Hans slows as he pulls the truck off the road to the right, then turns the wheel and makes a U-turn before backing the truck up to the gate.
He puts the truck in park, then turns toward me.
His eyes bore into mine. The night’s darkness hides the color but not the intensity.
I think he might say something, but instead, he grips my face and presses his lips firmly against mine.
“I’ll be five seconds.”
Then he’s out of the truck.
Twisting, I watch him run the few steps to the tailgate and yank it down. He slaps something I can’t see, and the cover on the bed retracts, swiftly rolling up and disappearing into another hidden compartment.
Hans grips the end of the body bag and drags it to him, then hoists it onto his shoulder like it’s a bag of pet food and not an entire man.
Without ceremony, Hans turns and practically throws the body over the locked gate. Then he slams the tailgate shut and rushes back to the driver’s seat.
Unlike the drive out here, Hans doesn’t drive at a sedate pace. He speeds back down the gravel road, causing plumes of dust to follow us.
He hardly slows when we reach the main road, but he doesn’t lose control on the turn, and when the tires catch on the smooth pavement, he floors it.
