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The smell is even stronger here.
“Oh, shit,” he says.
He gets to his knees, pulls the trainers out, feels the floorboards. Loose. He picks up one, then two.
There.
Nestled in crumpled-up newspaper is an American-made M4 automatic rifle.
Gun oil.
That’s what he’s been smelling.
Gun oil.
He takes out the M4, spies six spare magazines hidden in the packing as well. Thirty rounds each. Meaning two hundred and ten 5.56mm bullets all told, designed to kill and wound and maim in combat, ready to be used…
Here, of course.
But where?
And when?
He digs deeper, finds a blue Kevlar bullet-resistant vest under all the wadded-up newspaper.
A shoot-out, then—but Patel isn’t going out as a suicide shooter. He’s planning on protecting himself.
Freddie thinks for a moment, then takes a couple of minutes to field-strip and examine the M4. When he’s done, he reassembles the M4 and replaces it among the crumpled newsprint.
Nestled about the crumpled newspapers is a slip of paper.
He pulls it out, unfolds it, and reads the carefully printed letters and numbers:
LIFT FOUR
6, 6, 8, 9
ACCESS ROOF
9, 8, 6, 6
Freddie memorizes the words and numbers, puts the paper slip back.
Replaces the floorboards.
Gets up, closes the closet door.
Heads out of the bedroom and into the living room—just in time to hear the apartment door being unlocked.
Chapter82
IN Asmall corner office in the large bonded warehouse in Hoboken owned by one of Rashad’s companies, he shakes his head in amusement and says, “Are you sure? Are you certain Jeremy isn’t available?”
The American woman on the other end says, “Let’s see…yep, both eyes working. He’s not here. Can I take a message? Can he call you back?”
Rashad allows himself a laugh and says, “Who is this? His secretary? Girlfriend? Married lover?”
The woman laughs right back. “Sorry, Rashad, I’m his boss. And you’ve called at a bad time. You see, we’re on our way to kill you. How’s your day going?”
