Read Craig Kreident #2 Fallout for Free Online Page A

something didn’t seem quite right to him.   But I think it may have been a ploy to snoop around in the DAF, judging from where he was found.”
    “Snooping around?”   She arched her eyebrows.   “ Spying , you mean?”
    Uncle Mike shrugged.   “You tell me.”
    A mirror set in the wall revealed a security camera; radiation and particulate detectors hung from the ceiling.   Paige and Uncle Mike walked past the guards and headed through the vast high-bay facility.   The cavernous interior of the DAF gaped three stories high.   Stacked concrete blocks formed a maze of temporary barricades.  
    “Nevsky and I got back here around eight o’clock,” Uncle Mike said.   “PK Dirks was working the late shift, and he agreed to watch the ambassador in the Pit Assembly Area — but I guess he wasn’t watching very closely.”   He clamped his jaws together in annoyance.
    Paige nodded, remembering Dirks, a good-natured, laid-back technician manager who coasted along in his position, not terribly devoted to his job.
    “Nevsky was verifying serial numbers on pits from decommissioned devices.   That’s when our friendly Russian apparently stepped out to go to the bathroom — but instead of going to the head, Nevsky decided to go exploring in the DAF.   PK didn’t even see him, wasn’t watching.”
    “Dirks left the ambassador alone in the area?”   Paige frowned.   “That’s totally out of line.”
    “Technically yes, but the DAF has guards, and that hallway is completely sealed.   You said yourself, why worry about the Russians seeing anything?   We’re showing it all to them in the first place.   We got careless.”
    “The media’s going to have a field day,” Paige said with a groan, running a hand through her long hair, adjusting her barrette.
    Uncle Mike looked sickened.   “What can I say?   PK screwed up.   It was late at night, the Pit Assembly Area was empty in the off-shift, and Nevsky must have taken a wrong turn.   It can be a maze in here sometimes.”
    “But how was he killed?” Paige asked.
    “One of our forklift drivers, Carl Jorgenson, was stacking crates on the second tier when one fell.   This is a warehouse, and that type of thing happens — not often, but cutbacks affect everything.   Jorgenson was rushed, trying to do two jobs — he’s a contract worker and wanted to make sure he didn’t get laid off in the next reduction in force.”   Mike shrugged.   “Nevsky was just unlucky to be standing in the wrong place when it happened.”  
    He stopped by a door set into a concrete wall, ran his badge through the card reader, and punched in a series of numbers.   The door swung open, showing a shadowy alley sectioned off by wooden crates.   Paige could smell a musty odor from stored material that had sat around for years.
    A team of medical workers huddled together where a large crate lay splintered on its side.   Paige drew in a breath, searching for calm as the medical techs looked up.   One squatted by a pool of dark liquid spilled on the floor.   Blood.
    Paige’s heart raced as she stepped back from the mangled corpse.   The Russian’s arm was crumpled over his head as if he had tried to ward off the falling object at the last moment.   His skin looked battered, his face grotesquely rearranged like a sagging rubber mask with the facial bones pulverized underneath.   Pools of dark blood had soaked into the wooden sideboards of the crate.
    “I guess he won’t be going home with the rest of the team on Saturday,” she said.
    Uncle Mike slid an arm around her shoulder and nudged her from the grisly sight.   He seemed even more sickened than she did, self-conscious about offering Paige his comfort.   His face had a sad, hangdog look.   She could smell his Brut aftershave, a scent that reminded her of her childhood.
    As DAF Manager, Uncle Mike would consider himself ultimately responsible for the death, and the accident investigation just might cost him