122

GRAND RAPIDS, MICHIGAN

Nasir Bhati parked his van in front of the DHL terminal.

He and Yaqoub al-Hamzi, both wearing new Zegna suits and carrying small crates, entered the lobby.

“Good morning, may I help you?” the clerk asked.

“Yes, we’d like to ship these to Seattle,” Bhati said. “And my colleague could use a men’s room.”

“Of course. Down the hall and to the right.”

The moment al-Hamzi disappeared around the corner, Bhati unbuttoned his jacket, drew a silenced pistol, and shot the clerk twice in the chest and once in the head. It was lunchtime, and most of the staff—four warehouse workers, a driver, and two pilots—were in the break room as they were every day at this time, eating pizzas and laughing about something. Bhati never caught the topic. Nor did it matter. By the time he reached the break room, al-Hamzi had already shot them all in the head and grabbed them both a slice.

Bhati tossed it aside. There was no way New York–style pizza was going to be his last meal. Al-Hamzi stripped one of the dead employees of his bright-yellow-and-red coveralls and his ID badge and put them on. Then he headed into the warehouse to finish off the remaining staff. Bhati, meanwhile, stripped the pilots of their uniforms, IDs, and wallets. Next he removed his expensive suit and put on one of the uniforms.

Once he was certain there were no other living souls on the premises, Bhati pulled out a new burner phone and called Zaid Farooq. “Your order is ready, sir.”

“Good, I’ll be right there.”

A moment later, Farooq entered the DHL premises, locked the front door behind him, and hung the We’ll Be Right Back sign in its place in the window. Then he strode through the front offices and found the break room, where Bhati was waiting for him with his uniform. It didn’t fit exactly. But for their purposes, it would do.