“And I do my little turn on the catwalk,” Jack said.
The proverbial catwalk that overlooked a warehouse full of stolen goods, up high near the ceiling. On the floor below, metal crates were spread out in a haphazard pattern, and unless he missed his guess, each one was filled with loot.
Venturing a glance over the railing offered him a glimpse of men in dark flannel shirts moving among the crates. He counted half a dozen, and at least three of them were carrying pistols.
Biting his lower lip, Jack looked around. He felt his eyebrows shoot up. “Well, the décor needs some work,” he whispered. “But it"s doable. Throw up a few paintings and call it home.”
He crouched low on the catwalk with a pistol in hand, creeping along until he was nearly halfway across. “Still with me back there?” he
