It was too dark. I could see shapes but no details. Photographs from this position would be useless.
I needed to get closer.
The gap between the containers ended ten meters from where I crouched. Beyond that lay a wide expanse of open ground, a stretch of cracked concrete, exposed and illuminated by the spill of light from the loading dock.
That way was suicide.
But I spotted another option.
To my left, about five meters away, rose a stack of pallets piled haphazardly against the fence. If I could reach them, I’d have a better angle and moderate cover. It might be close enough for the camera to capture something useful.
I keyed the mic. “Moving to secondary position. Going silent.”
One click replied.
I counted the men at the loading dock. Two were unloading, one was supervising, and one stood by the door.
Four sets of eyes.
None were looking my direction—yet.
I moved low and fast, staying in the shadows, my boots silent on the frozen ground.
Five meters felt like five miles.
Every step was a chance to be seen, a chance for someone to turn their head at the wrong moment, a chance for a stray beam of light to catch my movement.
I reached the pallets and pressed myself against them, trying to calm my breathing.
No shouts came. No alarms sounded. No bullets flew in my direction.
I allowed myself to suck in a lungful of frigid air and immediately regretted its bite.
From here, the angle was better.
I could see the truck clearly now, could see the crates being passed hand to hand, could see the faces of the men doing the work. I raised the camera.
Snap.
Wind the film.
Snap.
Wind the film.
Snap.
Three shots.
Three chances to capture something that mattered.
The men finished unloading. One of them checked a clipboard, made a notation, and handedit to the supervisor. It was a manifest, maybe? I was surprised they kept documentation of what they’d delivered and where it was going. When did conspirators record their treason in files?
I wanted that clipboard.
I wanted it badly enough that my fingers twitched toward it.
But the clipboard wasn’t the mission. The mission was photographs and surviving the night without getting captured.
