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.
