[Ethan's POV]
The smuggler's van smelled of diesel fumes, wet dog, and old garlic.
We were crammed in the back of a rusted Ford Transit, bouncing over the pothole-ridden backroads of northern Romania, heading toward the Ukrainian border. The driver was a contact of Claire's—a black-market courier who moved untaxed pharmaceuticals and didn't ask questions as long as the euros were real.
Rainwater dripped steadily from the ceiling of the van every time we hit a bump, splashing onto the stained rubber floor beneath our boots. The suspension groaned like it was seconds away from snapping in half, and every sharp turn made the crates of medicine shift dangerously against the metal walls. Somewhere near the front cabin, an old Romanian folk song crackled faintly through a dying radio speaker.
I sat on a crate of antibiotics, my Glock resting on my thigh, watching the dark tree line roll past the mud-splattered windows.
