The maintenance door was exactly where I expected it to be.
I picked the lock in under thirty seconds, slipped inside, and closed the door behind me. The warehouse was dark, lit only by dim overhead lights and the glow of emergency exits. Rows of shipping containers stretched out in front of me, stacked high, casting long shadows.
I moved quickly, staying low, keeping to the shadows.
Bay 4 was at the far end of the warehouse. I counted the rows as I passed, first, second, third and then I saw it.
The container.
It was sealed with a customs lock, bright red tape wrapped around the doors.
I pulled out my tools and got to work.
The lock came off easily. Too easily. Someone had already tampered with it.
I froze.
Shit.
I scanned the area, my hand instinctively moving to my gun. The warehouse was silent except for the distant hum of machinery and the occasional echo of footsteps from the far end.
I opened the container door slowly, just a crack, and peered inside.
Empty.
