Crime & Counterpoint Read Online Free PDF Page B

the corner revealed weapons in air-tight cases. It looked like they were taking inventory. Between the rows of giant metal containers, a black Suburban snoozed, out of plain sight.
    Zach crouched behind a sea green metal crate; the shimmering mantle of the river flowed steadily to the right of him. Hot breath unfurled from his mouth meeting the cold air and foggy darkness. He’d ditched his jacket, his badge, wallet, cell phone, and anything else that might make noise. But his gun, he wouldn’t part with. It wasn’t his off-duty Glock 22, however. It was his personal firearm – a modified .357 Colt with custom sights and a slightly extended barrel for the longer range shots.
    He felt safer with it.
    Although, now that he was feet away from assault rifles and the like, his semiautomatic wouldn’t buy him much.
    Thus, he’d been staying hidden in the shadows. But the temptation of seizing such a stockpile of illegal weaponry nearly overpowered him.
    The dock lights sheened and danced atop the river’s surface but didn’t penetrate the bed of ink. The smell was several bouquets shy of appreciable. He could almost taste the bitter toxicity as drops splattered on his face, flicked by the overzealous, childish wind – the wind that kept him from hearing what went on.
    Snap!
    Zach’s head spun to his left. He peered into the darkness but didn’t see anything. Just glittering black, faint lights on the foggy horizon, and the outline of a giant sleeping crane.
    Slightly unnerved, he came to a slow, stealthy stand, gripping his gun, legs buzzing.
    The wind died down again, and he realized they’d stopped talking. He tensed. Either they were done or…
    Zach eased around the corner of the container towards the exposing beams, towards the Suburban. Taut silence hung in the air. Blood pumped into his ears despite his cocksureness.
    He pressed his back up against the wall of the crate, felt its icy cool seep into his back, chilling his marrow. He craned his ears.
    Some scuffling along the cracked pavement. Then nothing. Wind. Water. Whining of a distant siren which evaporated with the next querulous gust.
    It was quiet enough to feel his own heart beating – steady, strong, but louder than before.
    Drawing a cold breath, he peeked around the edge of the crate. No one. But the SUV’s doors were open wide. Making certain the coast was clear, he jogged on swift, silent feet, legs slicing through the dense air. He reached the back of the vehicle and crouched low.
    Listening. Waiting. Ignoring his thundering pulse which told him he was a fool.
    His head stuck out two inches past the bumper to peer at the open container up ahead and to the left. The cases were all there, neatly stacked. Begging him to take a closer look. Just a quick peek. Serial number, model number, manufacturer. Anything to help him figure out where they’d come from, keep tabs on them if they surfaced on the black market.
    As a last nod to caution, he scanned the area before standing and creeping alongside the Suburban. But the moment he passed the long black vehicle and stood in the clear, he knew he’d made a big mistake.
    Crosshairs. He could feel them.
    Adrenaline slammed through him as he charged for the nearest opening between the ten-foot tall crates.
    Ping! Ping! Ping!
    The bullets missed him by a narrow inch. Though, he felt their impact as if they had hit him instead of glancing off the rippled metal. His breath came fast. But he was running in the wrong direction now. Away from his car.
    He weaved into the next opening.
    His ears pricked. Running feet pounding the pavement.
    Coming from where? Down both aisles to either side.
    Feeling along the cold metal wall, his hand came across rungs. Tucking his gun into the back of his jeans, he started climbing. Fast. He gripped the rusty beams. One hand over the other. He slipped on the fifth rung but caught himself, clambering to the top just as both sets of footsteps converged upon the exact spot he’d