The storeroom was partially soundproofed and air-conditioned, one of the few areas in the mill equipped with those two luxuries. It was a cool, eerie, irregularly shaped space full of bays and inlets formed from the leftover square footage between the generators, the building’s loading dock, and a sprawling electrical control room. The ceiling stood barely eight feet. It carried the look and feel of a library with row after row of metal shelves overflowing with tools and parts. Tens of thousands of items were precisely cataloged, tagged, and numbered, computers maintaining an accurate inventory. No one actually worked inside, people just came and went after finding what they needed and logging out.
He quickly moved to a far row of shelves and ducked behind, turning his attention back to the door.
JACKS ENTERED THE ANTEROOM.
“Did Hank Reed come through here?” he asked the attendant through a hole in the glass.
The attendant nodded.
“Where’d he go?”
“In there,” the man said, casually pointing to the door.
“Open it.”
HANK HEARD THE BOLT RELEASE.
He stood behind a row of shelves a hundred feet from the entrance, near the door he intended to use as an exit. He hadn’t already left because he wanted to see if he could lose his tail within the maze. He knew every inch of the storeroom, often using it as a quiet spot to gather information. He hoped that local knowledge would give him an edge. Perhaps his pursuer had never been inside before.
The door shut.
“Mr. Reed, we need to talk,” a voice said.
He did not respond. Instead, he glanced behind at the exit door and hoped it hadn’t been locked as the shift supervisor sometimes had an annoying habit of doing.
Steps approached.
“Mr. De Florio wants to see you. No point in running. Just come along quietly.”
He reached up and grabbed a two-inch washer from an open box on the shelf. Aiming carefully, he tossed it over the shelves, away from him. Metal banged against metal. The guard reacted, and he watched through the shelves as the man darted straight for the sound, the opposite direction from where he was hiding. He turned and gently grasped the doorknob.
It opened, the dead bolt not set.
Praise the Lord.
He slipped out and closed the door.
He now stood in another concrete hall, this one leading to receiving. It was there that all the equipment and supplies for the storeroom were inventoried and categorized before being shelved away. The hall was constantly rinsed to keep it free of debris and he sidestepped a stream of quick flowing water, nearly running for outside.
The barge dock was now less than fifty yards away.
AFTER SIGNING IN AT MANAGEMENT’S GATEBRENT SPRINTED DOWNthe crumbling concrete road that paralleled paper machine number two. Along the way he passed the auto and carpentry shops, both in outbuildings bordering the Savannah River. He knew the pavement would take him around the building and directly to the dock.
He looked back.
De Florio stepped through management’s gate and turned toward him.
THE INSTANTDEFLORIO ACQUIREDBRENT IN SIGHT HE REACHED FORhis radio and pushed theSENDbutton.
“Bluebird. Robin. Your position.”
Victor Jacks answered, “Storeroom. In pursuit.”
“Is he in sight?”
“Negative.”
He knew the storeroom was a maze with a variety of exits, so he played a hunch. “Leave there and proceed outside. Toward the river.”
