Oren turned to the burly, redheaded driver. His bright green shirt proclaimed his name as Grouper.
He frowned and glowered. “Has to be impounded as is.”
“Impounded? Why? There’s no crime here.”
Grouper’s frown deepened. “Can’t allow it. Company policy. This here Habib could have himself some C-4 in the trunk.”
“You think I’m a terrorist? I was born in this very city. I’m as American as you are! My father is from New York. My mother from Mississippi.”
“And your granddaddy’s from Baghdad!”
“My grandfather was diplomatic corps and from Mumbai,” Tarak replied.
“Told ya! Damn A-rab!”
“That’s Dubai, you mental midget,” Oren countered, through clenched teeth. “Get your things, Tarak. My father is sending a car for us. And you—” he took a step toward Grouper. “Call your boss and tell him I’m calling another company whose driver isn’t a prejudicial moron!”
“Call him yourself!” Grouper…
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