"How many passports?" I asked.
"Twenty-six," Enzi said low.
"Real or altered?"
"Altered."
I exhaled slow. "Diamonds?" I asked.
He hesitated. "Two velvet bags."
That wasn't an answer. "How many carats?"
"Enough."
I studied his face. Sweat was sitting at his temples. Eyes darting. Jaw tight. "You packed it yourself?" I asked. He nodded.
"What you thinking bout?" Juste questioned, glancing over at me. I took in my thoughts. The room felt tight. Brick walls sweating from humidity. Smoke hanging low like it didn'twant to move. The back of Velvet always did that, compressed everything. Sound, air, and Thoughts.
"This just don't feel like a sweet lick them Haitians lucked up on," I said finally.
"I know Ju, but them niggas slimy they prowl the streets lookin for they next victim," Noles added.
"True," I said. "But at the same time. This nigga make this trip often. No hiccups. Always smooth as planned. This just feel set up." I looked at Enzi. "Who knew what you was transporting?"
"Shit me and Abdul far as I know. The same as always," he answered. I watched his face when he said it. People tell on themselves in the small ways. Eyes shifting. Shoulders tightening. Voice dropping half a notch.
"Far as you know ain't good enough," I said.
Pierre tapped the bar with two fingers, impatient. "You think somebody close?"
"I think consistency breeds comfort," I said. "Comfort breeds carelessness."
"That ain't answer the question," Noles muttered.
"It does."
I stepped closer to Enzi. "You text details?" I asked.
"No."
"Call from the airport?"
"Yeah."
"Speaker?"
He hesitated. "Sometimes." I exhaled slow.
There it was. Speaker calls in public terminals. Voices carry. Information floats. You don't even gotta be sloppy. Just loud enough. "You ever consider somebody overheard?" I asked.
He frowned. "Man that airport be loud as hell."
"So is prison," I said flatly. "And niggas still hear everything." That shut him up. Nothing is private. You whisper, and somebody lean in. You think you alone, somebody watching. You assume loyalty, somebody calculating. That's why this didn't feel random to me. It felt observed. Like somebody waited for the pattern to become predictable.
"You think they was tracking him?" Pierre asked.
"Maybe not tracking," I said. "Maybe listening." The room went quiet again. You could feel the shift. Listening mean proximity. Proximity mean access. Access mean vulnerability. I rubbed my jaw once, slow. The air felt thinner by the minute. I glanced toward the door like I needed space.