"—shipment arrives around midnight. We move them straight through, no stops. Boss wants them in Atlanta by dawn."
"What about the little one? She's been crying."
"So sedate her. I don't give a shit. Just get her quiet or she'll draw attention."
My blood runs cold.
Little one.
Crying.
Sedated like cargo.
I keep walking, force myself into the bathroom, grip the sink.
Breathe.
Focus.
Can't lose it here.
When I return to the table, Fenrir's eyes meet mine across the room.
He saw where I went.
Knows I was listening.
I give the slightest nod.
Confirming.
This is it.
These are our guys.
We have maybe thirty more minutes before it looks suspicious that we're still here.
Then the door to the back room opens.
A man emerges—older, hard-faced, walking with authority.
Behind him, being pulled by the arm, is a little girl.
Maybe six or seven years old at most.
Dark hair, tear-stained face, eyes wide with terror.
She's wearing pajamas.
Fucking pajamas with cartoon characters.
She stumbles, tries to pull away.
The man jerks her forward, hisses something I can't hear.
She whimpers, and everything in me goes cold.
Then hot.
