Chapter 5 - Whispers in the Motor Pool
The rain had turned into a relentless downpour by the time Sofia crossed the tarmac toward the motor pool.
Bay 2 was an cavernous barn of ribbed corrugated steel, echoing with the metallic clink of wrenches and the guttural idle of an eight-cylinder diesel engine. The smell of exhaust, hydraulic fluid, and wet gravel hung heavy under the high sodium lights.
Inside, a massive seven-ton Oshkosh Medium Tactical Vehicle sat perched on a heavy hydraulic lift, its massive, treaded tires suspended six feet off the concrete deck.
Beneath the belly of the truck, a pair of grease-streaked legs protruded from a rolling creeper.
Sofia stepped inside, her boots making no sound on the oil-stained floor. She stopped three feet from the edge of the lift, watching the shadows dance along the underside of the vehicle.
“Staff Sergeant Terrell,” she said.
The creeper jerked violently. A loud metallic clang echoed as a heavy socket wrench slipped from the mechanic’s grip and bounced off the concrete floor.
The creeper rolled out from beneath the truck.
Staff Sergeant James Terrell was twenty-six, with sunken, bloodshot eyes and hands that trembled despite his muscular frame. His camouflage utilities were black with grease, his name tape frayed at the edges. When his eyes locked onto Sofia’s NCIS badge, his throat bobbed in a hard, dry swallow.
“I didn’t do nothing,” Terrell said instantly, his voice cracking with panic. “I don’t know nothing about the missing night optics. I told the audit officers everything I know. I just fix the trucks.”
“Nobody mentioned night optics, Terrell,” Sofia said calmly.
Terrell’s face went white. He scrambled to his feet, wiping his hands nervously with an oily rag that did nothing to hide the shaking of his fingers. He backed away until his shoulders met the steel support pillar of the hydraulic lift.
“You need to get out of here, ma’am,” he whispered, his eyes frantically darting toward the open bay doors behind her. “You don’t understand what these people do. They don’t care about badges. They don’t care about federal agents. If they see you talking to me, I’m dead. My wife is in Jacksonville. My daughter is three years old.”
“Diaz had a sister, Terrell,” Sofia said, taking one step forward. “Miller had a mother who still thinks her son died because he couldn’t swim across a creek. You know that’s a lie.”
Terrell covered his face with his hands, his breath coming in ragged, hyperventilating sobs. “They held them under,” he choked out. “Mercer and two guys from the contract security detail. They tied their wrists with zip-ties, held their heads under the water until they stopped thrashing, and then cut the ties with a utility blade so the coroner wouldn't find ligature marks. I was in the truck. They made me watch.”
Sofia’s blood ran cold. The brutality was calculated, clinical, and completely devoid of humanity.
“Where is the shipment staging, Terrell?” she asked, her voice low and steady. “Where is the ledger?”
“It’s not in the supply office,” Terrell gasped. “Mercer keeps the paper manifest in the back of the emergency generator vault behind Warehouse 7. The truck is leaving tonight at 0200. But Mercer isn't running the convoy.”
“Who is?”
“The base commander’s private—”
A sharp, high-pitched hiss cut through the air.
Above them, the heavy steel braided line of the hydraulic lift whipped through the air like a striking serpent. A spray of amber hydraulic fluid exploded across the ceiling rafters.
“Look out!” Sofia shouted.
The seven-ton Oshkosh tilted violently to the left. The steel safety pins sheared with a deafening, metallic screech that sounded like tearing sheet metal. The massive multi-ton vehicle began its descent straight toward them.
Sofia lunged forward, her shoulder striking Terrell square in the chest, driving both of them across the slippery floor just as seven tons of steel, iron, and armor plating slammed down onto the concrete with the force of an earthquake.
Concrete cracked, spider-webbing across the bay floor. The air was sucked out of the room by the displacement, followed instantly by a cloud of pulverized dust and atomized fluid.
Sofia rolled onto her side, coughing violently, her service weapon already in her hand.
Through the settling haze of hydraulic mist at the far end of the bay, she caught a glimpse of a silhouette retreating into the torrential rain.
A tall man in a dark foul-weather parka, carrying an industrial cable-cutting tool.
She scrambled to her feet, helping Terrell up by his belt. The young sergeant was hyperventilating, staring at the crushed metal where he had been standing two seconds earlier.
“Warehouse 7,” Terrell sobbed, clutching her sleeve with desperate force. “The vault code is 4-4-9-1. Please... please don’t let them kill my family.”
Sofia pushed him behind the heavy concrete barrier of the tire-mounting station.
May you like
“Stay down,” she commanded, clicking her tactical radio. “Vance! We have a compromised perimeter at Bay 2. Suspect fleeing toward the western fence line. And notify federal dispatch—we’re hitting Warehouse 7 now.”
***
