601174-7 is a refrigerated container that’s (supposedly) carrying 3,850 pounds of frozen shrimp coming (supposedly) from Panama. My dad definitely gets credit for that. In the world of smuggling—drugs or anything else—you never know when you’ll be inspected. But if you want to improve your odds, pick a quiet, seafood-producing country (like Panama), fill the container with one of its top exports (like shrimp), and make sure it’s refrigerated (because once it’s listed as “perishable,” it’ll move twice as fast through inspection).
This isn’t just about some really good shrimp.
“Turn for the worse,” Timothy says, motioning to the truck.
The shipment was scheduled to be delivered to a warehouse in Coral Gables. That’s south of here. Which is why I’m surprised to see him heading for the on-ramp of I-95 North.
“Maybe he’s smuggling people,” Timothy says.
“It’s not people,” I tell him, surprised by my own defensiveness. “You said the shipment checked out fine. No buzzers ringing; no dogs barking. If he were smuggling people, audio would’ve picked up the heartbeats.”
“Then what? Plastic nuclear triggers? F-14 parts? Stolen Picassos? What can you possibly hide amidst four thousand pounds of frozen shrimp?”
I don’t bother answering. During our first year as agents, Timothy and I ripped open a suspicious crate and found two hundred snakes with their anuses sewed shut, their stomachs filled with diamonds they’d been forced to swallow. There’s no end to what people will try to hide.
Next to us on the highway, an orange taxi blows by us, then races past my dad and disappears in the horizon of night. “So you never looked him up?” Timothy asks.
“Pardon?”
“Your dad. All those years at ICE—you had access to computers that could find the addresses, phone numbers, and birthmarks of every known felon in the country. You never took a glance to see where your missing dad was living or what he was up to?”
I stare at the outline of my father’s truck in the distance and can’t help but picture our client Alberto whispering to his father’s ashes in that rusted old RC Cola can. “No,” I say. “Never did.”
Timothy turns my way and studies me as I fidget with the stray wires that run down from the blue lights on his dash. There’s no end to what people will try to hide.
Twenty minutes later, the sky’s still black, my dad’s still ahead, and the highway—as we blow past the exits of Fort Lauderdale—is dotted with the first batch of early risers.
“You think he sees us?” Timothy asks as my dad veers toward the exit that sends us west on I-595.
“If he saw us, he’d try to lose us. Or at least slow down to get a better look.”
It’s a fair point. But as my dad once again clicks his blinker, I realize we’ve got a brand-new problem. The exit and highway signs say I-75 , but every local knows the thin stretch of road known as Alligator Alley.
“Why am I not surprised?” Timothy asks as we follow the exit and no other cars follow behind us. “Cal, I need to call for backup.”
“And where do you plan on hiding me?” I ask as the grass and trees on the side of the road give way to miles of muddy swampland.
Connecting Florida’s east and west coasts, the narrow and mostly abandoned lanes of Alligator Alley plow straight through the mosquito marshes known as the Everglades. To protect the land, the road has no gas stations, though it
is
lined with metal fences to keep the ample alligator population from getting hit by cars and . . . well . . . eating people.
“There’s no way you’re leaving me out here,” I tell Timothy.
He doesn’t argue. He’s too busy realizing that at barely five a.m., with the December sky as black as the road in front of us, there’s no one on Alligator Alley but us. It’s like driving full speed through a cave.
“Cal, I have to put the lights on.”
“Don’t!” I shout as he reaches for the switch. My
This isn’t just about some really good shrimp.
“Turn for the worse,” Timothy says, motioning to the truck.
The shipment was scheduled to be delivered to a warehouse in Coral Gables. That’s south of here. Which is why I’m surprised to see him heading for the on-ramp of I-95 North.
“Maybe he’s smuggling people,” Timothy says.
“It’s not people,” I tell him, surprised by my own defensiveness. “You said the shipment checked out fine. No buzzers ringing; no dogs barking. If he were smuggling people, audio would’ve picked up the heartbeats.”
“Then what? Plastic nuclear triggers? F-14 parts? Stolen Picassos? What can you possibly hide amidst four thousand pounds of frozen shrimp?”
I don’t bother answering. During our first year as agents, Timothy and I ripped open a suspicious crate and found two hundred snakes with their anuses sewed shut, their stomachs filled with diamonds they’d been forced to swallow. There’s no end to what people will try to hide.
Next to us on the highway, an orange taxi blows by us, then races past my dad and disappears in the horizon of night. “So you never looked him up?” Timothy asks.
“Pardon?”
“Your dad. All those years at ICE—you had access to computers that could find the addresses, phone numbers, and birthmarks of every known felon in the country. You never took a glance to see where your missing dad was living or what he was up to?”
I stare at the outline of my father’s truck in the distance and can’t help but picture our client Alberto whispering to his father’s ashes in that rusted old RC Cola can. “No,” I say. “Never did.”
Timothy turns my way and studies me as I fidget with the stray wires that run down from the blue lights on his dash. There’s no end to what people will try to hide.
Twenty minutes later, the sky’s still black, my dad’s still ahead, and the highway—as we blow past the exits of Fort Lauderdale—is dotted with the first batch of early risers.
“You think he sees us?” Timothy asks as my dad veers toward the exit that sends us west on I-595.
“If he saw us, he’d try to lose us. Or at least slow down to get a better look.”
It’s a fair point. But as my dad once again clicks his blinker, I realize we’ve got a brand-new problem. The exit and highway signs say I-75 , but every local knows the thin stretch of road known as Alligator Alley.
“Why am I not surprised?” Timothy asks as we follow the exit and no other cars follow behind us. “Cal, I need to call for backup.”
“And where do you plan on hiding me?” I ask as the grass and trees on the side of the road give way to miles of muddy swampland.
Connecting Florida’s east and west coasts, the narrow and mostly abandoned lanes of Alligator Alley plow straight through the mosquito marshes known as the Everglades. To protect the land, the road has no gas stations, though it
is
lined with metal fences to keep the ample alligator population from getting hit by cars and . . . well . . . eating people.
“There’s no way you’re leaving me out here,” I tell Timothy.
He doesn’t argue. He’s too busy realizing that at barely five a.m., with the December sky as black as the road in front of us, there’s no one on Alligator Alley but us. It’s like driving full speed through a cave.
“Cal, I have to put the lights on.”
“Don’t!” I shout as he reaches for the switch. My
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