Page 73 of The Accomplice
A walk around the perimeter of the building did not reveal an easy way in.
Around ten feet above them was a row of broken windows. About three feet high, three feet wide, going along in a row across the side of the building.
‘Give me a boost,’ said Bloch.
‘You sure ?’ asked Lake. ‘If you get in there and you can’t open that door …’
‘I’ll be able to deal with whatever is on the other side,’ she said, holstering her weapon.
The crowbar hit the dirt, Lake put his back to the wall, spread his legs, cupped his hands and held them low. Two steps to get her momentum, then Bloch stepped into Lake’s grip, her hands on his shoulders. He pulled and pushed, and Bloch felt her way up the wall until she reached the window ledge. She’d thought the glass was completely out of this one, but there were a few old dusty shards still in the frame and she tore her calf as she threaded her leg through, then dropped to the floor below with a loud thump that echoed off the walls and the concrete floors.
Clicking on her mini flashlight, Bloch looked around.
The place had once been a warehouse. There were heavy iron shelves along the wall opposite leading up to the ceiling. There were plastic ceiling panels along the roof, interspersed among the corrugated iron roofing panels. The plastic ones were supposed to let in light, but they were way too filthy. Old pieces of machinery and tools littered the wide floor, and she had to be careful where she stepped. There didn’t seem to be much else in the place, apart from a few stacks of wooden pallets. An area of the warehouse had been sectioned off into what looked like a foreman’s office. The door was closed, but there was a window.
Bloch killed the light
Either there was a hole in the back of that office leading to the outside, which she hadn’t seen on her perimeter inspection, or there was still power in the building.
Because she could see a dim light in the office.
It looked like it was coming from a lamp.
Or someone holding a flashlight.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
BLOCH
There could be any number of explanations for the light in the little office. It wasn’t strong, so it could be the light from a recently discarded cell phone, or a lamp, or something equally innocuous.
Or it could be the Sandman with a flashlight and a .45. Ready to shine the light into her eyes at the same time as he emptied the clip into her chest.
Bloch decided it would be better if Lake were in here. She made her way, silently, across the floor, never taking her eyes from the office window, until she reached a brick pillar. She quickly turned, just to get her bearings, and noticed she was only a few feet from the painted steel door. No latches. No bars. It was locked. You needed a key.
Lake must’ve heard her from outside as he gently tapped the door.
She wanted to tell him to be quiet. That she might have company. Her big advantage was that perhaps whoever was in the office didn’t know that Bloch was outside the door. If it was the Sandman, she needed every inch of advantage. He was dangerous. Perhaps the most dangerous man she had ever faced, and she did not want to underestimate him.
There was nothing else to do but act. And act now, while she still had the element of surprise. Moving past the door, she circled the perimeter of the room, coming up on the office at an angle instead of head on. There was no window on this side. No way of him seeing her approach.
Her movement seemed louder than it should have been. Every breath a gale. Every step resounded like a stomp. Every heartbeat cracked like a drum. It was cool in the dark brick warehouse, and yet she had to blink streams of sweat away from her eyes. The weight of Maggie in her hand no longer felt reassuring as it had always done before. Now it felt cumbersome. As if she had brought the wrong weapon for the job.
Bloch recognized all of this for what it was – fear. She wasn’t afraid of the Sandman. Bloch feared no man.
She was afraid of what she might find.
Afraid she might find the body of her life-long friend in a dusty old warehouse.
She was close now. It was just a few feet away.
The tip of the barrel began to shake.
It was not from exertion. When Bloch had selected the Magnum as her sidearm, she had trained with it every day for a year. An hour’s target practice every morning, and then the gym in the afternoon. Every time that gun fired it was like getting punched in the palm. But she took it. Grew stronger. Ate those kicks up until there was a thick callus on her palm and it didn’t hurt anymore. The weight and feel of the weapon were as natural to her as holding a knife and fork, or a pen.
But now, with her chest pumping oxygen and the adrenaline flooding her system, it felt like she was on sensory overload.
Bloch reached the door to the office and bent low.
