James Born - Burn Zone

After dressing and hiding his valuables from the sporadic cleaning crew, he decided he could walk to the library about six blocks from the hotel. The big U-Haul truck attracted too much attention and was difficult to navigate through the narrow Louisiana streets. With summer over, the temperatures were nice, and the sun was out. Sleeping or working during the day had given him a complexion like a vampire. The sun would give him a little color. He needed to look as mainstream as possible. His hair was already there. For the first time in several years, he had had to run a comb through it when he woke up.

Years earlier he had shaved his head so the Hammerskins would look at him more favorably. The working-class party of white people had proven to be an active, solid organization. Too bad they got an idea of some of his interests. Too much beer one night had made him show one of the longtime Hammerskin veterans the wrong website, and, after splitting his lip with a quick right hand, the man had informed him that he should not now or in the future claim membership in the Hammerskins.

Before that he had been in the National Alliance, but they were too concerned with race purity. They were looking for a holy war that Ike knew wouldn't come, and if it did he didn't really want to fight it. He'd be content to stop immigration and have the country take a serious look at people from outside the borders. Besides, the National Alliance expected a lot of work out of its members. He had a job. He didn't need a second one.

He had met up with some members of the Phineas Priesthood, but quickly realized crazy was crazy no matter what race you were. The members of the priesthood were just too extreme and expected everyone who joined to be the same way. They might really do something to make people notice one day, but he knew what it would take to change things.

He entered the small library and looked over to the round table with six computers available for library patron use. He had already used the computer to check for messages three times. The library only required him to use his first name on the log and only then if there was a waiting list. This morning, things looked pretty quiet. The reference librarian just pointed to an empty computer as he walked up. He nodded and smiled at her.

He typed in Yahoo.com and then tracked his way to Yahoo mail. He entered his user name and password. His name was a variation of World-changer, and the password was freedom. He was not the only one in possession of these phrases. Since it had been widely reported that messages passed over the Internet could be monitored, he shared the account with the president, Mr. Jessup, and the beaner, Mr. Ortíz. He would enter the account, then check messages that had been saved but not sent. That way no one ever looked at the messages, and they were absolutely secure. Only the three men knew it. The process was foolproof.

He found one message. It simply said "On the way. Ship-Flame of Panama-O."

Now things would get interesting.

ALEX DUARTE NODDED AS HIS FRIEND FÉLIX WALKED UP THE hallway to the main administrative office of the Port of New Orleans. He shook his hand and glanced over his shoulder at the tall, well-built man behind Félix.

Félix said, "Rocket, this is Colonel Lázaro Staub." He turned to the colonel and said, "This is Alex Duarte from the U.S. Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms."

"Mucho gusto, señor Duarte." He bowed slightly. "Me honra satisfacerlo."

Duarte looked at the fifty-year-old man and shrugged. He shrugged so frequently he could put emotion into each shrug. This one was an apology shrug.

Staub shook his head and said in English, "I sorry. I thought you were Hispanic."

"I am."

"Where were you born?"

"Florida, but my family is from Paraguay."

"And you speak no Spanish?"

"I'm working on it."

"No matter. I practice the English anyway."

They settled in a conference room, where Félix started by asking about Lina.

Duarte said, "She took off with another FBI agent on some mission here in New Orleans."

"You learn anything about their source? Pale Girl?"

"Nothing." He kept his eyes from darting to Staub. He knew Félix wasn't authorized to hear about Pale Girl. He also knew that a visiting cop from Panama shouldn't even know there was a source of information related to the case.

Félix said, "The Colonel here was a lifesaver. He had men load the container onto the ship and got the ship out right on time. It'll be here by midnight."

"That fast?"

"Yeah, less than two days on the seas. The port in Colón is about eight hundred miles from New Orleans."

Duarte nodded. "What about Gastlin?"

Félix looked down, maybe the first time Duarte had seen him less than energetic. "No sign of him. We got the DEA guys and the Colonel's cops all looking for him."

"How do we find out who the pot in the container goes to without him?"

"We already thought of that. Won't work. We figured we'll hold the load for a day or two to see if he surfaces. If not, the effort isn't a total zero. We still have a direct buy from Ortíz."

"But still no ID?"

Félix shook his head.

Staub spoke up. "We have been trying to identify this Ortíz for two years. He is very difficult. It is not so easy to find wealthy men who wish to remain unknown."

Duarte nodded and for the first time noticed a slight twitch in the colonel's left eye.

Lina returned in the evening. She acted as if she had been gone an hour instead of nearly ten. The introductions were made, and Duarte noticed two things that he might have been too dense to pick up on a few months earlier.

First, Lina's hand lingered in Colonel Staub's handshake, and she gazed directly into his eyes. Second, Duarte realized that Félix wasn't happy about her reaction.

Duarte kept his mouth shut and minded his own business, just like he tried to always do.

Once they were seated at a conference table waiting for the Flame of Panama to arrive, Félix looked across at Lina and said, "So where you been all day?"

"Errands."

"Like what?" His tone was sharper than normal.

She didn't answer.

Félix wouldn't let it go. "So your errands are classified, too?"

Lina flashed a glare at him.

Duarte cut in and said, "Let's figure out what to do with the load if Gastlin doesn't turn up."

Staub said, "It is safe at the port, no?"

They all nodded.

"Will your customs officers search it or ask questions?"

Félix said, "No. We'll bring it into the secure area. It'll be in with so many other containers no one will ever even notice it."

Duarte thought about logistics and said, "If we look at it in the port, someone will see us. It may tip them off."

Félix said, "We'll check it on the boat. Once it's off-loaded, they won't know which container we checked." His cell phone rang. Félix spoke quietly for a few moments and then looked up at the others. "We can do it right now if you'd like. The ship just docked."

F lame of Panama itself was an older freighter that appeared to be painted brown until Duarte looked closely and realized it was rust, a deep, well-earned rust that seemed to change the ship's personality. If the upper deck were white and lower hull black, the entire look would lift the crew's spirits. The way it looked now, even sailors had to think they had drawn the short straw.

No one even challenged them as they followed a customs inspector up the gangplank. The round woman in a Department of Homeland Security uniform waddled up the plank and then pointed to a lower container. There were two containers stacked on it and several on each side.