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I charge him, knocking his heavy frame to the floor, his baseball cap flying off his head.
“Just look in the crate!” Sean hollers.
I don’t look at him. I bury my fist in Jack’s ribs before striking his face. Once I look in the crate, there’s no going back. I just know it.
In some fucking karate style move, Jack pulls my arm, bringing me closer to him. He lifts one leg, swinging it over my head, and rolls me to the floor. I’m unable to move, pinned down by his long limbs. He elbows me in the ribs, then squeezes me tighter.
My chest rises and falls rapidly, my lips parted as I spit my blood to the floor.
“Just look in the crate you stubborn prick,” Jack says.
I move to get free, kicking my legs out in hope I connect with Jack. I don’t. “Get the fuck off me!”
“You need to look!” Jack fires back.
“Why?!”
My shout silences him. He’s still pulling me, holding me in place when I hear him take a breath. “Because… because I fuckin’ need you!” I still. “You hear me! I can’t stop this without you!”
“You’ve done a pretty good job of finding out everything you have so far without me. Why now?”
Jack lets me go, and I jump to my feet. I turn, desperately wanting to hit him again. I raise my fist, but he doesn’t get up.
He lets out his breath, his head falling back to the floor. “Ineed to get on the inside, find where they’re collecting people.”
I frown, lowering my fist slightly.
“We can’t pinpoint where the next shipment will leave from.”
Jack then rolls with a grunt, moving to push himself off the floor.
I spit my mouthful of blood on the ground.
“No two runs leave from the exact same location,” he continues. “It’s how they stay hidden. We got lucky with the first one, ASIS knew he would set up there, but since the fuck up with trying to pick it up, we have no idea where the next one will come in. More and more of what’s in there,” he points to the crate I’m still yet to look in, “will keep showing up.”
“And the only way you getyourguy is to put an end to this?”
Jack’s eyebrows lower. I can see the vein pulsing in his neck. “This,” he says, striding to the crate and flipping off the top. “This is what happens to the ones who don’t get sold or get sick in transport.”
I eventually make my way over to him. The smell hits harder the closer I get. Peering inside the crate, anger pulses through my veins. I have to swallow my frustrations, try to tame the tumour of resentment growing inside. “Why’s she like that?” I ask, forcing the words out.
The girl’s body lays at an odd angle, her features sunken into her skin. Her wet, tangled hair trails over her face to her eyes that are stuck half open. The coldest of shivers traces down my spine. It’s as if her ghost itself knows I’m here, staring at her corpse.
Sudden flashes of Lauren and my child crash through my mind. This is someone’s daughter. Someone’s sister.
The familiar tightening of what was no doubt an anxiety attack, rises to my chest. I look away, stepping back, subtly trying to draw some fucking oxygen into my lungs.
Breathe, Dean. You fucking idiot, breathe.
“When a person is found to have lied about their physical state,” Jack starts, “or gets taken ill or dies in transport, they’re no longer viable to the buyer. It’s not as common in the UK, but this isn’t the first body we’ve come across like this since Costa set up camp here. The first was a young fella, late teens. This girl we think is roughly the same age.”
“Does she have a family?” I ask quickly.
Jack looks at me. “A missing person’s report was filed. The mother may have filed it.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I shake my head, unsure whether I’m hearing Jack right. “Then tell me, why is she rotting in a crate and not being sent home to be buried?” I suck in harsh breaths through my nose.
“We can’t get involved.”
