21
The Gray Ghost’s dashboard read eight o’clock when I pulled off the road a half mile from a fenced-in warehouse belonging to Eden Produce. Farmland stretched out in all directions, illuminated by silver moonlight. From the driver’s seat, I stared at the front gate through a pair of binoculars.
The fifteen-foot chain-link fence was topped with razor wire. Inside the fence were parked two semis bearing the Eden Produce logo. It looked like one of dozens of produce warehouses in the area except for the armed guard manning the front gate.
“Guard at the gate’s carrying an AK-47,” I said. “No one along the fence as far as I can see.” My phone rang. I checked the caller ID, saw it was my mom, and sent it to voicemail. I needed to focus on the task at hand.
Conor looked through his own bino
