Looking for leads

[evillurks]

Darkness comes later on summer evenings, limiting the hours The Shadow has for his stealthiest operations. The delay of natural shadows, combined with the increased brightness of a modern city, are persistent difficulties in his work. This evening he is crouched in a heavily concealed spot amid rooftop refuse. The warehouse below him is

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[myra_reldon]

Myra appears in the spot, already crouched low, with the muzzle of her gun pointed to the ground. Securing the PINpoint, she uses the cover to take a careful look around the area, before hunkering down to wait. She has no other orders yet, and will remain in her position unless flushed out, or directed elsewhere by the Old Tiger. She has her eyes out for trouble, rather than looking for him.

Her clothes are dark, and her hair is pulled back to hide any of the blond tips. The hair is collected in a thin piece of dark red ribbon.

[evillurks]

He is aware of her arrival, but focused on the activity of the men across the way below. It is a moment before there is a soft hiss, a very human sound, from around the corner of old crates. His position is more exposed than hers, to give him a clear view, but the sound should guide her in the right direction.

He keeps his voice low when she does round the corner. "Boat due tonight. I want a good look at the papers, if I can get in that deep. I need an extra pair of eyes and ears." He is crouched low in the shadow of a crate, nothing but a sliver of face with a sharp gaze and distinctive nose, hovering low in the darkness. There is space beside him.

[myra_reldon]

Myra holsters her gun silently and creeps next to The Shadow, using the hiss as her guide. She pops the small collar on her shirt so it at least covers her neck. From behind she's almost as dark as he is.

"You got 'em." Her voice is low to match his.

[evillurks]

In the darkness he gives a shrug, a casual gesture that belies the efforts it took just to find this location and determine exactly what it's used for. "It's no more than just another outlet unless I can use it to find the source." Never once does his gaze waver from the men below. There are guards, who do not act like guards until one tracks the crossing paths of their casual loitering. The lights are few, but there are faint signs that someone is stationed in the front office, on the lookout for an arriving ship.
"Watch the guards, memorize their patterns." He stands with a very soft wheeze, stiff and sore from his long vigil. From the guards' perspective across the way, he's just another blotch of shadow against the crates. "We don't move until the boat arrives."