Nic dug into a pocket on his tactical vest and tossed a butterscotch candy into his mouth. “Why does that matter to me?”

“After what you did to her … a woman scorned, you know,” Taz said. “So watch your back for knives on this one.”

“It’ll be fine, ladies. Bristol and I are both adults. Now, what do our offensive options look like?”

“We don’t have any. Just the front doors. This place is like a miniature Fort Knox.”

“There has to be—”

One of the techs at a computer terminal yelled, “Someone’s coming out the front door!”

Chapter 11

Constable Isabel Price of the South African Police Service pulled her decade old Chevy Impala through the gates and immediately recognized the sentries with machine guns hidden among the rows of junked cars. The scrap yard was all sharp edges and rust. Row after row of crushed cars and trucks stacked upon each other like the Lego playset of some sadistic giant. Isabel took a deep calming breath as the guards approached her vehicle. A group of four men, both black- and white-skinned, fanned out in front of the Impala. She didn’t bother to look behind her; she knew four other guards were doing the same at the rear.

The man who finally approached the window was tall with blond hair and baby blue eyes and was built like a Greek god. He spoke with an Australian accent. “Good day, Constable Price. You can leave your car here. Don’t worry. We won’t let them chop it up while you’re gone.”

She shut off the engine and stepped out of the vehicle. The big Australian patted her down for weapons, confiscating her sidearm, and checking for recording devices. Once he was satisfied, he escorted her into the only actual building on the property. The interior was black and concrete and smelled of grease and rust. Groups of men swarmed over rows of cars like army ants devouring leaves. They seemed to be stripping the vehicles for parts, but the back half of the large open building held computer terminals and what appeared to be a fairly well-organized shipping department.

“Do you like what I’ve done with the place, Constable Price?”

Isabel turned toward the man’s voice. Felix Ginger descended a set of metal stairs coming down from an elaborate loft office, like a king stepping down from his castle and gracing the peasants with his presence. He wore a black suit with purple pinstripes. He had salt-and-pepper hair and a manicured goatee, and his skin matched the dark color of his suit.

With a German accent, he continued, “What we do here is perfectly legal. Most of our business is selling car parts over eBay, as you can see.”

Felix Ginger wasn’t a large man, but he projected the presence of someone seven feet tall. His voice wasn’t deep or menacing, but it had a way of effortlessly cutting through the noise of the room and establishing dominance.

Isabel didn’t allow herself a moment of doubt. Her father had always told her that the most important thing in any situation like this was to act like you belonged there and knew what the hell you were doing.