Page 93 of Icelock

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.