Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
He released me to open the door, but the darkness in his eyes dared me to try to resist again. Or even so much as hesitate.
So I did what I had to do.
I walked outside.
Marco loomed behind me.
Seeing us approach, the other men fell silent.
“Good news, guys,” Marco called, his voice making my shoulders inch up to my ears. “You get to kick back. Rue here is gonna unload the shit tonight.”
My heart stuttered, then seemed to freeze in my chest.
They wanted me to touch the cargo?
“Get to work. We got places to be,” Marco said, giving me a slight shove.
“I don’t—” I started to object.
“Move the fucking shit. Out of the truck. Into the SUVs. Ain’t fucking rocket science. Get the fuck moving.”
There were half a dozen men standing around, each and every one of them larger than me.
I had no choice.
I moved toward the back of the truck, stepping up on the half-raised lift gate, then moving into the back.
It was hot and humid inside as I went over to the boxes to remove the plants—some in pots, others just wrapped bare roots. I went to the edge of the truck and carefully dropped them onto the grass to the side of the truck.
Back and forth, over and over.
The adrenaline fought through the fog I’d been living in, allowing me to keep going, keep shuffling boxes, and moving plants.
“Ain’t got all night,” Marco called. “Fuck, go make me a coffee,” he said to someone else. Then, again to me, “The fuck?”
“I can’t lift them,” I admitted after trying for the third time.
Marco moved into the opening, the moon overhead casting him mostly in shadow, giving him an even more sinister look.
“No? Then I guess you’re gonna have to take them out and carry them one by one then.”
As he turned to talk to one of his men, I saw metal glint off the moonlight. He had a gun in the waistband of his jeans.
He was not going to let me screw around for much longer.
I had to touch the contraband.
The guns.
I had to touch the guns.
There was no way he was going to let me get gloves first. And I had no sleeves to pull down over my hands.
I was going to leave fingerprints.
Fingerprints on illegal guns.
If these guns ended up found after some sort of crime, the police would find my prints on them.
My stomach wobbled as I tried to find a way to gather them without leaving a direct imprint on the shiny metal.
I pinched with my fingertips when I could, grabbing the attached material straps on the big guns that I’d only ever seen in action movies before.
I did one trip to the SUV, eyes peeled on the road, terrified that someone might pass by and see me openly handling weapons.
Yes, this was Florida. But still. I would find it odd to see someone carrying armfuls of guns in the dark of night. Maybe enough even to call the non-emergency police line.
I dumped two loads into one SUV until one of the men slammed the trunk behind me, making me jump.
The next SUV wasn’t as clean as the first.
I lucked out by finding several long store receipts. I tucked them into my pockets then used them to pick up the rest of the guns for the remaining trips.
As I passed, the men leered, laughed, said things about how Marco and the rest of them could punish me for not behaving.
The worst part?
Marco laughed.
My stomach lurched.
My mind, no longer sluggish, raced with ways to avoid an assault. I remembered one woman saying to act crazy. Though, I didn’t imagine that would stop this crew. Another said to be disgusting. Throw up, pee yourself. With the way the bile was rising up my throat, I was pretty sure I could manage that.
I could try to run.
Get in my car.
Lock myself in Traeger’s shed.
But how would that help?
They would know right where to find me.
They would be back in a month.
I was so lost in my horrible thoughts that I didn’t realize I’d moved the last of the guns until I went back into the truck to find all the boxes empty.
I wasn’t sure what to do then.
So I hopped down and gathered as many of my plants as I could at once, clutching them to my chest, breathing in the earthy scent of the dirt.
“That’s it,” I said to Marco, then turned and walked toward my greenhouse on shaky legs.
I wasn’t sure I breathed again until I heard the truck door slam, then car doors followed, and, finally, engines roared to life.
I turned, watching the head and tail lights.
But still I didn’t move.
Not for what felt like an hour.
Only then did I put down the plants, deciding they would just have to wait until the following day to get taken care of, and made my way back toward the shop.