The van turns again, and I let my body roll with it, using the movement to shift closer to the wheel well. There is a tear in the rubber mat near my fingers. Something sharp beneath it. Not enough to cut the tie yet, but enough to remember.
I count turns.
Left out of the garage. Hard right. Straight for maybe two minutes, maybe three. Stop and go traffic. Horns. A bus braking too close. Then faster roads, smoother pavement, no more dense downtown echo. I hear an airplane overhead once, loud enough to shake the roof. Then another. MIA flight path. Could be near the airport, could be west, could be half of damn Miami because this city loves putting planes over everybody’s secrets.
I force myself to breathe slower.
Think like Shady.
The thought almost breaks me. Because I can see him too clearly. Ice-blue eyes going flat. Smart mouth calm. Body bleeding and refusing to care. He will look at roads before feelings. Cameras before grief. Tire marks before prayers.
Road captain.
He will give Diablo routes. I know that because I understand the shape of him. Shady doesn’t panic like normal men. He turns fear into direction.
So I do the same.
I listen.
Traffic fades. The van slows over rougher pavement. Industrial. Maybe warehouse district. Maybe Allapattah. Maybe near the river. Something metallic clangs outside. A train horn cries in the distance, low and long. Not close enough to shake the van, but close enough to mark the air. Then a smell creeps in through the vents.
Not ocean.
Not downtown exhaust.
Sugar.
Rotting fruit.
Diesel.
Flowers.
My heart knocks once, hard.
I know that smell.
Miami has places where pretty things come in boxes before people pay too much money to pretend they grew romance themselves. Flower markets. Produce warehouses. Cold rooms. Trucks idling at stupid hours. Men moving pallets before sunrise. I know because the men in my family moved pallets and unloaded trucks for money under tables.
The van stops.
The engine dies.
For one heartbeat, everything is silent.
Then the back doors open, and daylight stabs me in the face.
I squint against it, trying to see past the shapes of men. Four of them. Maybe five. Boca near the doors. Another with a bandana over his hair and a pistol tucked into his waistband. The driver has a scar down one side of his neck and a Miami Mutherfukers patch half-hidden beneath an open work shirt, like he wants to deny it until he wants me to see it.
Shady was right.
Not Carmen.
At least not only Carmen.
Boca grabs my ankles while another man catches my arms, and they drag me out of the van. My shoulder screams when they don’t let me get my feet under me. I hit hot pavement on my knees, and the skin tears through my jeans.
This time I do make a sound.
