I start marching in its direction, giving myself a gentle reminder that I’m just doing my job, and as long as I remain inconspicuous, I won’t put myself in any real danger. People hang out around here all the time. I’m nothing special.

The air smells like a combination of dumpster garbage and salty seaweed. Gulls caw in the distance, and the closer I get to the warehouse, I hear the lap of the bay water slapping against the concrete walls of Battery Park.

My heels click against the pavement. I really should have opted for better shoes on this field mission, but then again, these make me look more like a lost civilian.

A swell of rising paranoia causes me to swivel and toss a glance over my shoulder, but nothing seems out of the ordinary. I’m not being followed.

I step over a brown paper bag of fast-food waste that’s been smashed on the ground, the contents of it exploded. Two fat pigeons peck at scattered French fries next to the bag.

I’m not in the safest part of town. Maybe I should have asked someone from the office to accompany me out here, but it’s too late now. I’ve committed to this mission and I’m seeing it through.

In the distance, a faint siren whirls to life and I take a deep breath, clutching my purse closer to my chest. I hurry forward. The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can go back to my familiar part of town, and, most importantly, air conditioning.

I remind myself that as a journalist, it’s my job to go after the story, and to get all the facts. Sometimes that means wandering a little further outside of my comfort zone to get what I need. A person’s willingness to do that is what separates the good fromthe great, the amateur sleuths from the masters. I’m aiming for the latter, but right now, I wish I wasn’t.

Sweat makes my dress cling to my back like plastic wrap, and I readjust it on my hips. My hair sticks to the back of my neck, even though I pulled it up the second I stepped out of my car.

My breathing becomes hollow as I approach the side of the warehouse, then round the corner. A car alarm goes off nearby, making me jump. I glance over my shoulder again. Looks like the coast is clear. I keep moving.

I slide up to the side of the building and run the tips of my fingers across the concrete surface. The whole places gives off the appearance of being abandoned.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, giving myself a moment to regenerate some thick-skinned courage.

I’ve been working on this story for weeks, and it’s taking over my personality in a way.

My responsibilities for the story involve a ton of researching the crime ring gangs in this area, in an effort to help authorities track down the skeevy criminals and bring them to justice.

The violence in this city is getting explosively worse, and the story is supposed to be a step in the right direction on infiltrating the illegal weapons operations. My job is to help expose some of the criminals at the forefront of the problem, hopefully causing a chain reaction that ends the terror before it grows too big to stop. Some people think it already is.

There’s a slight buzzing in my brain, warning me to be careful, but I ignore it, hoping for the sweet taste of victory in finding something incriminating here.

When I turn another corner, I freeze in place, my heart climbing into my throat. The low rumble of deep male voices drifts through a broken window that looks like it’s been cracked by the telltale circular shape of a baseball.

Careful not to cut myself on the pointy glass shards, I spring myself up on tip toes and cup my hand over my eyes, peering inside. My eyes don’t adjust at first, and everything beyond the window looks black and endless.

My throat is dry. My heart is a ticking bomb and my pulse pounds through my eardrums. I can’t make out what the voices are saying, but one of them stands out, deeper and authoritative.

I flatten my palm against the building and try to get my breathing in check. Adrenaline gives me another surge of bravery and I lift my head again to take another, longer glance through the window.

This time, I notice a wall on the far side, with long, rectangular boxes stacked against it. Men roam around the boxes, opening them.

My eyes widen with horror as I realize there are guns inside the boxes. Dozens of men wearing combat boots, green cargo pants and black, tight-fitting shirts are lifting the guns out of the cases, inspecting them, and putting them back.

My heart does a little leap. Part of my research is weapons trafficking, and it looks like I’ve hit the jackpot.

I do a quick sweep of the room, wondering what crime ring these men are associated with. I want to bring as many details to law enforcement as possible. One of the men in the room turns around right as my head pops back up.

Instinctively I duck back down, grimacing when I scrape my knee against the rough edge of the building. I glance down to make sure I haven’t drawn blood, muttering a string of curses under my breath. Now is not the time to get sloppy.

Did he see me? No, I doubt it. I was so quick I barely even saw him.

I force my hands to steady and reach inside my purse to yank out my phone. I swipe to the camera app, pointing my phone up to capture a few shots of the illegal gun market happening through the window.

I can’t believe I’m witnessing this breakthrough of evidence and am excited to bring it to the authorities.

My focus is so sharp on what I’m doing, I don’t notice the clomping of heavy footsteps behind me until it’s too late.

Pain sears through my scalp and my head yanks back as a fist grabs my hair and drags me away from the window.