Hours earlier, he had copied the coordinates from a scrap of paper he’d found secreted in Colonel Bryce’s safe. ![]() The man dressed in black, a thirty-year-old whose name was Patrick Taylor, slipped a hand-drawn diagram from inside his jacket and checked the inventory numbers on the closest container, then moved swiftly to the next one. Here and there the painted steel skins of some of the boxes showed brown fingers of rust from years of exposure to the weather. The fence surrounded a forty-acre lot beside a train yard where several hundred steel containers had been stacked and ordered with Mondrian-like precision. Halogen fixtures set on tall poles spaced fifty feet apart painted the landscape an unholy orange-blue.Ī solitary figure dressed entirely in black slipped through a vertical slit in the tall hurricane fencing topped with loops of concertina wire. ![]() Fast-moving clouds were mirrored in the puddles of standing water left by a late afternoon rainstorm.
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