Imri and Nir kept their eyes on the guard shack. It was stationed inside a rolling gate, the only access through a razor-wire-topped, chain-link fence that circled the 12-warehouse complex. Inside the shack two men were talking, one of them Tommy Cohen. He’d been alone until ten minutes ago, when the man they presumed to be his shift replacement arrived.

Nir sipped his coffee. It was cold outside, but the heavy jacket he wore and the contents of the thermoses Avigdor Neeman had given them made it bearable.

“Looks like he’s leaving,” Imri said a few minutes later. They watched as Cohen crossed the parking lot, then disappeared behind one of the warehouses. After a short time, an old white Ford F-150 pickup pulled up to the gate. Using his binoculars, Nir confirmed the license plate and that the driver was Cohen, changed out of his uniform. The gate slid open, and Cohen waved to his coworker before driving off. Imri gave him a lead, then pulled out behind him.

They were fairly confident they knew where he was going. A local Mossad agent had been tailing him for the last week. Nir had heard the term dive bar before, but he’d never been in one. As they pulled into the parking lot of Hawk’s Place in nearby Pasadena, he felt like that was about to change. An American flag was attached to the door, and another one was emblazoned on the sign next to the bar’s name. Classic rock of a vintage Nir wasn’t too familiar with carried through the doors and into the parking lot.

Cohen exited his parked truck and entered the bar.

Imri found a spot next to six motorcycles and parked the Suburban, then Nir said, “You go in first and find a corner. I’ll follow in five.”

He looked Imri over top to bottom. The young agent was wearing a dark-blue untucked T-shirt, jeans, and Western boots, likely similar to what most of the men in the bar wore. Somehow, though, he still looked like a Lebanese terrorist. “And try not to look so foreign.”

“You’re one to talk. Just hope no one in there has ever watched Fauda, or they’ll nail you as Mossad as soon as you step through the door.”

Nir was dressed much like his partner, and he knew the man was probably correct. “Let’s just try saying things like Ya’ll and Get ’er done.”

Imri laughed. “That’s the advice you give me? Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of super-agent or something?” He slipped out of the SUV and closed the door behind him.

Nir watched him go in. He’s turned out to be a great addition to the team. Quick thinker. Doesn’t take himself too seriously. Deadly instincts.