The Book of Lies by Brad Meltzer

scratch to the rear of the White House. Same jackass trick we used to do when we were rookies.
    I wait for him to get out of the car, but he stays put. I get the message. This is
his
hometown. Forget my few years here. Tonight I’m just a guest.
    “Roosevelt, I’ll call you back.”
    Hopping out of the van, I put on a Homeland Security baseball cap, squint through the light rain, and then walk over to the passenger side of his car. It’s nearly three in the morning, when everyone in the world looks like crap—except Timothy, who, as I open the door, has a crisp white button-down and a perfect side part in his just trimmed brown hair.
    “You’re sweating,” Timothy says, reading me perfectly as always.
    I’ve known him since my very first days on the job—before we got promoted to agent (him first, of course, then me)—when we were both lower-level Customs inspectors who spent every day X-raying containers filled with everything from bananas to buzz saws to belt buckles. Even back then, when I’d be dripping in the Miami sun, his shirt didn’t have a wrinkle, which is probably why, when all the bad went down and I tipped off Miss Deirdre, even though he was right there next to me, Timothy never tumbled. He should’ve—he was always the bigger outlaw, and that night he had his own Miss Deirdre as well. But I don’t resent him for it. I told him I’d never tattle. And tonight, that’s the only reason he’s risking his job for me.
    “Cal, if anyone finds out I’m bringing you inside—” He holsters the threat and reaches for a new one. “Is this really that important?”
    “Would I ask if it wasn’t?”
    He stays silent. He knows it isn’t just about finding some shipment. I’m searching for something far bigger than that.
    Timothy’s blue lights—the movable siren that sits on his dash—remind me of the consequences. I expect him to give me the weary glare. Instead, he tosses me an expired copy of his own ICE agent credentials. After 9/11, security at our nation’s ports got better. But it didn’t get that much better.
    “We all set?” I ask.
    “The hold is gone, if that’s what you’re asking.” Reading the panic in my reaction, he adds, “What? You said you wanted it cleared so you could check it outside.”
    “I also said I wanted to get a look first,” I tell him, ripping open his car door. “I bet he’s already on his way.”
    I look up at the tall light poles that peek out above the port’s nearby container storage yard. On top of each pole, there’s a small videocamera, along with chemical sniffers and shotgun microphones. Those are new.
    “Don’t panic just yet,” he says.
    I hop in, he hits the gas, and we head straight for my latest federal crime.

11
    I t was nearly four in the morning as Lloyd Harper flashed his ID and pulled the tractor truck with the long empty trailer through the main gate at the Port of Miami. Sure, he was tired—his side ached as the anesthetic wore off—but he knew what was at stake. When he got the e-mail notification that the hold was off, well, some rewards were better than cash.
    He’d been at this long enough to know that juicy worms usually had a hidden hook. And he’d lived in Miami long enough to know that if he got caught, the payback would be unforgiving. But what the doctor said tonight: the pains he’d been having in his shoulders and chest, plus the way his hands started shaking over the past few years . . . He’d lost his wife, lost his family, in prison they took his dignity—life had already taken so much from him. Was it really so bad to try to get something back?
    With a tap of the gas and a sharp right turn, Lloyd headed for the open metal fence of the shipping yard, where dozens of forty-foot metal containers were piled up on top of one another—rusted rectangular monoliths, each one as long as a train car.
    But as Lloyd tugged the wide steering wheel, a lightning bolt of pain knifed his side. He told himself it was the