Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty Four
Nico
We don’t move or even breathe.
There’s the sound again. Like something being dragged on the floor. And it’s coming from the direction we need to go to get out.
Vito’s mouth tightens.
He leans in close enough that I can feel his breath on my ear.
“We’re not alone,” he whispers.
“No,” I whisper back. “We’re not.”
I ease one step forward, keeping to the edge of the aisle where the stacked pallets break up the sightlines.
Vito mirrors me without being told, shoulders squared, hands loose at his sides like he’s ready to move fast.
The pallet jack squeaks again, closer now.
A low murmur follows it—two voices, indistinct, the kind of casual conversation you only have when you think you’re alone.
I nod once toward a row of shrink-wrapped boxes.
Vito ducks with me behind them, both of us going still.
The voices drift past the far end of the aisle.
A laugh.
A thud.
Then the pallet jack wheels away again, the sound receding, leaving the warehouse quiet in that tense, waiting way.
I count to five in my head, then ten.
Vito’s eyes stay on me, waiting.
“Move,” I mouth.
We slip out, staying low, and cut across to the next aisle where the light dies almost completely.
I glance back the way we came, then forward into the deeper rows.
Wrong direction for the exit.
Wrong direction for the pallets.
We need to get back to those three stacks, and we need to do it without walking straight into whoever’s in here.
Vito leans in, barely moving his lips. “We grab and go.”
“No,” I whisper, and I keep my eyes on the gaps between the pallets. “I think we have to cut our losses.”
He gives me a dirty look.
“Fuck no.”
I grit my teeth and mouth Lower your fucking voice.
“How the fuck are we going to grab and go three pallets?” I whisper.
“We take ’em out,” Vito says, pointing his chin down in the direction the voices came from.
“We don’t even know how many there are.”
“And we’re not here to start a war over a pallet,” I whisper back. “Not in the middle of the day. Not without a crew.”
Vito’s eyes flash in the dark. He’s furious and thrilled at the same time, like the idea of violence is a relief.
“You’re seriously going to walk away?” he mutters.
I lean in close. “I’m seriously going to leave here alive.”
He scoffs, but he doesn’t move.
“Vito, let’s move,” I say.
“I’m not leaving without those pallets,” he says stubbornly.
“You’re going to get us killed for some locks,” I whisper.
“They’re not just locks,” Vito hisses back. “They’re leverage.”
“What’s leverage if you’re dead?” I say, keeping my voice low even as my pulse spikes.
Vito’s jaw clenches. He looks past me, down the aisle, like he can already see himself putting someone’s face through concrete.
“You go,” he says. “I’m not leaving without them.”
He walks off before I can grab him.
“Damn it,” I say, trying to keep my voice low. “Get the fuck back over here.”
But he keeps walking.
Knowing my brother will probably die if I don’t, I follow him.
Vito moves fast but not stupid-fast, shoulders tucked, head angled like he’s listening as much as he’s looking.
I trail him by two steps, close enough to grab him if I have to, far enough that we don’t silhouette as one big target.
He cuts left at the next cross-aisle without waiting for me.
“Vito,” I hiss.
He holds up a hand without looking back. Quiet. I know.
We slip between two stacks of boxed furniture, the cardboard sleeves turned inward, and the smell of new plastic hits again—faint, sharp, wrong in the dusty air.
I catch the edge of his jacket and yank once, stopping him just before he steps into an open strip of light.
He turns, eyes flashing.
I tilt my head toward the camera dome above the intersection.
He freezes.
Then he exhales through his nose like he hates that I’m right and mouths, Fine.
We wait through one slow sweep.
One.
Two.
Then we move—two quick strides across the gap and into the shadow of the next rack, backs to cold metal, breath held until the camera turns away again.
Vito leans in, barely moving his lips. “We’re wasting time.”
“We’re not wasting anything,” I whisper. “We’re buying the seconds you keep trying to throw away.”
His eyes cut to the aisle ahead.
A soft scrape answers somewhere to our right.
Closer than before.
Vito’s mouth tightens.
“Still want to leave?” he whispers.
I stare down the aisle toward the pallet section we found earlier.
“No,” I whisper back. “Now we take them. Quiet. Fast. And we do it without getting boxed in.”
Vito’s grin flashes for half a second and disappears.
He nods once.
And we move.
We move in a stagger, using the racks as cover, cutting across intersections only when the camera sweeps away.
The warehouse feels tighter now. We know there are people in here, but we don’t know where or how many.
We reach the edge of the pallet section again and stop in the shadow behind the tall stack we used before.
The three target pallets are still there. The fixed camera is still pointed straight at them like an eye that doesn’t blink.
I lean in close to Vito’s ear.
“We don’t touch the pallets until that camera is blind,” I whisper.
Vito’s jaw ticks.
“How,” he whispers back.
I tilt my chin up.
Catwalk. Metal stairs. The maintenance platform running along the upper wall.
Vito follows my gaze, then looks at the pallets again like he wants to rip them off the floor with his bare hands.
“Up and over,” I whisper. “You go first. Quiet.”
He gives me a look like he hates being told, then nods once.
We slip along the base of the racks toward the stairs, keeping the metal uprights between us and the camera’s line as long as we can.
The scrape happens again somewhere behind us.
Closer.
We both freeze and listen.
There’s a low voice that dies.
They’re moving again.
I exhale slowly through my nose and keep us going, one step at a time, not letting the urgency turn into noise.
We reach the first stair.
Vito tests it with the ball of his foot.
No squeak.
He starts up, careful, and I follow, hand on the rail only when I have to.
Halfway up, he pauses and looks down at me.
“What’s the plan once it’s blind?” he mouths.
I keep my voice in a whisper. “Back down. Jack it. Drag it behind the racks. Out the service gate. One pallet at a time.”
Vito’s expression says that pace is going to drive him insane.
He keeps climbing anyway.
We hit the platform.
The metal grating under our feet is cold and dusty, and the whole thing feels like it wants to rattle if we put a foot wrong.
I crouch immediately.
Vito crouches beside me, eyes on the camera below.
From up here, I can see the cable run.
A clean install. No slack. No easy mistakes.
Which means we make our own.
I pull my blade out again and slide it under the zip ties, cutting them slowly, catching the loose ends so they don’t snap and flick.
Vito watches my hands like it’s torture.
I peel the cable just enough to expose the line.
One clean cut.
The camera below goes dark.
The little red indicator dies with it.
Vito’s grin flashes again.
“Go,” he mouths.
We move back to the stairs.
And somewhere below us, that pallet jack squeaks again—close enough that my pulse spikes.
Vito starts down anyway. Too fast.
“Slow,” I hiss.
He ignores me.
He drops the last few steps like he’s made of springs, boots hitting concrete with a soft thud that still feels too loud to me.
“Vito,” I whisper, urgency turning hot.
He’s already moving toward the pallets.
I’m down a second after him, landing light, but my heart is already hammering because he’s moving like we’re home free.
Vito reaches the first pallet jack, grabs the handle, and pulls slowly.
The wheels squeal.
Just once.
But it’s enough.
I feel it in my bones—sound carries in a warehouse.
“Not that one,” I snap quietly.
Vito freezes for half a second, eyes cutting to me like he’s deciding whether he’s going to listen.
He does.
Barely.
He lets the handle ease back down and slides his grip to the second pallet jack—newer wheels, less grit, less scream.
“Better?” he mouths.
“Better,” I mouth back. “Now lift before you pull.”
He jacks the forks up a fraction, moving slowly. The hydraulics give a soft sigh instead of a squeal.
I glance down the aisle.
Nothing.
“Go,” I mouth.
Vito pulls the jack back a foot, slow and controlled, which isn’t a pace he can sustain for long.
The pallet shifts with a soft scrape.
My teeth grind.
I move to the second pallet, hands on the cardboard sleeve, keeping it from rattling as the load settles.
“Angle it,” I whisper.
Vito adjusts.
We start backing the first pallet out of the cluster, inch by inch, keeping it tight to the stack so it stays out of the main sightline.
I glance up at the dead camera.
Still dark.
Together, we get the pallet out the door and through the fence.
“Let’s stash it out here somewhere,” I whisper. “We’ll get the other two out first, then bring the van.”
Vito nods once, scanning the alley.
We muscle the pallet jack behind the neighboring building’s brick wall, into the dead corner where the dumpsters block the sightline from the street. I slide a torn tarp over the top and press it down, flattening it like it’s trash.
“Good?” Vito whispers.
“Good enough,” I whisper back. “Now move.”
We slip back through the service gate and pull it shut behind us again, leaving it sitting the same way it was.
By the time we have the second pallet sitting next to the first under the tarp, I’m cursing whoever the fuck’s idea this was.
There are a million things I could be doing that aren’t sneaking through some rat-infested, dusty ass warehouse.
I could be home, watching Erica squirm against the restraints that keep her exactly where I want her, while I decide whether I’m going to let her come tonight or keep her on edge until tomorrow, too. Throw her in the deep end and watch her swim.
I cut off the thought. Thoughts of Erica don't belong on this job. She's too pure, too clean, too good for this dump.
Vito wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of a gloved hand, breathing heavy.
“Last one,” he whispers, sounding annoyed and over it.
We move back along the brick and to the service gate. We slip through, pulling the pallet jack.
I pause just long enough to listen.
Nothing obvious.
Vito leans in, impatient. “Come on.”
Once again, we drag the pallet jack back. I keep watch while Vito slides the forks under the third pallet and starts pumping the handle.
Once. Twice.
On the third pump, the handle gives a sudden, ugly jerk as if it hit a dead stop.
Vito stills.
He tries again.
The hydraulic lever goes slack under his hand, and the pallet doesn’t lift. The forks don’t move. Nothing.
“What the fuck,” he whispers, furious.
I look over and crouch, fingers going to the base. There’s a wet sheen under the cylinder. Hydraulic fluid.
Great.
Vito pumps again out of sheer spite, and the jack answers with a soft, pathetic hiss, then a sharp little spit of fluid that glints in the strip light.
The forks sag a fraction and drop back down with a quiet clunk that feels way too loud in here.
Vito’s eyes cut to me.
I hold up my hand. Stop. Listen.
Because now we have a problem.
Vito points to the first pallet jack we didn’t take.
I shake my head. He nods.
I shake my head again.
Too loud, I mouth.
We’ll run, he mouths back and uses two fingers to indicate running.
“We still have to load the pallets into the van,” I snap quietly. “We can’t run.”
Vito’s eyes narrow like he hates that I’m right.
“Stay here,” he says. “I’ll go find another one.”
“Vito, no,” I hiss, but he’s already slipped down another aisle, gone.
He disappears like a shadow, and the second he’s out of my sight, the warehouse feels twice as big.
My teeth grind.
“Fucking—” I bite it off before it becomes loud.
I slide closer to the pallet, hand on the cardboard sleeve, eyes sweeping the aisles the way I was taught to. The busted jack sits there like a dead animal, fluid glistening under it.
I hold still and listen hard.
A soft scrape answers from somewhere to my left.
I shift my weight slowly, easing my hand off the sleeve.
Could be rats.
Could be my idiot brother, but he’s never been that quiet in his life.
I reach under my shirt and pull my gun.
I angle my head to see down the nearest aisle; nothing there.
There’s another shuffling sound, and another.
Two different directions.
Fuck.
I turn at the faint shift of air behind me—
Just as a steel pipe swings at my face.