“No problem.” The driver and his partner followed Mamoon and disappeared into the building. As the three men went inside, four men wearing shalwar kameez, their heads topped with a topi, quickly trotted down the alley and surrounded the truck.
Two climbed up onto the back and uncovered the wide, heavy roll of muslin while the other two mixed two containers and poured liquid into garden style sprayers. They shook the containers then tossed them up to the men on the back of the truck. The two men on the ground then went to the back of the shop and stood guard while the other two wetted down the fabric. “Double time it. I have no idea how long it will take them.”
“Beats breaking in tonight, doesn’t it?” one man asked as he sprayed the material, careful to soak the ends of the roll as best he could. “Do you think they’ll notice it’s wet?”
“It’s supposed to dry in moments. Just spray it as evenly as you can.”
The two men continued spraying back and forth, overlapping each other until the entire roll was saturated. The sprayers began gurgling, their contents empty. “Done!”
The two men dropped to the ground and began walking to the opening of the alley, taking apart the sprayers and dropping pieces of them along the way into different trash cans. The two men standing guard by the shop trotted up behind them. “They’re still inside. Hurry back to the café while we call this in.”
At the main street, the four men split into two different groups and disappeared in opposite directions. Twenty minutes later, the driver and his assistant walked back out of the shop. “Those two are idiots.”
The assistant laughed. “Did you see how they used the arms for the base? That thing would have fallen over if they’d put anything on it.”
“The fat one kept telling us we didn’t know what we were doing.” He climbed into the truck and started the engine again. “Until I finished putting it together and then he says, ‘oh, I could have figured that out.’”
“Let’s get this unloaded and go eat. I’m starving.”
They backed the truck to the rear shop entrance then set the brake once more. “Get the cart.”
The assistant pulled a lever, releasing the cart, and rolled it to the side of the truck. “Hey…the cover blew off.”
The driver reached across and patted the roll of material. “At least it didn’t get dirty. Come let’s get this inside and be done here.”
“You’d think Mamoon would have offered to pay for our assistance.”
“Ha! Not him.” The driver kicked the material loose from the blocks holding it in place and rolled it to the edge of the truck. He swung the boom over and hooked the rope to the arm. Using the air powered lift, they raised the roll and swung it off and onto the cart. “Roll this inside and let Mamoon’s men figure out how to put it on the rack. I’m not lifting it.”
The assistant rolled his eyes and got behind the cart to push it. “Then you know they’ll expect me to help.”
The driver smiled at him, flashing his gold tooth. “Just tell them you have a bad back.”
The man muttered a string of curses as he rolled the cart through the rear door of the shop while the driver secured the boom arm back into the truck. As he folded the tarp, he felt something wet on his hands; he rubbed his fingers together and brought his hand to his nose to sniff. His nose smelled nothing; whatever it was evaporated as soon as it was exposed to the air. He stared at his hand for just a moment then stuffed the tarp into the box behind the cab.
He walked toward the door of the shop, taking his time lest he be asked to help. He heard the cart rolling toward him and he smiled. He opened the door for his assistant and waited while the man put the cart away. “Let me guess…”
“Of course. They needed help lifting it into place.” He cursed as he shoved the cart back into position. “No more, I say. Next time you can help them.”
“I would, but my back…” He smiled at the assistant as he climbed into the cab.
“When I shove my foot into your ass you won’t be so worried about your back.”
FBI Field Office, Dallas, TX
ROGER WALLACE HAD just returned to his desk and sat down, his computer blinking at him. He stared at the stacks of paperwork in front of him, and just the thought of it all made his head throb. He reached for the bottle of headache formula, shook out two tablets, tossed them to the back of his throat and washed them down with cold coffee just as his phone rang.
He picked up the receiver. “Wallace.”
“Dirty fucking trick you pulled on me, Rog.” Bobby didn’t bother announcing himself.
Roger pulled the phone back and stared at it. “Um…excuse me?”
“You heard me, you little prick.”
“Bobby?” Roger lowered his voice and leaned across the back of his desk to push his door closed. “What the hell are you talking about, man?”
“I’m talking about flagging me, you asshole!”
Roger leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he tried to think what in the world Bridger was going on about. “Flagging you? Bobby, I didn’t flag you. I mean, not like a real flag. I sent out an interagency flag for you.”
“What? What the hell are you saying?” Bridger stared at his watch, counting the seconds of their conversation so that he could hang up at the two minute mark. He didn’t want the call traced.
“An interagency flag protects you, man. It keeps your activity online off other agencies’ watch lists by letting them know that you’re a cooperating witness in our employ. That’s all.”
“Then why the hell did the Sheriff come out to
