He didn’t wait for Ralph to respond as he rushed from his hiding spot. Horace was fifty yards from the warehouse, yet covered the distance in no time, leaving the cameraman in his wake.
The reporter slowed to a crawl as he reached the lone window of the warehouse, not wanting to betray his ambush. The figures had turned on the lights inside, granting him ample ability to see the nefarious acts taking place within.
Horace looked on in puzzlement. A lone figure stood off in the counter, counting money, which looked promising. But the rest were sitting at a conference table dealing playing cards. Those at the table looked as though their only care in the world was the card game.
Perhaps they’re just passing time until it’s confirmed the money is all there?
Behind him, Horace heard the thunderous footsteps of Ralph barreling to catch up. He tried to signal to him to be quiet before they no—
“What’s that noise?” one of the figures at the table barked. The rest of their heads shot up towards the door.
Shit!
Horace turned to flee. And crashed right into Ralph, who was doing his best to slow himself down.
The two collapsed on top of each other. Hands helped them back to their feet.
“What the hell are you doing here?” one of the men demanded.
Horace felt the best course of action was not to let on how terrified he was, despite how much his knees were betraying him. The hope was that they’d pick up on his confidence, which might deter them from harming him. “I can ask you the same thing!” he said as boldly as he could.
“Wait a minute,” one of them said, stepping closer to study him. “I know you!”
“Damn right you do,” Horace snarled, not holding back on any of the false bravado. “Horace Husk, with The Post!”
“No kidding,” another one of them said, sounding impressed. “My brother works there, maybe you know—”
“Never mind this six degrees of separation,” Horace cut him off. “You gentlemen have a lot explaining to do about what’s going on in there,” he said, waggling his finger at the warehouse.
The six men turned in unison to look at the warehouse, before staring at him with a dumbfounded look. They couldn’t have choreographed their actions more perfectly.
“Our monthly poker game?” one of them finally offered.
“Monthly poker…No!” Horace yelled as he pulled the page he had stolen from Ryan’s notepad out of his pocket and waved it at all of them. “I’m talking about your human trafficking operation!”
If Horace had been wearing a look of triumph, it vanished as soon as the six men stared into the warehouse again and turned back to him with another shared look of confusion. Their ignorance looked too genuine to be fake.
“You gentlemen aren’t running a human traffic…”
But he couldn’t finish the inquiry as another question demanded to be asked.
Where’s Ryan?