The Giant Smugglers Read Online Free Page A

silo. And you,” he said, pointing to the field, “put that case away and grab some soil samples.”
    â€œWhat good is dirt?” Barton grumbled. He returned the metallic case to the van and grabbed two soil collectors. Then he trod out to the field with the vials and pushed them into the black, fertile earth.
    Ten yards away, Fitzgibbons inspected a small, ground-level discharge door at the base of the silo. He donned a pair of latex gloves, got down on his knees, and pushed his flashlight through the swinging door. After he squeezed through the opening, the steel door clanked shut behind him.
    Fitzgibbons stood and brushed decades-old silage from his knees. He shined his light here and there, finding nothing but dust floating in the air. A careful sweep of the ground revealed four Spring Green city limit signs, dented and discarded. The signs were too big to have come in through the silage door.
    His flashlight explored the walls, finding mossy growth on the mortar where water had seeped in between concrete blocks. Then he noticed an uneven spot at the edge of the silo’s half-cylinder dome.
    The block had been chipped and torn away. Fitzgibbons called up the aerial photo on his phone again; the damaged area corresponded with the location of the giant fingers in the picture. He searched along the walls for a ladder to get a better look. No luck. Not done yet, Fitzgibbons probed further with his flashlight.
    The light settled on a small pile of chipped concrete that had fallen from the top edge of the silo. He got on his knees, sorting and sifting through the rubble before coming across a crescent-moon sliver of opaque, colorless material. The discovery measured about six inches long and perhaps three quarters of an inch at its widest point. Its lead edge was rounded, relatively smooth and uniform, while the opposite side was jagged in spots, as if it had been torn off. It appeared to Fitzgibbons that he had found a very large piece of fingernail. He pumped his fist, an old gesture of triumph from his track-and-field days. Then he removed tweezers from a kit in his jacket, gripped the discovery, and dropped it into a sample bag.
    The swinging door made a rusty squeak, and Fitzgibbons spun around. The beam of his flashlight met the hostile eyes of a German shepherd. The beast snarled, exposing a mouthful of sharp teeth. A deep, throaty growl swirled in the silo as she advanced.
    Fitzgibbons put the sample ahead of his own safety, securing the bag in his jacket before retreating to his left. The menacing dog closed the distance between the two of them. He put his back to the silo wall and slid along, block by block, toward the door.
    When he arrived, Fitzgibbons couldn’t bring himself to get down on the ground to scuttle through the door. He’d be defenseless. But then reason stepped in, and he chided himself. The dog hadn’t attacked because she wasn’t supposed to. Fitzgibbons was relieved—he was being herded. It was time to find the dog’s master.
    â€œHave it your way,” he said, dropping to his knees and passing through the opening. As he did, he felt the German shepherd clack her teeth at his heels for good measure.
    Outside, his eyes strained against the bright September morning before he saw Barton cowering inside the van. Evidently, the dog had done her job with him as well. Fitzgibbons was calm and deliberate as he made his way to the vehicle, despite the aggressive snout prodding at his ankles. When Fitzgibbons reached the van and opened the passenger door, the animal barked twice and bolted past him inside.
    Barton panicked, slamming up hard against the driver’s-side door. But the dog didn’t attack. She settled between the two front seats and narrowed her eyes at Barton, who fumbled for the door handle.
    â€œI’m certain if that dog meant you harm, she would have torn your leg off by now,” Fitzgibbons said, though the words did little to