Chapter 32 #2
The keypad isn’t hard. I bridge the right points, watch the little LED flicker, then go green.
The click is tiny.
Vito opens the door just enough to slip through. I slide in after him.
The air inside is cooler and stale, trapped.
Dust hangs in the weak light from a single strip fixture near the ceiling. It buzzes faintly, a thin electric whine under everything.
We pause just inside the door and listen.
Nothing. No voices. No footsteps. No radios.
Vito eases the door shut until it’s almost closed, then presses it the last inch with his palm so it doesn’t latch too loudly.
I angle my head, eyes adjusting to the sunless room, and scan the space in front of us—stacked pallets, shrink-wrapped boxes, a wide aisle that disappears into shadow.
“Where the fuck are these crates going to be?” I whisper.
Vito lifts a shoulder, eyes sweeping the warehouse like he’s already mapping it.
“Toward the center,” he whispers back. “They’ll keep the good stuff away from doors. Makes it harder to grab.”
“Or closer to a bay they trust,” I say, and I point with two fingers. “Look for fresh pallet jacks. New shrink wrap. Anything that looks like it came in last night.”
Vito nods once.
We move, slow and quiet, staying close to the stacks so the open aisle isn’t swallowing us up.
My boots barely make a sound on the concrete. I time my steps with the buzz of the overhead light, old habit, but it works.
Vito drifts a half-step ahead, then checks himself and falls back into my line.
We move deeper, and the aisle opens into a wider section where the ceiling jumps higher, and the shadows get thicker. More inventory. More places to hide something. More places for someone to hide.
I don’t like it.
Vito pauses at the edge of a cross-aisle and raises a hand.
I stop instantly.
He points with two fingers toward a camera dome mounted high in the corner, angled down to cover the intersection.
There it is.
Not the front gate setup. Interior coverage.
I shift my weight, watching the camera’s sweep pattern. It’s slow. Lazy. A loop. A second and a half where the blind spot exists if you’re paying attention.
Vito watches it too, jaw tight, and then he looks at me.
“On your count,” he whispers.
I nod once.
The camera drifts left.
I start moving.
We cross the intersection in two smooth strides, close to the stacks on the far side, then flatten ourselves into the shadow of a tall pallet rack.
The camera sweeps back.
We’re already still.
Vito exhales through his nose, silent, almost a laugh. He’s enjoying it.
I don’t.
Not because I’m afraid. Because this is exactly the kind of place where someone gets comfortable right before they get hit.
I point down the next aisle. Left.
Vito follows without argument, which tells me he’s taking it seriously. He’s impulsive, but not stupid.
The next aisle smells different.
Cardboard. Plastic. That faint chemical bite of new electronics, sealed and waiting. It’s not strong, but it’s there.
Vito’s gaze flicks to me as he catches it too.
We keep going.
Past a stack of bulk paper towels. Past cleaning supplies. Past a row of cheap furniture boxes. The labels are turned inward as if someone didn’t want them visible from the main aisle.
We stop at a cluster of pallets wrapped in opaque black shrink, thicker than the clear stuff everyone uses when they don’t care who sees what.
Vito crouches and peels a corner back just enough to look.
He shakes his head once and presses it back into place.
“Not it,” he whispers.
I don’t ask how he knows.
He knows.
We move again.
The farther in we go, the more the warehouse changes from storage to staging. More open space. More scuff marks on the concrete where pallet jacks have been dragging heavy loads. Fresh tire tracks, faint, like they rolled something big recently.
I hold up my hand again, stopping us.
Vito freezes beside me.
I listen.
Nothing.
But the nothing feels wrong. Manufactured.
If they’re getting ready to move a shipment tonight, there should be some activity going on. Not people, necessarily, but shit that says someone’s working here.
I look at Vito.
He’s watching the far end of the aisle, head angled, eyes narrowed.
He hears it too.
A faint metallic tick.
Not loud. Not close enough to be sure.
But enough to make the hair on the back of my neck rise.
We don’t move for a full ten seconds. Then the sound doesn’t repeat.
I let my breath out slowly.
Vito’s lips move without sound.
What.
I shake my head once.
Later.
We keep going.
We reach a section where the pallets are newer. The wood isn’t stained. The wrap is tight. The labels are crisp and unbent, not the kind that’s been sitting for months and collecting dust.
This is where I’d put it.
I crouch and drag my fingertips lightly along the edge of a pallet.
Dust comes off, but not much.
Recent.
Vito kneels at the next stack and points. A pallet jack.
Two of them, actually.
Parked side by side like someone staged them for a quick load.
And on the floor, faint marks in the concrete from rubber wheels turning in place.
Someone moved something heavy through here.
My eyes move over the stacks.
There.
Three pallets, shrink-wrapped in clear plastic, but covered with large cardboard sleeves that hide the contents. The sleeves are printed with a generic shipping company name. Nothing that stands out.
Which is the whole point.
Vito reaches for the edge.
I catch his wrist.
He looks at me, annoyed.
I tilt my head toward the nearest corner.
Another camera.
This one isn’t sweeping.
It’s fixed.
Pointed straight at these pallets. Guarding them.
I let go of his wrist and gesture. Back up.
We shift into the shadow behind a taller stack and watch the camera’s exact angle. Vito leans in close enough that I can feel his breath.
“So what?” he whispers. “We can’t open it?”
“We can,” I whisper back. “Just not from the front.”
I scan the base of the pallet rack and see gaps. A narrow path behind it if we crouch.
I tap my finger against the concrete once, a silent point.
Vito’s eyes follow. He nods.
We drop low and move behind the stack, using the rack itself as a shield. The metal uprights block the camera’s line. The pallets in front do the rest.
It’s tight back here. Dustier. Smells like old wood and oil.
My shoulder brushes the rack as I edge around, careful not to rattle anything.
Vito’s bigger than me by a little. Not height—he’s built wider. He has to turn sideways to fit, and I can feel him resisting the urge to just shove through.
We reach the back of the target pallets.
No camera coverage here.
Of course. Nobody expects someone to crawl behind a rack like a rat.
I pull a small blade from my pocket and slice a neat line through the shrink wrap.
Vito holds the sleeve steady, fingers braced, keeping it from crinkling too loudly. The plastic peels back.
Inside, there are long, narrow boxes, uniform. Black casing labels with serial numbers. Foam padding visible at the edges.
I don’t need to read the whole label to know what it is. I do anyway.
Vito lets out a slow breath.
“Found it,” he whispers, satisfied.
I replace the shrink wrap carefully and press the sleeve back into place. Then I look at the camera again, through the narrow gaps.
Fixed right on it.
I back out from behind the rack, keeping low.
Vito follows.
We end up crouched in the shadow again, both of us staring at the pallets.
Vito leans in.
“How we pulling it?” he whispers.
“Not through the back door,” I say. “Keypad won’t stay green forever. And the camera will catch the movement.”
“Front bay?” he suggests.
“Too exposed.”
Vito’s jaw tightens. He wants action. He wants it simple.
It isn’t.
I scan the ceiling.
Catwalk.
Old metal stairs up the side.
A maintenance platform that runs along the upper wall.
If we can get above the camera angle, we can maybe disable it without walking into frame.
Or—
Or we take the camera feed first. Loop it. Kill it. Something.
I pull my phone out again, screen dimmed, and check the feed we can see from the street camera.
Still nothing at the front. No trucks. No movement.
Vito shifts beside me.
“Say the word,” he whispers, like he’ll rip the whole rack down with his hands if I ask.
I keep my voice low.
“We confirm the count, then we plan the exit. No moving anything until we know exactly what we’re grabbing.”
Vito’s eyes narrow.
“You always do this,” he mutters.
“And, look, we’re still alive,” I say.
He exhales hard, but he doesn’t argue.
We move along the row, checking the next two pallets the same way—small cut, quick look, reseal.
Same contents.
Enough for a full install. Enough to cripple the other side and boost our own business at the same time.
I tuck the blade back in my pocket and glance at Vito.
“We’re taking all three,” I whisper.
Vito grins.
Finally.
“Now you’re speaking my language.”
I look past him, down the long aisle we came through. And I listen again.
That same metallic tick. Closer this time.
A faint shift of something heavy. A foot? A tool? A pallet jack wheel?
My body goes still. I hold up my hand.
Vito freezes mid-breath. We both listen. The sound stops.
Then, somewhere deeper in the warehouse, a soft scrape answers.
That’s not the building settling. Or the buzzing lights. It’s intentional.
Something moving on purpose.
I look at Vito. His grin is gone now.
Because now we’re officially on a clock.