Melinda’s Wolves(85)

There was no doubt the foundation would need to be re-poured. The concrete used the first time hadn’t been up to the standard level of quality that existed even before the earthquake. And with the new requirements put in place after the seismic activity, the piles needed to be re-poured at a much deeper level.

All work on the frame was halted first thing in the morning. There was no need to continue. All construction came to an abrupt halt. The workers held the face of fear, knowing without words their jobs were at stake. Best case scenario they got laid off for months on end while the entire job was torn down and prepared to begin anew.

Worst case scenario—the casino project was scrapped entirely and hundreds of men who anticipated working on the outskirts of Sojourn for the next several years lost their jobs permanently.

Either option sucked.

While the FBI worked behind the scenes to investigate Templeton Construction themselves, every hand on deck worked feverishly to gather evidence of the physical sort.

What Keegan hoped for was that whoever sent him the threatening email was caught—and fast. He wouldn’t rest easy until he knew for sure his mates were safe. And even then, he knew he would sleep with one eye open for many years. Who knew how deep the pockets of a rich, greedy bastard could be?

Keegan felt the weight of a heavy burden as he stepped out onto the scaffolding erected in one of the far corners of the site. The team of men already on the platform gave him a grim look. “Sorry, boss. The wood used for this section of the framework was also in poor shape. Some of it is rotted, and it wasn’t cured correctly.”

Keegan’s shoulders slumped. This wasn’t what he signed up for when he became an inspector. His presence alone was meant to ensure nothing like this ever happened. In fact, out of concern, Mitch had spent the better part of the day hunting down the previous inspector assigned to this project. The FBI had also gotten involved in that task. Seemed the man had vanished without a trace. Had he left the country or assumed a different name to avoid being arrested? Or had he been killed?

Or hell, there was always the possibility he was simply so stupid he didn’t pay any attention to details that amounted to cheap materials and shoddy construction. If that were the case, he would never work in building inspection again. If he turned a blind eye, he would be criminally negligent.

A chill raced down Keegan’s spine. Every moment he dug deeper made him more fearful for the safety of his mates—especially Melinda. Trace was a cop. He could take care of himself. Melinda could not.

Even though she had two local shifters with her for the day, Keegan didn’t like this arrangement. It couldn’t go on for days on end. He would blow a blood vessel in his temple.

Keegan glanced around the entire site from his position high off the ground. For the first time in his career, he hated his job. As he turned to descend from the platform, the surface swayed to one side. He grabbed onto the railing and twisted back to find the other three men doing the same. “What the—” He never got the rest of that sentence out. Before he could finish, the scaffolding rumbled, the loud screech of metal on metal filling the air. The entire structure shook.

And then it collapsed.

•●•

“Jesus.” Trace turned at the sound behind him—as if a freight train were barreling through the construction site. When he saw the scaffolding swaying back and forth, he dropped the clipboard and ran. He didn’t make it more than ten feet before the structure collapsed, caving in on itself and taking down what he thought were four men on the top.

All that was left was a cloud of smoke. And the silence. The silence was deafening. It seemed as if time stood still while Trace ran faster, dozens of men around him doing the same thing.

As if he were in a soundproof room, he heard nothing. And then he seemed to bust through the glass wall. He gasped for oxygen as the screaming started all around him.

He ran harder, barely acknowledging the fact that he didn’t trust even the solid concrete foundation he tread upon.

So many men surrounded the pile of wood and dust and debris. Everyone yelled out instructions. It didn’t matter. They all had one goal in mind—freeing the buried workers.

An arm popped up out of the rubble. Someone grabbed for it and tugged. “Help. Jesus. It’s Marcos. Somebody help.” Three people carefully surrounded the arm and dug with their hands into the pile of wood and metal poles.

And then there was a head. The man gasped for air, sputtering through the dust. He was covered with dirt, making his features completely unrecognizable. Trace wondered how anyone knew who the man was. He could have been Caucasian or African-American or Native American. His hair and face were completely the color of concrete dust. In fact, if he hadn’t blinked his eyes, Trace wasn’t sure he would have known he was looking at a human being.