The towers speared into the sky, practically blocking out the sunlight. Quinn navigated down a couple of shadowy laneways, steering with practiced familiarity. He’d done this before.

‘55D, right?’ Quinn said.

King said, ‘Right.’

Quinn slammed on the brakes.

For a moment King thought the ferocity of the action was a ploy to throw him against the glove compartment and try to enact a getaway. Then he would have to shoot Quinn, which ruined his chances of streamlining this.

But it turned out that Quinn was simply desperate to impress. He’d do anything not to overshoot the container, which was right alongside them.

The jeep skidded to a standstill.

King looked over at the row of refrigerated containers. There were no plugs in sight — they must have all been hooked up at the back. They were all big and ridged and metal and orange. They sat in their places, dormant.

Quinn said, ‘You know how it works, right?’

King nodded. ‘Oh, yeah. I know how it works.’

He was intimately familiar with Twenty-foot Equivalent Units. A lifetime ago at the tender age of twenty-two, on his second official operation as a Black Force operative, he’d been introduced to the dark secrets of the international shipping industry in Somalia of all places. He knew hundreds of thousands of containers containing illegal items passed through borders globally each and every day, whether that be guns, drugs, trafficked humans, or simply undeclared goods. None of them were searched. It was impossible. Every year, hundreds of billions of dollars worth of goods passed through the Port of Los Angeles alone. The manpower didn’t exist to screen even five percent of what came through.

It left all sorts of openings for officials to be bribed, and it was an easy frame of mind to slip into. A lone port worker would think, What’s the point of staying out of the action? The cargo comes through anyway, no matter what I do. Why should I stop something I can’t control?

So, yeah, King understood how it worked. And he knew how to work a TEU.

Quinn said, ‘Here’s the key.’

Handed over a single silver key.

King said, ‘Where’d you get it?’

‘Someone from Donati Group express shipped it to us. I don’t know all the details. Duke handled it.’

King nodded. ‘Keep your hands on the wheel. If I hear you move, it’s game over.’

He got out and approached the giant cargo-door lock of Container 55D. There were big leverage handles, easily identifiable, and as soon as he’d figured out the lock he seized hold of them and swung them out. Something clanked and thudded on the left-hand side, then on the right. The lock rods.

It was open.

King listened hard, letting his heartbeat settle, letting the sound of the idling engine recede. Kept quiet, until there was just the hot wind blowing through the corridors and the gentle creaking of towers of metal.

He raised the SIG in a familiar motion, and put his other hand on the edge of the huge door frame.

He swung the right-hand door steadily outward, moving the barrel along the same trajectory, clearing the space inch by tense inch.

When he swung the door all the way out, he stopped in his tracks.

The container was completely empty.

56

King didn’t move for a long ten count.

He sensed Quinn behind him in the driver’s seat, staring in horror.

King turned around.

Quinn’s expression was a man looking death right in the eyes.

He started babbling.

‘No, no, wait,’ he said. ‘I didn’t talk to anyone, man. I swear. Please don’t kill me. Oh, God, I don’t want to die here. Please, man, please, you have to understand—’

King held up a palm.

Quinn stopped mid-sentence. His eyes were wider than saucers. His face was pale and oily.

King said, ‘I know you didn’t talk to anyone. I’ve been with you this whole time, remember?’

Pure relief washed over Quinn. ‘I thought you might have thought, you know…’

‘What?’

‘Thought I talked to those guards.’

‘Unless they’re superhuman, and could locate and empty this entire container before we got here, then, no, you’re in the clear.’

Quinn nodded. ‘I’m just scared, man.’

King’s mind fired. He couldn’t quiet it down. He was connecting dots, harbouring suspicions, drawing unwanted conclusions.

He said, ‘Quinn.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Answer me one question.’

‘Anything.’

‘How do you know this job came from Donati Group?’

Quinn paused, thinking. ‘Because, you know, they came to us. To do it discreetly. Off their books.’

‘But what proves it was actually them?’

Quinn hesitated again. ‘We have paperwork. We have payments.’

‘How easily could they be forged?’

‘I … I don’t know.’

‘Think.’

‘I don’t fucking know, man. I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what you want. I don’t know what’s going on. Help me. Throw me a bone.’

‘How easily could it be forged?’ King repeated. ‘Think.’

Quinn went silent. Stared at the steering wheel, as if it could give him the answers he needed. But King knew he was racking his memory, ticking off pieces of evidence, trying to find anything that didn’t mesh with King’s newfound opinion.

He couldn’t.

He said, ‘I guess there’s nothing we saw that couldn’t be forged. We’ve spoken to people, but I guess we don’t have documented video proof that those calls came from bent Donati Group employees. So, yeah, maybe. It could all be a ruse. But who would want to frame Donati Group?’

‘Nobody,’ King said, his blood beginning to boil.

‘Who, then?’

‘The real question is — who wanted me out of New York?’

‘What? I don’t understand.’

King turned