bins ten stories high lined the river’s bank as the road turned to follow its course
down a finger of land that split the river.
Chain-link fences surrounded the different warehouses and abandoned mills, and Graham turned his Range Rover into the parking
lot of one. Jake drove past the entrance and just caught sight of Graham pulling his SUV right into the big open bay of an
abandoned mill before disappearing into its dark bowels. Half a block down, an old ball-bearing factory had a broken parking
lot nearly a quarter full with rusty pickup trucks and late model cars. Several cars had been parked along the street and
Jake found a spot among them, scanning the area before he got out and walked quickly back toward the warehouse.
As the open bay of the hulking concrete building came into view through the fence, Jake searched for signs of life, seeing
none. Down where the road took a turn in front of the cereal factory, a dusty cement mixer pulled out and rumbled away. Past
the warehouse, late afternoon sunlight glittered on the broken mud-brown surface of the river. A deep strumming sound of heavy
diesel preceded a vast tanker that surged into view like a skyscraper laid on its side, pushing a four-foot wake from its
bow as it surged upriver.
When Jake reached the open gates, he took one final look and sprinted across the open ground without stopping until he reached
the shadow of the warehouse and felt the crumbling face of its wall. Outside the bay, he paused to listen before peeking around
the corner.
The cool smell of rot and spilled oil seeped from the opening. Through the vast empty space, a second open bay allowed a square
of light to illuminate the Range Rover resting beside a black Suburban. At the sound of another vehicle approaching from the
direction of the cereal factory, Jake ducked into the shadows of the warehouse. He heard the vehicle turn in at the gate and
he backed deeper into the gloom. Just outside the bay door, the vehicle came to a stop. Someone got out and a door slammed
shut before a silver Mercedes G55 SUV rolled into the warehouse and headed for the far door.
Jake heard the distinct metallic click of a Zippo lighter and smelled cigarette smoke as it drifted from the man outside the
door into the warehouse and toward the river. The taillights of the Mercedes glowed as it came to rest next to the other vehicles
by the far bay door. The front doors of the Mercedes swung open and two thick-chested men popped out, one of them hurrying
to the hatch and removing a wheelchair while the other opened the back passenger-side door and began to help a bent old man
into the waiting chair.
His eyes now adjusted to the dark, Jake made his way carefully through the maze of metal drums, deserted machinery, and empty
wooden pallets, stepping silently across the damp, gritty floor. Soon a faded picnic table came into view in front of the
vehicles. Robert Graham sat across from a muscular man in a suit. Standing over them in the shadows was an enormous fat man
in a short-sleeved silk shirt with his tattooed arms folded and resting atop the shelf of his gut. The old man in the wheelchair
had been placed at the end of the table, and Jake saw now that he wore a cranberry cardigan sweater and his eyes stayed hidden
behind the kind of monstrous black glasses reserved for the blind. Behind him stood one of the big men from the Mercedes while
the other paced slowly in the open bay, scanning both the bank and the river beyond.
Jake could tell the men around the table were talking, but he couldn’t hear a thing. He studied the sedan and the truck, memorizing
their license plates, then, keeping to the deepest shadows and crouching low, he began to work in a roundabout way toward
the open bay and into earshot. His heart thumped a fast steady beat and he tried unsuccessfully to quiet his ragged breathing.
When the men’s voices rose, Jake doubled his pace, thinking
down a finger of land that split the river.
Chain-link fences surrounded the different warehouses and abandoned mills, and Graham turned his Range Rover into the parking
lot of one. Jake drove past the entrance and just caught sight of Graham pulling his SUV right into the big open bay of an
abandoned mill before disappearing into its dark bowels. Half a block down, an old ball-bearing factory had a broken parking
lot nearly a quarter full with rusty pickup trucks and late model cars. Several cars had been parked along the street and
Jake found a spot among them, scanning the area before he got out and walked quickly back toward the warehouse.
As the open bay of the hulking concrete building came into view through the fence, Jake searched for signs of life, seeing
none. Down where the road took a turn in front of the cereal factory, a dusty cement mixer pulled out and rumbled away. Past
the warehouse, late afternoon sunlight glittered on the broken mud-brown surface of the river. A deep strumming sound of heavy
diesel preceded a vast tanker that surged into view like a skyscraper laid on its side, pushing a four-foot wake from its
bow as it surged upriver.
When Jake reached the open gates, he took one final look and sprinted across the open ground without stopping until he reached
the shadow of the warehouse and felt the crumbling face of its wall. Outside the bay, he paused to listen before peeking around
the corner.
The cool smell of rot and spilled oil seeped from the opening. Through the vast empty space, a second open bay allowed a square
of light to illuminate the Range Rover resting beside a black Suburban. At the sound of another vehicle approaching from the
direction of the cereal factory, Jake ducked into the shadows of the warehouse. He heard the vehicle turn in at the gate and
he backed deeper into the gloom. Just outside the bay door, the vehicle came to a stop. Someone got out and a door slammed
shut before a silver Mercedes G55 SUV rolled into the warehouse and headed for the far door.
Jake heard the distinct metallic click of a Zippo lighter and smelled cigarette smoke as it drifted from the man outside the
door into the warehouse and toward the river. The taillights of the Mercedes glowed as it came to rest next to the other vehicles
by the far bay door. The front doors of the Mercedes swung open and two thick-chested men popped out, one of them hurrying
to the hatch and removing a wheelchair while the other opened the back passenger-side door and began to help a bent old man
into the waiting chair.
His eyes now adjusted to the dark, Jake made his way carefully through the maze of metal drums, deserted machinery, and empty
wooden pallets, stepping silently across the damp, gritty floor. Soon a faded picnic table came into view in front of the
vehicles. Robert Graham sat across from a muscular man in a suit. Standing over them in the shadows was an enormous fat man
in a short-sleeved silk shirt with his tattooed arms folded and resting atop the shelf of his gut. The old man in the wheelchair
had been placed at the end of the table, and Jake saw now that he wore a cranberry cardigan sweater and his eyes stayed hidden
behind the kind of monstrous black glasses reserved for the blind. Behind him stood one of the big men from the Mercedes while
the other paced slowly in the open bay, scanning both the bank and the river beyond.
Jake could tell the men around the table were talking, but he couldn’t hear a thing. He studied the sedan and the truck, memorizing
their license plates, then, keeping to the deepest shadows and crouching low, he began to work in a roundabout way toward
the open bay and into earshot. His heart thumped a fast steady beat and he tried unsuccessfully to quiet his ragged breathing.
When the men’s voices rose, Jake doubled his pace, thinking
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