[ WP ] The man stepped from the shadows . After unlocking the padlocked job-box , he removed a pair of small black backpacks . Hoisting them over his shoulder , he turned and stepped back in the darkness . Only the sounds of the key tag fluttering in the breeze remain .

Sure enough, there was the old Nissan truck, right where he said it would be, ‘ follow the break in the tree line off the road for two clicks. ’ 
 *Two clicks*, I muttered to myself at the directions my contact had given. This wasn ’ t the Ho Chi Minh Trail, just a field off of Route 17. Some guys, I supposed, would never stop tilting against their windmills of the past. That is, perhaps, until someone gives them new windmills. 
 
 The Nissan was old just like he had said. So old I could barely make out the faded *Datsun* once painted onto the tailgate. 
 
 I killed my light as soon as I made the clearing and the beam sparkled off something in the truck ’ s bed and sent a kaleidoscope of light out among the old growth live oaks. A rusted truck in a field wouldn ’ t draw much attention around these parts, but the brand new gleaming chrome tool box in the truck ’ s bed sure would. I would too, as far as that goes, but this would be be quick. 
 
 The moon off that damn chrome provided all the light I needed as I slipped the small key I ’ d been given out of my vest. The lock on the job box gave right away as I tried the key. New and oiled as shit it was. Quiet, too. I appreciated that. 
 
 Something else new - two Jansport backpacks, like it ’ s the first day of seventh grade, were hiding nestled in the cool chrome. I tried each one. Damn heavy, both of them. Sighing at the weight, I hefted one onto each shoulder. Turning away from the truck and back towards Route 17, I skimmed the box ’ s key into the woods with a *thuuuuushp* as it slid into the undergrowth. 
 
 Someone like me toting two heavy backpacks through the woods sure would draw attention. But they ’ re not going to see me. Not just yet. Not ‘ til I ’ m ready.
