The Port Job

You ride to the nearby port with Ana, listening to some pop songs on the radio. She turns the large truck with ease, expertly weaving it through back alleys and dense traffic. She talks while she drives, admonishing you for your new job. A warm pink color paints her cheeks, and her voice has an unusual steely tone to it – the friendly game you two usually share is gone, leaving an agitated twenty-two-year-old woman in its wake.

“It’s worth it, Ana. It’s worth the risk. Anything I can do to break this cycle I am in – I have to do it. I can’t continue living the way I have been living. Besides, I’m not as innocent as you seem to think I am. I worked with your dad before, long ago. When you were still in diapers.”

She rolls her eyes, refocusing on the road.

“Whatever, Lev. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

You reach across the narrow gap between the bucket seats you both sit upon, resting your hand on Ana’s shoulder and gently squeezing it.

“Thank you, Ana, for caring.”

She mumbles something in response and turns off of the highway onto a side road, before turning again into a parking lot. You see the calm navy surface of the bay in the background, between some old and decrepit warehouses; faded white paint peels off of brick walls, while trash and old shipping goods coat the edges of the buildings like a festering wound.

“We’re here,” she says.

The truck continues through the barren parking lot, easily four or five acres large, through an opening in between the two warehouses, and then turns into an open and waiting bay door. Some men stand inside – intimidating, muscular Hispanic men with a familiar bulge on each of the hips, beneath their shirts. Wooden crates are arrayed behind them, around them, and on each side of the bay. The warehouse sprawls behind them, with broken doors and windows littering the floor. It has not been used for some time – the perfect spot for a smuggling deal.

Ana parks the truck in front of the men, kills the engine, and then slides out of the driver door. You ease out of your seat and join her in front of the truck, your eyes darting between the group surrounding you. One of the men, an older well-dressed man with salt and peppered hair, approaches Ana.

“Lolita! Ah, so good to see you again, my love,” he exclaims in a thick Spanish accent, raising his hands in an animated greeting. The chest of his fine suit jacket pulls taut against his chest as he stretches his arms into the warehouse air.

“Jorge, pleasure,” Ana smiles back, her former irritation now replaced with a warm friendliness. She gives him a quick hug, before stepping back and rejoining you against the cooling hood of the truck.

“Come, come, we have everything ready,” he continues. “Are you prepared?”

“Of course – once the truck is loaded, I’ll transfer the money to your account.”

“Excellent. Jose, Miguel, get started on the truck!” he yells over his shoulder. Two men start moving, carrying the wooden crates to the back of the truck and beginning to load them in.

Jorge and Ana discuss business for a few minutes, talking about the fluctuations of the smuggling market and the recent crackdown by the Feds. The ATF has been increasing their raids recently, particularly in New York, and Jorge worries that it may start impacting his business. Some of Jorge’s other men join the other two in loading the truck. The conversation between Ana and Jorge is interrupted when one of them, Miguel maybe, steps in.

“Senor, the truck is loaded.”

“Excellent, Miguel. Ana?” Jorge turns back to her, waiting.

She nods, opens her phone, and clicks a few buttons.

“Alright, it’s done. One hundred thousand, as promised.”

One of Jorge’s men, holding a phone, gives him a discreet nod.

“Wonderful, Lolita, wonderful. Then, for today, our business is done. Please give Senor Ivan my best.”

“Sure, thank you again, Jorge. Talk to you soon.”

Ana climbs back into the truck cab, so you move towards the passenger side. As your hand lands on the door handle, you hear a loud bang, accompanied by a voice, yelling: “ATF! ATF! Don’t fucking move, any of you.”

Black-garbed men with **** rifles flood through doors on the other end of the warehouse, their sights aimed at you and the men around you, weaving in and out of the decrepit furniture in between you and them. You turn to the open bay, but it seems the federal officers were only attacking from one direction – not smart, but also not something you will complain about. Your eyes dart to Ana, who is turning the keys to the ignition.

“Get in, Lev, hurry up!” she all but yells at you, jerking the truck into reverse.

You hop into the cab, slamming the door shut behind you, as the ATF pours towards your truck. You look out the open bay door behind you, through the truck mirror, and see berry lights flashing along the walls of the other warehouse. Maybe they are outside, too.

“What do we do, Ana?”

“Glove compartment – quick, grab the masks. Put one on.”

You follow her instructions, opening the glove compartment and pulling out two black burglar masks. You toss one to Ana and pull yours over your face, shielding your identity. Ready to go, Ana floors the pedal of the truck, jerking you forwards in the seat as the vehicle slings out of the warehouse bay into the littered parking lot.

“Jesus,” you breathe, grabbing onto the handhold above the window.

“Better hold on,” Ana says. “It’s about to get bumpy. Keep them off of us if they follow. I’ll get us out of here.”

You nod in understanding, pulling Ivan’s heavy pistol from your waistband. You peep the slide, confirming it is loaded and ready to go.