Point of Contact

Dom had taught him last year how to pick just about any kind of lock with a set of Sparrows Vorax lock picks — some of the best picks in the business. The only problem on this trip was that carrying a set of thief’s tools in his luggage would have drawn the attention of the TSA or Singapore customs authorities. Besides, he’d had no idea he’d be breaking into a building.

Fortunately, Dom had also taught him how to improvise with a pair of paper clips. The last time they did the paper-clip trick they turned it into a drinking game, the loser taking the vodka shot to further impede the manual dexterity needed to pick even a simple lock. Somehow after losing the first two rounds, Jack managed to finally beat Dom at the game. Maybe the booze loosened him up. If so, he really needed some now.

Jack pulled out a pair of needle-nosed pliers and used them to fashion a right-angled tension rod with the first paper clip, which took only a few twists, then spent the next two minutes forming a W rake pick with the other paper clip. The W rake took longer because it meant bending the straightened end of the clip into semiprecise angles like the letter W, as well as reshaping the other looped end into a sturdy handle.

Jack took the tension rod in his left hand and inserted it into the bottom of the door lock without applying any torque, then slid the W rake all the way to the back of the lock. Now using his sense of touch in his fingertips and listening carefully, he quickly dragged the W rake back toward him with upward pressure, trying to push the lock pins into their set position while maintaining a light torque on the cylinder.

The first time he raked the lock he thought he heard two driver pins set into place, so he kept torquing the cylinder with the tension rod so the pins wouldn’t fall back out. He did this a few more times, his mind and his senses intensely focused on the task at hand. He thought he felt another pin set, and he hoped like hell it was a standard five-pin door lock.

Jack was laser-focused on finding the next driver pin to set when the rolling steel door next to him rattled. For a split second he thought someone was opening it, but then he felt the gust of wind against his face and he knew the door wouldn’t be opening. That split second was just enough to distract him, and he dropped the tension on the cylinder just a fraction, and that was enough to cause all of the driver pins he’d already set to fall right back into place.

Damn it!

He repeated the process, more determined than ever to pick the lock and see what was inside, if for no other reason than so he could brag to Dom that he’d done it and make him buy a couple of rounds when he got back to town.

It took Jack a good three minutes to knock out four pins, jiggling and popping the W rake, careful to keep the tension just right on the cylinder with the tension rod.

Voices whispered in the dark. Jack froze again, but he was careful not to release the tension this time. He took a deep breath and glanced over at the sound in the distance. He could barely make out the two shadowy figures walking the yard on the other side of the fence — the two guards he’d dodged earlier, just making their rounds and making small talk. Jack seriously doubted they’d look this way, but if they did, they were more likely to call the police than intervene. But who knows? Best to get back to it and get out of the light.

Knowing he had only one pin left, he used the W rake like a traditional pick, trying to imagine the first sharp bend of the rake as a single point, and used his mind and touch to will that single point to find the final driver pin. He felt it click into place and Jack was through.

Thank God.

Jack stepped inside and nearly shit his pants.

44

Empty.

The whole damn warehouse was empty.

Jack started to pull off his ball cap to scratch his head, but he caught himself. No point in winding up on a camera now.

He was frustrated as all crap. Did he have the wrong address?

No. Not possible.

Whoever had cleaned the place out had kindly left all the lights on. And why shouldn’t they? There was nothing to see.

And they obviously wanted him to see that.

Jack knelt down and studied the narrow rubber tire tracks that had been left behind by a forklift turning sharp angles and obviously carrying a heavy load. They could’ve been made ten months ago, or ten hours ago.

About the time Lian was keeping him occupied on the tour earlier today.

Jack tried to imagine stacks of pallets or crates of something he wasn’t supposed to know existed. But what?

He walked around the wide, empty floor, looking for clues. An oil stain, a piece of crumpled packing tape, a cigarette butt.

Nothing.

Whatever was in here yesterday, guarded by a platoon of burly goons without any official identification, was gone now.

Moved in a hurry.

Why?

Where?

Standing here with his metaphorical dick in his hands wasn’t answering any of those questions. But he thought he might know a way to get them.