Page 127 of The Fourth Option
He climbed onto the rear hinges of a cargo door to reach the corrugated roof of a freight trailer. From this vantage point, he had a clear view of the far edge of the former naval base.
He lay on his stomach, pulling a set of small Vortex binoculars from his coat pocket for a quick reconnaissance.
Ninety percent of the former naval base appeared abandoned. He saw hangars with broken windows, concrete overrun by weeds, and familiar painted lettering that had faded over time.
All empires eventually fall. Just ask the Stoics.
He shifted for a better view and surveyed stacks of containers. They called them Connex boxes in the Teams, a term left over from CONEX, a militarized abbreviation for Container Express. In addition, beyond the containers, the facility had three-wheel mounted cranes along the wharf.
In his earlier SEAL days, Walker had learned a lot about ports. The wharf-side equipment also included reach stackers and straddle cranes. He focused on the river and noted a protruding pier. There were no cargo ships there, but he saw a pleasure craft, a forty-something-foot sportfisher with a tall conning tower. Someone at the facility liked to fish the Gulf. Maybe that’s why the place was called Dorado.
He moved to his side, checking on Paladin. The dog sat like a palace guard.
He pulled on the lanyard around his chest, freeing the slender plastic dog whistle.
He scooted himself to the edge and hopped down. “Blijf,” he reminded Paladin. After walking a hundred yards down the street, he blew the whistle three times. Paladin sprang up and ran to him. As soon as he was at Walker’s feet, Walker blew the silent whistle twice. He then turned his back and moved another twenty yards down the sidewalk. Paladin remained in place.
Good to go. That would have to do for the rehearsal on this reconnaissance op.
He blew the whistle three more times and continued forward with Paladin on his left side.
By the time Walker reached the road gate along Poland Avenue, the rain had started again in earnest. He pulled his Saints cap lower. Would a cop wear a Saints hat? Yeah, he thought. Probably. People in this town were nuts for sports.
The road narrowed, squeezed between another parking lot filled with empty trailer chassis and a building just around the corner that looked like the main office hidden among dozens of CONEX boxes and pallets. He pulled out the Ziploc from inside his coat and opened it. The shirt fragment was a foot long and three inches wide.
Walker knelt beside Paladin, carefully unzipping the plastic bag. The piece of fabric inside still carried the strangely sweet smell he remembered from Leigh Ann’s.
He held the cloth to the dog’s nose.
Paladin sniffed, nostrils flaring, ears twitching forward.
Walker pulled the cloth back and pointed toward the darkened wharf.
“Zoek.” Search.
As Paladin started to search, Walker’s eyes caught the rear license plate of a Ford F-150 parked outside a construction trailer and amended the command.
“Zit.” Paladin sat, awaiting his next command.
The specialty plate featured a bronze redfish arched across the left side, frozen in a splash of coastal blues. Its tail bore the signature black spot, and the water around it shimmered with hints of marsh grass. Above the plate number, the wordLouisianastood boldly, while a small line beneath readSupport Wildlife & Fisheries.
He thought about the boat at the otherwise empty dock. Could it belong to Dorado’s owner?
Stop. Look. Listen. Smell.
He heard the hum of a forklift fifty or sixty yards away, out of sight. Three separate naval warehouses sat with open doors. A stray voice, and then another. At least two male workers inside the warehouse. The air smelled of diesel and the thick tar between the concrete. He scanned the rest of the area. This was a reconnaissance, that’s all. Get in, observe, get out.
Walker moved to the edge of the windowless construction trailer. From this angle, he could see what was on the pallets: piles of burlap sacks. Coffee? That made sense. Dorado’s site had said it handled food cargo. New Orleans was a major port for goods coming up from Latin America.
“Blijf,” he whispered.
Time to adapt.
He walked around the trailer and knocked on the door.
A man in his mid-sixties with a hefty gut opened it. He was bald with a gray beard, wearing Carhartt pants and a plaid shirt.
Walker flashed the NOPD badge. “Sorry to disturb you, sir. Investigating a crime, and hoping I might be able to ask you a couple questions.”
