Chapter 177
Wesley
The coughing intensified. I made it sound worse than it was—desperate, panicked, on the edge of passing out.
"Madonna—" Right-side man sounded uncertain now. "Maybe we should—"
"No! He's just being dramatic. He's fine—"
"AM I?" I snapped, voice hoarse. "You want to take that risk? You want to explain to Felix why I couldn't make the meeting tomorrow because you asphyxiated me in a pickup truck?" I coughed again. "Lance won't hand over five hundred million to a corpse. And when Felix's plan falls apart, when the cops start connecting dots, when this whole operation gets exposed—" I let the threat hang.
"Merda." Left-side man's grip loosened.
"You really want to be the reason Felix loses everything?" I pressed. "Because I promise you, he won't be understanding. He'll be looking for someone to blame. Someone to punish."
Silence. Then—
"Fuck it." Right-side man reached across me. I heard the window crank turning. "He's right. We need him functional tomorrow. Open yours too, Antonio."
"Fine, fine."
Both windows came down. Cool night air rushed in, carrying away the cigarette smoke.
And carrying in something far more valuable.
Information.
I kept my head slightly tilted toward the open window. The hood blocked my vision, but my hearing was sharp. Focused.
At first, just wind. The rush of air over the vehicle. The sound of tires on pavement.
But then—other sounds. Environmental markers.
Trees. I could hear branches occasionally scraping against the side of the truck. Close enough to touch. Which meant we were on a narrow road. Rural. Probably a single lane in each direction.
And there were no other vehicles. No horns. No engine sounds except our own. No urban noise at all.
We were deep in the countryside. Miles from anything resembling civilization.
Good. That narrowed it down.
I kept counting in my head. Time passing. Distance covered.
The truck maintained its steady pace. Forty-ish miles per hour. Maybe a little faster. But consistent.
Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.
Then the road changed.
The smooth hum of asphalt gave way to something rougher. Concrete, maybe. Or poorly maintained pavement. The ride got bumpier. More jarring.
And in the distance—faint, but unmistakable—I heard it.
A train horn. Long. Low. Far away but clear.
We were approaching something. A main artery. A highway, probably.
"Cutting over to the Turnpike?" Left-side man asked.
"Yeah. Faster route into the city from here."
I filed that away. The Turnpike. Could be any major highway. But combined with everything else—the rural roads, the train horn, the direction we were heading—it was another data point. Another piece of the puzzle.
I'd figure out what it meant once I got more information.
The truck kept moving. The environmental sounds shifted gradually from rural to suburban. More traffic now. Other engines. The occasional horn.
Twenty minutes. Twenty-five. Thirty.
The suburbs were thinning out. We'd be hitting the city soon, and once they dropped me off, I'd lose my only chance. These men had been to that warehouse—knew the area, knew the route. If I could get them talking, get them to slip up about anything that could help me identify the location...
I was running out of time.
I needed more. Needed them to reveal something about that warehouse, about the surrounding area. Something specific I could use to find my way back.
Time for another performance.
I started scratching. First at my arms. Then my chest. Making it obvious. Uncomfortable.
"Cristo—" Left-side man sounded exasperated. "What now?"
"Nothing." I kept scratching. Harder. "Just—that fucking warehouse. Something in there got on me."
"Got on you?" Gravelly voice sounded suspicious.
"Yeah." I pulled at my shirt collar, made a show of being deeply uncomfortable. "That smell. That rotting, moldy smell. Like rust and decay and—" I paused, added conviction to my voice. "Like burning garbage. That's what it was. Garbage incineration. The toxins must have—" I scratched more violently. "I need to shower the second we get back. Can't meet Lance tomorrow smelling like I rolled around in a landfill."
Left-side man—Antonio—burst out laughing.
"Garbage?" He was genuinely amused. "What, you got a nose full of perfume? That wasn't garbage, you idiot. That was limestone."
My hand stilled. "What?"
"Limestone." He was still chuckling. "The whole area around that place—it's all old quarries. Abandoned stone pits. That's what you were smelling. Rock dust and mineral deposits. Not garbage."
"Antonio—" Right-side man's voice went sharp. Warning.
"What? I'm just telling him he's not going to die from toxic fumes—"
"Shut. Up." Each word deliberate. Dangerous.
Antonio went quiet.
But it was too late. The damage was done.
Limestone quarries. Abandoned ones.
I kept my face neutral under the hood. Kept my body language relaxed. But inside, I was racing through possibilities.
Abandoned limestone quarries in New Jersey, within forty-ish minutes of Manhattan. That eliminated huge swaths of the state. Quarries were specific. Geological. Mapped.
Now I just needed direction. Needed to know which route we were taking into the city.
The truck kept moving. Suburban sounds gave way to something else. Highway noise. Faster traffic. Multiple lanes.
Then—a change in the road surface. We started climbing. Not steep, but noticeable. An incline that went on and on.
And from beneath the truck, a new sound emerged.
Metal. High-frequency. The distinctive hum-and-clatter of a vehicle crossing a suspension bridge. The way the tires sang against the grated roadway. The way the wind cut across the open structure, creating that specific whistling roar.
I knew that sound. Had crossed it hundreds of times.
George Washington Bridge.
The only bridge into upper Manhattan that felt like this. That climbed this high. That had this particular acoustic signature.
Which meant the Turnpike they'd mentioned was the New Jersey Turnpike. Northwestern New Jersey.
The pieces fell into place. Abandoned limestone quarries near the Turnpike corridor. Forty minutes to this bridge. That narrowed it down to a specific cluster—probably somewhere around Paterson, maybe Franklin Lakes. Old industrial sites that had been abandoned for decades.
I had my area. Still large, but manageable. Searchable.
The truck crested the bridge. Descended into Manhattan. The sounds shifted again—urban now, unmistakably. Horns. Sirens in the distance. The compressed noise of millions of people living on top of each other.
We made several turns. Slower now. City driving. Traffic lights. Pedestrians.
Then the truck stopped. Engine still running, but motionless.
"This is it." Right-side man grabbed my arm. "Out."
They hauled me from the truck. Stood me on pavement. Pulled the hood off.
I blinked against the sudden light. Street lamps. Neon signs. Manhattan at night.
We were in Midtown. Near my apartment. Maybe five blocks away.
"Walk home." Right-side man shoved me slightly. Not hard. Just enough to make his point. "Get some rest. Eight AM tomorrow, don't be late."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
They climbed back into the truck. Drove away. Left me standing on the sidewalk in rumpled, bloodstained clothes, watching their taillights disappear into traffic.
And once they were gone—once I was sure they couldn't see me—I let myself smile.
Got you.
Abandoned limestone quarries. Turnpike corridor, Paterson-Franklin Lakes area. Forty minutes northwest of the GW Bridge.