THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

better be there.
    If not, what then?
    After the fiasco with High Vision, could he still call Ben for help? His best friend would be there for him for sure, but maybe not the agency.
    Ben was a last resort option.
    Zane wouldn’t take any chance of putting Ben’s job at risk or pull him away from his wife right now.
    He threw the truck into gear and jockeyed his way out of the thick airport traffic. Playing “what if” wasted energy and time. He had to find her. Period.
    And he would .
    The minute Ben called, Zane would have his friend search Lorde Industries.
    Dodging in and out of showers through congested roadways transformed the drive back to I-95 from arduous to excruciating. At the exit for an industrial district, he turned south to Kendall, an older area just below Miami. Four miles west of the interstate, he entered a commercial zone and slowed to cruise through industrial parks inundated with mammoth buildings.
    Tractor-trailer rigs were backed up to loading docks on several properties, but little activity stirred at eight-thirty on a holiday weekend night. He circled and crossed over railroad tracks, then hung an immediate left down an access road. Dilapidated buildings with real estate signs offering the properties for sale or lease were scattered from one street to the next.
    His truck crawled along the dark corridor.
    The original tracking signal had come from here, but when he enlarged the map to pinpoint the exact spot, the signal blinked and jumped. Maybe one of the bugs Ben had talked about. Zane squinted to see through sheets of rain, on the verge of deciding to cover the area on foot if he had to, when a cat ran across the street in front of him. He slammed on his brakes.
    His gaze followed the feline’s path as the tabby scampered off to his right.
    At the end of a vacant alley, a bright glow flickered from a tall street lamp and reflected off of something shiny. He flipped open his console and dug out a set of infrared night-vision binoculars.
    A vehicle came into focus. Not a vacant alley after all.
    He pulled forward a foot or two for a better angle. It was a Land Rover. Just like the one in the airport garage.
    Coincidence? His gut said no.
    He just hoped Angel was there, and alive.
    First he had to hide his flashy truck, and was suddenly not as thrilled about the color as the day he’d picked it out. No time to get another vehicle now. And he needed to locate a second access to the building other than the alley. He wove his way through the bleak commercial area. An offshoot railroad track from the main line ran through a clearing in the trees. The track appeared to run alongside the building.
    He backed the truck off of the shoulder, positioning it behind a clump of grown-up scrub alongside the track. Not great, but not in easy view of the road unless you were looking. If Angel was in that building, the chances of going through a door were slim. He’d seen some high windows. He’d take what he needed to recon the area and gain access if he could find a way in.
    Zane set his phone on vibrate, shoved his Sig into a holster that clipped inside the waistband of his jeans, and fit it against his hip. He threw a poncho on and shoved his hands into a pair of leather work gloves.
    Now would be a good time to have the thermal imaging system he’d used in his fighter plane. Even a small night vision monocular would be a great substitute, but he didn’t have that either. The binoculars would work, but would be in the way if he had to climb. He’d do without.
    He was just thankful he’d had Ben’s tracking device.
    Lightning ripped across the black skies and rain continued in a steady downpour. He reached in the back seat for the roll of anchor rope and wound about fifty feet into a loop, hanging the pile over his shoulder.
    Using the tight beam of his LED flashlight, he jogged down the track, then flipped the beam off as he neared the sport utility. 
    On close inspection, the Land Rover was branded with a gold triangle logo identical to the one from the airport. He picked his way around the tall metal structure, stumbling through a minefield of piled buckets, weeds, and scattered boards. Rain drummed against every hard object in its way, camouflaging any unintentional noise.
    Most tall warehouses had a ladder for accessing the roof, but as he rounded the last side, checking out the building, this one proved him wrong.
    He felt his way around toward the front.
    When his hand plowed through a