Free Cloudburst by Ryne Pearson Page B

would be. All there was to do now was continue with the minor last- minute details that were important preparations for success, but at this stage more so for usefully occupying time.
    One of the three stood, taking his weapon in hand from the small square table, where two others were disassembled for cleaning. The Israeli-made Uzi felt good, but still a bit slick from the penetrating oil used to clean the desert dust from its exterior. He took it by the sling, wiping his palm on his pants. It never occurred to him that his choice of weapons was somewhat ironic, yet a man could be easily killed by his own handiwork. That might have pleased him, if his limited intellect were to allow its comprehension.
    “I am going to rest,” the man spoke, his voice soft and steady with a slight nasal pitch. It was mild in comparison to his size, which was massive, both in height and width.
    “We will wake you, Wael,” Abu assured him.
    Wael walked toward the small office on the opposite side of the hangar, passing the four large boxes that sat on wheeled aircraft cargo pallets. They were connected in a short train as ordinary ones were, but the five-foot green cubes were not the usual metallic containers. They had the appearance of oversized wooden boxes with two-by-fours for edge supports and diagonal braces from corner to corner. Without breaking stride he let his free hand go to the boxes and glide along their surfaces. He wondered what was in them. What was it that they now sat with that would help them succeed in their mission?
    The thought left him when he entered the small office, separated from the hangar by glass. A cot had been moved in there, and a second later his body disappeared below the window line.
     

 
    Three
    A CERTAIN MR. JACKSON
    Los Angeles
    The maroon Ford Taurus sat idle among a sea of cars whose engines were coming to life as FBI agents and employees of the impound yard worked methodically to move the other vehicles surrounding it. There normally would be a steady roar as cars passed the Harbor Tow Company on the 110 freeway as noon approached, but the air was silent except for the noise in the yard itself and the background sounds of police radios. At the request of the Bureau, the California Highway Patrol had closed the old freeway, so aged and dangerously curved that trucks were forbidden to travel it from downtown to Pasadena.
    A senior agent of the Bureau’s bomb unit approached Art, who was standing behind the only protective barrier available, just fifty feet from the car.
    “Art. How’s it going?” Agent Larry Purnell asked.
    “You tell me in about a half an hour,” Art answered.
    “Ha.” Purnell laughed. “You think this’11 save your ass?” He patted the cinder block wall.
    “Thanks.” Art knew that Purnell’s triple-layered Kevlar and Nomex ‘moon suit’ would do little to protect him if the car was booby-trapped.
    Another member of the bomb unit came up. “Nothing obvious.”
    “You check the wheel wells?” Purnell inquired, pulling on his Kevlar-covered bubble helmet.
    “Yes, sir.”
    Larry Purnell smiled wide through the clear Lexan faceplate. “Good. We’ll sweep it again.”
    “Right.”
    “Larry.” Art put his hand on the man’s padded shoulder. “The manager said they slim-jimmed it when it came in. Still, no heroes. Okay?”
    “Me?” His smile hinted of the devious. “C’mon.”
    Minutes later the area around the Ford was clear and the preliminary sweeps of the vehicle’s underside for explosive triggers was done. The fact that the vehicle came in on the hook of a tow truck pretty much ruled out any motion sensors to trigger a device, and a door- or domelight-activated switch was not likely since the driver’s door had been opened in the yard. But was there a key switch? Purnell would be the first to know.
    First would be the trunk. Every person in the yard cringed or ducked behind cover as the agent inserted and turned the key. There was an immediate click