At another location a couple of miles away from 2Chin's warehouse, a truck carrying a large container rumbled along the bridge, its tires vibrating against the rough asphalt. The driver, a tall, skinny man with a greasy mullet, was sweating profusely as he navigated through the evening traffic. He kept glancing nervously in the rearview mirror, his eyes darting back and forth as if he expected to see something lurking behind him.
"Relax, man," said the passenger, a burly man with a thick beard and a faded denim jacket. "2Chin said the cops are all on his payroll. They ain't gonna give us no trouble."
The driver let out a shaky sigh. "I hope you're right, man. I ain't never done nothing like this before. Skin trade ain't exactly my thing."
"Shut the fuck up and keep driving," the passenger growled, clearly getting fed up with the driver's nervous chatter. "You want to get paid or not?"
