container expectantly. It was like a scene in
?How could anyone breathe in there??
?Maybe there?s more than one.?
?Illegal immigrants??
?Should we go over there??
?Fuck that.
A figure emerged from the container, and they froze.
The newcomer had dark olive skin, deep brown eyes. Black hair slicked back and dirty. A thick curly beard. He wore a stained denim shirt, threadbare tan pants. Military boots. A small pistol tucked into his waistband. Over his shoulder he carried a large brown duffel bag.
Vincent took a step forward, raised a hand. ?Hey!?
Andrew put his hand on Vincent?s shoulder, held him back. What did the dumb wop think he was doing?
The stowaway jumped at the voice, then fixed Vincent with those hard dark eyes. He put his hand on the pistol in his pants, didn?t say a word. Vincent held up his hands in a ?no problem here? gesture. The stowaway backed toward the door, his hand on the gun the whole time. He turned, opened the door, and exited the warehouse quickly and without a backward glance.
Anthony recovered first. ?What the fuck??
Andrew let go of Vincent?s shoulder. ?What did you think you were going to do??
Vincent looked a little pale. ?Shit if I know. I just saw the guy and?Shouldn?t we do something??
Andrew walked toward the container. ?Let?s have a look.? The cousins followed.
The three of them stood at the door and peered inside. Dark. An odd tangle of straps and harnesses. It looked like a car seat had been arranged to withstand rough seas.
Andrew examined the container door, which had been latched from the outside. There was a small hole at the level of the latch blown outward from within, leaving the metal jagged and scorched. The guy inside had known exactly what to do to free himself.
Vincent held his nose. ?What a fucking stink.?
Andrew nudged him, pointed into the corner of the container at an object that could only be a makeshift toilet. Food wrappers and other debris littered the container?s floor.
Anthony shook his head. ?Oh man. We just helped smuggle some kind of Arab terrorist motherfucker. What are we going to do??
?Not a goddamn thing,? Vincent said. ?We were paid to bring the container here and keep our fucking mouths shut. We weren?t supposed to hang around and play cards. We were never meant to see this. I don?t care if that was Osama Bin Laden?s right-hand guy. We?re going to keep our fucking traps shut and not do a thing.?
Fear bloomed in Andrew?s gut, but he agreed. Maybe if he kept quiet about this, never told a soul, it would all go away.
He was known among his fellow terrorists as Jamaal 1-2-3.
He walked from the docks straight inland for five blocks, turned right, walked four blocks, then left for another three blocks. He pretended to examine shoes in a store window but was really watching the street behind him in the reflection.
No one appeared to be following him.
He zigzagged another ten minutes, found a pay phone, dropped his duffel at his feet, and dug a slip of paper out of his shirt pocket. There was a phone number. No name. No identifying markings of any kind. It was a local number, but that meant nothing. The call could be rerouted and transferred to any phone in the world. Jamaal might be calling a barbershop in the Bronx or a noodle hut in Kyoto. He dialed the number.
