12:55 AM
The floodlights blaze like artificial suns, illuminating the inspection area in harsh white light. This isn't the shadowy operation I imagined.
"What the hell?" I whisper. "Your contact said minimal security."
Ricky squints against the brightness. "Maybe this is minimal for them? Port Authority's been upgrading since that cocaine shipment they found last month."
The container yard stretches before us, bathed in industrial light that eliminates most shadows. Each container sits in neat rows, tagged and documented. Container B-47 waits about forty yards away, prominently positioned under the brightest light.
"We're exposed out there," I mutter. "Like actors on a stage."
"Night security makes one round every hour," Ricky insists. "We've got time."
Between us and the container stands another fence, eight feet high with no convenient pre-cut section. The bolt cutters come out again, and I work the jaws around the chain links. The metal resists more than expected.
"Hurry up," Ricky hisses, scanning the area.
"I'm trying."
Each squeeze of the cutters produces a metallic snap that seems to echo across the entire port. Seven links later, I've created an opening barely wide enough to squeeze through. The fence springs back, catching my jacket and tearing the pocket.
"Mierda," I curse, extracting myself.
We sprint across the open ground to container B-47. The massive steel box looms above us, dwarfing our figures. The inspection tag confirms it arrived three days ago from Japan, contents listed as "Electronic Equipment."
The lock stops me cold. Not the simple padlock I expected, but an industrial-grade shipping lock - a massive cylinder of hardened steel thicker than my wrist.
"You gotta be kidding me."
Ricky examines it. "Can your cutters handle this?"
I position the bolt cutters around the lock's shackle and squeeze with all my strength. The handles flex but the lock holds firm. I try again, straining until my arms shake.
"Come on," Ricky urges, nervously checking over his shoulder.
"It's... too... thick..." I gasp between attempts.
On the fourth try, the cutters bite slightly into the metal. On the seventh, they penetrate halfway. My palms blister as I squeeze the handles with everything I have.
The lock finally gives way with a CRACK that sounds like a gunshot in the silent night. We both freeze, certain that someone must have heard.
"Move," I whisper after ten agonizing seconds of silence.
Ricky helps me slide the container door open. It grinds on its rails, every inch a metallic announcement of our presence. We slip inside and pull the door mostly closed behind us, leaving just enough space for dim light to enter.
"Holy shit," Ricky breathes.
The container is packed with identical cardboard boxes, each bearing the SONY logo and labeled "BETAMAX SL-7200." Row after row, stacked six high and reaching to the back of the container.
"What are they?" Ricky asks, running his fingers over the glossy product photo on one box.
"Video recorders. Like TV recording machines. Must be top-of-the-line stuff, if I remember correctly." I lift one box, testing its weight. About thirty pounds, bulky and awkward.
My mind races through quick calculations. These units retail for at least $800 each. Even selling them through a fence at discount, we're looking at $500 per unit. The container holds maybe two hundred units.
"We're rich," Ricky whispers, his eyes wide.
"Not exactly." I look at our two pairs of hands, the distance to the truck. "We can only take what we can carry. And we need to move fast."
Reality sinks in. No hand trucks, no dolly, just us manually hauling boxes across an exposed yard, through a fence, and to our distant truck.
"Four boxes," I decide. "That's all we can manage in one trip. Two for you, two for me."
"That's still good money, right?"
"About $2,000 for one run to truck."
Ricky's face lights up.
We stack boxes near the door, preparing for the dash back to the fence. Sweat soaks my shirt despite the cool night air.
"Ready?" I ask, positioning myself to grab the first box.
"Ready."
The beam of light sweeps across the container yard without warning.
"Down!" I hiss, dropping to my knees.
Too late. The flashlight catches us in its glare, two figures frozen beside an open container with stolen merchandise stacked between them.
"Hey! Who's there?" The guard's voice carries across the yard, followed by the crackle of a radio. "Control, I've got intruders at Secondary Inspection C, requesting backup."
"Shit!" Ricky's face drains of color.
The guard starts moving toward us, flashlight beam bouncing with each step. His hand moves to his hip, reaching for a weapon.
No time to think. My fingers dive into my pocket, pulling out a stack of singles. Twenty of them, folded together. I focus hard on the moment twenty seconds ago, just before the flashlight appeared.
The world blurs, time unwinding like film running backward through a projector. The guard retreats, his flashlight beam withdrawing. Ricky rises back to his feet beside me. The familiar disorientation hits as time stabilizes again.
"Get down," I whisper urgently, grabbing Ricky's arm and pulling him behind the container door before he can question why.
"What—"
"Shhh. Guard coming."
Three seconds later, the flashlight beam sweeps across the yard where we had been standing. From our hiding spot behind the partially open container door, we watch the guard pause, shine his light in our direction, then continue his patrol.
"How did you know?" Ricky whispers, his eyes wide.
"Saw the reflection on the container next to us," I lie, my heart still pounding. "Always watch for reflections."
The guard completes his sweep and moves toward the administrative building, radio crackling with static. Once he's out of sight, we emerge from our hiding place.
"That was too close," Ricky mutters.
I check my pocket. Only $92 left after burning $20 for the rewind. Less cushion than I'd like for what's still ahead.
"Let's move fast," I say, grabbing two boxes and stacking them in my arms. "We won't get another warning."
Ricky nods, loading up his share of the merchandise. The boxes feel even heavier now, awkward against my chest as we move toward the fence.
Each step across the illuminated yard feels eternal, my back muscles screaming under the weight. The distance to the fence seems to have doubled since we arrived.
The night is only half over, and we're already skating on the thinnest ice. But the promise of $2,000 keeps us moving forward, one careful step at a time.