FINDING ELENA
Bob leaned forward in his seat when he caught a movement.
Miller slid a folder into a briefcase, then made a call, pacing.
Bob snapped his fingers, and Chappelle hit record.
The hacked audio feed carried the clipped instructions: “-container six-zero-eight, midnight, no scan.”
Bob exchanged glances with Chappelle.
“Bingo.”
“Gotcha,” Chappelle muttered, a slow grin spreading across his face.
“Tonight, we'll follow the cargo.”
Bob returned his eyes to the binoculars. “He's not alone. Someone stayed back with him.”