with their wives or girlfriends.
M, Karim said, had uncovered some useful information concerning the house itself: there was no alarm system, as far as she could tell.
But that doesn't preclude the existence of one - or some other type of security , Fletcher thought. He thanked Karim, hung up and powered off his phone. Field glasses in hand, he searched the area. Assured that he was alone, Fletcher stood and tucked the field glasses into his jacket pocket. Then he tied his backpack to the top of a tree limb. There was no need to bring it with him. The tools he needed were packed inside the tactical belt hidden underneath the bottom edges of his windbreaker. He moved out of his hiding spot and jogged across the field.
Fletcher reached the back door, his broken ribs throbbing. He unzipped his jacket and removed a device that looked like an ordinary smartphone from his tactical belt and moved it around the door's edges. The light remained green, the signal that the house did not contain a security system. He put the device awayand snapped on a pair of latex gloves. Using standard lock picks, he opened the door.
Since the house had no basement, the formal living area, shaded by cheap plastic blinds, had been transformed into a workshop. He found the usual assortment of equipment and tools needed to modify wildcat cartridges, all of which were neatly organized according to calibre on a series of metal shelving units resting against the walls. He opened a random box of 9-mm rounds and removed a bullet.
The cartridge was an identical match to the empty one he'd collected in Colorado.
There was one other interesting item in the room: a folding table holding FedEx and UPS mailing envelopes and small cardboard boxes. Two were open. They both contained human ashes sealed inside clear Ziploc bags.
Tucked underneath each box and envelope was a set of three stapled sheets. The first page was a computer form generated by the company website. It contained the requester's contact information, the decedent's information, type of ammo requested, packing and shipping preferences and a box for additional comments. The second sheet was a signed contract agreeing to the type of ammo requested and cost; the third, a copy of the deceased's death certificate.
Fletcher examined the other stapled sheets. Same three pages, same order forms. The buyers were all from Southern states with little or no gun or ammorestrictions. Since the United States Postal Service prohibited the mailing of ammunition or any other item it considered to be 'ORM-D', or 'Other Regulated Materials for Domestic Transport Only', shipping services for Sacred Ashes were performed by UPS and FedEx, as the two private transport companies had no restrictions on shipping firearms or ammunition, provided it complied with the state's particular gun laws.
Fletcher moved inside the kitchen. It was small and held an industrial-sized rubbish bin overflowing with empty beer cans, pizza boxes and fast-food containers. Five quick steps and he entered a sparsely furnished room containing a flat-screen TV propped up on milk crates and a pair of second-hand sofas covered with pillows and blankets. It appeared that the owners slept here during weekends and, possibly, after working late into the night on weekdays, rather than making the hour-long drive back to Midland City.
The adjoining hall, short and dim, led to two bedrooms. The one at the far end was empty, but the other was used as an office. There was only a desk, a cheap, pressboard thing sold at office-supply stores. Its top held a telephone, a laptop and an assortment of opened and unopened mail. The desk's rolling side drawer held hanging file folders.
He removed a portable hard drive the size of a deck of playing cards. After plugging it into the laptop, he slid a CD into the tray. He turned on the laptop. The software on the CD automatically engaged, collectingevery scrap of data stored on the laptop's hard drive and writing
M, Karim said, had uncovered some useful information concerning the house itself: there was no alarm system, as far as she could tell.
But that doesn't preclude the existence of one - or some other type of security , Fletcher thought. He thanked Karim, hung up and powered off his phone. Field glasses in hand, he searched the area. Assured that he was alone, Fletcher stood and tucked the field glasses into his jacket pocket. Then he tied his backpack to the top of a tree limb. There was no need to bring it with him. The tools he needed were packed inside the tactical belt hidden underneath the bottom edges of his windbreaker. He moved out of his hiding spot and jogged across the field.
Fletcher reached the back door, his broken ribs throbbing. He unzipped his jacket and removed a device that looked like an ordinary smartphone from his tactical belt and moved it around the door's edges. The light remained green, the signal that the house did not contain a security system. He put the device awayand snapped on a pair of latex gloves. Using standard lock picks, he opened the door.
Since the house had no basement, the formal living area, shaded by cheap plastic blinds, had been transformed into a workshop. He found the usual assortment of equipment and tools needed to modify wildcat cartridges, all of which were neatly organized according to calibre on a series of metal shelving units resting against the walls. He opened a random box of 9-mm rounds and removed a bullet.
The cartridge was an identical match to the empty one he'd collected in Colorado.
There was one other interesting item in the room: a folding table holding FedEx and UPS mailing envelopes and small cardboard boxes. Two were open. They both contained human ashes sealed inside clear Ziploc bags.
Tucked underneath each box and envelope was a set of three stapled sheets. The first page was a computer form generated by the company website. It contained the requester's contact information, the decedent's information, type of ammo requested, packing and shipping preferences and a box for additional comments. The second sheet was a signed contract agreeing to the type of ammo requested and cost; the third, a copy of the deceased's death certificate.
Fletcher examined the other stapled sheets. Same three pages, same order forms. The buyers were all from Southern states with little or no gun or ammorestrictions. Since the United States Postal Service prohibited the mailing of ammunition or any other item it considered to be 'ORM-D', or 'Other Regulated Materials for Domestic Transport Only', shipping services for Sacred Ashes were performed by UPS and FedEx, as the two private transport companies had no restrictions on shipping firearms or ammunition, provided it complied with the state's particular gun laws.
Fletcher moved inside the kitchen. It was small and held an industrial-sized rubbish bin overflowing with empty beer cans, pizza boxes and fast-food containers. Five quick steps and he entered a sparsely furnished room containing a flat-screen TV propped up on milk crates and a pair of second-hand sofas covered with pillows and blankets. It appeared that the owners slept here during weekends and, possibly, after working late into the night on weekdays, rather than making the hour-long drive back to Midland City.
The adjoining hall, short and dim, led to two bedrooms. The one at the far end was empty, but the other was used as an office. There was only a desk, a cheap, pressboard thing sold at office-supply stores. Its top held a telephone, a laptop and an assortment of opened and unopened mail. The desk's rolling side drawer held hanging file folders.
He removed a portable hard drive the size of a deck of playing cards. After plugging it into the laptop, he slid a CD into the tray. He turned on the laptop. The software on the CD automatically engaged, collectingevery scrap of data stored on the laptop's hard drive and writing
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