Page 21 of Code Name: Grit

“One hour,” he said firmly. “Then we meet back at the main terminal building.”

I wandered through the eastern cargo section, where the high-security containers were located, documenting camera blind spots and mapping personnel access points. I quickly recognized the specific area Cassio had shown interest in.

The containers themselves revealed nothing unusual—standard shipping manifests listing electronics and machine parts. But something about the paperwork caught my eye. The documented weight distribution indicated contents far heavier than the electronic components listed on the manifest.

I snapped discreet photos with my phone, making mental notes of the discrepancies. As I rounded the corner of a stack of containers, voices drifted toward me. I pressed myself closer to the metal wall, straining to listen.

As I studied the manifest further, I noticed another anomaly—the security protocols for these containers were military-grade, far beyond what would be typical even for high-value contraband.

Dragon’s voice came through my earpiece: “I’m detecting encrypted communications again. Same pattern as before, but stronger. Someone’s coordinating multiple teams across different frequencies.”

“Can you identify the source?” I whispered.

“Negative. But I’ll tell you this much; someone with serious resources is involved.”

Her words nagged at me—what if this wasn’t just about territory? What if Cassio was engaged in something more complex than simple expansion?

“Special cargo arrives tomorrow night,” I heard one man say. The voice was unfamiliar, and he hadn’t spoken enough for me to discern his accent.

“Cassio wants extra security. No mistakes this time.” This voice, I recognized—Marco Venutti. “The customs officials are taken care of?”

“Of course. But we have another problem. Someone’s been sniffing around,” said yet another man.

“Not just here,” the first voice added. “They’ve been poking around the restaurants in Little Italy too. And there was someone watching the club in Queens last night.”

“We’re aware,” Marco replied. “Mr. Belcastro has instructed us to tighten security across all operations.”

I held my breath, trying to hear more, but a forklift rumbled to life nearby, drowning out their conversation. By the time the noise subsided, they had moved on.

I checked my watch—still fifteen minutes before I was due to meet Grit.

A warehouse door stood ajar at the far end of the section. Against my better judgment, I approached, peering inside. Checking the manifests of one container, I saw the space was a temporary storage area for processed shipments awaiting customs clearance.

One cargo-holding box, bearing different documentation, sat apart from the others. I snapped a photo, then froze as I heard footsteps approaching.

I ducked behind a stack of pallets, heart pounding as two security guards walked past, deep in conversation about shift changes. Once they were gone, I slipped out to the main terminal area.

On my way to the meeting spot, I noticed a small office where a terminal supervisor was talking with a man I recognized from surveillance photos as another of the Belcastros’ capos. They were reviewing paperwork they’d pulled from a folder sitting on the desk. As they shifted the papers, I caught a glimpse of what appeared to be customs-clearance documents with expedited processing stamps. The kind that would normally require high-level government connections or substantial bribes. The Belcastros’ network of corruption clearly extended beyond local authorities.

When I arrived twenty minutes later, Grit was waiting at our rendezvous point, tension evident in the set of his shoulders.

“You’re late,” he snapped as I approached.

“Only by a few minutes,” I countered.

“What did you find?” His tone softened, but the scowl on his face remained.

“Weight discrepancies in the manifests for containers in section E-7 and nonstandard security seals on a container in the processing warehouse. Also, I overheard Marco talking about security concerns across multiple Belcastro operations—not just here, but in Little Italy and Queens too.”

He nodded, his expression grim as his eyes scanned the docks. “We’re being watched. Three o’clock, by the forklift,” he said, leaning closer.

I didn’t turn my head. “How long?”

“Since I arrived. Act natural.”

I moved into his personal space as if we shared the easy intimacy of long-term partners, leaning into his side. “This natural enough for you?”

His eyes darkened. “More than.”

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