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.
