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The cargo van was white. It had no windows, less the driver and passenger sides, and those were tinted dark enough to cast a somber glow on the dingy interior. After making a straight fourteen-hour trek from Atlanta, it pulled into the sliver-thin driveway of Old Mrs. Neebody’s house in Queens, New York. Only little Jimmy who lived a few houses up noticed. The single garage door rose quietly then engulfed the van. As Jimmy rode by on his Huffy, he thought it looked like a mouth that had just swallowed a great big Tylenol.
As the windowless door swung shut, the garage was almost pitch black.
“We are here, Waseem,” said the driver from behind bloodshot eyes.
In the floor of the cargo van, a long, flat metal door popped upwards, revealing a secret compartment beneath. Waseem Jarrah ros
