Page 3 of The Smart Killer (High Peaks Murder, Mystery and Crime Thrillers #4)

I t was known to everyone as the box — a sweltering hellhole in the back of a white cube van. White was meant to reflect heat. Without the vehicle running, they had to rely upon battery-powered fans to keep themselves from passing out.

No one in the department with a lick of sense, including him, really wanted to be there, especially at the peak of a summer that had seen temperatures soar to dizzying heights.

However, his reasoning for being there that day was far different from those assigned to the undercover unit in the Bureau of Criminal Investigation.

Noah Sutherland chose it.

Sitting in the back of that van conducting surveillance for hours could bake a man alive, never mind cause his mind to break and bring on hallucinations if he didn’t stay hydrated.

Noah chugged a bottle of water, and exhaled hard.

What made it worse was they couldn’t get out or drive off; otherwise, they could break their cover.

They had to wait for an agent to come and retrieve the van.

Robert Harris was the one with the keys.

Earlier that morning, he’d parked, left the van, and walked to a nearby building that was being used to keep track of other aspects of the surveillance operation.

He would eventually return and drive it away, where someone else would take a shift, and the whole process would begin again. Nights were easy, the day shift brutal.

Noah wiped a curtain of sweat from his forehead as he listened intently to the conversation from the chop shop.

He was starving and continually thirsty, but nothing would distract him.

Marcus Jackson leaned back in his seat. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

“Just a little longer,” Noah muttered.

The department’s undercover operations were, for most, the worst unit a cop could be assigned to, and that was because once they were in, it was hard to get out.

It often attracted younger officers with only three or five years under their belt and mainly focused on street drugs.

However, since the massive bust in High Peaks that his brother Luke had been at the center of, word had it that the same product was still being distributed but being produced elsewhere.

Noah had spent the last few months trying to find out where until some guy walked into the station offering juicy intel.

“I don’t get you, Sutherland. Everyone I know is trying to get transferred out, and you signed up for this shit.”

“I guess I’m a sucker for punishment.”

“So, the rumors about you are true.”

“Probably,” Noah said without asking what they were.

He didn’t care. Anyone and everyone knew about his past. His track record as a State Police investigator was lined with as many dings against him as there were awards.

Although he tended to do things by the book, there were times he went outside the lines — all of which landed him in hot water more times than not.

“You did call our backup, right?” Marcus asked.

“Yep,” he said, squinting at a screen that utilized some high-end technology and showed them how many were inside, and where they were moving. Each person inside the building was represented as a dot.

“And?” Marcus asked.

“And they’ll be here when they get here.”

“At this rate, I will be a cooked turkey.”

“Quiet, I can’t hear a damn word they’re saying.”

He yawned. “Oh please, Sutherland. Give it a rest. It’s exactly what they have been saying for the past five hours.

Chop shop jargon, brakes, tires, mufflers, the usual crap.

Right now, they’re only guilty of dismantling stolen vehicles and selling the parts.

Places like this are a dime a dozen. Hell, my mechanic is a real criminal.

You should have seen my last service bill.

No one’s arrested him. I swear those assholes get away with murder. ”

Noah glanced at him, shaking his head.

The chop shop had come to their attention through an informant who had told them that more than stolen parts was being funneled through the garage.

Evidence was crucial, which was the one thing the informant couldn’t offer. However, when he slid across a familiar bottle of liquid morphine, Noah gave him his full attention.

“How, where, when, who?” He’d peppered the informant with questions to squeeze as much as he could out of him, but all he could tell was that it was being transported in and around the county using the new hybrid and electric vehicles.

The liquid morphine was stored inside what would have been the vast batteries that lined the cars.

Except these weren’t ordinary batteries.

They were just a shell, a container, a holding tank.

Distribution was as simple as loading vehicles off and onto the back of a flatbed transport trailer from new and used dealerships.

If vehicles were rolled off, they were dismantled, the containers filled, and then they were placed back on the transport trailer a day later to be taken elsewhere.

Savannah and the DEA had been working closely to tighten the net but without much luck.

Now he knew why.

The problem was, the DEA wasn’t prepared to take any significant steps until they presented concrete evidence because the information they had gleaned was from a less-than-savory character.

A bottle of liquid morphine meant nothing to them.

And, well, they couldn’t seize one of the transport trailers without fear of bungling the whole operation. So, like any sting, they had to observe, and try and find out who the supplier was and how they were supplying it.

That led them to here and several weeks of surveillance.

Of course, local police didn’t know that’s what was taking place here. The property was just one of many used car dealerships in the city that sold shoddy cars and offered even weaker repairs in the garage.

“Here, give me that,” Marcus said, taking the radio. It crackled. “Harris. Come in, Harris.”

What came over the line was what sounded like someone taking a piss, followed by a moment of relief. “Ah….! That’s better.”

“You know, Harris, you are a real jerk,” Marcus said, staring at Noah.

A zipper could be heard going up, followed by someone farting. “You guys having visions of angels yet?” Harris said, coming over the line loud and clear.

“Screw you. How about you get your ass down here? We’re done.”

“I’m pretty sure you boys still have another thirty minutes on the clock.”

Marcus drummed his fingers. “The transport trailer hasn’t moved in the last five hours.”

“Well then, I guess that means you’ll both be back here tomorrow.”

“No, that’ll be you.”

Noah groaned. “Marcus. Can you just keep it down?” He shifted his eyes to the thermal image on the screen.

Those inside the building were highlighted bright white.

He could see nine subjects inside, their exact positioning, where they moved, all in real-time.

Technology had come in leaps and bounds.

Had the occupants been using an internal camera system, they would have been able to tap into it and get a visual on each of them.

Instead, they were left to watch moving dots on a screen.

“Sounds like your partner hasn’t taken his eye off the ball. You really are a go-getter, aren’t you, Sutherland? Maybe, Marcus, you can learn a thing or two from him. Hey Marcus!”

“He’s not my partner,” Noah replied.

“Maybe he should be, and Marcus can finally pass his detective exam.”

“Screw you, Harris,” Marcus shot back.

Laughter erupted, followed by static.

“Ah, fuck this,” Noah said, removing his headset, grabbing his Glock and pushing out the back door.

Over the comms unit, Harris told him to get back inside. “Sutherland. Sutherland! What the hell are you doing? We were told to observe only. You’ll blow this entire operation.”

“It’s already blown,” he said, holding his service weapon low and running at a crouch toward the garage. “The transport truck isn’t going to leave; they’re not filling up the tanks here, they’re emptying and transporting it through the sewers.”

“What?” Harris bellowed.

“Move in. I repeat. Move in!” Noah cried.

It all happened so quickly: a handful of undercover officers charged toward the garage, shotguns, M4s, and handguns at the ready. Noah was the first through the door, shooting one man in the leg after the blast of a gun nearly took his head off.

“State Police!”

“Get on the floor,” a sheriff’s deputy hollered as someone inside tried to exit through a side window.

Noah only had one location in mind, the garage inspection bay where a vehicle would have been hoisted up to give access to the inspection pit, a narrow trench that could be driven over while service was performed beneath.

The use of the hole negated the need for a jack.

“Get down now!”

All over the building, officers shouted their commands.

Multiple workers in blue gear dropped to the floor, arms spread-eagled. Based on memory from looking at the screen for hours, Noah did a quick head count. One was missing.

“I’ve got eight.”

“Where’s your pal? Huh?” Marcus yelled at one guy.

Noah didn’t wait. He hopped into the trench, where he found a closed metal grate He cocked his head at the sound of movement. He lifted it and peered down a ladder that disappeared into the sewers.

“Ten bucks says our man is down there.” Noah crouched, preparing to go down.

“You’re not serious, are you?” Marcus said.

“Follow the trail. That’s what we’re here for.”

“No, we are here to…” Before Marcus could finish, Noah was already in motion.

Against his better judgment, he began to descend, the soles of his boots slipping on the oily remnants as he clung to the steely ladder for dear life. Far below, he could hear the rush of the sewers and the sloshing of water. The smell was atrocious, the darkness suffocating.