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It’s possible the Russians are leading the cops off course by heading to different locations.
It’s also possible I jumped the gun.
Only one way to find out.
After making sure the security cameras are all facing front, I stuff the scope into my pocket and push silently up to my feet. The two grunts groan, waddling towards the garage with the barrel between them, as dim lights on the side of the warehouse illuminate their silhouettes. Now’s the time.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I sprint to the far side of the garage, near a forklift and crooked slabs of concrete.
“Biting cold, tonight, eh?”The grunt backing toward the garage says.
“When did you become bitch boy? Too many trips to Florida for you.”The other slaps the barrel, and they both cackle, giving me the noise I need to make my next move.
As the grunt facing the garage walks right into the dim spotlight, I pivot from outside gravel to concrete floor.
There’s no one else in the garage, but the overhead light will make it difficult to stay hidden. The walls are tin and echoey, and the grunts are coming closer.
Shit.
I scan everywhere. Changing rooms now is dangerous. I’m not sure if there are any other guards or cameras beyond the doorway.
“Ah, almost there. Last one for tonight, yeah?”
“Da, bitch boy. No more precious metals for the gold guinea. Italian prick.”
“That Italian prick doubled our pay in one year,”the other says.
“And double work.”The other scoffs.
“Now who is being bitch boy? I like that Castor man. Big gold balls.”
I grit my teeth as the voices come closer.
Fuck it.
I rush for the door and silently turn the knob. It’s unlocked, which makes me think others are inside, so I draw my pistol and swiftly scan the next room.
Right side clear. Left side… clear.
“Let’s drop it over there.”
The voices at my back make my entire body momentarily numb. There’s a second of doubt—that they’ve seen me, that I’d have to fight for my life in the middle of a Russian warehouse.
Shit.
My breath hitches as the footsteps grow closer.
Whoosh.
I shut the door quietly a moment before I hear the grunts’ footsteps echoing in the garage.Too close,I tell myself while making my way over the wood floor office.
My paranoia is really getting the better of me.
Is this what retirement does?
Recalling the blueprint by memory, I know down the hall and to the right is the next entrance to the warehouse area—the big space—where any live cargo is undoubtedly kept.