Burn Zone

2

THE HEADQUARTERS FOR THE DEA IN WEST PALM BEACH SAT IN an office building not far from the Publix parking lot. In an interview room that had its own entrance so prisoners wouldn't be brought through the office and see the agents' faces, Alex Duarte sat and listened while Byron Gastlin stared at his cell phone and contemplated his future.

Félix Baez just kept a steady stare on the man. Duarte knew the DEA man had more experience than he did turning guys like Gastlin against their suppliers. It had taken them almost two hours to get him to make the call to Panama in the first place. He had already given up all he knew about the shadowy Panamanian smuggler known as Mr. Ortíz.

When Félix asked him Ortíz's first name, Gastlin had shrugged and said, "I don't know. I just call him 'Mister.'"

Duarte had thought the response might earn the dealer a smack, but Félix was professional. He'd dealt with guys like this a thousand times before.

Now Gastlin looked up. Sweat ran down his face like a waterfall. A pile of damp, wadded-up paper towels covered the table next to his phone.

"Just a call?" said the portly dealer.

Baez nodded. "For now. Prove you can actually talk to someone in Panama."

"And this little thing I stick in my ear will record it?" He jiggled the wire to the tiny microphone, which connected to a small recorder.

Félix nodded silently, keeping his stare on Gastlin.

The drug dealer picked up the phone and flipped the cover. His hands were shaking so badly, Duarte didn't think he'd be able to hit the proper buttons.

Gatlin looked up. "What if I can't reach Ortíz himself?"

"Will someone answer?"

He nodded, jiggling tiny jowls.

"Then talk to them."

"Sometimes I talk to his assistant, Pelly. Sometimes someone else. It depends on how busy they are."

"Would it be odd to ask to speak to Ortíz?"

"Yeah. I never have before."

"Then stick with the plan, and we'll see what shakes out. Now make the call." Félix leaned in to make sure the dealer knew how serious he was.

"Look, I only ran a few loads for the guy. Just business. I don't know how his outfit works or how big it is or nothin'."

Félix and Duarte both remained quiet and kept their eyes on Gastlin.

The man picked up the phone again and this time slowly started to dial.

Pelly wiped the sweat from his broad, rough face and swore. The stubble was only two hours old, but still it scratched his hand. He had long since given up worrying about the hair on his back and shoulders, and just tried to keep his face and neck clear-he even used an electric razor on his eyebrows every night-and still he felt people's eyes on him. The scar on his cheek didn't help either.

He didn't wince at the sound of the whip. His boss was flailing a woman he had tied over a picnic table, Pelly wasn't even sure what her offense was. Here in this village on the west coast of Panama, his boss decided what was right and what was wrong. By the size of the woman's swaying breasts, Pelly guessed it was all merely an excuse for him to terrorize a well-built middle-aged woman. He didn't know why, but he had seen it enough for him to conclude that somewhere in his employer's life he had had a bad experience with a woman who wore a large bra.

The woman let out a yelp as the short leather whip bit into her back. A thin line of blood dribbled out of an earlier lash. Pelly's only concern about these events was that they didn't do anything for their bottom line. He understood pleasure and letting off steam, even if this wasn't exactly his idea of fun, but if his boss was busy beating women he wasn't thinking about sales, shipment and secrecy, the three elements vital to any smuggling operation.

His boss had a decent sweat going from the heat, the effort and the rage which surfaced whenever he had a woman in a similar situation. Pelly had never noticed him show much interest in men, unless he was really torturing them. He seemed to have a fascination with severing parts off them. That, and beating women. Who could figure out such personal issues?

The cell phone sitting on the corner of the picnic table rang with a tone like a European police siren.

He looked at his boss, who froze, set down the whip and looked at the small phone's screen. He quickly looked at Pelly and nodded, then answered.

He started to speak English, so Pelly knew it was a customer from the U.S. His own English was okay, but he didn't have the flair of his boss.

The boss smiled as he said, "Good afternoon, Byron. I was hoping you might call soon."

The woman moaned and turned her drooping head toward Pelly, who put his finger to his mouth to shush her while the boss was on the phone.

"Por favor" was all she said, tugging her arms, which were bound at the wrists to the legs of the table.

Pelly shrugged. Maybe the boss would forget.

As if on cue, the boss started to wander off, engrossed in the call. Pelly drew a heavy Benchmade knife from his front pocket, thumbed open the blade and cut the woman loose. She immediately sprang upright and crossed her arms to cover her breasts. He nodded, and she scampered back into the house, one of several buildings owned and operated by their corporation. She had been in charge of ensuring the workers got enough food and occasional medical attention.

Pelly waited as the boss settled onto a patio chair, still on his cell phone. There were only a few people out behind the buildings. They all worked for the corporation, and most had seen a beating like this. Some of the men seemed to enjoy it.

He knew he had a few free minutes, and there was a book in the car about an Englishman who had become an artist using only his left foot. He was fascinated by stories of people who overcame handicaps. For some reason it seemed like all these people were from England, at least the really interesting ones. His favorite was Robert Merrick, who was called the Elephant Man. He knew what it felt like to be compared to an animal.

Instead of grabbing his book, though, Pelly arched his back, then bent to stretch his legs. After a moment, he started practicing a kata, then threw a few kicks into the air. Most of the men knew he had a black belt in Shotokan karate-he rarely needed it in his job, that's what guns were for-but he had cracked a few heads and knocked out some teeth for inappropriate comments, and these guys knew it.

The boss walked back to him, folding the phone as he approached. He smiled, his Spanish as elegant as his English. "Pelly, my friend, we may have the right man to ship our special load to the U.S."

"Was that Gastlin?"

"It was, and he seemed open to a load of pot. A big one. We can stick our package in the container, and he'll never even know it."

Pelly frowned.

"What's wrong, my friend?"

"Boss, I just don't see the value in shipping this thing to the U.S. It'll make it much harder for us to ship in our drugs."

His employer's face darkened. "You know how important this could be for the country. You know how I feel."

"I do, boss. I just don't know if you're thinking this through."

The boss folded his arms and tried to act calm. He looked at the loose rope across the picnic table.

"Where is Maricella?"

"I thought you were done."

The boss thought about it and said, "I was going to throw a few more on her, but she got the message. I doubt she'll make any more personal calls from the office." He looked off over the open field with the low, brick wall around it. "Pelly, I know you're a little young to understand my hatred. You were up in the mountains when the Americans rolled into the country, crushing any hope of national pride, but this is important. This is why I went into this business. This is the one load that does mean something to us. Can't you see it?"

"I understand what happened. I learned it in history class. But I don't see how antagonizing the U.S. will help anything."

His boss smiled. "If nothing else, it'll help me sleep at night."

"You're risking a fortune to sleep a little better."

"What else do I have to spend my money on?"

William "Ike" Floyd strained under the weight of the two hundred twenty-five pounds he had just bench-pressed for the tenth time. He knew his close-cropped hair, which had been growing out only for the past few weeks, would not cover the bulging vein on his temple, as he grunted then let his spotter take the weight and guide it onto the supports. He liked working on his "beach muscles"-his chest and biceps-even though the nearest beach was over a thousand miles away.

Ike lay still, enjoying the few seconds to look up the shorts of his training partner. The twenty-year-old man knew that Ike stole peeks at his legs occasionally, but he had been careful not to be alone with the larger man. Ike knew it was only a matter of time. But he had to be discreet. A man in his position couldn't be caught with another man. He had learned that lesson in another group and still had a scar under his new hair as a result.

He didn't want people to look at him and know his politics, which was why he had grown his hair out, so he'd look more respectable to the uninformed public. He knew that the things that had been set in motion were too important to risk his being recognized or having the cops follow him around. That was why he had put out the word to the others to keep a low profile, especially here in Omaha. No fights, no protests, nothing at all. It hadn't gone over big with the members, but they knew he was still dedicated, and if he said to keep things cool it was for a good reason.

Ike sat up on the bench, the blood rushing slightly to his head. The wide-open gym was generally slow this time of day, while most poor slobs were off at work. His job at the telemarketing office had him coming in tonight at six. Soon he hoped to not have to bother with a job. He'd either be a hero or dead.

"How you feel, Ike?" asked the younger man.

"Good, Sean, good." He took a couple of deep breaths to clear his head. He liked the way his nickname sounded in the young man's voice.

"You look like you can't concentrate today. Everything all right?"

He hesitated. So far no one knew who he had met through the president of the National Army of White Americans. No one knew of his plans. He was anxious to tell someone, but he knew that operational security was vital. If he blabbed, he might not go down in history. But he looked into Sean's dark eyes, and he just knew the young man was trustworthy. As well as hot.

"Yeah, I got a lot going on," started Ike. "But if I tell you anything, you gotta swear that you'll never breathe a word about it."

"I swear, I swear."

Ike looked at him, feeling the sincerity as well as seeing it in the twenty-year-old's earnest face.

"We have a chance to make one hell of a statement. We just need to focus and keep our heads down."

"What are you gonna do?"

"I met someone through President Jessup. He's a foreign man, a beaner to be exact. From Panama, but this guy can help us more than any good white man ever will. We can get attention to our cause, force the federal government to close the borders and go down in history all in one afternoon."

"How's that?"

William "Ike" Floyd smiled and said, "You know anything about the Ukraine?"

Alex Duarte watched her bound into the gym inside the Palm Beach County Sheriff's Office main building.

Alice Brainard smiled, looking like she'd just come from an Old Navy commercial, then popped onto the treadmill next to Duarte and immediately had it cranked up to seven miles an hour. Without even breathing hard, she said, "In before dark. I'm impressed."

"Busy few days. Needed the break."

"I heard about the crash."

"TV news?"

"Yeah, but the vice guys love it. Any time the DEA or FBI does something like that, they all razz each other. Having the ATF along is just gravy." Her blond ponytail bounced behind her.

Duarte nodded, knowing the police tendency to ridicule. He'd yet to pick up the habit. He thought some stuff was funny, just like anyone else, but he didn't have time to set up the elaborate practical jokes the other cops seemed to pull all the time.

"The case is rolling. We turned the dealer, and he made a call to his supplier in Panama. Looks like there's a gun angle, too. Might get a trip out of it."

She cut her blue eyes toward him. "Not bad there, Alex. Just be careful."

"Because of the crime in Panama?"

"No, because the women there are beautiful. You don't need a pretty Latina to confuse you."

He considered this as he kept up his pace.

Then Alice said, "And now you're supposed to tell me I'm beautiful and that you'd never fall for a Latina while you were away."

"Okay."

"Okay, what?"

"What you said."

She sighed and shook her head.

He ran along in silence, falling into the rhythm of the big treadmill as he pushed the pace from seven-and-a-half-minute to six-minute miles. He noticed Alice speeding up, too. This girl was impressive, beautiful too. A forensic scientist with the sheriff's office lab, she had helped him over his last, brief relationship.

Alice finally said, "So, would you like to go out to dinner after this?"

He looked over at her.

She sighed. "That's what I would expect you to say to me at some point." She waited, then added, "Should I just do all the talking for both of us?"

He thought that would be a good idea, but knew it wasn't what she wanted to hear, so he kept his mouth shut. If she were hungry, why didn't she just say, "Let's eat?" He knew he still had a lot to learn about women. His years in the ATF had not been conducive to discovering much about their mysteries.

He cleared his throat and said, "Would you like to have dinner tonight?"

"I would, thank you. Where would you like to eat?"

He thought about the restaurants where he normally ate.

Alice said, "You've said nothing compares to your mom's cooking. We could go by the house."

"That's okay. I'd like to take you out somewhere nice."

"Somewhere without your family?"

"I wasn't gonna invite them, if that's what you mean."

She made a growling sound and slowed her treadmill. "You moron. Just what am I to you, I wonder?"

"Huh?" He didn't slow the machine. Once you hit your stride, you never let up.

"Am I your girlfriend? Workout partner? Buddy from the S.O.? You live at home and eat there most nights, but I still haven't met your family. Am I not good enough?"

"No," he said, meaning that she was good enough. She jumped off the fast-moving treadmill as he said, "I mean, you are certainly good enough; I just didn't realize it was an issue."

She stood in front of his treadmill. "I swear that for a smart guy you can be such a jackass." She spun on her heels, then stopped a few feet away and turned back, "I'll finish on the road. Go eat with your mama." She was out the gym door in seconds, and Duarte had nothing left to do but finish his treadmill workout and head home. Three hours early.