Inside an abandoned warehouse, the forty-foot shipping container with its DIPLOMATIC CARGO seal was parked in the middle of the bare, hangar-like space. Standing beside it, Soul Patch, whose name of record was Emer Lynch (no one called him Soul Patch to his face) racked the slide of his Glock automatic. He motioned to the truck driver from the crash, a jacker named Victor Crotty, to swing open the end of the container. 

Four men with shotguns and automatic rifles were positioned near Lynch to cover the container as the end swung open, revealing an interior crammed with furniture and what looked like Asian artifacts – chests, chairs, ornate rugs… 

Lynch gestured with the Glock and called toward the cargo: “Anyone in there speak English?” 

Silence. 

Lynch tried again. “You need to come out so we can take you to where it’s safe.” 

More silence. 

Then a voice with an accent called back, “Who are you?” 

“We’re going to get you to your people,” Lynch answered. 

There was murmering inside. Then, “How do we know that?” 

“Because it’s in my interest to. Otherwise I’d leave you.” 

Another silence… Suddenly an armoir crashed over. Behind it, six men pointed automatic weapons at Lynch and his crew. The crew whipped their guns up. 

Lynch moved quickly to calm both sides. “Okay, easy, easy…” 

The man who was speaking from inside glared at Lynch. “If you lie, you are dead.” 

Lynch pointed with his Glock to a van parked next to his SUV. “Get in there, we have to move.” 

The man and his companions hesitated – then, one by one, they came out, swarthy, tough, hardcore Middle East. Warily, weapons at the ready, they walked toward the van. 

Lynch was about to follow them when something across the warehouse caught his eye. A movement. Something shadowy behind the sooty windows that ran along the top of the far wall.  

He turned to Crotty, indicating the van’s sullen passengers. “Take them to the store, I’ll catch up with you there.” 

He motioned to one of his other men to come with him, the two climbing into the SUV. 

                                                #          #          # 

On a scaffolding running along the outside of the warehouse, Juna’s friend from the crash site, the young guy in the hoodie sweatshirt, was peering through one of the sooty windows and talking on his cell. 

“The van left right after the SUV. They rolled down the door, nobody else here.” 

Suddenly a Glock automatic was pointed at the back of young Hoodie’s head. 

“Wrong,” a voice said behind him. 

Hoodie whipped around, eyes wide looking at the gun. 

BAM! 

The Glock jumped and blood erupted from the back of Hoodie’s head all over the warehouse window. 

                                                            #          #          # 

Weecho had decided to go back to the crash site, stood now in the same spot across from the BQE pillars where he’d taken the pictures of the two trucks and the car. The sound of traffic whooshing overhead was same as before. And like before, nobody else was around.   

There was a big scorch mark in the middle of the street where the Mercedes had burned. Little glints of pebbled glass had been swept off to the side. Not a lot of litter considering what had happened. 

He’d brought a print with him of the hoodie guy who’d been watching the crash, had Photoshopped the image using some tricks of his to bring out features in the face. It was pretty good work, considering, but what did he expect to get? For the guy to still be there saying, Yeah, that’s me? How can I help you?   

Weecho crossed over to where the guy had been watching from, next to one of the pillars. Could see he’d seen everything. Maybe had still been here later, saw what went on with the cops and what had happened with the wreck after the foot chase and camera toss. 

Weecho looked up and down the block. Ghost buildings, eerie place. New York borough at its emptiest. Still, deserted as it was, he had the feeling right now he was being watched. Looked at the print in his hand, looked around. Whoever it was could have been checking him out from any of a hundred broken windows.   

He got an idea. Not a great one, but something. 

Half a block down was a burned-out building (there was probably one on every block around here). Weecho went to it, rooted in the rubble, pulled out a wooden strut that was charred black. Brought it back to the pillar and broke it up, used one of the charcoal pieces to write on the pillar’s concrete base: What did you see? 

He left the pieces by the pillar in case hoodie guy was watching and wanted to answer. Long shot, but so was most of life these days. A little salute to the surroundings and Weecho headed back to the subway.   

Had another card to play. 

                                                            #          #          # 

A spike-haired hacker whose handle was Tekster, his desk stacked with hi-end components, was focused on the screen of the laptop that Emer Soul Patch Lynch had pulled from the wrecked Mercedes. Above Tekster, who ran a sports book on the side, sports events were showing on a row of screens mounted on the wall – football, basketball, hockey – but only the football had the sound on. The young techie pitched his voice above the announcer’s: “You’re not giving me a lot to go on here. I mean…” 

Lynch was looking over Tekster’s shoulder at the laptop. “I gave you plenty. Just get me in.” 

Tekster kept tapping keys. “Patience, my man…” He hit another key, then another. After a few moments, with Lynch about to lose it when the laptop screen went dark, the little screen suddenly filled with data. “There you go,” Tekster smiled. 

Lynch leaned in and pressed a key, scrolling more data. He scrolled and stopped, scrolled and stopped, the data interspersed with pictures – guns, missiles, tanks – a catalog of weapons of every type. Lynch smiled. “What do I use for a password?” 

“Anything you want. I left it open.” 

Lynch stopped and scrolled back, frowning at one of the data entries. He took out his cell, tapped in the number he was squinting at on the screen, turned from Tekster and said, “Mr. Yoon?” 

The call had gone to a private arsenal. A short Asian man in a business suit, Mr. Ming Jay Yoon, listened on his cell as he strolled between rows of weaponry. 

Lynch identified himself and said, “The travelers have been transferred, we’re making the delivery.” 

“How did you get this number?” Yoon said. “It is not the one I gave you.” 

“Somebody had it I ran into.” 

Yoon frowned. 

“Not to worry,” Lynch said. “He won’t need it now.” 

“You’ll tell me about it when I see you.” 

“Mr. Yoon?” 

“Yes?” 

“That somebody had information I think could do good things for both of us.” 

“What kinds of things?” 

“We can talk about it when I see you. I’ll wait for your call.” 

Lynch clicked off with a self-satisfied smile. Could get into details later about how he’d switched his own driver into the diplomatic container truck when the Arab signed for it at the Red Hook docks – how the container driver made an exit off the BQE to where the 18-wheeler was waiting to trash the Mercedes. 

Lynch paid Tekster, closed the laptop and, with a glance at the games on the screens, went to let himself out the door. 

When he got to the street, he glanced at the laptop under his arm. Something about it made him frown. He turned around and looked up at the building he’d just come out of. Let his eyes scan the façade. 

He held them on one of the windows up there. 

A dark look. 

A look that said he’d left something undone.