And just as the last crate touched the dock, bright lights swung across the unloading bay followed by the low hum of the powerful engine of a black sedan. The buyer had arrived. The vehicle’s sleek, polished exterior gleamed under the dim lights, exuding an aura of power, wealth but most of all danger and the tattooed man knew this all too well. The traffickers exchanged wary glances; their movements momentarily stilled by the presence of the car.

As the sedan came to a halt, its engine purring softly, all on the dock snapped to attention, their eyes darting between the crates and the car. The driver stepped out with fluid grace, a tall man in an immaculate suit, his eyes scanning the scene with an air of quiet menace.

The traffickers dispersed, each man taking up a strategic position, ensuring that the operation continued smoothly even as they made way for the newcomer.

“You’re late!” he exclaimed, preferring to use English as a means of communication.

The tattooed man, attempted to explain how the territorial waters were tricky to traverse now that the international effort to impede every and all illegal activity had been stepped up, but the tall man stopped him in his effort, already bored seemingly by the stuttering explanation.

He extended his hand, receiving a metal crowbar, eagerly placed in his hand by the tattooed man who straight away retreated with a worried smile uncovering yellowed teeth.

One of the crates’ lid swung open with a groan, revealing a dark, confined space lined with rough wooden slats and dirty hessian sacks.  Beneath layers of cheap merchandise lay tightly wrapped bundles covered in more burlap and plastic. The cheap merch was discarded quicky revealing the source of the pungent, metallic scent that had started to waft out, mingling with the acrid odour of old blood and decay.  On the tall man’s order, the tattooed man slit a few bundles open with a pocketknife, revealing the grotesque prize within – rhino horns, their natural beauty reduced to bloody stumps. Each horn was a ghostly grey, tinged with hints of ivory, and bore the unmistakable marks of a violent separation from its rightful owner. They were arranged meticulously, almost reverently, their coarse textures brushing against one another with a faint rasp as the crate shifted when its lid tumbled to the ground. The sight was both mesmerizing and abhorrent, a stark reminder of the brutality that fed this illicit trade. The air inside the crate was heavy, stagnant, carrying with it the weight of countless shattered lives and the persistent, underlying stench of death.