Stolen Power

must be five or six warehouses there. You could hide anything in that area.”
“Trouble?” I asked.
“Only if you go looking for it,” Chapman replied. “And Jack, knowing you, you’re going to go looking for it.”

Chapter 10


Barely even a sound cut through the area, which we arrived at in the fading light of dusk.
It was the sort of place I half expected a tumbleweed to roll through. But even the wind refused to stir and there was nothing natural here either. Nature had turned her back on the area with even the birds seemingly staying away, as if the very air itself around the place was defiled and toxic. Sometimes places have a real, yet difficult to define, atmosphere, an eerie presence that transcends logic but strikes nonetheless at something deep and primal inside of us. So it was today, at the disused warehouse complex, which had a strange, almost unhealthy and invasive feel about it, like you might pick up a serious infection from a casual visit.
There were five warehouses in total, all with decrepit and faded signs hanging over the shed doors, and all with graffiti sprayed over the walls. From the brief research Casey conducted while we drove to the complex, she confirmed that the lot had been abandoned after a minor chemical spill five years ago. It made sense given the atmosphere of the place, but apparently the area had been given the all-clear by the authorities; and on numerous occasions. But then money talks and who knows what the real story was. Whatever the truth of it was, the shoppers had simply stayed away no matter the official pronouncements of safety, with nobody wanting to go to shops that had a history of contamination. And so the warehouses subsequently closed down a little over a year later. The cost of redeveloping the area, and the rebranding, was too expensive. Instead, the area languished as an ode to a time long past.
The first warehouse was a former speedboat sales shop, the second and third warehouses were for competing truck repair dealerships, the fourth was an old diving shop, and the fifth, resting at the very back of the lot, furthest from the road and partially out of sight, was a former specialized mechanic shop. ‘Top-Notch Service Garage’ specialized in servicing the sort of cars that could be heard before seen, the sort that were driven by angry young men keen to make an impression on vulnerable young girls.
My Glock rested in its holster above my hip, concealed under my leather jacket. It was, however, unclipped and ready to go. My right hand rested on the weapon, ready to spring into action should the situation require it. And I had a feeling it would.
The tall chain link fence into the lot was open, barely hanging onto the frame, sagging badly in the middle. It squeaked as we tried to walk in, loud enough to cast an unwelcome warning echo through the lot. There were tire tracks through the puddles at the entrance, fresh tracks entering into the lot and heading towards the last warehouse at the back. They didn’t reach the whole way there, fading out as they dried on the concrete but their overall direction was clear to see. This was interesting and concerning at the same time. We were not alone. Someone was in residence. On site in the here and now. And this was not the sort of place you came to without a nefarious reason.
We walked near the old warehouses, hugging them closely for protection and to remain concealed as we edged our way forward in the only eerie light, shining from the streetlight on the road behind us. Casey flanked my back, staying close, her hand on her weapon as well, and we slowly crept towards the warehouse at the end of the drive.
As we got closer, we could see a light. A flicker of electricity, clearly shining in the darkness, visible as a thin thread beneath the heavy garage doors.
Holding my hand back, I stopped Casey.
“There’s someone there,” I whispered. “It looks like the glow of a television. The power has been switched off to the site, so they must be using a generator to run it.”
“Could be a homeless guy.”
“With a generator? I don’t think so.” I looked around the lot. “Someone is hiding in there. Question is: why?”
“Maybe it’s a bunch of squatters? Maybe a group of people who’ve stumbled across an old piece of equipment and are using it.” Casey looked around. “That sort of thing happens sometimes.”
“Could be,” I said doubtfully, “but I don’t think so.” I checked the clip on my holster and my hand tightened around the familiar shape. “It’s time for us to find out.”
I signaled for Casey to move forward, and she jogged lightly over to the other side of the walkway.
We heard a noise.
A clear metal sound.
I drew my gun. Casey did the same. We were on high alert, ready to respond but not panicked.
The warehouse ahead of us had a large two-vehicle garage door, a small window next to the door, and a small door next to that. The flicker of light was soft, but it was enough to notice amongst the darkness. The sign for the ‘Top-Notch Service Garage’ hung low, faded in the years of inactivity. The driveway into the warehouse had crumbled, clumps of diseased looking weeds growing at random intervals along the path.
We heard another sound.
It was a person. Movement. Something happening. Someone moving.
The garage door moved upwards. The noise was loud, rusty metal scraping, echoing through the still night. It was dark inside. I couldn’t see in.
My shoulder was against the wall of the adjoining warehouse, leaning in close to the shadows. Even from where I stood, I could barely see Casey on the