by Ross Pennie
Matt reached for the clipboard, signed it, passed it to Dylan the Priest in the passenger seat, and handed it back to the guard along with one of the Upper Canada Security business cards he’d printed yesterday. The phone number on the card matched the one he’d painted on the van.
“Can you do me a favour?” Matt asked.
“Depends,” said the guard.
Matt shrugged to give the impression it wasn’t a big deal whether the guy did him the favour or not. “Dead simple. You’re going to see the outside camera images go white for half a minute, maybe longer, one at a time. I need you to record the camera numbers and the times when the images go on and off. To the nearest five seconds will be fine. Can you manage that?”
The guy lifted the cuff of his nylon jacket to expose the Breitling on his wrist. If the gang was paying him marginally above minimum wage, it was a knock-off. If it was real, he was no rent-a-cop flunky; he was number-one son taking care of Daddy’s million-dollar operation. And that made him all the more dangerous.
They waited until Mr. I’ve-got-a-Breitling returned to the building. Matt could hear him bolt the door. Was he phoning Upper Canada Security to verify the legitimacy of the call? If he did, he’d get another pay-as-you-go cellphone and Dr. Szabo’s girlfriend working a shift at the “Upper Canada Security” call centre.
Matt backed the van away from the Acura and parked at the extreme right of the building’s face, where they wouldn’t be seen by the front-door camera, only the camera at that right corner. Matt got out first, then the priest. While the priest opened the rear doors of the van and got ready to remove three of his boxes, Matt stood in front of the roof-mounted camera, aimed his phone at it, and pretended to punch in a few numbers. He gave a confident salute for the guard’s benefit, punched at the phone again, then shone his heavy-duty halogen flashlight straight at the camera lens.
The light was the priest’s signal to walk into the shadows parallel to the long, right side of the building hefting three boxes at once. They were heavy, but not too much for him, and they had to make this quick. The guard wouldn’t stay patient or duped for long. The priest had taken only four strides away from the van when the entire side of the building erupted in a blaze of light. Shit, motion detectors. They hadn’t worked those into the plan. The priest froze, his eyes betraying his panic.
“No worries,” Matt told him, then realized there could be microphones as well as the more obvious lights and cameras. “Halfway along will be fine. I’m nearly done here.”
The priest nodded, then set two boxes on the gravel next to the building, just shy of the halfway point between the front and rear cameras. He adjusted the position of the two boxes. Apparently their orientation was critical to their ultimate function. He brought the third box back. This he set around the corner from the face of the building, where it wouldn’t be visible by anyone entering or leaving the factory. He placed the box close enough to the building that it couldn’t be seen on the guard’s monitor when Matt turned off the blinding halogen flashlight.
The priest stood back and checked the box’s position. He made a minor adjustment, then gave two thumbs up.
Matt killed the light and waved encouragingly at the camera. He joined the priest in the van and drove to the other side of the building. He blinded that front-corner camera, and the two of them went through the routine again.
When they had all six boxes in place, he knocked on the front door.
“It’s all fixed,” he told the guard. “A minor software issue. Good to go.”
“Don’t you want this?” the guard said, looking hurt that Matt was about to leave without asking for the record he’d taken such pains to complete.
“Of course.” He made a show of carefully studying what the guard had written. “I’ll take these stats back to the office and include them in my report. Thanks a lot. Do we need to sign out?”
“Oh yeah,” the guard said. “I’ll get the sheet.”
Matt turned the van around while the guard fetched his clipboard. God, he could hardly wait to get the hell out of here.
The guard returned with the clipboard, and Matt and the priest signed the sheet. As Matt was handing it back, the guard narrowed his eyes, stared at Matt’s face, and reached for his holster.
Matt’s heart rate thundered into overdrive as its turbocharger kicked in. Had the guard recognized him from his shop? All he could do now was ignore the galloping in his chest and keep his face neutral. It was amazing how well that tactic worked on White guys. Drove them crazy and gave you the upper hand. Did it work on Asians?
“You’re lucky,” the guard continued, his right hand stroking the butt of his handgun. “Your dispatcher knows you pretty damned good.” He was scrutinizing the left side of Matt’s face and drawing a finger down his own cheek. “If she hadn’t described you so accurate like, you would’ve been stayin’ here till change o’ shift.”
Apparently pleased to have had the last word, the guard took the clipboard and strolled back inside. Seconds later, the gate opened.
Matt smiled and waved at the camera.
Shit. Was he going to be able do this twice more before sunrise?
And then he thought about Tammy and Donna. And Mum and Dad. Dennis Badger had taken a huge toll on his family. There was no doubt in Matt’s mind that the Badger was responsible for Tammy’s murder. And Donna was in a coma thanks to the contaminated cigarettes the bastard had no intention of pulling from the market. Getting the best of him wasn’t going to dry Mum’s and Dad’s tears, but it might make them feel better. Being made to quiver like a helpless victim, again and again, gnawed your bones and sucked out the marrow.
CHAPTER 48
“We should be okay right here,” Natasha told him.
The clock on the dashboard said 7:27. They were right on time. She put the car in park and set the emergency brake. There were no other cars in the lot.
“Hell’s bells, woman,” said Hamish from the passenger seat. “We can’t stay here. It’s far too close. They’ll see us.”
She pointed to the smoke shop and convenience store beside them, Evergreen Variety. “Sign says they open at ten on Sundays. No one will bother us.”
“You said we would be parking at a discreet distance. These guys have got AK-47s. I’ve seen them. We have to get out of here.”
“This isn’t a Rollies Factory, Hamish. Dennis Badger makes a show of running this as a legitimate operation. It’s even government licensed. His guys don’t go around waving automatic rifles.”
Hamish looked like a scared rabbit scanning the forest for foxes. He pointed to the bush encroaching on two sides. “But it’s dark and we’re in the middle of nowhere. If somebody doesn’t like the look of us —”
“It’s not actually dark, just dim. Look at the sky. The sun will be up in twenty minutes. We can see perfectly well. And we’re right beside a convenience store, for heaven’s sake. People come and go from here all the time.”
She had to admit, it was a bit creepy out here, no one else around, three kilometres north of Grand Basin’s village centre. If Colleen hadn’t told her exactly where to come, she’d have never twigged that what she was looking at across the road was a cigarette factory. It looked like a secret government installation stashed in the middle of a forest, not Dennis Badger’s Hat-Trick operation. His security was impressive. Ten metres of open gravel ringed the space around the five low-rise, windowless buildings. Then came the perimeter fence, three metres of barbed wire topped by razor wire. The gate looked particularly secure, and wide enough to admit transport trucks. Six tractor trailers were parked inside waiting to be loaded with Kings, Menthols, Filter-tips, and Plains. The entire length of what was obviously the main building was ablaze with security floodlights. Nobody could ever get near the place without permission.
A flicker of movement caught her eye. There they were. Two of them. Inside th
e compound. Dressed in black, throwing something — tools? — into the back of a van. She watched as they jumped into the front seats and drove toward the gate. She held her breath while the driver turned and waved at the man standing guard by the building’s front door. One — two — three — four — the gate opened. They drove through. She couldn’t let herself breathe until she’d seen the writing on the side panel.
The van headed north, and she caught it: UPPER CANADA SECURITY. She let her air out and sucked it back in again, then turned to Hamish and allowed herself to smile. Matt and the priest had done it. They’d completed set-up number three of three.
“Now what?” Hamish said.
“We wait. Until seven-forty-five. Ten minutes before sunrise. Matt’s in contact with the trucks. If they’re in place by then, the priest will do the honours with his remote control.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea how Zol roped three sets of firefighters into cooperating with arson, of all things.”
“It’s not arson. It’s fireworks. The burning schoolhouse. Nothing is going to get burnt. It’s just going to look that way.”
“It’s still flames and smoke.”
“That’s the idea.”
“I don’t like it.”
Then why had he insisted she pick him up at his condo and bring him with her? It took her twenty minutes out of her way, which at five o’clock in the morning was no small inconvenience.
“Dr. Zol brainstormed the ethics with me on Friday,” she told him, “and I think they’re sound.”
It wouldn’t be anyone’s fault if a demonstration of fireworks was misinterpreted as a real fire. And it was perfectly natural for a member of the Grand Basin volunteer brigade — Matt Holt, for instance — to find the brigade overwhelmed by three major fires and solicit the assistance of firefighting colleagues in Brant, Oxford, and Norfolk Counties. In fact, the fires would look so serious that every measure would have to be taken to put them out before the flames spread to the adjacent woodlands. It was obvious that any uncontrolled forest fires on Grand Basin Reserve would put many homes and lives at risk. As they liked to say in health units around the world: it was better to be safe than sorry.
“But the inciting incident is a hoax,” Hamish insisted.
“That part we keep to ourselves. Dennis Badger has been given plenty of time to cooperate. And now it’s time to fight fire with —”
A high-pitched alarm pierced the quiet of the morning. It was coming from across the road.
“Here we go,” Hamish said. “Look, the rear corner of the building. It’s on fire.”
“Ahead of schedule. Everything must be in place.”
“No, Natasha, it’s real. And so is the fire alarm. The place really is on fire.”
The guard ran out through the front door, looked at the smoke billowing from his right, ran back inside, then moments later returned with a small fire extinguisher. By then, the entire side of the building parallel to the road appeared to be on fire, and the flames were clearly too much for one man to handle. He dropped the extinguisher, pulled a phone from his pocket, and punched at it. 911?
Thirty seconds later, she could feel the rumble. It was coming from the north and accompanied by the wail of sirens and that weird, annoying buzzer-honker sound that fire trucks make.
“Ah,” she said. “And here come the right men for the job.”
Four fire trucks — BRANTFORD FIRE in huge letters along the sides — careened up the road and came to a roaring stop at the gate. They must have GPS.
By now, the entire front of the building was engulfed in smoke, and flames were starting to lick at the far side. The guard, clearly panicked, ran to the gate and shook it. He was shouting and miming to the driver of the first truck in the line. What was he saying? He kept looking back at all that smoke in front of the building and shaking his head.
“Oh my God,” Natasha said. “The trucks won’t be able to get in. The guard can’t open the gate.”
“Why not?”
“Because the switch is inside. The electric switch. The stupid switch. Nobody thought about it. If they don’t get in there soon, the fireworks will be used up.” And the so-called fire would go out.
It was going to look so pathetic. And Dennis Badger would be laughing all the way to the Supreme Court, his operation intact. She could see it now, she and Dr. Zol banished to North Overshoe.
“What do you mean fireworks?” Hamish said. “This is a real fire. Look at the roof.”
Flames were shooting through the roof. Was the place actually on fire? And if so, was that a good thing or a disaster?
One of the firefighters jumped from the second truck in line and fiddled with a metal box attached to the side. One of his mates ran to join him and they pulled a heavy-duty tool and some sort of pump or power supply from the box, then ran with the gear to the gate.
“Hey, cool,” Hamish said. “That must be the Jaws of Life. They’ll cut that sucker open pretty quick.”
And they did. Within a minute, they had the gate open. The trucks roared through it.
In no time, four men were up their ladders, hacking at the roof with mean-looking axes.
And then they started the water treatment. First, they blew the front door off its hinges. Then they blasted the corners off the eaves and exposed the attic. Then they aimed Niagara Falls through the holes they’d hacked in the roof. Once the smoke had cleared from the front door, they aimed the water cannon straight inside and gave the place a thorough soaking. When one pumper-tanker had delivered its load, the next one took its place. Four tankers held an awful lot of water.
After half an hour, maybe it was less, they halted their assault. Two men jostled the guard to keep him from foolishly entering the dangerous building while six of the them rushed inside carrying axes and other fierce-looking tools. Goodness knows what damage they were going to inflict on the machinery, the bales of tobacco, the rolls of cigarette paper, and the crates of filter tips in the interest of quenching every last ember. They would have to assure themselves there was nothing left that could spread to the adjacent bushland. Preventing a forest fire was their prime concern; no family should lose their home.
Her phone rang in her purse. Hamish made a face and handed her the bag.
“Matt here. How’s it going?”
“Hamish thinks it was a real fire, but I’m not sure.”
“Dylan the Priest will be pleased his simulation was that convincing. There a lot of damage?”
“Oh yeah. What a shame, eh?”
“Any trouble?”
“Just with the gate.” She told him about the Jaws of Life.
“Same here. But these guys from Woodstock know what they’re doing. A bit rough with the water, though. The roof’s gone, and so are two of the walls.”
“Our place is pretty sturdy. Still standing.”
“But give it to me straight,” said Matt, his voice up an octave. “Is it out of commission?”
“For a very long time.” She glanced at Hamish. His eyes were glued to the mess across the street. She thought of his carwash addiction. He hated mud, but loved the sight of water streaming out in jets. “Any trouble with guns?” she asked Matt.
“Nah,” he said. “The guard looked so scared he forgot he was packing.”
“And the other Rollies factory?”
“About to call them now. But I don’t think anything could stop those Simcoe lads from doing a thoroughly professional job when called upon.”
She pictured Norfolk County Fire and Rescue on the scene. Even an AK-47 would be no match for a crew of revengeful Norfolk firefighters with a water cannon.
CHAPTER 49
Zol had sat long enough biting his nails in the Tim’s on Argyle Street. He couldn’t wait here in Caledonia any longer nursing double-double decafs. By now, the fires would have been out for almos
t an hour. He was aching to see the damage for himself, but he had to have a legitimate reason for showing up at the Badger’s ruined Hat-Trick factory. Without a good excuse for his presence there, it would be obvious he’d been in on the plan. As it was, Dennis may have already guessed that Zollie Szabo, that nerdy kid from Simcoe Composite, had masterminded it. The Badger and the other tobacco pirates would be beside themselves with anger, knowing they’d been victimized twice — first by arson and second by overzealous firefighting. They’d need to be handled with extreme caution.
He called Norfolk’s fire chief, Grant Dyment, on his cell.
“How are things, Chief?”
“My team put out the fire, but in the process demolished that Rollies factory with three tanks of water. We have one tank to spare, which we’re driving over to Mr. Badger’s main operation in case there are some smouldering embers that might need further attention. I hear there won’t be any Hat-Tricks coming out of that place for a long time. Maybe never.”
“Is there a lot of run-off?”
“You mean, have our professional efforts created a big watery mess that is escaping the confines of the properties involved?”
“And do you suppose that watery mess might be full of contaminants?”
“I don’t know, Doc. It’s just tobacco. Some of us have been filling our lungs with those same contaminants for years.”
“But theoretically speaking, could there be a fair bit of — let’s say nasty waste water making its way into local streams and rivers? I’m thinking of our beautiful Grand barely a few kilometres north.”
The chief paused for a moment, then admitted, “Now that you mention it, Dr. Szabo, it could be bad for the fish. And for the people who eat them. And disastrous for the local drinking water.” He’d adopted the puffed-up tone of a politician making a stump speech. “Think of the wells on the reserve and the treatment plants all the way downstream to Lake Erie.”
“Sounds like a host of public-health issues to me, Chief Dyment.”
