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Avery rolled her eyes even though no one could see her up here. She texted back.
Totally.
Not technically a lie. Doing her job brought her satisfaction, as did seeking justice however she could. Even if it meant suffering cold and wet on this rooftop stakeout.
Ryan responded with a string of thumbs-up emojis.
Good girl.
Avery grimaced. Ryan wouldn’t be nearly so enthusiastic when he discovered she’d ignored his command to stand down. An airtight case against these trucking crooks would help smooth things over.
Three employees of Rain Bay Trucking had died in the past two months. Healthy guys in their thirties and forties. The company called it coincidence, and Ryan agreed, but Avery knew better. A car accident, a drowning, and a sudden heart attack. In men with no risk factors in their medical files.
The last man to die, RafaelPereira, had come to see her not a week before his supposed heart attack. He’d contacted her through a friend of a friend of an old neighbor, deeply worried about the new job he’d taken at a Rain Bay Trucking facility. The pay was great, but he soon realized the incoming trucks carried illicit cargo. He didn’t have many details yet, but he was terrified. He wanted to walk away, but he feared for his life.
She’d gotten supervisory approval to start a preliminary investigation, but before she could dig up anything, Rafael was dead. That’s when she uncovered the other two deaths.
Six days later, Ryan ordered her off the case.
No way she was backing down now.
The sound of a helicopter had her pressing back into the shadow of the stairwell enclosure. Raising her binoculars, she spotted the logo of a local sightseeing service. The aircraft passed harmlessly overhead.
Still, she needed to remain vigilant on her own out here with no backup. She had no idea if Rain Bay had surveillance drones or other high-tech security, but better safe than sorry. She thrived on working solo anyway.
Settling back into position, she resumed scanning the facility below. Like the other days she’d spent observing, truck after truck pulled in hauling cargo containers from the Port of Seattle. From noon on, a parade of delivery vans rolled out the exit doors at the far end of the warehouse. Lots of merch flowed through that warehouse daily, all of it overseen by an army of armed guards and a forest of security cameras, covering every angle of the vast parking facility that ringed the building.
A ridiculous amount of security for a truck transport company. Unless they were transporting gold bars.
Or contraband.
Add that to the results of her investigation into the company’s financials, and alarm bells rang in her head. A year ago, the company got a huge infusion of cash, enough to build this second stand-alone facility.
Every instinct told her Rain Bay was using this warehouse as a switching station to distribute illegal goods. But she still lacked the kind of concrete proof Ryan and the higher-ups couldn’t ignore.
Frustration roiled in her gut. Why didn’t her superiors see what she did?
Trucking black market goods generated big, dirty money. Enough to encourage certain people to apply pressure and steer the FBI’s focus elsewhere.
Not outright corruption—she refused to believe that of her agency. Just … redirected priorities. Even for important cases.
Didn’t mean she had to like it. And thanks to her abundance of unused vacation days, she didn’t have to obey it either. Not for another ten days, anyway.
A tall, dark-haired male exited the warehouse below, wiping greasy hands on a rag. Avery grabbed her camera, zooming in on him.
The newest mechanic. She’d been watching him the past two days, even tailed him to his rundown apartment complex. And of course, she’d run his plates. His registration and insurance were current, but the guy had a past. Paul Ortiz, age twenty-eight, a few low-level arrests for public intoxication, a DUI seven years ago, and three arrests for assault—although from the field reports themselves it was obvious the assaults had been mutual. More fights than attacks. No charges filed against any of the participants. Still, Ortiz obviously had an edge to him.
Turning him might be her way in.
It had to be.
She was running out of time—and leads—to jumpstart an investigation.
After snapping some photos, she packed up her gear and headed off the roof, tailing Ortiz’s aging Ford pickup to his apartment complex.
The guy seemed clueless that he might have a target on his back. Impulse pushed her to march upstairs and knock on his door. But years of training reined in the urge. Coming on too strong would only alienate him. Still, she needed to make contact soon, before she ran out of vacation days … or he ended up dead.
Decision made, she fired up her beige Volvo, but before she could pull away from the curb Ortiz headed back outside. Head down, a Seahawk’s ball cap pulled low over his forehead, he hurried back to his vehicle. His limbs looked tight, his gait quick and choppy.