Page 33 of Love Me Darkly
Donovan’s crime lab contact had sent them a report on the contents of the inhaler. The internal mechanism released a single dose of some kind of vapor—a designer cocktail of various drugs, creating a frightening mix. A scopolamine derivative to increase suggestibility, a modified version of PCP for increased strength and suppressed pain response, an adrenaline booster, a serotonin-dopamine enhancer for blocking fear responses, and an unidentified plant alkaloid that the tests couldn’t identify with any certainty. Reading over the ingredients of the drug and their dosages, Mateo was surprised the man who accosted him in that alley hadn’t dropped dead of a heart attack. The lab confirmed that prolonged use of such a cocktail could result in neurotoxicity, cardiac arrest or stroke, and brain or organ damage.
There wasn’t time to sit around and figure out who had manufactured the drug and for what purpose. Darcy was working her dark web sources, and further testing of the delivery device might turn up something they could use. For now, Mateo’s focus was on the raids and what they might turn up.
His temples throbbed as he edged toward the back of the house. The tactical flashlight mounted on his pistol shone a white circle on the bare patches of earth and tufts of grass at his feet. Donovan, Jones, and two SWAT agents followed him, beaming their own lights at various angles, checking their surroundings. Just past the chain-link fence three white vans were parked in a row. The windows facing the back of the house were blacked out, so they couldn’t tell if anyone moved around inside.
“Alpha Team in position,” said Williams over the line in his left ear.
He had put her at the head of Alpha Team, while directing Bravo around back. He trusted Williams to keep a level head and lead the other half of the unit. With Smith and three more SWAT agents at her back, she could hold her own.
“Charlie?” Mateo whispered into the earpiece as he tried to peer through the window built into the back door. Through the filthy pane, he could only make out the shadows of a darkened kitchen.
“Team Charlie in position,” said another voice in his ear—a SWAT marksman hidden on the roof of an abandoned house across the street. A spotter hunched somewhere on the lower floor, helping keep watch. “All clear.”
“Mad Hatter?”
“Mad Hatter reporting, White Rabbit. All body cams are live and broadcasting to the rabbit hole.” Parked in a surveillance van a few blocks over, Darcy would do her best to offer real-time intel while monitoring the feeds.
Mateo tested the back door, shocked to find it unlocked. “Alpha, back door is unlocked.”
“Front is locked, Bravo,” Williams replied. “Deploying the ram in three … two …”
Mateo threw the back door open at the same time the ram crashed into the front door. The ping and clatter of a flashbang grenade rolling through the foyer preceded a burst of light that permeated the lower floor. Shouts and the pounding of feet came from overhead as Mateo stepped into the kitchen, forcing himself to take slow, deliberate steps as he shone his light through the space. He could hear Donovan practically breathing down his neck, and smelled the man’s cologne. The kitchen was clear, and Jones confirmed that the door to their right contained a pantry, while one of the SWAT agents revealed a laundry room behind another. Through a narrow hallway leading away from the kitchen, Mateo could see the beams of Team Alpha’s flashlights.
“Mad Hatter, verify basement location.”
“Basement access on the northwest wall of the kitchen.”
Mateo swiveled his light in that direction and found nothing but a collection of old, yellowed paintings of fruit and a bookcase. He sought Donovan’s gaze and jerked his head toward it. Donovan understood, striding across the room to the bookcase and then putting his shoulder against it. Mateo aimed his light into the opening that appeared, finding a steep staircase that led down into more darkness.
“Alpha-one, report.”
“Front foyer and living room clear. Two hostiles subdued. Heading to the second floor.”
“Copy. Found the basement. Headed down.”
Donovan led the way and Mateo followed with Jones on his heels. The sharpshooter confirmed all was clear from outside. Donovan flipped a switch, and a dim yellow light filled the small, square space. A wall of crates loomed in front of them, haphazardly stacked as high as the ceiling in some places. They nearly filled the entire space and were a match for the ones he’d seen at the warehouse, the code BAZ-024 stamped on the sides.
“Hatter, you getting this?”
“Picture’s comin’ in nice and clear, White Rabbit. Crack one of those babies open for me … oh, yeah, there’s the good stuff.”
Mateo held one of the crates open long enough for his body camera to record the evidence before easing it closed.
“Look at this,” said Donovan. He lifted a dry-erase board off the top of one of the crates. “Another code, maybe?”
He held it up and Mateo read off what had been written on it in black ink. “RK. Miami. 30 units.”
“I think I found some kind of manifest,” Jones called from across the room.
Mateo turned to find Jones staring at a collection of papers that had been taped to the stone wall. He stood at the kid’s shoulder, squinting at the small print.
“Looks like a client list. These are coded names. These symbols mean something to them. And these numbers … maybe dosages? However the volume of vapor is measured.”
“Maybe they’re test subjects,” Jones offered.
A crash and raised voices came at them from above, and Mateo whirled toward the staircase.
“Alpha-one, report!” he barked, already on the move.
