My shoes hit the pavement without the usual crunch or scrape. I place my feet deliberately.
Vito gets out on his side and mirrors me.
We move down the block on the side with the most cover. A row of parked cars. A dumpster. A fenced-in storage area with stacked pallets.
We cut through the space between buildings, where the smell changes from sun-baked asphalt to old garbage and motor oil.
Vito pulls a set of black gloves out of his pocket and tugs them on as we walk. I already have mine on.
I keep my shoulders loose and my head up, like I’m just another guy walking down an alley.
But my eyes are working.
Cameras. Angles. Blind spots.
I saw the fixed camera at the front gate. I didn’t see what’s on the side.
That doesn’t mean it isn’t there.
We reach the fence line behind the warehouse, where the slats don’t run all the way around.
The rear is more utilitarian. Less polished. Still protected.
There’s another camera here, mounted high on the corner. It points down toward the back door and the loading ramp.
I nod once at it.
Vito follows my gaze.
“So?” he whispers.
“So we don’t go in that way.”
He exhales hard through his nose, irritated.
“No shit.”
I ignore him.
We move along the fence until we find the service access, where the chain-link meets an old brick wall that belongs to the neighboring building.
A narrow gap in a dead corner. No camera.
At least none I can see.
I crouch and test the lock on the service gate.
It’s newer than the fence, but not one of the new ones in the crates we’re here for.
I glance up, and Vito is already pulling out a small pouch of tools.
I keep my body between him and the alley, back to the wall, eyes on the corner and the rooftop line above us. Ears open. Every distant car door, every muffled voice, every footstep that doesn’t belong.
The pick clicks once.
Twice.
The lock gives with a soft, satisfying snap.
