Less than a hundred feet away is the loading dock of the warehouse. I drop to a crouch by a pine tree and unclip my night vision binoculars from my belt. Through them the night shades into green and black. There’s Cargill’s truck, parked to one side of the loading dock. And standing by the dock is Cargill along with three men. Facing them are half a dozen other men, most holding handguns or what look like machine pistols. One of them, shorter but wide-shouldered with a closely shaved head, the only one without a gun, stands a step ahead of the others, talking to Cargill. I’d bet my motorcycle that he’s Bala.

Although the traffic noise is practically nonexistent, I can’t hear what Bala is saying, just a murmur of spoken words. In the past I’ve used a parabolic microphone that could capture outdoor conversations from a hundred yards away. A parabolic microphone would be nice right now, but I don’t have a magic tote bag to carry all the gear I might want at any given moment. I’ll simply have to get closer.

Before I can move, Bala and Cargill do. They turn and walk toward an open doorway in the back wall of the warehouse, their men following. They pass through the doorway, then close it behind them. Two men—Bala’s, not Cargill’s—remain outside on the loading dock. Sneaking in the back door is off the table.

I retreat back to the wedding store parking lot and jog down to the far end of the lot, maybe fifty yards, then turn back into the trees. Here the pines are a bit closer together and I carefully pick my way through the tree cover, not wanting to stumble over a stray root. I reach the edge of the tree line at the back of the concrete supplier warehouse, next to the building where Bala and Cargill are having a powwow. Through my binoculars I can just make out the two goons on the loading dock guarding the back door. My guess is that there are at least two more men watching the front. Let’s hope there aren’t any stationed on this side of the building.