‘What is it?’ Rasul asked, dragging on a vape. He exhaled, enveloping himself in a thick plume of smoke that swiftly dispersed over the water.
‘It’s a dark kitchen,’ Pearce replied, looking at the huge grey warehouse beyond the high wire fence. Apart from a row of glass panels by the entrance, the building had no windows.
‘Otter told me it’s owned by a company called Meals Seattle,’ Pearce lied. Leila had fed him information about the address on the drive over. ‘It’s a courier firm. They rent kitchens to take-out businesses who want to pool costs and Meals Seattle handles all the ordering and delivery.’
Pearce tried not to appear too well informed. Leila had told him there were four take-out businesses in the warehouse and all of them looked legitimate. They might have had no idea they were being used to mask a dope-dealing operation. It was a masterful cover. Couriers could move around the city freely with very little risk of a cop pulling them over. And if one did, would they see beyond the food in the heat box on the tail of the bike? If a cop found boxes of kung pao chicken or pizza, why would he or she ever think there might be opiates hidden elsewhere?
‘We’ve been looking for this place for a long time,’ Rasul said. ‘We could never figure out where they were running their operation from. No wonder we couldn’t find it. I’m standing here, and you’ve explained what it is, but I still don’t understand it.’
‘It’s an Internet business,’ Pearce responded.
‘Oh well,’ Rasul said mockingly, ‘that makes everything clear.’
The warehouse was about the size of a football pitch and was situated at the very end of Fontanelle Street, by the west bank of Duwamish Waterway, a wide, dirty river that served the huge industrial district which stretched south of the port. The air reeked of greasy diesel and hard work, and the surrounding buildings looked like the kind of run-down places that always paid their invoices late. The Meals Seattle warehouse had been freshly painted and looked positively polished compared to its rust-covered neighbours. Pearce could hear the grinding sound of industrial machinery at work in the distance, and the rumble of a cargo tug easing its way downstream.
‘Let’s get the others,’ Rasul said, nodding in the direction of the motorcade, which was parked around the corner.
‘We can’t just rush the place,’ Pearce replied.
There were two uniformed guards in a gatehouse, an unknown number of innocent employees, and whatever force the East Hill Mob had stationed in the place to guard the product. Assuming Otter had been telling the truth. He might have been lying, in which case they’d storm a blameless business. Pearce counted thirty-five vehicles in the car park, which meant there could be anywhere between thirty-five and 165 people inside. Three couriers on small motorbikes had left through the high gates and sped off to make deliveries. So far, they’d only seen one inbound.
‘What rush?’ Rasul scoffed. ‘We’ve already been standing here too long. Now we’re just going to go in and get our stuff.’
They’d been watching the warehouse from a wharf about half a block away. Standing by some containers that were piled up at the water’s edge, they had a clear view of the building and its surroundings without being too visible themselves.
‘We have no idea what we’re up against,’ Pearce remarked. ‘Let me at least get some information.’
‘This guy’s a hothead,’ Leila observed quietly. She was still picking up everything that happened through the surveillance glasses.
Rasul considered Pearce’s request, and then nodded. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘You have five minutes. The time it takes me to get my men.’
Pearce wondered whether he was being treated to an extra dose of bravado or if Rasul was always this reckless and cocksure. He shook his head and started towards the gatehouse. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Rasul head west, round the corner towards the convoy of SUVs.
Pearce’s mind raced as he tried to think of a way to get inside the warehouse. The pressure of time meant subtlety was out of the question. He’d have to try a more direct approach.
One of the guards stepped out; a grey-haired man with the squashed nose and hard-bitten face of a journeyman boxer.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ he asked.
‘I’m here to see your boss,’ Pearce replied. ‘I’ve got a message for him from Deni Salamov.’
The journeyman instantly tensed and looked over Pearce’s shoulder for any sign of trouble, but apart from a brown van and a couple of old cars, the street was empty. The guard’s colleague was leaning out of the gatehouse and the two uniformed men exchanged concerned glances.
‘Don’t recognize the name, friend,’ the journeyman said.
‘Really? I’m pretty sure Reznor will,’ Pearce said, using the name Otter had given him. According to the wounded dealer, Reznor ran this location for the East Hill Mob.
The journeyman nodded and started towards the gates, which his colleague opened. ‘You’d better come with me.’