Chapter 9 - The Part I Buried
The car never came toward us.
That mattered later, when the report had to describe what happened instead of what fear made it feel like.
Ortiz got the plate.
The gate camera got the car.
A patrol officer moved us back inside until another vehicle arrived.
We spent the night somewhere Shaw hadn’t selected and Valerie couldn’t reserve with a phone call.
Nina took the adjoining room.
Anton sat on the edge of our bed while I stood at the window with the curtains closed.
“You can sit down,” he said.
“I know.”
“You don’t have to watch the door.”
“I know.”
He waited.
Finally, I sat beside him.
“I need to tell you about the warehouse.”
“Only if you want to.”
“I don’t want to. I need to stop making you guess.”
The operation had been called Harbor Glass.
Most of the people we arrested moved stolen medical equipment, electronics, and pharmaceuticals through legitimate freight yards.
Others supplied the trucks.
Others supplied the silence.
I had spent eighteen months pretending not to notice what frightened me.
Then a source named Elena learned they planned to move a shipment early.
She called me.
My cover broke before backup reached the warehouse.
“There was another officer inside,” I told Anton. “A young investigator named Owen. They had found his transmitter.”
Anton stayed still.
“I got his restraints loose. We were moving toward a side door when somebody fired.”
“The scar.”
I nodded.
“Owen got outside. I didn’t.”
“What happened?”
“I crawled behind a loading machine. I pressed my sweater against the wound. I kept thinking I had to stay awake until someone found me.”
He reached for my hand.
“Reyes was commanding the response,” I said. “He found me.”
“Did you catch the person who shot you?”
“Yes.”
“And Shaw?”
“We never knew his name. Just a voice directing parts of the operation from a distance.”
Anton let out a slow breath.
“That’s why the envelope scares you.”
“The photograph was taken during surveillance. Someone who had access to the case gave it away.”
My phone lit up on the nightstand.
Ortiz.
She had traced the vehicle to Shaw’s company.
The man on our porch worked for him.
She also had news about the fabricated report.
“The formatting matches an old department template,” she said. “One that hasn’t been used in several years.”
I closed my eyes.
“How many people still have access?”
“Fewer than before.”
After the call, Anton asked what she meant.
May you like
I looked at the dark screen.
“It means someone on our side helped him.”
