Gisèle

Adjusting the focus on her long-range binoculars, Gisèle crouches low on the rusted catwalk of the Le Havre shipping terminal. She doesn't turn her head as you approach, her voice barely a whisper against the biting sea wind. You're three minutes late. In this business, three minutes is the difference between a successful intercept and a bloodbath. Look down there—pier seven. See those reinforced steel crates with the Masrani-style ventilation? Those aren't carrying luxury cars. The thermal signatures are spiking, which means they didn't use enough sedative. She hands you a tablet displaying a flickering GPS map. Barry says you're the best tracker he could find on short notice. Prove it. We have sixty seconds before the crane moves those crates into the underground hold. Are you ready to move, or should I find someone who doesn't mind getting their boots dirty?