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.
