"No, no, I'm fine. Anyway, about the john-he just got back up again and took the knife out of his body like it was nothin'. He handed it back to me, all wet with blood, except it wasn't blood on it. It was all black like motor oil. Smelled weird, too, like fruit or honey or somethin'."

Jack's eyes grew wide. "What did this man look like? What was his name?" He quickly produced a pad and paper from his coat, ready to jot down anything the burned out old man was willing to tell him.

"Never got the name, but he had a tattoo," Phillips said, clearly for a change. "I saw it when he was givin' me the knife back. It was on his right hand. It said Greed in these wavy letters." Phillips started to laugh. "It looked like it was written by that famous f.u.c.k who signed the declaration of independence. John . . . John . . . um."

"Hanc.o.c.k?" Jack offered.

"Yeah, that's the one." The pimp said, no longer laughing. He appeared momentarily lost, as if he'd just woken from a dream.

"At least give me a description of the guy," Jack said still holding his pen and paper.

"Description, son? That ain't gonna do you much good, even if I did remember what he looked like," Phillips said with another throaty laugh.

"Why not?" Jack asked, letting his arms drop slowly in disappointment.

"He'd be different now," the pimp replied, reaching for the tourniquet. "That story happened about forty years ago."

Chapter 5.

Preston was at his desk again, still nose-deep in research surrounding the factory Argosi mentioned. He'd managed to gather a significant amount of information on the place since the night before when his meeting with the CEO had ended. There were deeds, helicopter photos, and business records laid out before him in a tumultuous display. The Twist was making itself useful as a paperweight at the moment, which Preston saw as something regrettable.

Unfortunately, no one had been able to come up with any blueprints, which was always a problem in a possible drug raid; however, he'd been able to get floor layouts from surrounding factories. It was fairly likely that they would be similar. Most of the warehouses in that area of the city tended to be designed in typical cookie-cutter fashion.

Jack arrived back from his conversation in the slums with Phillips soon after, entering the office with an air of uncertainty. Preston could tell by the look on his partner's face that it had either been a dead end or something strange had happened.

The two men immediately began recounting their respective conversations between the polar extremes of the Chicago denizens, a captain of industry and a washed up pimp.

"So," Preston said after finishing his story about Argosi, "tell me you got something on your end."

"Yeah," Jack said, "but I don't know if it'll be much help. This Phillips guy didn't have any connection to that factory Argosi told us about, but he did have a connection to the girl." Jack sat across from his partner. "He confirmed she was one of his prost.i.tutes forty years ago."

"I guess that confirms what the coroner said as well. She really is that old," Preston said as he sat back in his chair calmly. "So the name Phillips is just a coincidence?"

"It would appear so, but the real issue is this," Jack said, raising his finger in the air. "The man who took her away from Phillips-the guy had a tattoo that said Greed on his hand."

"You get a description?" Preston said calmly. He wondered for a moment why the information didn't stir up more emotion in him. It was a fairly big break. Things were starting to heat up.

"Nope. I tried," said Jack, "but he couldn't remember anything useful. His brain is pretty much mush anyway. Can't say it's much of a surprise; it was a long shot to begin with," Jack said, shrugging. "Say he could have given a description; we'd have to artificially age the picture on top of that. I doubt we'd get very close to his actual face."

"Well, I'm open to the possibility that this Greed guy managed to maintain the same face just like our girl Pride, however crazy that sounds," Preston said.

"I can go back if you want," Jack offered with another shrug and a clear lack of confidence in his offer.

"No, we'll worry about that later," Preston replied. "Right now I want to check out that factory. The last company to own it lost their lease about two years ago. Supposedly it's been abandoned since. If Argosi is right, then that would be a great place to work from, especially since these helicopter photos I found show that it's basically isolated in the back of some other factories with only one road leading to it. It's also close to the highway."

"How'd you get all this so fast?" Jack asked with a smile. "I can't imagine you stayed very late after you met with my favorite person in the world."

"You seem to think I'm getting old and can't take care of things myself anymore, don't you?" Preston said sarcastically. He flipped over the Twist, sending the goo down the incline.

"The secretary went down to the records department and found everything for you, didn't she?" Jack asked. "I bet you asked her to come in early. I hope her kids didn't miss their summer school."

"You got me," Preston replied, rolling his eyes. "I had some Unis working on it, too. Besides, I don't think she has kids. Is it bad that I don't know?"

"The factory could be nothing, though," Jack said, bringing them back to business.

"That's what I'm waiting to find out-" A knock on the door interrupted him.

His secretary entered. "Detective Burroughs, you have a call from the Unis you stationed on hold. Also, here's more of those photos you requested."

"Thank you," he said, taking the envelope she presented, then picking up the phone as she left. "Burroughs," he said in to the receiver, and after a few seconds, "thank you. You can head back to the station."

"What was that about?" asked Jack.

"Those Unis I mentioned. I stationed a couple of them outside the factory and told them to stay out of sight," Preston said with a semi-victorious expression on his face. "Based on what Argosi told me, there's a truck that leaves there every day around 12:30, when most of the workers in the surrounding factories are occupied with lunch. They just informed me that another truck left this evening, coming down the isolated road from the same supposedly abandoned factory."

"Well, it's late. I think most of the Unis have probably gone home," Jack said jokingly, knowing that the police station was still fully staffed. "I think we can handle this by ourselves," Jack concluded, offering a bold suggestion.

"You don't think we're too old?" Preston asked with a smirk.

"Who said anything about 'we'?" Jack replied. "Are you sure you're going to be able to make it? I think Matlock starts in an hour."

"Don't worry, friend," Preston said, holding back a laugh. "I'm sure we'll have you back in time to get to the store five minutes before it closes and argue with the cashier about an expired coupon you clipped."

"So what do you want to bring?" Jack asked, fading in to a serious tone. "Sure, it might be nothing, but-"

"I know. I think we can bring out the big guns," Preston offered, now trying to hold back a little excitement.

Although the detachable siren sat lifeless inside Preston's rundown, unmarked police car, Preston and Jack were still speeding down the highway toward the old Phillips factory as if it sat atop the car flashing. As they had discovered at the station, not only had the place been abandoned for two years, but it was secluded enough within the other operating factories that it made for the perfect hideout. He just hoped it wasn't too good to be true.

They had waited at the station until dusk, the last glimmering rays of sunlight releasing their grip on the sky. Now, it was almost fully dark.

Preston occasionally glanced into the rearview mirror as he drove, eyeing the two shotguns lying silently on the back seat as if they were a duo of talented performers resting comfortably before a big show. He wanted to make sure they were really there-as if they would disappear like some hallucination as soon as he looked away.

He rea.s.sured himself that the factory would probably be a wild goose chase, intentionally bringing down his hopes to soften the blow later. He was half convinced it would probably be abandoned like so many other drug busts he'd been a part of in his career, especially concerning the current case. Bloodstrife had been going on for so long, almost always offering disappointments instead of solid leads. A break of this size didn't just walk into the office wearing an overly expensive suit. Too easy, the Detective added.

After the Myers-Echowan Bloodstrife bust four months earlier, tips had started pouring in from all over the city. Between interrogations during the day, Preston had been working on obtaining warrants for the raids which he would execute at night. There were nine searches in all and not one of them yielded anything of interest. Each turned out to be a prank or a tip from some scared or lonely source.

By the end, he'd grown so accustomed to the failure of his mission that he hadn't bothered bringing backup for the final two uneventful raids. The police had been needed elsewhere anyway.

Then, an excitement Preston hadn't felt in years started to build as he looked away from the backseat and the guns. The thought of finding the first factory where this horrible plague was being produced. Shutting it down could keep the streets clean for a while and possibly put a serious dent in the supply chain.

It was at that moment that he realized how much he needed a victory.

True, he made sure the Unis ran the plates on the truck they saw leaving the place before he dismissed them, but more often than not, they tended to be dead ends. Even the trucks they had pulled over with the Myers-Echowan tubes four months prior hadn't turned up any leads. Of course, in that instance, they were the property of the company and hadn't even been reported stolen yet.

Preston inhaled deeply as he took the exit from the highway and turned into the industrial district. The minimal lights from the darkened, empty factories presented an ominous quality he'd recently grown accustomed to as they flew by in the window.

Although densely packed, the factories appeared so much smaller than they had from the highway, giving a false feeling of open s.p.a.ce between the buildings. Preston imagined the problems a.s.sociated with small s.p.a.ces. It would be harder to escape or find cover. It'll be harder for them to escape as well, the Detective thought, offering a rare optimistic viewpoint. Preston shrugged at the thought, hoping his partner was too focused on their surroundings to notice.

When entering unfamiliar territory, he always made sure to note the environments, even when not on duty. The cookie-cutter design of the buildings made it more difficult to keep his place as he drove. However, he did spy the occasional car parked to the side of a given factory that helped him focus in the growing darkness as they pa.s.sed beneath the streetlights on the dim roads.

The narrow street soon brought them beyond the rest of the buildings, moving toward the one at the end of the line. It was dark and deserted, just like the sky view photographs from the records department had depicted.

There were no lights coming out from the high windows on the warehouse, nor were there any cars or trucks out front. The paneling on the sides of the building was starting to peel and fall away, having left an ever growing pile of debris at the base in the years since.

The name Phillips was painted on the side of the building in traditional bold block letters, but it was mostly faded, having succ.u.mbed to the elements long ago. Large dried trails of dirt from past rains had coated the building in a brown dust, making it appear far worse than it was.

Directly in front were two large metal doors used for shipping.

"Here we go," Preston said, virtually to himself. The car came to a stop about two hundred yards from the factory, offering them enough cover to take it in fully before proceeding. Turning to Jack, he could see his partner absorbed in the surroundings just as he'd been on the way in.

Now outside, the two men noticed a door on the side of the warehouse as they cautiously moved away from the car, still keeping their distance. Preston and Jack took a long look before returning and opened the back door of the vehicle, each man taking out a shotgun.

Aside from the tire tracks and the footprints of the officers Preston had a.s.signed to monitor the factory, there were no other signs of life in the dirt covered parking lot. That's not true, the Detective thought. There's no dirt around the large double doors, like it's seen a lot of traffic.

"You ready?" Preston asked, trying to hold back what he hoped was antic.i.p.ation in his voice.

"Yeah, I guess," Jack said, less than enthusiastically. Both detectives had just finished inspecting their weapons one last time. "This isn't how I pictured it. I don't think we'll find anything-at least not what we're looking for." He stood, focused intently on the building, his voice offering not the slightest trace of anxiety. "If there's anything going on in there, I'd say they're processing cocaine or something, not Bloodstrife."

"Well, that would still be one for the win column. Besides, this is exactly how I pictured it," Preston replied with a smile. He was sure he wasn't able to hide his concern as well as his partner. "Takes me back, you know?"

"After you then, partner," Jack said, still fixated on the factory.

The detectives, armed with a shotgun and a handgun each, approached the abandoned structure cautiously. The shotgun, while standard issue, was something he didn't need to use often. It felt cold and menacing in his hands.

Preston carried a standard issue Beretta 92 FS double action sidearm in his holster. There were few times he had had to use it. However, those times in which he had been forced to pull the trigger tended to be far worse than those experienced by other officers. Nervously, he touched the handle, making sure it was still there.

The dirt beneath them in the crumbling parking lot showed no recent signs of disturbance near the side door they were about to enter. It doesn't matter, thought Preston. I've already seen enough. The Unis did see a truck after all.

A small padlock hung loosely from the steel door. It was shiny and new, clearly standing out from the rest of the building and glinting in the light from the street lamp above. Preston took another breath as the two detectives inched closer and closer to a possible break in the case.

"On second thought, I'll take care of this one," whispered Jack as he placed his shotgun on the ground and produced a small lock pick from his jacket. Preston covered him while he worked. As expected, the night was still and dark, no different than when they had arrived.

Preston's eyes slowly focused on the darkness, trying to glimpse any signs of an impending ambush. There were no blurry figures secluded in the night nor any sounds at all, not even crickets. He noticed that the highway noise didn't seem to be traveling to his ears either, a rare, pure silence. If there was anyone out there, they weren't about to make their move.

With a muted click that thundered in his ears, Preston turned, startled. He saw Jack, still facing the door. The padlock was off, hanging loosely from the handle. Jack casually put the lock in his pocket, taking it with him in case anyone came by when they were inside.

"No one bothered to lock the deadbolt," Jack whispered as he began to push the door open.

With Preston still covering him, glad that his partner hadn't seen him jump at the sound of the lock, Jack opened the door fully. Hearing it creak open, the detective inched away, allowing Preston to cover the door while he retrieved his shotgun from the ground.

Nothing greeted them. There were no lights on inside, just a large black void beckoning them from their position under the streetlight. Preston moved in cautiously, and Jack followed close behind.

There was a dull hum in the air, too soft to have penetrated the walls of the warehouse when the door was closed. Now that they were inside, it was clear that something was active. To them, it sounded as if someone might be home after all. Preston's heart rate doubled, preparing for the worst.

He used the mental pressure he was experiencing to his advantage, focusing on his surroundings. The place still appeared to be abandoned.

"That sound," Preston whispered. "Could it be an AC system or something?"

"No way," Jack said, shaking his head. "It's hotter in here than it is outside."

Jack was right. Preston estimated a difference of about ten degrees. The relatively muggy summer night had been bad enough. Now, it was beginning to feel as if they had stepped into a sauna.

Cobwebs were everywhere. They danced across old factory equipment in an imposing performance, accentuated by the moonlight shining down from the high windows. Through them, it looked like the walls and ceiling were fractured into a thousand pieces, as if it would all give way the moment they brushed away a silk strand.

It had been an old textile mill, or so Preston surmised from the machines still threaded with what appeared to be fabric. Large wooden spools stood in the corner, showing the first signs of rot. The air was thick with moisture, abandoned by the world.

Advancing across the large open area, sending small clouds of dust up with each step they took, the hum grew louder.

Preston was still trying to wrap his head around what he was seeing. The moonlight offered enough of the factory floor to confirm that there were no other footprints in the thin veil of dust that had acc.u.mulated on the ground. No one had been there in a long time, but from the ever-growing hum, the detective knew someone had to be home.

They approached another steel door that had gradually revealed itself as their eyes adjusted to the scattered darkness. Preston stood guard with his gun pointed at the door as Jack knelt down to work his magic on the next lock. The small glow of the flashlight made Preston nervous, as if they were giving away their position. In a moment, Jack put his pick away, seeing the door wasn't bolted. Although it wasn't locked, the rust on the hinges made it more difficult to move the steel.

The hum poured in through the open door, bringing along the dull glow of artificial light. Preston could see that the dust beneath their feet was now clearly disturbed, and it had been that way before they got there. Moreover, there was definitely the sound of machinery moving beneath them. There were no voices, no yelling, or orders being given. It was just the dull noise of something running, like a factory ought to sound. Just not an abandoned one, the Detective said.

"I think that's what we came here for," Preston said coolly to his partner, as if Jack hadn't noticed. "You ready?"

Jack only smirked as he raised his shotgun. Preston proceeded down the stairs first, gripping his shotgun tightly. Already, his palms were beginning to sweat.

They traveled down two stories before arriving at the end of the line. Yet another steel door greeted them there, and again it was unlocked. There was no longer any dust at their feet. The s.p.a.ce had been kept clean.

Preston positioned himself to the side and inched the door open for Jack who stood ready with his gun aimed. The now un-m.u.f.fled sound rushed into the stairwell, taking them both by surprise. Preston turned, looking into the threshold. It filled his vision with the sight of fully operational machines. He couldn't see exactly what was being produced, but was positive it wasn't textiles. Not much light came with it, but it was enough to make out what they saw clearly.

Both detectives took a long look before entering, seeing that the s.p.a.ce was entirely deserted. Everything appeared to be automated. Whatever types of machines they were looking at hadn't been reconfigured textile equipment; they were custom made and brand new. Each was clean and showed a lack of use.

Jack gestured for them to go inside. Preston nodded in confirmation.

The underground s.p.a.ce was ma.s.sive, practically the same size as the warehouse above. Moving inside, the detectives saw that a few yards in front of them a large vat was positioned at the top of a tall tower that reached almost to the ceiling. Although it was too high to see what it contained, a large metal incline connected to it fed the contents into another, smaller vat closer to their eye level.

When they got close enough to see it, the smell hit them. It was a rotten mix of concentrated garbage, brutally amplified in the confined s.p.a.ce. Preston pictured a large garbage dump buried in the factory bas.e.m.e.nt with them. He pictured rotten food and raw sewage, the worst things he could imagine.

Both men started to gag and took a few steps back.

Instinctively, the detectives took out their handkerchiefs, Jack still reeling from the double dose, having had to protect himself earlier in Phillips' apartment.

"Jesus," Jack said loud enough to hear over the machines. "It's worse than that hotel I was just at. It smells like s.h.i.t and burning garbage."

"No, I don't think it is," Preston said, barely listening as he looked at the machines.

"I beg to differ," Jack responded, standing guard.

Preston advanced toward another vat of the black liquid farther down the line. He got close enough to take a small, cautious whiff and came back a little confused.