RUSH HOUR

THURSDAY, AUGUST 12, 2004

That evening, Ricardo Montoyez drove over the Whitestone Bridge. Following the signs to THE BRONX & NEW ENGLAND, going nowhere in particular. But away from Long Island.

He was annoyed. Not because he had to terminate his Long Island operation. He would be back. But because of the lost opportunity with the blonde. Sitting across from her at Murphy’s Steakhouse, he could tell how much she wanted him. He only needed another two hours.

Now, instead of getting laid he had to lay low. He’d spend the day letting law enforcement chase their tails, and now he knew he could leave Long Island. Find a new pharmaceutical front away from Uncle Sam’s prying eyes. Where he could continue the free flow of medicines to his processing facilities.

Near the end of the bridge he saw a National Guardsman clutching an M-16 and eyeing every driver. Looking for the next terrorist who might harm Americans.

Not knowing they should look in their medicine cabinets.

Montoyez rolled down his window. A wave of heavy warm air flowed into the car. The soldier looked at him.

“Thanks for keeping us safe!” Montoyez said as his car rolled past.

The soldier nodded.

WELCOME TO THE BRONX, said a huge green sign.