“…You’ve never been a special forces agent before, so why are you following along so well?”

“It just happened. Other people told me, ‘You’re a born special forces agent,’ so don’t worry and just go ahead.”

“Ugh….”

Late March, above the Bahamas Container Freeport.

Right next to the container storage yard where thousands of containers, not all that good, were not neatly stacked, I and Mr. Race carefully climbed up onto the cement wall that bordered the sea.

Unlike me, who didn’t even need any special equipment since we were only crossing a 200m-long waterway, Mr. Race needed a small breathing apparatus and flippers, and he put them on and crossed.

While I was on guard, Mr. Race carefully threw his equipment into a nearby sewer. It was a two-person infiltration operation that had been a long time coming.