Warlord

THIRTY-TWO

DRIVE EXACTLY 39.7 MILES DUE WEST of Palm Beach, Florida, and you will soon find yourself on another planet. There you'll find the miniburg strip called Belle Glade sweltering amid vast cane fields. BeeGee, as Stoke called it, was about as far removed from the money, tropical splendors, and glamour of Palm Beach as the earth is from the sun.

In addition to a smattering of smoke-belching Big Sugar factories out in the fields, a gas station, and a grotty Burger King, BeeGee is also the home of an infamous hellhole penal colony called the Glades Correctional Institution.

The Glades, for short. Think Cool Hand Luke meets Devil's Island and you've got yourself a pretty good mental picture. Established in 1932 as Florida Prison Farm 2, inmates were originally sent there to grow vegetables for other state institutions. Now it's just GCI, or as the medium-to-close custody population calls it, the Glades.

Stoke, who would be incarcerated inside the razor-barbed wire boundaries of the Glades in a few short hours, at three o'clock that very afternoon, had told Harry Brock he wanted to have his "last meal" in Palm Beach. Palm Beach? Brock had said. Wasn't that where Bernie Madoff had lived? That's how much Harry knew about Palm Beach.

Stoke was starving. He knew exactly what he wanted, too. Cup of black bean soup followed by a rare bacon cheeseburger, mushrooms, fried onions, lettuce, extra mayo, at a restaurant called Taboo on Worth Avenue. Maybe even two bacon cheeseburgers. What the hell. God only knew how long he'd be inside the joint.

They were blasting up I-95 from Miami in Stoke's GTO, top down, Barry White CD pulsing, pushing the bass envelope on the Bose system. It was Stoke's particular fave, Staying Power, the one Barry White album that had the six-minute duet with Lisa Stansfield, the one called "The Longer We Make Love," on it. Stoke, behind the wheel, was singing along with Barry.

The blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice,

The longer we do it, the more we get down to it…

When they reached the I-95 exits for Southern Boulevard, Stoke took the one going east toward the Atlantic Ocean. Moments later, they were rumbling over what the Palm Beach locals called the South Bridge, brothers standing on both sides of the bridge, fishing in the hot sunshine, little Styrofoam coolers with ice and beer at their feet, not a care in the whole damn world. And that lucky old sun, he just rolls around heaven all day.

"You really look depressed," Harry said, looking over at him.

"Me? Nah. Hell, I got it all, baby. See that big pinkish house over on the left? Big green lawn rolling down to the water. Know what that is?"

"Yeah. A big pink house."

"That just happens to be Mar-a-Lago, Harry. Home of none other than the Donald himself. Donald and me, hell, we practically neighbors now. Glades is only about forty miles from here, y'know. Turn this car around, it's a straight shot west out Southern Boulevard. Way I see it, me and the Donald live on the same damn street. 'Course, I don't have a pool and a nine-hole golf course, but still."

"You are depressed."

Stoke, still pissed at Harry over the Fontainebleau debacle, reached over and turned Barry up, now on another CD backed by a full orchestra and Love Unlimited doing "Love's Theme," and concentrated on the music and just cruising Ocean Boulevard, breathing the salt air, the wide blue Atlantic sparkling on his right, gorgeous flowery mansions flashing by on his left. Beautiful. He had a lot of sins, but envy had never been one of them. He appreciated every damn thing he had.

When they got to Worth Avenue, he hung a left, crossed County Road, and pulled up right in front of Taboo.

The unpretentious restaurant was smack-dab in the middle of some of the most expensive shopping real estate this side of Fifth Avenue or Rodeo. The only thing Stoke ever shopped for here was the very expensive bacon cheeseburgers at Taboo. He had bought a couple of pairs of white boxers when Brooks Brothers, a couple of doors down the avenue, was having a sale. But he didn't think that really counted as legitimate Palm Beach shopping.

The valet parking guy came over to the GTO, his mouth hanging open. The rumble of the straight pipes was pretty strong here on the narrow street. Stoke could feel eyes on him as he climbed out of the car. Good. Let 'em burn their eyes on me moving, as the old song said. He climbed out, handed the kid the keys.

"What color is this?" the kid said, caressing the mirrorlike fender.

"Black raspberry. Metallic."

"Custom?"

"Bet your ass."

"How many horses?"

"You can't count that high, son. Now you take care of it and I'll take care of you."

"Yes, sir. I'll just put it right here in front where I can keep an eye on it."

"There you go. Class up the avenue a little bit, right? All these tacky-ass Rolls-Royce Phantoms and Ferraris and Lambos and shit. Now you got some serious Dee-troit iron parked right here, you watch business pick up. Guaranteed."

They went inside, immediately confronting a wall of ice-cold air. A shortish, sophisticated-looking man in a suit and tie, half-glasses perched on the tip of his nose, rushed up and shook Stoke's hand. "Mr. Jones, long time no see. What brings you back to Palm Beach?"

"Doing a little shopping. Actually I'm meeting Detective Garcia here for lunch. Oh. Franklin, please say hello to my driver, Harry Brock."

"Franklin De Marco, Harry," he said, shaking his hand but looking over Brock's shoulder at two spangled and suntanned blondes in stacked heels just sliding in right through the front door. Cougar Cruisers headed for the bar, but God bless 'em, they pulled in the gents. Short, most of them, Franklin joked privately, until they stood on their wallets.

Franklin tore his eyes away from these two human commercials, flicking them briefly at Harry, and said, "I am the owner of Taboo. Mr. Jones here is one of my favorite customers. Never orders just one of anything. Detective Garcia has already arrived, Mr. Jones. I gave her one of our very best banquette tables in the Jungle Room. Follow me, won't you?"

"Driver?" Harry hissed at Stoke as they trailed Franklin past the long bar, every stool occupied by beautiful human females with a wide variety of breasts and with large frothy cocktails on the bar in front of them.

"What?"

"You just introduce me to the owner as your driver?"

Stoke said, "Yeah, well, whatever."

"Wait, is that a fireplace?"

"Yep."

"In July? What the-?"

"Hey, Michelle," Stoke said, kissing her cheek as he slid in next to her on the banquette. Harry took the chair facing the two of them. He couldn't quite get over the surprise of Detective Garcia. She was a total babe. Silky black hair that fell to her shoulders, beautiful face, and a body that-

"Harry, this person you're staring at is my old friend Detective Michelle Garcia, Palm Beach PD. Michelle, Harry Brock, CIA spook, Washington."

She extended her hand across the table and shook Harry's hand, giving him a friendly smile. And, wait, she's nice, Harry thought, already moving into a rose-covered cottage and having plump pink babies with her. You never knew. Stranger things have happened.

The waitress came over, smiled knowingly at Stoke, and took their drink and food orders. "Be right back," she said.

Harry said, "So, Detective. Nice to meet you."

"Call me Michelle, okay? Nice to meet you, too, Harry."

"Palm Beach PD. Tough gig, huh? So, how do you and Stokely know each other?"

Stoke glanced at Michelle, rolling his eyes-This guy is not my fault.

"Well. We worked a few cases together over the years. I started out with DEA down in Key West after Quantico, before I came up here to paradise. I'm the one who arranged to find Stokely a nice room out at the Glades Motel. I'll be driving him out Southern to Belle Glade and officially turning him over at three."

"Nice, really nice," Harry said for no apparent reason.

She looked at Stoke, who was no help at all, and said, "Well, you know, we're old friends, and-"

High society. Everybody in the place chatting up a damn storm while Stoke, thinking only about Sharkey and the danger he'd put him in, sat and watched the clock over the bar. He looked across the table at Brock, saw all his sunny charm and California surfer sunshine beamed at Michelle.

"Harry, listen up. You know that fat dickhead tried to kill me in my own damn condo? Bashir al Mahmoud or whatever? Turns out Bashi used to own one of the largest houses on the beach here in PB. Billionaire's Row, they call it. Rod Stewart was his next-door neighbor. I ran his name, saw the former address, ran it by Michelle, and it turns out she busted him once. Few years ago. It didn't stick, but she learned a whole lot about him."

"What'd you bust him for, Michelle?" Harry asked, big smile, trying really hard to be a swell handsome guy who, at the very same time, was just, darn it all, naturally curious about law enforcement matters.

"Drugs. White slavery, child prostitution. And soliciting minors. Bashi, that's what he called himself, had some woman recruiting little girls for him. She'd cruise some of the poorer neighborhoods over in West Palm, parks, playgrounds, chat up pretty young girls on the sidewalk, tell them how easily they could make a few hundred dollars. In one hour. Just go with her over to Palm Beach to this really rich guy's mansion on the beach and give him a massage. No sex, just a straight massage. Of course it was always more than that."

"What a dick."

"Tell him the rest, Michelle."

"Well, Mike, that's when Mike Reiter, our former chief, now FBI director, had us put a surveil on the woman who worked for Bashi. Every week she'd drive over to PBI airport in West Palm, sometimes even Orlando or Lauderdale, and meet planes coming in from Morocco, Saudi Arabia, or Caracas via New York.

"We'd check them out, alert Immigration. Young guys, all clean-cut, clean visas, no Interpol red flags, nothing. She'd take them to the Marriott up in Jupiter, check them in, then she'd head back to Bashi's beach blanket bingo party pad over on South Ocean till the next batch flew in."

Harry said, "This woman, what'd she look like?"

"Oh, you know the type. Blond, Victoria's-Secret-model type. Tall."

"We know the type all right," Stoke said to Michelle. "She's working South Beach now. Or, at least she was. Right, Harry?"

"We've got Bashi in custody, Michelle," Harry said, a teeny bit defensive. "Illegal entry, attempted murder."

"Who the hell he try to off?" Michelle asked.

"Me," Stoke said.

"Why?"

"I know what his girlfriend looks like."

"And now?"

"Not talking. He's all clammed up."

Brock said, "Waterboard the fat piece of shit, then."

"Can't. Now illegal to get prisoners wet. Might catch a case of the sniffles. End up in their jammies in sick bay. Do you know how much that would cost the government in Cold Care Plus alone?"

"God save America," Brock said. "I think we've lost it."

"Airboard him," Stoke suddenly said, "is what I'd do."

"What?"

"Nothing. These guys Bashi's been bringing in from the Middle East," Stoke said. "They come here, scatter, disappear after a month or so. Maine to California. But one thing. Know where they all end up? Same damn place. Stir. Commit some crime, armed robbery, assault, anything sufficient to land them in the joint. So you gotta ask yourself why?"

"Missionaries," Michelle Garcia said. "That's what we call 'em anyway."

"What's that?" Harry asked.

"It's what they are in prison for," Detective Garcia said. "Spread the word of radical Islamism throughout this country. And tell the newly converted what they are supposed to do with that new knowledge. Primarily, what these young men are brought to America for is to spread the gospel. It is ridiculously obvious. But you think anyone in D.C. is concerned about this? Masses of immigrants here to recruit naive U.S. prisoners, in effect, captive audiences, to earn the Islamic Gangbanger Ph.D. degree? Doctorates in hating the American infidels? No one is even looking at this problem, much less talking about it. It is, or will be, a huge problem for this country when these guys start hitting the street and spreading the word. Believe me."

"I believe you, Michelle," Stoke said.

"Great. I got one guy who thinks this is serious."

Harry said, "So this is the deal. They do the crime to do the time, get released, hit the Greyhound stations, get anonymous jobs all over the country, and then-"

Stoke sighed and rubbed his reddened eyes with his knuckles and said, "Blow us up. Scare the living shit out of all of us. From the inside out. Cheapest damn form of warfare in history. Get enough of these assholes operating around the country, raising hell in every town, sooner or later they shut us down, the whole damn country. Nazis couldn't do it. Japanese couldn't do it. Russians couldn't do it. But these guys? Shit."

Harry said, "I'm with you, Stoke. I'm down with everything you just said. I really respect what you're doing today. Going inside, I mean." Stoke just stared at him until he turned away.

Garcia said, "Big Black Muslim gang operating inside the Glades. Recruiting migrant workers, hardened cons, and anyone else they can get their hands on. It's one of the first fully franchised gangs we saw in the system. Now they number in the thousands. Sword of Allah. Get cane workers, local black and white farm kids, in for minor offenses, kids who don't know any better, talk about how America enslaves them all, always has, how to do something about it. Strike back at the Great Satan."

The food came and Stoke was happy to see it. He shut up, just thinking about not this gorgeous cheeseburger, or the next one after that, but the one after that. When he was out. When he'd learned whatever he had to learn inside the Glades, got his friend Sharkey out alive, his virginity intact. But first he'd figure out who was behind the radical gang culture growing in the prison system.

Not just Florida, either, or California; these gangs were everywhere, ultimately threatening everybody in his whole damn country. It was just a matter of time until they started running around like those ragheads in Kabul, blowing shit up. These guys really pissed him off, threatening Americans on their home turf, still the home of the brave and the land of the free.

He hadn't spent the best years of his life in Nam for this. Lost all those brave boys, his buddies, the SEAL platoon he commanded and loved with all his heart, all those young kids calling out to their mamas when they died, ripped to shreds by Charlie, guts spilling out of their stomachs, Stoke trying to hold their insides inside them with his hands.

This new enemy would pay, all right, just like he'd made the VC pay, one way or another. You could listen to the media. Or you could listen to your heart. This was the greatest country the world had ever produced. And anyone who wanted to try and bring it down was going to pay dearly for the privilege.

He knew a whole shitload of people who felt exactly the same way he did. Take the fight to them. Wherever you found them, get right up in their face. And keep fighting until every last one of the bastards bit the dust.

He stuck an onion ring inside his burger and took a big bite, feeling a whole lot better about what he was about to do inside the Glades. He was doing his duty and that was the only thing he knew that was really worth doing. One thing for damn sure. He was going to penetrate these radical Islamic sons of bitches, learn their plans, and break their goddamn backs on the wheel of American justice.

And if he couldn't waterboard 'em, he'd airboard their asses. At night. That's right. Threaten to throw them the fuck out of Black Hawk choppers deep into the Everglades. Talk, or you're gator bait, pal. Congress hadn't outlawed that yet, had they? Airboarding? You always had to stay one step ahead of these criminal-coddling nannies up in Washington, else they'd put an end to America soon as they could.

"Stoke?" Michelle said. "Sorry. Time to go."

"Yeah," Stoke said, looking at his watch. "Listen up, Harry."

"Yeah?"

"You take the turnpike back to Miami. Not 95, OK? Safer. No trucks allowed. You keep your speed at 55. Not 56, 55. You don't talk on your cell, you don't text anybody, you don't even turn on the radio. All you do is drive. Okay? Eyes on the road, hands on the wheel. Thing is, I don't want anything bad to happen to you, see? You're my bud, right? We partners, right? Got each other's backs?"

"And all this has got absolutely nothing to do with the GTO, right, Stoke?"

"The GTO? Damn, you insult me. That GTO sitting out there? Stopping traffic on Worth Avenue even as we speak? That's just metal, my brother. Metal and rubber and plastic. You? You're a human being, Harry. You are a gift from God."

"Gee, thanks, Stoke. I love you, too, man."

"But I swear to God, Harry, you put one scratch on that car and I will rip your tiny testicles off and feed them to you one at a time. I will then stick cotton so far down your throat it will come out your ass, make you look like a goddamn Playboy Bunny. Are we clear?"

"You two boys having a problem or something?" Michelle asked innocently.

"Problem? Nah, we cool," Stoke said. "Cool Hand Brock here is driving my GTO back to Miami. Most likely with the top down. While I'm going straight to goddamn jail. You see a problem?"