THE WAREHOUSE JOB
by
Matthew Spence
"They're late." Combs glanced at the car's clock.
Boyd shrugged. "They sometimes are. Give 'em a few more minutes."
Combs sighed. "I hope our CI wasn't wrong again."
"I don't think so. He mentioned addresses and times. Too accurate for him to make something up."
It was just a little past midnight. The stakeout had been going on for more than four hours now, but so far nobody had showed. The warehouse, part of a storage area near the docks, was a known hangout for hiding stolen goods, drugs, and weapons. If there was going to be a bust, it would be here. But their targets were late.
They got a call over their earpieces. "This is unit One. Suspects just drove past about two blocks ahead in an SUV with tinted windows; looks like it might be them."
"Copy that," Boyd answered. "See? These guys never like to be too late for their own party."
They watched as the SUV pulled up to the warehouse. Two men, both either white or Hispanic, got out, wearing hoodies in an attempt to hide their faces from the storage facility's cameras. As they got out, the warehouse door slid open, and they
were let in by an Asian male. Then they lowered the door, but not all the way, as they went inside, apparently to do business.
"Did the CI say exactly what it was they had in there?" Combs asked.
Boyd shook his head. "He didn't know. He said he thought it might be rare animals from what they were saying."
"Rare enough for smuggling," Combs replied.
"Yeah." Boyd and Combs had been working the case for a little under a month. The apparent smugglers always changed the location of their meets, and were smart enough to use burner phones and fake IDs,one of which had been
confiscated during a traffic stop and which had led them to this case. Boyd had two dogs, and one thing he hated almost as much as the drug trade was smuggling creatures that couldn't defend themselves, which were usually bought by rich people who wanted something 'exotic' or even worse, for illegal wet markets.
They listened in on the conversation, using a sound scanner that was good enough so that they hadn't needed to bug the place. It all seemed fairly routine, and from their tones one might have thought that they were selling a used car.
Then something happened.
Their ears were hit with high-pitched screams and whines, both human and otherwise. They saw the door shake as someone or something heavy slammed against it. Then they heard gunshots, loud cracks from inside.
"Move in, move in!" Boyd called out the order as other uniformed officers in their gear approached the warehouse, all weapons drawn. The door slowly raised open and one of the suspects, the Asian man, staggered out, his chest and face
covered with blood splatters, but they didn't appear to be his own and he seemed to have no injuries. He fell to his knees in an apparent daze as he was taken into custody. Boyd reached him and asked what the hell had just happened.
The man muttered something in Cantonese, which, having worked in Chinatown, Boyd was somewhat familiar with. He shook his head as the man was led away, then turned his attention to the warehouse, which was now illuminated by the overhead lights. He saw a large steel container inside, with the door locked shut, three other bodies, none of them moving-and a great deal of blood.
Combs came out of the scene as it was roped off. "What a damn mess," he said. "Like a gang massacre in there."
"Did they shoot each other?" Boyd asked.
"No, not even close. It looks like something-maybe whatever it was they were carrying-just...sliced them up with its claws.
Big claws too, from the looks of things. Some damn big animal they had." Combs looked at the surviving suspect, who was struggling to answer questions in English without much success. "What did he have to say?"
"It didn't make much sense. I think he's in shock. Something about a demon...a monster...whatever it was, I don't think he knew what it was. He was just the delivery man."
They both looked at the container. It was silent, except for what sounded like relaxed breathing inside.
"Tell everyone to keep it closed, no matter what," Boyd said. "Whatever it is, I think it's sleeping now. It sound like it's had it's fill for the night."
"No problem," Combs replied. "But what the hell is it?"
"I don't know. But it sure isn't helpless, whatever it is. I just hope they find a way to send it back wherever it came from and then leave it the hell alone. It doesn't belong here."
Combs had to agree.
THE END