CASSIAN
The staging point was an empty commercial unit, a half-kilometer from the port.
It was the kind of place that lived in the cracks of the city, an empty space of concrete and dust that nobody remembered to lease and nobody bothered to check.
It smelled of stale air and old damp.
Reid was already a ghost in my ear.
On the tablet propped up against a crate, the port facility was laid out in sharp, digital lines.
Three entry points. Real-time feeds from the two monitored gates showed the world in grainy shades of gray and blue.
The Serbian convoy was already there.
Black SUVs, heavy and silent, parked in a perfect row. They were on schedule. Emilio's people were on schedule.
