Patriot by M.A. Rothman (summer reading list TXT) 📗

The infidel would have nothing to say that he would want to hear, and Mohammad didn’t trust himself not to say anything that might make the driver suspicious.

The ship’s foreman on the deck started yelling orders to the dock workers and waving his hands at the crane operator to begin the unloading process. Mohammad had given specific instructions to the foreman and was trusting that his people had given similar instructions to the dock workers. His container was to be unloaded first.

There weren’t any Port Authority patrol vehicles around, and they hadn’t been bothered by the Coast Guard on the way in, so Mohammad could only assume that all the proper bribes had been paid, or threats made. It had taken a small fortune to get his prized possession through port security—in fact, he’d spent almost as much money just for this one aspect of the operation as he had for the rest of the operation combined. But this was the hardest part, and would mean the difference between success and failure.

The crane lowered its four-point grapple rig toward Mohammad’s container. A worker standing on top of the container attached the hand-sized U-clamps to the corners, then climbed down and waved to the foreman that he was clear. The foreman shouted at the crane operator, and Mohammad’s container rose from the deck. The transfer took less than five minutes.

Krazynski supervised as the workers secured the container to the flatbed of his truck, then went back around and double-checked all the connections after they were done. He tossed his cigarette away, climbed into the cab, retrieved his clipboard, and proceeded to check the registry number on the container against what was on his sheet.

At last Mohammad approached, trying to appear calm and collected, despite his inner trepidation. He felt naked and had to force himself not to touch his freshly shaved face. It had taken him over an hour to remove his beard, something he’d never done in his entire life. He’d never seen his adult face without hair, and after looking in the mirror to ensure the job had been completed, he vowed never to look in one again. The smooth skin looked and felt unnatural, like a violation of some unknown tenet of Islam.

Krazynski nodded as Mohammad walked over. “You the guy attached to the load?”

Mohammad bowed slightly, then immediately cursed himself. They don’t do that here. He straightened and said, “That’s right.”

The driver considered Mohammad for a moment, looking him up and down as if sizing him up for something.

Mohammad adjusted his pack on his shoulder. “Is something wrong?”

Krazynski sniffed. “Just never had anyone ride with a load before, is all.”

Mohammad shrugged. It was a very Western thing to do, and it was one of the mannerisms he’d taught himself over the years to help him blend in. In addition to their vastly different language, the way people conversed in this part of the world was sometimes difficult to grasp. “Is it a problem?”

“Hell, it’s your nickel,” Krazynski said, chuckling. “For that amount of money, I’d let you do damn near anything. Hop on up.” He motioned to the passenger-side door with his clipboard.

Mohammad nodded. “Thank you.”

“Going to make one last check, then we’ll be good to go.”

Mohammad climbed up into the cab and set his pack between his legs on the floor. The seat wasn’t comfortable, and the cab smelled like an ashtray and tuna fish. He immediately felt unclean and in need of a shower and his regular prayers. Both were things that he would have to neglect for now, much as it pained him. His mission to Allah demanded complete and total submission, and he would not fail.

Krazynski pulled open his door, muttering, “Son of a bitch.” He tossed his clipboard on the seat, pulled his plaid overshirt off, and started dabbing the papers. “Those bastards could at least make sure these things are dry before they hand them over, you know? Damn, I hope they’re not all screwed up now.”

Mohammad frowned. “What’s wrong?”

The driver shook his head, walked to the back of the truck, spent a moment there, and came back. “Container’s wet. Probably sat in a puddle on the deck the whole trip and no one bothered to dry it off.” He groaned as he checked the papers. The ink was smeared across the bill of lading. “Damn it.”

“Is that a problem?” Mohammad asked, growing anxious.

“Depends on if we get pulled over for inspection or not, and whether or not the trooper is having a good day or a bad day. Those dickheads don’t have anything better to do than pull over us hard-working truck drivers and put us behind schedule. I swear it’s like a game to them.”

This didn’t put Mohammad at ease. In fact, the mention of police only heightened his trepidation. Law enforcement was among his top concerns—for obvious reasons—and not having the paperwork he’d paid thousands of dollars for worried him even more.

Krazynski tossed the clipboard onto the dash above the steering wheel and sat down. “It’ll be fine. We’re only going across the country, right? This…” he put a finger on a notepad bungeed to the visor above him, “Decklin shipping?”

Mohammad nodded. “That’s right.”

The driver snorted and turned the key. “Funny name. Sounds Irish.”

The engine rumbled to life, the air brakes hissing as they disengaged, and they rolled away from the pier.

Mohammad wiped the sweat away from his forehead as they reached the first security checkpoint. He had to force himself to sit still and not fidget. As the guard checked the driver’s paperwork against his own, Mohammad’s stomach felt like it was twisting in knots. If they didn’t make it out of the docks, his entire mission would fail.

It wasn’t until the guard handed the clipboard back and waved them through that Mohammad let out the breath he’d been holding.

Krazynski jerked a thumb back toward the gate as they rumbled away. “Damn rent-a-cops. I swear, they think they’re going to catch a drug smuggler or human traffickers