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This time, I see the slight widening of Travis’ eyes as comprehension dawns. The lights lighting up the dock aren’t too bright, but they’re enough for him to read my expression.
One of Costa’s men moves to unlock the back of the lorry. It clanks open, and he pulls himself up. “One, two, three, four, five, six,” he says out loud. He then signals to Costa, giving him a thumbs up.
Even I can smell the hum of pigs. Or maybe that’s just on me? Costa’s men don’t seem to react as they offload the crates, systematically carrying them towards the boat.
With every crate that gets moved, a small weight lifts from my shoulders. I can feel myself moving beyond the fear.
“Can you smell shit?” The man who asked lifts his arm, sniffing his pits as he slams the door to the lorry closed.
I turn away from him so as not to draw any more attention, then step closer to Costa.
He holds his phone to his ear, turning to face me. He glances to Vincent stood alongside us, then to the tree line.
Fuck.
“Yeah. Understood.” He ends the call slipping his phone in his suit jacket. “Next shipment will be in two weeks.”
Me and Travis look to one another. “That’s sooner than planned,” I reply sceptically.
Costa rubs his chin with his palm. “What can I say. Business is booming.”
I glower at him. “I bet.”
Anger starts to surface when I think of the little boy now back at the farm. Of those less fortunate in this,business. Like the girl washed up along the shore, and the many more they’ve foundjust like her.
“Problem?” Costa holds his questioning gaze on mine.
Only that I plan on you being dead in about two minutes. I undo my top button, giving Jack my signal. “Two weeks is fine.”
Making my blood turn to ice, loud banging suddenly kicks from inside the last crate about to board the boat. The men drop it to the ground with a thud. The pig clearly destined on getting us all fucking killed, wakes up even quicker.
More banging.
One of Costa’s men double takes. The way he’s taking slow steps toward the boat, his head tilted to one side, he’s clearly wondering whether he’s going mad.
I look over Costa’s shoulder, seeing him attempt to look inside the crate.
“Uh, boss,” he says.
Costa turns his attention to his man.
Shit.
Like being taken to slaughter, a deathly squeal from one of the pigs then wails through the gap between us, and the man closest steps back. I don’t react, but the noise makes me fight the rising unease rushing to the surface.
Costa has a look of confusion on his face. He turns his head when another unquestionable scream rips through the air. Then his enraged gaze is back on me. Lifting his hand he then snaps his fingers, and Travis and I find ourselves staring down the barrels of two guns.
Motherfucker.
I hear my men move behind me, the sound of them stepping closer halting when I raise my hand.
“Did I just hear a fuckingpig?” Costa asks, confusion etched across his face as he looks between the two of us.
The heavy beat of my heart thrums in my ears, but I hear footsteps approaching behind me. “Pigs?” Vincent saysindifferently.
Costa frowns, and my stomach drops. “Plural?”
Vincent, the fucking idiot, realises his mistake. “I didn’t hear anything,” he says dismissively, trying to cover his tracks.
