Chapter 4 - The Parking Lot Stakeout
The rain had started again—a cold, fine drizzle that didn't fall so much as hang in the air, turning the asphalt of the Lakewood K9 parking lot into a gray mirror reflecting the amber glow of the security lights.
Lena sat in the passenger seat of her rusted 2008 Honda Civic, the heater rattling with a sound like a bag of marbles in a tin can. The windshield was fogged up on the inside, and she wiped a clear circle with the sleeve of her jacket just in time to see a sleek, black sedan turn off the rural highway and pull into the facility's private visitors' lot.
The sedan didn't park in a designated space. It stopped right by the side entrance of the isolation wing, its high beams cutting a blinding white swath across the wet gravel.
A man in a charcoal wool overcoat stepped out of the passenger side, holding a black leather briefcase. A second man followed from the driver’s side—shorter, broader, wearing a dark suit that didn't quite hide the square bulk of a shoulder holster beneath the left lapel.
Moretti's men. Or worse, the private contractors working on retainer for the federal task force that had raided the Bedford estate three months ago.
Lena didn't start the car. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a small, prepaid smartphone with a cracked screen, and tapped a single icon. The screen glowed in the dark car interior, showing a text message she had received twenty minutes ago from an unknown number: They’re moving him to the transport van at 9:00 PM. Rear loading dock. No cameras.
She had sent a reply three minutes later: I know.
The Civic's engine ticked as it cooled down, the rhythmic ping-ping-ping of hot metal blending with the soft hiss of the rain against the roof.
She looked down at her right hand. The fingers were still faintly smelling of industrial disinfectant and old dog fur. Ten years ago, when her father had died in the logging accident up in the Northeast Kingdom, she had sat in the back of her grandmother’s kitchen for three days without speaking to anyone, listening to the old sheep dogs scratch at the back door because they knew something was wrong long before the neighbors brought casseroles.
Animals didn't care about legal titles, corporate shell companies, or federal indictments. They cared about the frequency of your breath. They cared about whether you were running away or standing your ground.
The side door of the Lakewood facility opened.
Director Fletcher Boon stepped out into the drizzle, holding an umbrella over his head, accompanied by the two men in dark suits. They were talking in low, urgent tones, their breath pluming white in the cold air.
A moment later, a pair of heavy rubber wheels rumbled across the threshold of the loading dock.
A steel transport crate—reinforced with welded steel bars instead of wire mesh—was being wheeled out on a heavy-duty hand truck by two security guards. Inside the crate, shrouded in darkness, something massive was thrashing. Not with the wild, blind panic of the past eight days, but with a heavy, rhythmic violence, slamming its shoulder against the bars with a dull, sickening clang.
"Easy, damn you, easy," one of the guards muttered, struggling to keep the hand truck steady on the wet ramp.
The mastiff wasn't barking. It was making that low, circling moan again—the one that vibrated through the asphalt, shaking the puddles at Lena's feet fifty yards away.
The man in the charcoal coat stepped forward, holding his leather briefcase like a shield against the drizzle. He didn't look at the guards; he looked at Boon. "Is the transfer manifest signed?"
"Yes, yes, it's signed," Boon said, his voice trembling slightly as he held the umbrella over the man's shoulder. "Just get the animal off the property before the evening shift change. If the local authorities ask questions, we have the state veterinary euthanasia authorization on file."
"There won't be any local authorities," the man in the charcoal coat said coldly. "Mr. Moretti’s interests are fully covered."
They wheeled the crate toward the rear doors of the black sedan.
Lena turned the ignition key.
The 2008 Civic sputtered, coughed twice, and then roared to life with an exhaust leak that sounded like a machine gun firing underwater.
May you like
In the parking lot, all heads snapped toward the rusted Honda.
Lena didn't hesitate. She threw the car into reverse, tires spinning on the wet gravel, and backed out of the parking space with a sharp crunch of bumper against a rotting wooden guardrail. Then she slammed the gearshift into drive, stomped on the gas pedal, and drove straight toward the rear loading dock.
