The drive to the drop point felt interminable, stretching on for twenty minutes. I kept my speed steady and my focus sharp on the road. I also scanned mirrors, side streets, and cars that hovered too long in a blind spot. If somebody was following me, they had to be damn near invisible.
Finally, I pulled up to the old brick building, with a faded Miller Hardware sign hanging askew above the entrance. The structure seemed to have weathered decades of neglect yet alsobore witness to countless secrets exchanged under the cover of darkness. An older man emerged from the shadows by the entrance, stepping into the weak glow of the flickering overhead light as if he had been waiting there all along.
He approached my window, the faint click of his boots on the concrete echoing in the stillness.
“Ajori?” It was the same way Drico had said it—infused with a seriousness that left no room for pleasantries.
I nodded once, keeping my face impassive.
With a brusque motion, he jerked his thumb toward another man standing at the entrance. This second figure tapped twice on the metal door beside him, causing it to lift open slowly, revealing the dim interior beyond.
“Pull in there,” the older one instructed.
I swallowed hard and drove forward.
The minute my tires rolled over the threshold, I panicked internally. I spotted at least six armed men scattered throughout the spacious area with guns hanging casually from their shoulders or resting comfortably in their hands, as if they were merely holding cell phones rather than signs of impending violence. Regardless, I kept my expression calm, exactly like Marcos told me.
Then my focus fell on the one guy who wasn’t armed. He appeared to be around my age. Dressed in a gray hooded sweatshirt, the light caught the chain around his neck, glinting like a warning. Something about his demeanor said he was the one everybody took orders from. With a languid grace, he pushed off the wall and sauntered toward me with the casual swagger of someone who was used to flirting as much as he was used to intimidation.
“So… you’re the new mule,” he drawled, a predatory grin spreading across his face as he approached my driver’s side.
Mule?
The word hit me so hard I swear my ancestors paused mid-blessing like, now wait a damn minute.
Oh my God!
And suddenly, every little “don’t ask questions” moments started lining up like evidence.
The routes.
The silence.
The money.
Everything slowed down for a second then sped right back up.
I’m really out here transporting drugs!
Yeah, I had my little hmm… this feel illegal moments. Of course I didn’t think I was delivering Girl Scout cookies to a different state. But hearing it out loud, from somebody I wasn’t even supposed to be having so much as a three-sentence conversation with made it real enough to punch the air out of my lungs.
Girl, you thought you was hustling; whole time you’ve been auditioning for jail.
I steadied myself, refusing to let my expressions betray my shock.
“Damn, you fine though. They don’t usually send pretty ones… notthispretty, at least.”
His eyes lingered on my mouth before slowly tracing back to my eyes.
“What’s yo’ name?”
I recalled Marcos’s exact warning, echoing in my mind.
No personal conversations.
Keeping my response clipped, I replied coolly, “That information isn’t relevant.”
He reared his head back, a bit stunned. “Oh, you one of those. Got a little attitude on you, huh?”
