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The driver had locked the van on exiting, but Bazin shoved a metal shim down the window frame and snagged the lock in seconds. He yanked up, then pulled the door open and slipped inside.
He relocked the door, took up position behind the driver’s seat, drew a Glock semiautomatic, and waited. A minute later, he heard quick footsteps shuffling toward him. The driver’s door opened, letting in a blast of air. The deliveryman settled into his seat with a squeak of springs and tossed his electronic signature pad on the passenger seat.
Bazin stuck the Glock into the driver’s side.
“Hey!” the deliveryman yelled. When he looked down and saw the gun, he added, “Oh, God!”
“Go,” Bazin said.
“Yeah, yeah. Okay, man. Just don’t shoot.” He put the van into drive and eased forward.
“What’s your name?” Bazin asked.
“Leonard O’Shea. Where are we going?”
“I’ll tell you where to turn, Leonard.”
“Don’t kill me, man.”
“I won’t hurt you as long as you do what I say,” Bazin said in
a soothing voice. “Do you understand?”
O’Shea nodded so violently that his skull banged against the headrest.
“Good. Keep going.”
They drove for ten minutes until Bazin had O’Shea thread his way into a deserted alley in Hell’s Kitchen. O’Shea parked and put his hands on the wheel. He eyed Bazin in the mirror with a pleading look.
“Listen, man, take anything you want. It’s all insured anyway. It’s mostly rich bankers sending each other stuff. They won’t miss it.”
“Unfortunately, Leonard, that’s not why I’m here.”
A confused expression was all O’Shea could muster before Bazin pistol-whipped his temple. The blow knocked him cold, but Bazin had to make sure he wouldn’t come to and attract attention. He pulled O’Shea out of the driver’s seat and snapped his neck before laying him on the floor among the packages.
Bazin was already dressed in black pants, but he needed the rest of O’Shea’s uniform. He swapped clothes and was disappointed to find that the sleeves were a couple inches too short. Although they were close to the same height, which is the reason Bazin had selected the unfortunate man in the first place, O’Shea’s arms were unusually short.
Bazin shrugged and donned the Urban Jungle cap. It was too late now to do anything about it. He had a package to deliver.
He rechecked the encrypted radio detonator in his pocket and secured the box on the passenger seat. The bogus packing slip on top, printed out with the Urban Jungle logo and a United Nations return address, read “Global Translation Services, Attn: Greg Horne.”
—
Juan reached the offices of Global Translation Services fifteen minutes before they closed. He had Eric drop him off and circle the block so they wouldn’t have to deal with Manhattan parking. The firm was a much smaller operation than the name implied. The front lobby overlooked Fortieth Street five floors below, and Juan spotted a dozen desks with translators listening to headsets busily typing away, three private offices, and a conference room.
A pretty, young receptionist informed Greg Horne of his visitor. Juan watched the traffic as he waited.
A short, dark-haired man, crisply dressed in a charcoal pin-striped suit, opened a door at the far end of the workspace. It was the largest office and had a plate-glass window with a view of the entire operation. The man quick-stepped toward Juan, a tight smile set beneath an upturned nose.
“Mr. Cochran, I’m Greg Horne, president and owner of GTS,” he said with an outstretched hand. Juan had thought it prudent to use one of his aliases for this meeting.
“Thanks for meeting with me on such short notice, Mr. Horne,” Juan said with a friendly grin, and adjusted the glasses he was wearing. “This is quite an operation you have here.”
“We run a pretty lean business,” Horne said as he walked Juan back to his office. “Most of the work is farmed out to independent contractors except for the most high-profile and sensitive jobs, which are kept in-house.”
Horne ushered Juan into his office and closed the door. Juan took the proffered seat.
“Was the job for Lawrence Kensit in-house?”
