The basement of the old garment factory on 4th Street didn't have a name, but everyone in the "movement" knew it as the Hole. It was a cavernous, low-ceilinged space that smelled of damp concrete, stale cigarette smoke, and the sharp, chemical scent of gun oil. Exposed pipes hissed overhead, sweating condensation that dripped onto the mismatched linoleum floor with a rhythmic tap-tap-tap that sounded like a ticking clock.
Hansen sat at a heavy wooden workbench that had been reinforced with steel plates. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week, and honestly, he hadn't. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw was covered in a rough, uneven stubble, and his fingers were stained black with graphite and carbon from cleaning his rifle for the third time that day.
