James Born - Burn Zone

Finally, after a full minute, longer than Duarte thought she could hold out, she said, "It's not that I don't trust you, but there are some things that I'm not supposed to talk about, and this source is one of them. You should just be happy that we were able to move things along." She leaned back against the rail on the balcony and said, "One way to look at it is that all drugs are a form of terrorism toward the U.S."

Duarte changed his stare. "Marijuana? C'mon, don't treat me like an idiot."

She smiled, her white teeth forming the only symmetrical feature on her face, but the overall effect was attractive. She sighed and said, "One of Ortíz's contacts here has been involved in some pretty serious stuff. We think he's one of the guys getting the pot."

"I assume the FBI doesn't consider dealing pot a threat to national security."

"No, but it's not like this guy. We think he might be using the pot to finance something worse."

"What sort of serious stuff has he been involved in?"

She hesitated and then leveled her gaze on him. "Let's just say, if it weren't for 9/11, this guy would be associated with our worst attack."

Duarte wanted to hear more, but realized he had already gotten more than Lina was authorized to tell him.

The man known as Ortíz looked out of the cracked, grimy windowpane above the Avenida Quarto de Julio. The second-floor apartment was one of several apartments that he and his associates owned throughout the capital city. It was vital that Ortíz not be seen meeting with certain people.

Ortíz felt his left eye twitch; it ocurred whenever he was agitated. Right now it was because, as he looked out on the city, he recalled the battles fought against the Americans in 1989. He often passed the former location of the national police, which the Americans had destroyed early in the conflict. He would let the burn zone left by the bombs fuel his anger. It sustained him.

His position in the elite 2,000th Battalion at the start of hostilities had given him a front-row seat to the rout of the Panamanian Defense Force. The use of the then ultrasecret F-117A Stealth Fighter had been more like a training run for the Americans. Panama had had no defense for such technology. Then an AC-130 Spectre gunship had pounded Fort Cimarron. He was lucky to get out alive. Now he intended to make the U.S. feel the same way: hopeless. And he had the perfect target: military, symbolic and vital to the United States.

A moan turned his attention from the second-story window back to the room.

In the middle of the sparse living room, Byron Gastlin sat with his torso and legs secured to a wooden chair. Pelly, Ortíz's most effective assistant, gave the tubby American a sip of water. They weren't ready for him to die yet. It had only been an hour. They had to make certain of the information.

Ortíz looked at the bloody mark on his left hand where Gastlin had grabbed him, begging for mercy and then scratching him when he removed his hand. Without thinking, Ortíz had snatched a butcher knife from the kitchen and severed the three middle fingers on his right hand. He wouldn't be grabbing anyone else for the time he had left on Earth.

Ortíz had cringed slightly when Pelly had then used the same knife to cut a sandwich in half. He'd wiped it, but then still he'd declined when Pelly offered him half.

Ortíz said, "You're sure no one was following him?"

"Yes, boss. Our men called me to say they were breaking off, and I saw the Americans follow them out of the business district. Héctor called me ten minutes later to confirm that he was alone."

Ortíz looked at Pelly. "And what about you?"

"I came way around and then through the Barrio Chorillo to get here. No way anyone but one of us gets through there without gunfire."

Ortíz looked at Gastlin. "Very good. Let's finish up." He stepped over to the trembling American. "Now, Mr. Gastlin, you are certain no one knows me?"

Gastlin shook his head, his eyes darting down to his mutilated hand every few seconds.

"Did you hear anyone talk of Ortíz?"

"Like in the office?"

"Exactly."

"Yeah, they all wanted to identify Ortíz. No one knew who you were."

Ortíz took out a ballpoint pen and made a few notes on a steno pad sitting on the counter that separated the small kitchen from the living room. He turned back to Gastlin and leaned down. "You're certain?"

Gastlin, panting, said, "Yeah, yeah."

Ortíz set the end of the pen on one of Gastlin's stubs where his index finger had been a few minutes before. He pressed the end of the pen into the open wound.

Gastlin sucked in air and said, "I swear, I swear." He started to wail.

Ortíz let up pressure. He looked at Pelly. "Unzip his pants."

Pelly moved like a cat and had his hairy fingers in Gastlin's lap and the zipper started before the smuggler could even say, "Please, don't."

Then, after catching his breath, the dope dealer said, "I swear I won't say anything if you let me go. I swear to God."

Ortíz smiled. "Mr. Gastlin, I know you won't say anything."

Gastlin's eyes widened. "No. I meant if you let me go."

"I see. I'm sorry you cannot be accommodated. We could have used an individual like you in the U.S."

"Use me, use me."

Ortíz picked up the knife from the inside counter.

Gastlin said, "No. Think about it. You need me for the load."

"The load is already on the way."

"They'll miss me."

He chuckled. "I doubt it. Your friends at the DEA might miss you, but they'll never know what happened."

He held up the eight-inch knife. It was pointy but not sharp.

Pelly said, "Boss, I gotta clean up, would you avoid cutting anything else off? I can throw the fingers in a bag, but anything else might be messy."

Gastlin looked between the two men, obviously terrified to hear anyone discuss him like a cow ready for butchering.

Ortíz said, "You want it clean?"

"If possible."

Ortíz saw his assistant's point, but he didn't like it. This man had plenty of appendages that could be trimmed. Instead, he stepped over into the kitchen, opened a cupboard and pulled out a loop of heavy, coarse twine, the same kind they had used to bind Gastlin.

He pulled the loop until he had enough string to double between his hands. He casually stepped behind Gastlin and placed the rough twine around Gastlin's neck.

The heavyset American started to weep and shift in his seat. He had to know it was coming. What a terrifying idea, imminent death.

Gastlin said, "Wait, wait. Why?" and just babbled on.

As he tightened the string, Ortíz said, "Because we are not a colony of the United States." He rubbed the twine back and forth across the flabby flesh of Gastlin's neck as he tightened. He smiled at the erection he felt as Gastlin gulped for air that was not going to come.

Ike sat up in his bed in the little hotel room in Metairie, outside New Orleans. He had wandered through the town for three days now and felt like he had seen all he wanted to see. The place turned his stomach as far as the people who lived here. There were beggars on every corner. Drunken foreigners staggering around Bourbon Street. It seemed like every chick had some kind of colored boyfriend. But he had kept his mouth shut. It all went back to why the country needed to shut its borders and end immigration. They couldn't depend on the Minutemen to do it all. Those poor guys were wearing themselves out on the border between Arizona and Mexico. Once the country saw the problems with immigration, then maybe they could deal with the lowlifes that were already here. Send back a few Jamaicans and a trainload of Mexicans, and maybe crime would drop. He didn't feel it too much in Omaha, but he knew it was a problem in the rest of the country. They had already lost California. The Mexicans were bragging that they had won it back without a fight. Florida might be a lost cause, too. It wasn't so bad with just Cubans, but now it seemed like every form of beaner had taken up residence in the Sunshine State. Ike didn't even think they had that many Jews anymore.