Chapter 8 - The Shadow Warehouse
By 4:30 AM, the rain had turned into a thick, freezing fog that rolled off Puget Sound, blanketing the industrial shipping district in gray shadow.
I sat in the passenger seat of Sterling's sleek black SUV as we idled two blocks from Pier 42. In the back seat lay Titan, resting on a heavy pile of blankets. Dr. Lin had given him a booster shot of antivenom and a mild stimulant. He was still weak, but his eyes were sharp, his breath steady and deep.
"You should have waited for SWAT backup, Marcus," Sterling whispered, looking through a pair of high-powered night-vision binoculars at a massive, dilapidated corrugated-iron warehouse near the water's edge.
"SWAT takes three hours to mobilize on a commercial warrant," I replied, loading a spare magazine into a unregistered 9mm handgun I had retrieved from my gun safe at home. "The moment these traffickers hear that the snake incident at the park didn't result in my dog's destruction, they're going to pack up their operation and vanish."
"The front gate is padlocked," Sterling noted. "No security guards posted outside."
"That means they're inside, loading the trucks," I said.
I opened the truck door and stepped out into the freezing fog. Titan let out a low, gravelly whimper from the back seat, pushing his head against my leg. He wanted to come.
"No, buddy," I whispered, softly kissing the top of his head. "You rest. This one's mine."
I slipped past the rusted perimeter chain-link fence, using the shadows of stacked shipping containers for cover. Sterling followed three paces behind, wielding a heavy iron crowbar he had pulled from his trunk.
We reached the rear loading door of the warehouse. A small service hatch was propped open with a wooden block to let air circulate. The warm, metallic stink of wild animals, unwashed cages, and damp straw drifted out into the cold night air.
I ducked low and slipped through the door, my weapon raised in a low-ready stance.
Inside, the warehouse was a massive, high-ceilinged cavern lit by dim yellow work lamps. Stalked three rows deep were hundreds of wooden crates, glass terrariums, and iron cages. Inside were rare reptiles, endangered tropical birds, snow leopards, and exotic mammals—a black-market illegal animal ring worth millions on the international market.
In the center of the floor, three men in heavy winter coats were frantically loading wooden crates onto the back of an eighteen-wheeler flatbed truck.
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Standing on the loading ramp, directing the operation with a heavy flashlight, was a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing heavy size-12 work boots.
I recognized those boots immediately. It was the man who had struck me in the park.
