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 areprinted 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.
