Step emerged from the room carrying Sarah Campbell over his shoulder. With the topper’s gun stuck down his pants, he pointed the flashlight to the right, the way they had come, and then turned it to the left. There was still more tunnel to go. He opted to find out where the tunnel led instead of dealing with Gunner.
Just a few feet from the room, the hallway turned down to the left into a slightly larger corridor that ended at a set of double doors. He jiggled the knob and was surprised that it turned. Pressing his free shoulder into the door, he pushed it open against a pocket of stale air. Once inside, he aimed the beam from the flashlight to his right and located a light switch. A buzz and crackle preceded the near blinding bank of blue-hued fluorescent lights that flickered to life. He could feel an almost immediate pounding against the back of his eyes.
The room was large, almost as large as the entire house where the toppers lived. The far wall was lined with file cabinets four feet high. Just to the left was the back end of an old armored truck. Step stared at it in disbelief, wondering how they got it down into the tunnels.
He set Sarah down on a long metal table in the center of the room and approached the truck. It had no tires and the cab was rusted through. Pulling open the back doors, Step saw clearly that it was simply being used as a storage place for the money collected for the inventory. Stacks of cash filled two thirds of the truck.
The closeout king moved to the cabinets, opened a door at random, and retrieved the first folder he could grab on to. A Polaroid of a young blond girl who looked to be drugged out of her mind was stapled to the inside cover. The slip of paper underneath it identified her as Elizabeth Prince, thirteen, from Tracy City, Tennessee. Date acquired was June 3, 2008. Date unloaded was June 27, 2008. Destination for inventory was listed as Buenos Aires. Buyer was Ernesto Diaz. Intermediary was Senator Albert Green from Georgia.
Step read through a few more folders and laughed to himself. Harley didn’t miss a trick. He kept records of every girl, every sale, every buyer, and every dickhead that set up the buy. No encrypted computer files or digital bullshit. It was all good old-fashioned hard copies that left enough of a paper trail to hang everyone by their fat necks.