Ted Bell - Warlord

Squirrel gave this prison administrator his best shit-eating grin and said, "Looking good, sir. Like 'at tie yer wearin'. Sharp." It was obvious Squirrel didn't get a whole lot of face time at Admin, and when the doors closed on him, he was still smiling.

Warden Robb had a pretty brunette secretary in a tight pink sweater plucking at a computer just outside his office, but the warden himself was standing in the open doorway and motioned Stoke inside as soon as he appeared.

"Please come in," he said to Stoke, and went back into his office. The secretary swiveled her chair and looked up at Stoke as he passed. She looked like one of those tourists in New York, the first time they see the Empire State Building. They crane their heads back and back and just keep bending backward until they can see all the way to the top.

"You want to close the door, Mr. Jones?"

"Sure," Stoke said, and did.

"Well, I'm not going to say welcome to the Glades, but welcome to the Glades, sir."

"I appreciate that."

"Afraid I got some bad news for you, though."

"My friend Sharkey?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hurt? Dead?"

"Not dead. But it was close. He's over in the prison hospital. Sit down, will you? Pull that chair up."

"What happened, Warden?" Stoke said, sitting, silently condemning himself for not getting here sooner.

"Y'know, Mr. Jones, I been worried about that boy ever since he got here. Nice Cuban kid with a big smile. I had one of my most trusted guards keeping an eye on him. His name is Figg. Orson Figg. You remember that name if you find yourself in real trouble in here. He's the only guard you can trust and he knows who you are and why you're here."

"And my friend? What happened?"

"Yesterday, bunch of 'em Aryans caught him alone out in the yard. Before we could break it up, they'd stabbed him twenty-two times. Ice picks, mostly, couple of shiv wounds."

"Jesus."

"Amazing thing? By the time we'd ripped those goddamn White Aryans off him, he was still on his feet. Boy just wouldn't go down. Damnedest thing I ever saw."

"Sharkey?"

"One tough little rooster, I'd say. Wouldn't let anybody help him walk inside from the yard, neither. Shooed 'em all away. He just kept puttin' one foot in front of the other till he got inside, blood spurting from all those fresh holes in him. Once he was inside, out of sight of the population? Hell, he collapsed on the floor, unconscious."

"Can I see him?"

"Of course, but I'd wait. Get the inmates' attention you go see him first thing you get here. Word spreads like wildfire in here. Right about now, everybody in here's gabbing about the Statie you allegedly killed up in Claxton, Georgia. I'll get word to you when I think it's okay to visit. Don't worry about him, Mr. Jones. He'll recover. He just lost a helluva lot of blood out there in the yard, but no organs or major blood vessels were punctured."

"Thank you for taking care of him."

"These are my people in here, Mr. Jones. You wouldn't know it half the time, way they act, but they are. I know why you're in here, by the way, and I can tell you you're not a minute too soon either."

"How's that?"

"This Sword of Allah? Ones that blew up Jackson Memorial here a month or so back? Escapees? They got something big in the works. That's the hack grapevine anyhow."

"Bigger than Jackson?"

"Jackson Memorial was just practice, according to what I hear. Big, that's all I know. Something on a massive scale. I had a paid informant inside the Swords till about six months ago when he ended up dead. Wish to hell I knew more. Maybe you can find out, Mr. Jones. Nobody else can."

"That's why I'm here."

"You look like you can handle yourself."

"Still alive, anyway. That's something, I guess. I need to get inside the Sword. Get close to senior management, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah. But you got to let them come after you. You go after them, they get suspicious."

"Done this before, but thanks for the advice."

"Sounds right. Now, listen up. There's one inmate in here you definitely need to watch out for. Guy who controls the White Aryan Nations in the state of Florida. This boy is a three-hundred-pound ripped gorilla of a man, kickboxing, tai chi, karate, what have you, spends every waking moment pumping iron, a cunning psychopath who calls himself 'Bonecrusher.'"

"He one of the ones who stabbed my friend?"

The warden laughed. "Bonecrusher? Naw. Man doesn't operate that way. He's a specialist. He likes to break your back or your neck or both legs, or all three and then set your ass on fire, watch you fry. He knows he'll never get out of here alive and he don't mind the hole much, so he pretty much acts accordingly."

Stoke smiled.

"Warden, I'm not interested in the Aryan Nation. What I do need to know is who I need to get close to inside Sword of Allah? Who sits at the top of the pyramid? Who can tell me things I need to know in a way that I can believe what I'm hearing?"

"Good questions. The guy everyone thinks runs the Swords is a big mean sumbitch calls himself 'Ishtar.' The real brains belong to one of our beloved Gitmo transferees named Sheik Shiraz. Pakistani. Blew up that Israeli embassy in 2002. Smart little bastard, everybody calls him the imam. Talks like Yoda in Star Wars, know what I mean? Riddles. Very polite. All kinds of degrees from Islam U. or Islam you ain't. You get tight with the little guy, earn his trust, you have earned your government salary times ten, believe me."

"One more question, Warden, and I'll go to my cell and settle in and get comfy. Bottom line, what the hell do these people in here want? These Islamic fanatics? Call attention to their cause? Terrorize and intimidate our country's citizens? What? What is the Sword's ultimate objective?"

"Hell, that's an easy one. Kill Americans, Mr. Jones. Kill us like they did down at Jackson Memorial, kill our allies the Brits like they did at Heathrow airport a year or so back. They hate our country, our people, our way of life, and everything it stands for. And this is pure hatred with a passion that is almost inconceivable to ordinary people like you and me. They want to bring us to our knees, Mr. Jones."

"And they are everywhere."

"That's right. And then they want to cut our heads off with the Sword of Allah. If that's not enough, they want to die doing it."

"How about we begin at the end of their wish list, don't you think, Warden? They die doing it. That sounds good. Then we work our way backward from there? Start with that Fort Hood asshole. One who had Post-Traumatic Mass Murder Syndrome 'cause everybody was mean to him. Start with him."

The warden laughed, locking eyes with the big black man.

"I don't know you, sir. But by God I'm glad you're here. For whatever crazy personal reasons you may have for doing this, I can only say I admire your-"

"Called duty, Warden. Only thing worth living or dying for. Friend of mine named Alex Hawke taught me that a long, long time ago."

STOKE WAS IN CELLBLOCK D, the most secure of all the close custody wings at the Glades. It was also where the Sword of Allah members were housed. Keep the cancer contained as much as possible. It was a long, long walk to his cell, shuffling along in the ankle bracelets, and the wrist bracelets, and the little flip-flop slippers he wore with his bright orange prison garb.

"Open eight!" one of his two guards shouted, and the cell door slid back with a bang. They sat him down on his bunk and took off the ankle bracelets. They left the wrist cuffs on and sauntered back outside, waiting for the cell door to slam shut. The guards ruled the joint with a piratical swagger, Stoke saw, and a solid grasp of the principles of intimidation.

"Close eight!" the hack said, and motioned for Stoke to put his hands through the food tray slot. He did, and they removed his handcuffs. After they'd walked away, Stoke sat back down on the bunk, rubbing his bruised wrists, taking inventory. He was supposed to have shared this cell with Sharkey. But he'd been a day late and one shiv short, and the sons of bitches had gotten to him. He lay back on the thin mattress and put his hands behind his head, thinking things over.