Chapter 11

11

CONTAINER PORT OF INDONESIA

Delaney wouldn't say a word, but the new blister was killing her. It seemed like they'd stolen from stack to stack of containers for miles in the dark nighttime maze of the container port to get to the right warehouse.

Garrett lifted a fist, and she and Zim stopped behind him. Following his lead, they backed up against a container, crouching to melt into its shadow cast by the light pole. She drew Surge to herself, but he remained on alert, head on a swivel.

A tactical mission like this was way beyond a search exercise.

Two of the roaming guards Caldwell had warned them about walked past. The snub-nosed one flashed his light as he chatted up his taller, skinnier counterpart.

Garrett signaled her and Zim to stay in the shadows of the container stack, and he sneaked off after the guards. Gentle ocean waves brought fresh salt air into her nose. And the sound of seagulls.

"What's he doing?" she whispered to Zim.

He shrugged. "Dunno."

Garrett returned a couple minutes later, and they followed him shadow to shadow, taking the next available turn to slip down the passage parallel to the one the guards were taking.

The heavy crunch of the guards' footsteps on the next aisle sent shivers down her spine. They were close—as close as the shooter in Dad's store had been from her hiding place in the dog food aisle.

These guards also had guns, also were ready to shoot. Would they shoot Garrett? Surge? Sweat beaded on her neck.

She'd never thought that simply telling Garrett about the shooting would bring up the memories like this.

She drew in a silent breath.

Thing was, issues or not, Garrett was right. Christ had put dog skills in her DNA, brought her here. A drop of sweat on her neck slid all the way down her spine.

Well, today, she wouldn't freeze. Please, God. She rubbed Surge's ear, focused her attention on Garrett.

He came to a sudden stop under a light pole, fist up, and she nearly smacked into him. Shifting back, she realized they were in front of a huge metal shed labeled "Warehouse 79B" and "Restricted Access" in English and Indonesian. The door had an electronic keypad. How were they going to get in?

Garrett pulled a keycard with a picture of the snub-nosed guard out of his pocket. No wonder he'd gone after the guards. He swung open the warehouse door, and they entered the dark space. He waited as Zim pulled the door closed behind them. "Eagle Three," he comm'd, "we are in Warehouse 79B. You take care of the cams?"

"I have their system looping nothing but container stacks, as planned," Caldwell reported back. "You're good to go. Looking like there's a couple hundred containers in there with you."

"Copy that." Garrett powered on his SureFire and let its beam trace the interior. With Zim's light added, the space was well lit, revealing that they stood in the middle of a wide aisle. On either side, rows of various-sized containers, including LD3s, filled the cavernous space held up by metal support beams. Forklifts hunched in the corner to their left.

Delaney let Surge do his thing, sniffing around to feel comfortable in here.

"Delaney, you and Surge ready to find the chems?" Garrett's low voice echoed off the high ceiling.

She nodded and turned to her sleek, powerful boy. "Time to work, buddy."

Surge started wagging his tail, but it slowed to a stop as he thrust his snout in the air. He angled toward a vertical support beam, trailing that knowing nose up and down it. Then he sat, ears pricked on a small piece of fabric caught on a nail sticking out of a support column.

"Um . . . good boy," Delaney said, scratching his ear. She was confident in Surge's nose, but that wasn't an LD3 container.

"What on earth?" Zim pulled it off the nail.

Surge barked.

The support beam behind them pinged, and Zim slammed into her, knocked her and Surge to the ground, pinning her under his weight. Heart in her throat, Delaney shoved aside the squall of panic, gripped Surge's lead tight but didn't dare move.

A pop-pop erupted from Garrett's direction, and a thud came about halfway down the middle aisle.

Still pinned, Delaney shifted her eyes down the concrete aisle to . . . a body.

"Stay to the side with Surge," Zim hissed. He rose, gun at the ready.

Weapon trained on the body, Garrett advanced, signaled left to Zim, and he went right.

Delaney signaled Surge to come and crawled behind the container. Surge crawled in next to her. She shoved herself to a sit, her hand over her mouth as she gasped for air. Surge stood in front of her, his muscles rippling as he leaned forward, watching for bad guys. She might not be trained, but he was.

"Clear," called Zim.

"Clear." Garrett—in one piece, Thank You, God —banked around a corner and motioned her toward him. Even as she emerged and nodded, he keyed his comms. "Three, how'd you miss active unfriendlies in here?"

No answer in the comms.

Delaney took one last deep breath. Emotions travel down lead, and she did not need to set Surge off with her newbie reactions. She and Surge joined the men.

Garrett looked her up and down, his forehead creasing. "You okay?"

She drew in a shaky breath and released it, appreciating his raw intensity, that he was on her side. She'd never want to be on the receiving end of that. "All good. You?"

His face smoothed. "Obviously fine, Rogue." He jerked his thumb toward the body. "That fabric Surge hit on? It's from his shirt."

"Let me guess, he had a Sachaai tattoo," she said.

Garrett nodded. "Probably handled the chem vials."

Zim held up a phone. "Thanks for the use of your dead face, Mr. Bukhari." He rubbed his nose. "Check out this last text on his phone. Half hour ago. From Hakim."

Hakim

Americans headed to container yard. Kill them.

Garrett roughed his hand through his hair. "They knew . . ." His shoulders drew back. "Like they did with the cargo plane." He closed his eyes for a long moment, then he gazed at each of them in turn. "Let's find those chemicals before Hakim realizes his goon didn't make it and sends more goons."

"Or shows up himself." Zim shoved his gun in his holster and the phone in his tac pants pocket. "Lead us to it, Surge."

Delaney pulled out the baggie of tubes and extended it to him. "Check."

The Mal sniffed and his eyes shimmered with anticipation.

She loved his constant readiness when his nose work was needed. "Surge, seek!"

The maligator swiftly fell into working the scent cone, his pace fast, determined. He raced down the aisle, straining at the end of the long lead. Then he twisted to the left, another left. He skidded to a stop, hauling long draughts as his ears pricked on an LD3 container, then the one next to it. Both had the Sachaai S. He sat between the two, staring as if he had Superman's laser vision and could see the stash inside.

"Good boy," Delaney exclaimed, drawing him to the side for Garrett and Zim to step in and do their thing. "Can you imagine how long we would've had to search for these without this nose?"

"No kidding." Zim grinned.

Garrett slid back the two sliding bolts on the container door and opened the hatch.

Empty.

Surge jumped in, his ears pointing everywhere, but then he downed in the middle of the container.

"Is he overwhelmed?" Garrett asked.

"Overwhelmed by what ?" she asked, still watching Surge, confused about his behavior since the container was empty and there wasn't a blaring or annoying sound. Yes, Surge had alerted in the center of the container. His nose kept sniffing the air, but he wasn't confused or panting a thousand miles an hour—he was relaxed. Chill. "This isn't overwhelm."

A flicker spirited through Garrett's face, as if he wasn't sure. Or maybe he was just as confused as Delaney.

She shifted her gaze to Zim. "You have that FTIR with you?" If he could check for Sachaai lipid readings to prove the chem vials had been here . . .

"I do." He set down his ruck, pulled out the FTIR, and stepped into the container as he quickly scanned all over the walls and the floor.

Metallic clanks sounded from outside, and Delaney guessed that was Garrett inspecting the other Sachaai S container. His low curse told her it was empty too.

"Like we thought," he snarled. "Someone knew we were coming."

* * *

It was an entire waste of time and assets.

"Eagle Three, exiting Building 1." Garrett swiveled his head, watching for the roaming guards as they left the metal warehouse building. He could hear Surge panting, feel the heat of Delaney close behind him, sense Zim bringing up the rear, watching their six. Why wasn't Caldwell communicating? Either way, Garrett would do his job, even if this op—maybe the dog—had failed.

"You okay?" Delaney said, her voice soft.

"Not even a little," he said under his breath, not looking back.

He'd been blindsided again. Had a guess who was responsible. He slowed as they approached the office, but the Mal surged forward on the long lead, stopping right in front of him. He plopped his rear on the ground and pricked his ears, staring at the ground on the other side of the road.

"What's he doing?" he asked quietly.

Delaney studied her working dog. "He's alerting, but to what, I don't know."

Garrett jerked his head toward the spot Surge was staring at.

She and Surge walked over, and he sat again. Delaney bent and retrieved something from the ground. They returned, and she handed it to him.

"A glove," he grunted. A random, ratty glove. He held his sigh.

The Mal seemed off today. Delaney had worked through his whole overwhelm thing, but Surge kept hitting in strange places. An empty container. A glove out here . . .

Clearly it wasn't just the Mal that was off today.

He slid the glove into his pocket and signaled them onward.

A security guard emerged from the office, flipping off the inside lights and shining a flashlight around the area.

Garrett slid for cover, sensing Zim and Delaney diving behind the container with him.

Hunkered down, Delaney slid her hands around Surge's tac harness.

When the guard walked past on the other side of the container, Garrett prayed the guy didn't detect the team. If Surge started panting . . .

But the guy kept walking that direction, deeper among the containers, farther from the office.

An idea sparked in Garrett's brain—if the Sachaai had loaded the chem vials into another shipping container, where was it headed? There was definitely a mole . . . and he wanted to see if it was Caldwell.

But he had no proof . . . yet.

He shifted and slid over to Zim. "I'm going to slip into the office and find the cargo manifest. Take a picture."

"I can do it—that's what I'm here for."

"This is on me." His phone would take pictures well enough, and he was done trusting others to get the job done and having it backfire. "Give me four mikes, max."

He sneaked around and up to the door of the office, jimmied it open, and crept into the room. After verifying there were no cameras, he slid his back against the wall and straightened. Scanned the space. A single table held a paper tray loaded with perfectly straightened paperwork. He picked up the top packet of papers and used his torch to illuminate the text. Riffled through the pages, bills of lading, invoices, and . . . "Here we go." A cargo manifest with today's date. Hakim's name.

Bingo.

Garrett drew out his phone and snapped a picture. He put the manifest back upside down on top of the paper tray as it had been. Then he dropped the roaming guard's ID on the floor, shut the door, and slipped out. He was nearly across the street when he saw the security guard returning.

Hitting the ground, he rolled himself into the shadow of the container stack. He lay still, barely allowing himself to breathe as he eyed the guard booking up the stairs as his phone trilled. The guard answered, strolling right past Garrett.

Once the office door clicked shut, Garrett checked the area, saw the guard settle in, then hustled and crept to the container stack the team was behind. At his signal, they fell in behind him, and he led them out of the cargo yard and to the SUV.

Caldwell met them at the door when they arrived at the safe house.

Garrett had four words for him. "We need to talk."

Caldwell rolled his eyes. "Now what?"

Garrett jerked his head toward Zim and Delaney, who'd followed him into the kitchen. He held out the pic of the shipping manifest on his phone as Delaney and Zim flanked him.

Bemused, Caldwell scanned it, lifted his hands in the air.

Garrett seethed. His voice croaked. He pointed the phone at Caldwell. "You went silent on comms."

"I had technical difficulties. Signal went?—"

"Not only did you withhold the fact that unfriendlies were waiting in the combi plane yesterday, today you bailed on us and forced us to operate without up-to-date intel, and you withheld info from this shipping manifest."

Caldwell's jaw dropped. "I already told you the signal dropped. The building manager's Sachaai tattoo, the Sachaai waiting to attack—I didn't know."

"It's all about you not sharing full intel. Djibouti. Burma. Now here."

The spook jabbed a finger in his face. "Those situations weren't me."

Garrett's heart pounded in his ears. Sure, Caldwell's bosses had cleared his name. But somehow, in some way, every shortfall of intel on their past few missions was associated with this man. And now—Garrett lunged. Caught Caldwell's collar. "I'm sick of you putting me and my team in danger!"

Face cherry red, Caldwell clawed at his hand, but Garrett tightened his hold. "I'm done with you. Done trusting you. Done?—"

"Bear." The whisper of a cool breeze preceded Delaney's hand landing gently on his arm. Her voice was barely audible. "Don't do this."

Garrett looked down at the spook . . . who was gasping for air. What am I doing? Choking the man? He released the guy, stepped back . Too far, Walker . The spook deserved to be called on the carpet, but not this. He forced himself to turn back to Caldwell. "Sorry."

Looking like he'd chewed on a lemon, Caldwell straightened his collar. "Fine. Fine as frog hair."

Garrett pointed at the floor. "Stay," he ordered. He strode toward the front yard.

Delaney stood. "I'll come with?—"

Garrett spun, stabbed a finger at her, the floor. He didn't need her to lecture him. Delaney sat down, innocent hands in the air.

Surge jumped between them, eyes lasered on him, his growl thrumming deep in his throat.

He yanked his hand back. Great. He'd deserve to lose his hand. The shiny black Mal was dead right. He needed to get himself under control. To do that, he needed some breathing space, so he stormed into the postage-stamp yard.