Girl Under Fire (A Sam Hemming FBI Thriller Prequel)

knew, they held hazards that could prove more lethal than the men on the street. I had to tread carefully.
The radio in my ear had turned eerily silent. Not only were the men in the SWAT team neutralized, the men at the command center were also gone. The chain of command had been severed. I did not know how to get in touch with anyone at the Bureau. Cell phones were not allowed on raids.
Hugging the perimeter wall, I made my way to the edge of the building. The darkness inside would give me the cover I needed, and the falling snow would obscure my tracks within no time. Pushing through nearly waist-high snow was exhausting, but I had to push through the pain. It was my only salvation at this point, and I had to keep that in mind.
Whatever ambient light that fell on the features of the cityscape fell into darkness as I entered the old structure. If my New York history serves me correctly, this was in the old tenement areas. This commercial lot with accommodations upstairs was probably some kind of a sweatshop. There has got to be a basement or a substructure, and that's what I have to find.
It was not time for me to liberate my flashlight, and my Glock sat in its holster. For now, I needed both my hands to feel my way through the dark maze. It was beginning to get uncomfortable as well. The snow that had been all over me had melted, soaking through my jacket and gear. I could feel my skin pruning underneath it all.
Making my way a little faster now, as my eyes acclimated to the total darkness, I found the rear of the premises and the stairs descended into the basement. Stepping on the side of the steps reduced the creak that otherwise did its best to announce my arrival to the furthest corners of the property. I couldn't have that and so took a little more care in making my way down. Once below, I was certain that no one would see the illumination of my flashlight. I wish I hadn't lost my night-vision goggles. They would have been convenient right now, I thought as I clicked the high-powered led flashlight that bathed the dilapidated basement in white light.
I looked around and processed my surroundings. The work crew hadn't started doing anything down here. I was right. It was an old building and some of the weaving machines dated back to the turn of the twentieth century. I looked down the path and around to my rear. Another set of stairs beckoned. Another flight of stairs, I thought, relishing the stroke of luck that had now decided to visit me.
These stairs were made of brick which afforded me the freedom to move faster and not worry about the creaking wooded stairs were notorious about. As I descended, I noticed a smell that was not there on the upper floors. I am not sure at first what it might be. As a Special Agent with the FBI for just over a decade, I've been introduced to smell most people wouldn't come across their entire lives. Yet, even then, this one was beyond my ability to recognize it. The frigid air mixed with the heating oil hurt the tender lining of my nose. On top of that, I could detect a layer of smell that indicated wood that had rotted over the years – moldy and familiar. On top of that was the smell of old brick.
Everything my nose detected, my eyes could pick out. The kerosene tanks stood silently in the southeastern corner of the building while the beams that held the ceiling up looked like something from a mine in an old Western. The underground cavern was a large area with no rooms or partitions, just pillars to hold up the structure above. The perimeter was covered in old brick and mortar.
Most of the floor was covered with a layer of concrete – no doubt done just a few years ago. In areas where they had eroded and cracked, they exposed the earth. The recent owners must have laid a concrete floor to cover the bare soil and prevent a pest problem.
But there was still another feature to the smell that I could not detect. "Is it essential? I asked myself if I was getting distracted by something that would not yield a path to the objective. Orienting myself, I Figured which wall marked the boundary of the property. The wall directly beside me was the rear of the property. The alley was right behind the building, so behind that wall was probably where the sewer line ran.
The wall that connected to that behind me was where the side street ran. There was a good chance that's where the water main ran. That was a brick wall, too, and it looked like it might have been the same brick that had been used in the original construction. A strong arm could push through a chunk of it since the mortar holding it together was almost just clumps of dust. I walked along that east wall to find the north wall that now faced me. That was the front of the property. Above that, on the street level, would be where the newly erected wooden fence was. Beyond that would be where Bleecker street ran. That smell I couldn't identify at first still lingered. It had just altered the smell of wood rot, and the kerosene was significantly less. It gave way to a better perception of the unidentifiable smell. It was a lot stronger now, and I finally put my finger on it. It was the smell of break dust mixed in with all the other scents of the old building. I knew the smell of subway brake dust – every New Yorker does. But when it mingled with the brick, the earth,