The flowing white robe that hung on the next hook was next, and he draped it over the concussion gear loosely, cinching it in place with a gray, military-style belt.
The final piece hung on a third hook, a white ceremonial hood, modeled after one Mahmoud remembered from the old country. It had small slits that allowed him vision, each one marked above and below with silver crescent moon shaped markings, the four narrow slivers curved inward towards his nose.
He took a look at himself in the full length mirror that ran along one of the walls of the cooler, then quickly looked away. The robe, the mask, all of it, still so very hard to look at, designed to look like one of the death squad that had executed his father all those years ago.
He attached two small knife scabbards to the belt, and slid the knives into place. A small police issue extendable baton went into the belt between the knives. He took one of the swords and fed it through the belt as well, moving the folds of the robe into place to partially obscure the blade. A handful of grenades went into pockets hidden in the robe.
Mahmoud adjusted the hood one final time, and sent a final quick prayer towards Mecca. He stepped out into the alley once more, pulling the door tight behind him, listening for the lock to catch. Taking a deep breath to clear his head a final time, he disappeared into the night, looking for trouble.
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