The car moved with a sickeningly smooth efficiency, a black capsule of dread melting into the city's indifferent traffic. Inside, the air was thick and claustrophobic, heavy with the scent of cheap pine air freshener, fear-sweat, and the cold, metallic tang of the guns pointed at them. The windows were so darkly tinted that the morning sun was reduced to a dull, grey light, smearing the passing world into an unrecognizable blur.
The man sitting directly behind Franz, John, was visibly trembling. He fumbled in his jacket for his own pack of cigarettes, his movements jerky and uncoordinated.
"Fuck, man," he whispered, his voice a ragged, panicked thing as he lit his cigarette with a shaking hand. He took a deep, desperate drag, the ember flaring wildly. Smoke billowed from his mouth in a panicked, choking cloud. "Fuck. Nikolai. He's sending us to Nikolai."
