In the middle of an isolated dockyard, surrounded by towering stacks of rusted containers, the air was thick with the scent of salt and diesel. The sky was dim, shrouded by looming gray clouds, and the only sounds were the occasional clang of metal and the low rumble of a crane shifting heavy cargo.
One container sat off to the side, away from the others, its doors slightly ajar. Inside, rows of sealed wooden crates lined the walls—each packed with illegal firearms, bricks of narcotics wrapped in black tape, and, in the back, a partitioned area where terrified young women were huddled together, gagged and chained. Their eyes were wide with horror, their bodies shaking from the cold and fear.
Several men wearing black jackets with no insignia moved about quickly, unloading the contents onto flatbeds, shouting orders in hushed voices. They worked like shadows—silent, swift, and calculated.
