The blind spot was real. From my position, I could see a loading dock, a service door, and a stretch of chain-link fence. What I didn’t see was guards or activity of any kind, only concrete and shadows and my own breath leaking out in a billowing stream. I cupped my hands and breathed into them both for the warmth and to hide the plumes that might give me away.
Maybe they weren’t using the west side.
Maybe all the action was happening at the main loading bay, where the woman and Marcus were watching.
Maybe I was freezing to death for nothing.
Or maybe I just hadn’t seen it yet.
The first truck arrived at 23:47. I heard the growl of a diesel engine and the crunch of tires on gravel before I saw it lumbering into the yard. Headlights swept across the fence, briefly illuminating my hiding spot. I pressed myself deeper into the gap, making my body small and holding my breath for fear my very existence might be heard over the roar of the engine.
The truck pulled around to the west side loading dock.
My heart kicked against my ribs.
The west side.
They were using thewestside.
I keyed the mic.
Three clicks.
I have activity on my watch, they said to the team.
Five clicks answered.
Confirm and report.
I waited until the truck’s engine cut before responding. When I spoke, my voice was barely a breath. “Base, Mobile. One truck, west loading dock. Diesel. Canvas-covered bed. Can’t see the cargo.”
One click.
Copy. Remain in place.
I returned one click to acknowledge.
The truck’s doors opened, and two men climbed out. Both wore dark clothing and moved with the graceful economy of professionals. One went to the back of the truck and began unfastening the canvas. The other walked to the service door and knocked.
Three raps, then two.
We weren’t the only ones using signals.
The door opened. Light spilled out, harsh and yellow. I glimpsed movement inside where more men stood chatting or moved crates and equipment.
Then the door closed, and darkness returned.
The men at the truck had pulled back the canvas. They were unloading now—long wooden crates, the kind I suspected held rifles, and smaller metal boxes that could have been ammunition or explosives or electrical components. It was hard to tell in the darkness, but the shape of them and the way the men handled them with careful efficiency told me this wasn’t a delivery of office supplies in the dead of night.
I needed photographs of the contents. Snapshots of crates wouldn’t be enough.
My camera was inside my coat, protected from the cold. I’d have to move to get a clear shot, but shifting my position meant exposing myself to the loading dock’s sightline.
The risk was significant. If they saw me . ..
But if I didn’t get photographs, none of this mattered.
I eased the camera out, moving slowly, keeping my elbows tucked. The Leica was cold in my hands, even through my gloves. Its metal bit into my already numbed fingers. I brought it to my eye and found the loading dock in the viewfinder.
