CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Hi. Dixon sent me down to get a ride,” Nash had said to the man at the garage.
The IIB’s garage was a disused parking lot that looked like a used car lot. There wasn’t much choice. But then, Nash hadn’t expected there to be that much to choose from. Around thirty vehicles parked around the edge of the wire fence, leaving the middle empty to safely maneuver the cars in and out of the lot. The office was a prefabricated cabin used on a building site.
On the right-hand wall was a unit with thirty slots that held the keys and documentation for that vehicle. On the bottom of each slot was a white plastic plaque. This was around an inch long and half an inch wide, printed in bold black letters, was the vehicle’s registration number. The air was thick with the smell of motor
