Michael parked three blocks from the coordinates and walked the rest of the way. The warehouse district stretched around him like a concrete maze. Loading docks and chain-link fences. Semi-trucks backing into bays with warning beepers.
He checked his watch. Four thirty PM. Rush hour traffic would complicate any escape route.
His phone buzzed. Text from Franklin: *In position. South side.*
Another text from Trevor: *Eyes on target. Looks clean.*
Michael turned the corner and spotted the building. Five-story brick warehouse with boarded windows and a faded sign: "Morrison Industrial Storage." A real estate placard hung crooked on the fence.
He circled the block once. No surveillance vans. No unusual activity. Just another dead building in a district full of them.
---
Franklin crouched behind a dumpster and studied the warehouse through binoculars. No movement in the windows. No guards walking perimeters.
His phone vibrated. Trevor's voice came through his earpiece.
"Thermal scope shows the building's empty. No heat signatures."
"You sure about that equipment?" Franklin asked.
"Military surplus. Never lies."
Franklin keyed his radio. "Michael, you copy?"
"I'm here. North entrance looks clear."
"We go in together. Standard formation."
Franklin jogged across the street and met Michael at the warehouse's main entrance. Chain-link gate stood open. Padlock cut cleanly.
"Recent," Michael said, examining the lock. "Bolt cutters. Professional job."
Trevor appeared from around the building's corner. He carried a duffel bag and wore tactical gloves.
"Back entrance is open too," Trevor reported. "Someone wants us inside."
---
Trevor pulled wire cutters from his bag and snipped the security tape across the front door. No alarm. No response.
"This is too easy," Franklin said.
"Or exactly as easy as it's supposed to be." Trevor twisted the door handle. Unlocked.
They entered in formation. Trevor took point, Michael covered the rear, Franklin watched the flanks. Muscle memory from jobs they'd rather forget.
The warehouse floor stretched empty except for concrete pillars and scattered debris. Afternoon light filtered through dirty windows.
"There." Michael pointed toward the center of the space.
A folding table sat alone on the concrete floor. Manila envelope placed precisely in the middle. No chairs. No other furniture.
"Motion sensors?" Franklin asked.
Trevor pulled out a small device and swept the area. "Clean. But that doesn't mean we're alone."
They approached the table in a triangle formation. Each man covered a different arc.
---
Michael reached for the envelope first. Heavy paper. Expensive. His name written across the front in the same block letters.
Inside, he found a USB drive and a single sheet of paper with an address: "Maze Bank Tower, Floor 47."
"What's on the drive?" Franklin asked.
Trevor pulled out a ruggedized laptop and connected the USB. The screen filled with architectural plans, security schematics, and personnel schedules.
"Corporate data facility," Trevor read from the screen. "Financial records storage. High-security server farm."
Michael scrolled through the documents. "This is detailed. Very detailed."
"Guard rotations," Franklin said, reading over his shoulder. "Biometric access points. Emergency protocols."
Trevor clicked to the next file. Floor plans with ventilation shafts marked in red. "Whoever put this together knows the building inside and out."
---
Franklin studied the timeline document. Seventy-two hour window. Complete server wipe scheduled for Friday night.
"This is professional intelligence," he said. "Corporate espionage level."
"Or government," Trevor added.
Michael found a second sheet of paper in the envelope. Bank account numbers and access codes. "Two million dollars. Already deposited."
"They paid us before we agreed to the job?" Franklin asked.
"Confident, aren't they?"
Trevor closed the laptop. "Or desperate. Question is, what's on those servers worth this much risk?"
Franklin walked to the window and checked the street. Still quiet. Still empty. "We should go."
"Agreed." Michael pocketed the USB drive. "We analyze this somewhere secure."
Trevor packed his equipment. "My place. Sandy Shores. We can spread out, think through the angles."
"Your place is compromised," Michael said. "They know where we live."
"Then where?"
---
Michael thought about safe locations. Lester's house was too obvious. Public places had too many witnesses. Hotel rooms required credit cards.
"Storage unit," he said finally. "I rent one in El Burro Heights. Cash payments. Fake name."
"What do you store there?" Franklin asked.
"Things I might need someday."
They left through different exits. Michael walked north, Franklin went south, Trevor headed east. Standard procedure for avoiding surveillance.
Michael's phone buzzed as he reached his car. Text from Amanda: *Where are you? Recital starts in two hours.*
He typed back: *Traffic. Be there soon.*
Another lie. The web kept growing.
---
Trevor drove back to Sandy Shores with the laptop secured in his bag. The job felt wrong. Too clean. Too easy. Someone had done months of preparation and handed them everything on a silver platter.
His military training screamed warnings. Operations this smooth usually ended badly.
He pulled into his compound and killed the engine. Chef appeared from the main trailer.
"How'd it go?" Chef asked.
"Like a recruiting pitch. Someone wants us for a job."
"Good money?"
"Too good." Trevor climbed off his bike. "That's what worries me."
Chef followed him inside. "You think it's a setup?"
"I think someone's been planning this longer than we know." Trevor poured himself three fingers of whiskey. "Question is who and why."
"Federal task force?"
"Maybe. Or something worse."
Trevor's phone rang. Franklin's number.
"We meet tomorrow morning," Franklin said. "Storage unit in El Burro Heights. Eight AM sharp."
"I'll be there."
Trevor hung up and stared at his reflection in the whiskey glass. Six months of relative peace were about to end. He could feel it in his bones.
---
Franklin sat in his car outside the dealership and called Lamar.
"You need to handle things tomorrow morning," Franklin said. "I got business to take care of."
"What kind of business?"
"The kind you don't ask about."
Silence on the line. Then Lamar's voice, quieter: "This about your old crew?"
"Maybe."
"Franklin, man, you got something good here. Don't throw it away for—"
"For what?"
"For whatever those crazy motherfuckers are planning."
Franklin watched customers browse cars through the showroom windows. Normal people with normal problems. Car payments and insurance premiums.
"I'll be careful," Franklin said.
"You better be. I ain't running this place by myself forever."
Franklin ended the call and started his car. Tomorrow they'd analyze the intelligence and decide whether to take the job.
Tonight he'd pretend everything was normal. Sell cars to suburban families and small business owners. Be legitimate.
But deep down, he knew normal was already gone.
---
Michael arrived home at six fifteen. Amanda's car was gone. Tracey's recital.
He'd missed it.
His phone showed three missed calls and two voicemails. All from Amanda.
The first message was polite: "Running late? Recital starts soon."
The second was cold: "Well, I guess your mysterious business was more important than your daughter."
Michael poured himself a scotch and sat by the pool. The water reflected the evening sky, dark blue fading to black.
His phone rang. Amanda.
"Where were you?" Her voice was flat. Angry but controlled.
"I told you, traffic—"
"Don't. Just don't."
"How was the recital?"
"Tracey was great. She kept looking for you in the audience."
The guilt hit like a physical weight. "I'm sorry."
"Are you? Really?"
Michael stared at the pool water. "Yes."
"Because lately it feels like you're somewhere else. Even when you're here."
"Work's been stressful."
"What work, Michael? You keep saying that, but you never explain what you actually do all day."
Michael finished his scotch. The USB drive felt heavy in his pocket.
"We'll talk when you get home," he said.
"Will we? Or will you make another excuse and disappear again?"
The line went dead.
Michael sat in the gathering darkness and wondered how many more lies he could tell before everything collapsed.