Chapter 6 - The Midnight Run
The North Valley Warehouse sat five miles outside of town, nestled deep within a thick grove of black pines near the Canadian border. It was a massive, corrugated steel structure that had originally been used for timber storage, but tonight, it was the epicenter of a criminal empire.
I parked my old, unlit Chevy truck a mile down the road, completely hidden in a dense thicket of brush. I moved through the forest like a shadow, my heavy tactical boots making absolutely no sound on the damp pine needles. The night-vision goggles attached to my helmet turned the pitch-black woods into a crisp, green-hued landscape.
As I approached the perimeter of the warehouse, I counted six sentries patrolling the fence line. They were wearing heavy winter coats and carrying semi-automatic shotguns. They walked with loose, sloppy gaits—local thugs, probably deputy sheriffs off-duty, completely untrained in real perimeter security. They were smoking cigarettes and laughing, their voices carrying in the still night air.
"Did you see the boss pour that drink over that mechanic's head today?" one of them laughed, leaning against a stack of logs. "Man, that guy looked like he was about to cry. Dominic really checked his oil for him."
"Yeah, well, the mechanic's wife is inside right now checking Dominic's oil," another one joked, eliciting a chorus of crude laughter from the group.
I stood completely motionless behind a thick pine tree just twenty yards away. My heart rate didn't spike. My breathing remained perfectly rhythmic—four seconds in, four seconds out. I adjusted the fire selector on my rifle to semi-automatic.
"Enjoy the laugh, boys," I whispered into the dark. "It’s the last one you’re ever going to get."
I checked my watch. It was 11:45 PM. The federal transport helicopters would be arriving in exactly fifteen minutes, but the warehouse doors were already opening. A massive, unmarked semi-truck was backing into the loading dock, its diesel engine rumbling like a low beast.
I shifted my position, moving along the tree line until I had a clear line of sight through the high, dirty windows of the warehouse office.
Inside, sitting on a leather sofa with a glass of champagne in her hand, was my wife, Amelia. She was laughing, her head thrown back as Sheriff Dominic Vance stood over her, his uniform shirt undone at the collar, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist. On the mahogany desk in front of them sat three heavy, aluminum brick-sized packages—pure, uncut narcotics ready for distribution.
May you like
Dominic leaned down and kissed her, and Amelia smiled up at him with a look of pure devotion—a look she had never once given me in all the years we had been married.
My hand tightened around the pistol grip of my rifle. It wasn't out of jealousy; it was out of an absolute, clinical clarity. They weren't just criminals. They were a virus that had infected my sanctuary. And a Tier-1 operator’s job is to eradicate the virus.
