Chalk Lines & Lipstick by London Ophelia

Author:London, Ophelia [London, Ophelia]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Gemma Halliday Publishing
Published: 2015-08-08T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A hundred yards from the property line of Sierra Pacific, I pulled onto the gravely shoulder, hiding my car behind a thick patch of ferns. I popped the trunk, kicked off my pointed-toe boots, and slid into my trusty pink wellies. Still not dressed for spying, I peeled off my light-colored trench in favor of the thin, black mini cardigan I wore underneath. Then I fingered my hair into a bun to keep it out of the way.

There were no streetlights along this stretch of highway, so I had no problem slinking undetected all the way up to the gate. As I got closer, I noticed a small section at the back of the mill was illuminated with floodlights. I needed to be extra sneaky to keep hidden.

From what Aaron told me, SPI no longer fully operated on a 24/7 clock like in its heyday. Which must've been how secret shipments went undetected in the middle of the night.

I skirted along the fence, making my way further into the mill. Unsure whether it was my good luck or their poor maintenance, I squatted down and squeeze through a small hole in the fence. My break-in felt way too easy, so I held stock-still, wondering if I'd activated a motion detector, braced for the clang of alarms. When nothing happened after a solid minute, I exhaled and crept toward the floodlights, where I hoped the freight area was.

Sounds of machines, motors, saws, and voices filled the air before I actually saw anything. I snuck up to a parked bulldozer, crouched behind a mud-caked wheel, and leaned to the side, far enough to get an eyeful. Four workers in hard hats, steel-toe boots, heavy gloves, and sweatshirts were on the scene. One was doing most of the yelling, ordering, and pointing. I wondered if he was Terry Replogle, the night foreman Aaron told me about.

This hunch was confirmed when someone hollered out to him. He yelled up to the guy operating a crane that carried a load of logs. From my limited crash course on the subject, they didn't look like pines or Douglas firs. First of all, these logs were taller than all get out, with massively thick trunks, and they were covered with that telltale red, crumbly bark.

The base of my spine tingled as a self-confirming smile broke out on my face. Aaron was right. Those were giant sequoias. There was no way my amateur eye could gauge whether they were old-growth or not, but the fact that it was the middle of the frickin' night and SPI was officially closed set my Spidey senses into overdrive.

Without removing my gaze from the trees hovering in the air, I yanked out my cell and started taking pictures. Just snapshots at first, then I let the video roll, hoping I had enough memory space to capture what I needed. I made sure I got close-ups of the trees, the crane, the trucks, and then I focused on each and every face, particularly Terry Replogle's.

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