Time passes. The moon sets in the sky, and watch hands turn to midnight.

The small freighter, paint peeling off its sides, docks at the pier. A black SUV, with tinted windows(technically illegal, but who would enforce that law?) rolls up, and Joe Chill exits, accompanied as usual by four burly-looking gorillas in suits and machine pistols. A semi-trailer truck follows behind. The shipment is a large one, apparently.

A sailor from the docks exits, and shakes hands with Chill. The mob boss isn't a particularly large man, though he does have a sort of wiry strength in his movements. The sailor, on the other hand, is a brute, plain and simple; muscles equal to the mob leader's bodyguards jut from his forearms.

Words are exchanged, and cargo, in plain wooden crates, begins to be carried by four subordinates. If there is a time for action, it is now.