I think he saw me!
Monica Lambert twisted back around the crumbling brick wall. Heart racing. Sweat clinging to her scalp. She held her breath. Or at least she tried to. Running through overgrowth and industrial debris while lugging a camera bag around her shoulder left her sucking for air, but she couldn’t let the man see her. She couldn’t let any of the men see her.
It didn’t sound like approaching footsteps. Or the cocking of revolver hammers. There were no angry shouts or gunfire. Nothing but a bird calling out in the distance and the howl of a summertime breeze through an abandoned factory.
At least, it was supposed to be abandoned.
Settling in for her lunchtime cup of coffee, Monica received an anonymous tip from a private number. All it said was an address and a time. She didn’t need to check the address. She already knew it from memory. After months of sifting through financial records and cold-calling former employees, all of whom hung up immediately when she informed them she was a reporter for the Atlanta Times, the address for every former Lex Chemical Plant was seared into her brain.
Monica half expected the text to be a joke. The latest wild goose chase in a series of wild goose chases. The Lex Chemical Plant took up several square miles, with rusted chain-linked and barbed-wire fencing keeping unwanted eyes out. That and the massive warning signs plastered on the front gate, proclaiming the property to be both condemned and a chemical biohazard. Multiple pushes from the state government to clean up the grounds led nowhere. The cost of such a cleanup would quickly hit the billions, and so the plant, abandoned twenty years earlier, was left to rot.
Monica had no trouble slipping through the fence, thanks to an opening cut into the chain-links she’d used on more than one occasion. But this time, something felt different. The air smelt of dirt, as if someone had recently driven the dusty road up to the plant. The quarter mile trudge to the factory proved as much, with two all-black luxury SUVs parked at the rear of the building, chrome accents blinking sunlight in her direction. She had picked up her pace at the sight of the vehicles, but she moved to a near sprint when she saw Jonathan Lex, the head of Lex Chemical, exit the rear of one SUV and enter the building.
Now, out of breath and hoping nobody saw, or heard, her approach, Monica removed and readied her camera, then peeked around the corner. Around the corner into the belly of the chemical plant.
Beams of light cut through holes in the ceiling, spotlighting patches of dirt and fallen debris scattered about the expansive factory floor. Yet despite the sun’s best effort, most of the space remained hidden in darkness. The silhouette of a man off in the distance walked further away before darkness swallowed him, leaving nothing but the echoed tap of wingtips on cement.
Monica unslung the strap of her bag and hid it behind a pile of debris and overgrown grass. She couldn’t risk it clanking against anything. She’d come back for it later. Looking back into the shadow laden building to make sure nobody was waiting to grab her, Monica took a deep breath and creeped inside.
Despite having snuck onto the property more than a few times, Monica had never actually been inside the decomposing chemical plant. Since stumbling across information that suggested Lex Chemical had been selling radioactive material to international third parties, she’d spent the better part of the past eighteen months poking and probing. Very few doors opened, revealing additional leads, and those that did resulted in dead ends. She needed concrete proof. Someone to go on record. In-depth financial documents. A photograph. But every name she tried to contact either no longer existed, had moved out of the country, or refused to talk. Monica had almost given up, and then the unknown text message.
Inside, the factory was massive. It could have held several football fields, and the ceiling stretched a good forty or fifty feet high. Stepping into the shadows, Monica waited for her eyes to adjust, but even so, she struggled to see anything more than a few feet in front of her. She moved slowly. Concentrating on keeping her breathing quiet and controlled, she didn’t notice the empty beer can until her toe kicked it against a pile of metal scraps. The sound reverberated through the entire room.
Damn it, Monica!
She dropped to the ground, hiding behind a skinny pillar and a mound that would give any landfill smell a run for its money.
Waiting for a burst of yells and footsteps, Monica slowly peaked over the mound. Nothing happened.
Thank god. But this entire room is nothing but landmines in the form of beer cans! I need a better option!
It didn’t take Monica long to spot what she was looking for. A ladder, near the front door, stretching two-thirds the way up to the ceiling, led to a catwalk. Trying to follow the catwalk, it looked like it ran the length of the factory, but like the rest of the room, disappeared into darkness at the far end.
It looks sturdy enough. I hope.
Taking one final look over her shoulder to make sure nobody was lurking off in the shadows, Monica retraced her steps and gathered herself at the ladder. Half expecting the rusted metal to come crashing down on her, the ladder felt surprisingly solid. She slung the camera over her shoulder and began to climb. Her signature white Converse, once again, came in handy. While others at the office routinely chided her for her relaxed denim, t-shirt, and sneakers, she found the ensemble came in more handy than not. People were more likely to open up and talk with a casually dressed reporter. Not someone in a suit and too much hair-spray.
Stepping off the top of the ladder, Monica tested the weight of the catwalk, which, like the ladder, felt sturdy.
At least something in this old heap of junk feels taken care of.
Some of the handrails had rusted through, but the footing felt secure. She moved quickly along the elevated walkway, now free of shattered glass and mounds of rubble. As the shadowed darkness consumed her, a new light made itself known. At the far end of the massive factory floor, a small office with a half-collapsed ceiling stood, light bleeding out a hole in the ceiling where timber and steel had crumbled away. Monica slowed to a crawl, crouching down onto a knee as she readied her camera once again.
And that’s when the voices started. At least two men were talking, but what they were saying was muffled. Looking around for a closer vantage, the only other option was to climb down onto the roof of the office. Monica didn’t trust the integrity of the roof, nor did she believe she’d make it down without making any sound. Instead, she steadied herself against the railing, trained her camera onto the gaping hole in the ceiling, put her eye to the eyepiece, and zoomed in.
Adjusting the focus, Monica could make out several men in suits standing in a half-circle. She didn’t need to look at the jacket labels to know each likely cost more than her entire wardrobe. Some of the faces of the men were familiar. Alex Dunlap, a former board of directors member before being sentenced to a decade for insider training, of which he served only six months. He was to serve another six months under house arrest.
I think your parole officer might be interested in your whereabouts, Monica thought to herself. She noticed Lex’s assistant, Clive, who shadowed him wherever Lex went. In his early 30s, Clive obviously had connections to land such a high profile position next to Jonathan Lex. Few were let into the man’s inner circle, and even fewer remained. Yet Clive fit right in. He also seemed to really fit into his suit. The way his thick shoulders and hefty biceps forced the jacket fabric to stretch. But that was besides the point. And then-
-What the hell?
Morgan Fester. The head of one of the largest military contractors in North America, stood among the small herd of suits. Monica snapped a picture.
What in the world is Fester doing with Lex?
Monica made a mental note to dig up everything on Morgan Fester when she returned to the office. Snapping several more photographs, Monica panned her lens onto Jonathan Lex, the figure at the center of the half-circle, pacing from one side to the other. He motioned angrily with one arm, pointing off in the distance while his other hand held some kind of document. Monica tried to zoom in but she couldn’t make out what it was. Something obviously important for him to organize a makeshift meeting in the back of an abandoned chemical plant and yell at some rather important people.
God! If only I could get closer!
Monica leaned over the catwalk railing, trying to buy herself as many inches as possible. Lex continued to pace. Her lens followed him. She snapped images of every face in the meeting. Of the large safe, presumably locked, pushed in the corner. Of the man in aviator sunglasses looking directly into the lens.
Dropping the camera to her chest, Monica backed away from her vantage point, pressing her back into the railing on the rear of the catwalk.
Did he actually see me? Or was it a coincidence? Can they even see me up here?
She waited. Listened. Held her breath. Nothing. Letting out a silent sigh of relief, Monica pushed herself up off the railing when it happened. A rusted out part of the railing creaked out under her weight, twisted, and broke free, clanging against the wall as it dropped forty feet and shattered silence as it slammed to the floor.
Crap!
Throwing open the office door, two men rushed out, backlit by the orange glow of light coming from the secluded room. Flashlights clicked on as the men cut blades of light into the darkness. Monica flattened herself along the catwalk, pressing her face into the dank and dusty metal.
“Maybe a cat or something?” one voice asked the room as much as it did the other guard.
“Noisy ass cat if that’s the case,” the other replied.
Monica could feel the beams of light sifting through shadows. One traced along the catwalk, but didn’t stop on her. She could feel her heart bang against her ribs, as if trying to escape. She could feel the dust tickle at her nose.
Hold it in, Monica.
Footsteps echoed through the darkness, tapping at the ground. A can was kicked, skipping across the broken cement. Dirt surged up Monica’s nose, like breathing in ground pepper. She bit her lip. She shut her eyes. She swore in her mind.
She sneezed.
“Up there!”
Shit!
The spotlight of flashlights centered around her. Suddenly the star of her own nightmare, she stood, slowly, hands above her head. Monica left the camera on the catwalk. She didn’t want them seeing it. She’d come back for it later. If you can talk your way out of thi-
-A pop rang out and sparks flashed against the catwalk. A ping! rang in her ear.
Did they just shoot at you!?
A second pop! Glass shattered behind her head.
Move!!
Monica turned and ran. Pops followed her. The reverbs of gunfire surrounded her. The cat walk flashed with sparks as bullets slammed into metal. A whiz by her ear. Yelling behind her. Heart racing inside of her.
Cement exploded around her as the men continued to fire.
You’ve got to get out of here, now!
Dirt stung at her eyes. Sweat stuck at her back. Something sliced at her leg. Was I shot!? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, except getting out of the damn building. But how? She’d never make it down the ladder and out the front door. The guards would be waiting for her at the bottom before she ever made it. Could she survive a jump? There wasn’t a stack of abandoned pillows or mattresses, was there?
More glass explosions to her side as bullets continued to miss. Miss, but not by much. She’d interviewed many members of the military in her time. Heard stories of hearing, and even feeling, bullets whiz past ears. She’d never fully grasped what they meant. Now she did.
Ting! Ting!
The sound of gunfire slamming against metal off to her side. Off against the wall. Against a door.
A door!
She hadn’t noticed the catwalk split off to the right when creeping down it originally, but now she could make out the outline of a door built into the wall where the catwalk connected. There had to be a ladder on the other side of the door leading to the ground.
As long as it hasn’t rusted away!
Monica tossed aside the negative thought. She blocked out the sounds of gunfire. The growing yells and new voices. The pain swelling in her leg. She pushed it all aside as she threw herself to the door. The knob twisted as it swung open, giving her body momentary cover from bullets peppering the suddenly spotlit opening.
The blast of sunlight blinded Monica but she didn’t have time to stop. A wobbly, caged-in ladder led down to the ground, but there was a problem. The bottom portion of the ladder wasn’t there. It ended a good ten feet short.
Guess you’re going to have to jump!
Monica threw caution to the wind as she climbed down the ladder. She knew she had to make it to the bottom before anyone inside made it out. Perhaps she’d have a small head start to run the quarter of a mile to the perimeter fence, but out in the open, with nothing to hide behind but scattered piles of decomposing machinery, she didn’t know how much the head start would matter.
The rusted metal of the ladder ripped at her hands like sandpaper made from glass. Sweat stung at her eyes. The caged enclosure around her swayed under her weight. The end of the ladder approached quickly. Ten rungs. Nine rungs. Eight.
Broken sheet metal on the ground reached toward her like rusted arms breaking free of a shallow grave.
Five rungs. Four. Three.
Shouting. Now from outside the building.
Two. One.
The ladder ended.
Monica wanted to gather her breath. Steady herself. Prepare her mind. But she was out of time.
She dropped.
Her knee banged into a half-buried barrel. Something cut at her arm as she grabbed at nothing to steady her fall. But her Converse landed squarely on the ground before she rolled over into dirt and grass and metal.
Something hurt. Everything hurt. She pushed herself up, fighting the urge to cry out for help. Because there would be no help.
Monica scanned the perimeter for the fence when she felt it, and her body went cold.
The firm grip of a large hand, squeezing down on her shoulder.
Her body froze. Everything went numb. Her breathing stopped. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t scream, despite everything inside of her chest exploding out of fear. It wasn’t until the third or fourth shake of her shoulder that she realized the hand was twisting her around.
Monica looked behind her. The sun, hovering directly above the man’s shoulder, blotted his face out in shadow. He stood there, nothing but a silhouette of blackness. Her eyes fought a losing battle with the blistering sunlight as she tried to make out his features. She didn’t want to die to a shadow. An enigma. She wanted to look him directly in the eyes when he pulled the trigger.
“Are you okay?”
The question caught her off guard almost as much as the deep, smooth voice. If chocolate milk could be heard, it was that voice.
“Can you run?”
“I-uh,” Monica shook away the startled cobwebs in her brain. “I think so.” She stood, only to fall back to the ground just as quickly. “Okay, I guess not.”
“That barrel,” the smooth chocolate milk voice said, with more urgency behind it. The figure pointed. “Hide in it! Now! I’ll throw them off.”
Before Monica could respond the man took off in a sprint. The metal barrel in question lay on its side, a decomposing corpse of an industrial war fought years earlier. Large weeds swayed in the breeze around it, ticking at the razor sharp edges of other discarded metallic waste.
Was it a set up? Was that man trying to gift-wrap me to Lex?
Not that it mattered. Monica knew she’d never be able to run and make it to the exterior fence before the men caught her. Had she bruised her leg? Twisted it? Maybe it was broken?
She crawled her way to the barrel. While there wasn’t any problem fitting into the hollow tube, her nose and gag reflex wanted nothing to do with it. The smell coaxed a dry-heave, but she swallowed it down.
Keep it quiet, Monica! You’re not out of this!
Breathing through her mouth, she steadied herself against the rusted interior. Her beating heart reverberated through her toes and into her ears. Her teeth chattered, the adrenaline in her body needing to escape somehow. It likely had something to do with stunting the pain in her leg. That would come on like a typhoon later. All Monica could do was lay still, wait, and listen.
“She went around the other way,” a voice yelled from somewhere behind her. The silky voice that had instructed her to hide in the barrel. Other voices responded, but they were too far off to make out.
He must be telling them to go the other way. God, I wish I could have seen who it was!
Monica let her chest relax. Then pulled in a deep breath. The aromatic funk didn’t bother her as much. Perhaps relief stunted that sense as well. All she had to do was wait it out. Wait for the SUVs to drive off. Maybe wait for nightfall. She hadn’t parked anywhere near the factory, so it would be a long walk back to the car, smelling like ass, while dragging a busted leg. But first she’d go after her--
“Hey!” a rough voice sounded. It sounded as if the face behind the voice had smoked a dozen packs of cigarettes a day since preschool. It sounded hoarse and dry. It sounded close. “I found something!”
Oh, god.
More voices. They were moving closer.
Should I make a break for it? Just run as hard as I can? Pray they are out of bullets.
Monica knew that would never work. They’d spot her trying to wiggle free of her hole before she even made it out.
“What is that?” the voice sounded familiar. Not the smoker, chocolate milk, or Lex. But who?
“Looks like a camera bag. Bunch of lenses and stuff inside.”
“There a name in it?”
Is there?
Monica sifted through the bag in her mind. It wasn’t even her bag. She grabbed it from the newsroom. They’d chew her ass out for losing the bag, but lost or stolen camera gear wasn’t exactly unheard of. And she knew she hadn’t placed any of her IDs in the bag. Whenever she went snooping she made sure to tuck her identification away in her car, or just not take it with her. Easier to make up names when photo IDs didn’t say otherwise.
“Atlanta Times.”
Shit!
“Wait, what?” Monica knew that voice to be one Jonathan Lex.
“Says so right here on this strip of tape on the lens. Atlanta Times.”
“Goddamn it!” Lex spat. A whirling sound followed just as a camera smashed to the ground in front of Monica’s barrel opening. The lens shattered as the camera burst open, spilling its sensors and electrical guts.
“We’ve got a reporter on the loose. And who knows what she heard or saw? So we need to find out who it was and get to them before they spill anything. You hear me!”
A chorus of affirmation followed. Monica could hear movement, but she couldn’t place anything. The crunching of dirt under boots. The bristle of metal.
Thump!
A black boot clomped down next to the barrel opening and stopped. Dust curled into the air. A hand soon followed and grabbed hold of the broken camera. A few inches from her face, Monica wanted to pull back. To hide deeper into the darkness, but there was nowhere else to go. The fingers of the weathered hand like a giant tarantula, crawling closer to her face. She wanted to close her eyes and hide from the world, but her eyelids had frozen. Nothing worked. So she took it all in. The stumpy fingers. The fat gold ring with a red ruby in the center. The half-missing pinkie.
The hand scooped up the broken bits of camera, leaving the busted lens to its fate. Monica could see the man reflect in the broken glass as he stood and walked away, before his reflection disappeared from view.
“Search the perimeter!” Lex yelled. “They couldn’t have gotten far.”
The voices were drawing distant. Monica thought she heard a car door close. But she wasn’t sure. After running on overdrive, her senses were tapped. Exhaustion washed over her, despite the very real fear swirling in her brain. She closed her eyes, just for the briefest of moments, and everything went black.
Read the rest of “A Photo to Die For” today! Ebook is available and the print version is coming soon. Grab the fun summer read today!
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