The Plantation

Jones agreed. “He did us a favor by knocking out the door and window. If you want, I can fire a few clearing shots so you can bolt outside.”

Payne nodded. Even though Jones wouldn’t be aiming at the sniper, he would minimize the risk of return fire, which would allow him to slip outside. Of course, the drawback to the plan was the possibility of more than one gunman. If someone was waiting near the door, he’d shoot Payne rather easily.

But it was a chance they had to take.

“Are you ready?” Payne asked as he peered through the darkness. “On the count of three, shoot through the window as I head for the door.”

“You got it.”

“One,” Payne whispered as he adjusted the Glock in his sweaty right hand.

“Two,” muttered Jones as he peered at his glassless target.

“Three!” they yelled in unison.

With a burst of adrenaline, Payne leapt from the ground and sprinted out the door while Jones aimed his gun at the window and fired. Or at least tried to. Unfortunately, nothing came out when he squeezed the Glock’s trigger, which left his friend in a very precarious position.

The concrete under Payne’s feet exploded in wispy puffs of smoke as the gunman opened fire from the roof across the street. With nowhere else to go, Payne cut sharply to his right and dove behind the closest car he saw, a maneuver that tore most of the skin from his knees. In Payne’s mind, it was a fair trade. He definitely preferred scabs to bullet holes.

“Are you all right?” Jones called from inside.

“I’m fine!” Payne snarled. “Where the hell was my cover fire?”

“Sorry. I had a misfire. The damn gun wouldn’t shoot.”

“What do you mean it wouldn’t shoot? You have to pull the trigger, you know.”

Jones grinned, countering the insult with a fact that Payne had overlooked. “Don’t be mad at me, be mad at the source. Remember, you got your gun from the same place as me.”

Growling softly, Payne focused his attention on the weapon in his hand. If it had the same malfunction as Jones’s, he wouldn’t have a chance against the sniper. The truth was he had slim odds to begin with, but with a broken firearm, he would be in serious trouble.

“Shit,” he mumbled to himself. There was only one way to find out.

Payne pointed his Glock toward the building across the street and squeezed the trigger. But nothing happened. No explosion. No discharge. Just a quiet click.

In situations like this, Payne was taught to use a simple corrective technique known as “tap, rack, bang.” He tapped the bottom of the handle to make sure his magazine was properly engaged. Then he racked the gun, ejecting the misfired round and chambering the next one. Finally, he pulled the trigger again, hoping to hear a bang.

But in this case, the only sound he heard was another click.

“Well?” Jones called from inside the shop. He had tried the same technique without any luck.

“We’re so screwed we should be wearing condoms.”

Jones grinned. “Don’t give up hope yet. What kind of shot is this guy? Any good?”

Payne glanced at the holes in the sidewalk and sighed at the damage that had been done. “Not really. If he was, I wouldn’t be talking to you right now.”

“And he’s probably working alone, huh?”

“If he wasn’t, his partner would’ve nailed me by now.”

“If that’s the case, then what are we afraid of? Are we going to let some redneck knock off two of this country’s best soldiers, or are we going to come up with a plan to take this guy out?”

“If I was a betting man, I’d put my money on the redneck.”

“I’m serious! We’ve been in several situations worse than this, and we’ve always made it out.”

Payne grunted as he stared at his broken Glock. “Fine, let’s list everything that we have, and maybe a plan will become obvious.”

Jones nodded. “As far as I can tell, we have two defective handguns and . . .”

“And?” Payne muttered, hoping that he was forgetting something important.

“And that’s about it! As far as I can tell, we have two broken Glocks.”

Payne leaned his head against the Chevy Celebrity that protected him and groaned. Their current inventory wouldn’t stop a mugger, let alone a well-placed sniper. “Is there anything else in there that can be used? A gun behind the counter? A telephone? A flashlight?”

“Oh, shit!” Jones suddenly shrieked. “I just thought of something big!”

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

“Levon!”

The answer stunned Payne. Somehow he had completely forgotten about Greene. “Holy hell! Why don’t you see where that badass is hiding?”

“Be back in a flash.”

Payne snuggled up against the car the best he could, trying to conceal his body under the maroon frame. He realized if the sniper attempted a ground assault, the only way he could protect himself was by hiding under the car. Thankfully, before that was necessary, Payne detected a sound in the far-off distance. At first he wasn’t sure if he was imagining it or not, but after a few seconds of listening, he knew that he wasn’t. It was the wail of sirens, and they were headed his way.

“Jon?” Jones shouted from the back of the shop. “Is that what I think it is?”

Payne peered underneath the Chevy and saw several squad cars pulling onto his street. “Yes, Mr. Jones, the cavalry has arrived!”

“Thank God.”

“You said it.” Payne leaned back on the sidewalk, his legs still underneath the car for protection. “By the way, how’s Levon doing?”

Instead of shouting his response, Jones scrambled out of the store and took a seat next to his friend. Once he was safely behind the car, he turned toward Payne and looked him dead in the eye. “You’re not going to believe this. You’re really not.”

“What now?”

“I don’t even know how to start, but . . .” Jones struggled for the right words to break the news to his friend. “Levon is gone.”

Payne sat upright, the color draining from his face. “Oh, my God! How did he-”

“No,” Jones said as he grabbed Payne’s arm. “He’s not

dead

gone. He’s

gone

gone. I don’t know how he did it, but that slippery son of a bitch managed to escape.”

CHAPTER 22

AS

the police pulled to a screeching stop in front of Sam’s Tattoos, Payne stared at Jones, trying to determine if his best friend was serious. After several seconds, Payne decided that he was. “Levon has disappeared?”

“Yep. He’s gone.”

Payne shook his head in disbelief. “How is that possible? He’s, like, eight feet tall and weighs five hundred pounds, yet you managed to lose him in an empty room.”

“That’s what I said.”

“I thought you were supposed to be a professional detective.”

“I am. And in my professional opinion, I’m telling you he’s not in there.”

Payne leaned closer to Jones and tried to smell his breath. “Have you been drinking?”

Jones grinned. “I wish I was.”

Payne was about to reply, but before he had a chance, a booming voice shattered the stillness of the night.

“We see you behind the car,” announced a patrolman through his bullhorn. “Put your hands where we can see them and come out very slowly.”

The two of them did as they were told and were frisked by a team of gun-toting officers.

“Gentlemen,” barked Sergeant Rutherford, the lead officer at the scene, “I’m sure you realize y’all have a lot of explaining to do.”

Rutherford was in his mid-forties and possessed the face of an ex-boxer. His nose was crooked, his teeth were fake, and his face was dotted with several scars. His thick black hair was splashed with gray, but his police hat covered most of it.

“Before I throw you guys in cuffs and haul your asses to the station, you need to tell me what happened here.”

Payne cleared his throat and began to speak before Jones had a chance to say anything. “My buddy and I just flew in to New Orleans earlier tonight for a little R amp; R. We rented a car, got something to eat, and decided to do something out of the ordinary. A local told us that Jamaican Sam drew the best tattoos in the whole darn state-”

“A lovely state, I might add.”

“It sure is, D.J. Anyway, we decided to come here to check out his craftsmanship.”

“We were impressed. Very colorful stuff.”

“But we were here for less than ten minutes when somebody shot Sam from across the street.”

“We think from that rooftop there,” Jones said, pointing. “With a sniper rifle.”

“We wanted to fight back.”

“But we didn’t have any weapons.”

Payne nodded. “I hid in the corner for protection, and D.J. dove behind the counter.”

“When I was back there, I found two guns. I tossed one to Jon and kept the other for myself.”

“We tried to use them when the madman started shooting at us.”

“But neither of them worked.”

“I left mine on the sidewalk,” Payne volunteered.

“And mine is inside.”

“You can check for yourself. Neither of them is capable of firing a round.”

“Yep,” Jones seconded. “I squeezed the trigger, but it wouldn’t make a bang or nothing.”

Payne paused in thought. “Anything else you can think of?”

Jones shook his head. “Nope. I think that covers it.”

Payne nodded in agreement. “That’s about all we’ve got, sir. Hopefully that makes your report pretty easy to write.”

Rutherford studied the two men and smiled. He wanted to comment on the conversation but was simply too fascinated to speak. Even though Payne’s and Jones’s statements were coming from two different voices, it was like they were coming from the same mind. When Payne started a sentence, Jones finished it. If Jones started, Payne ended it. Rutherford had been on the job for over twenty years and had never seen anything like it.

“Okay,” the cop muttered as he emerged from his trance. “We’ll take a look around and see if your story checks out. If it does, y’all have nothing to worry about. I’ll have you back on your vacation by sunrise. However, if it doesn’t, then you might be staying here in our state”-Rutherford turned his head toward Jones and smirked-“pardon me, our

lovely

state, for a lot longer than you were planning. In the meantime, why don’t you guys show me some ID? That’ll give me a chance to see if y’all have escaped from a mental health facility, which is a distinct possibility in my book.”

AFTER

examining the scene for an hour, Rutherford decided that Payne and Jones were telling the truth. But before he let them go, he decided to discuss the facts with his second in command. “Richie, can you think of any reason to hold these two any longer?”

The second cop, white and overweight, glanced at his notes and shook his head. “Nah. From what we’ve found, these guys couldn’t have been the shooter. The bullet that killed Sam matched the size of the casings from the roof across the street. The two Glocks found at the scene have no serial numbers, probably bought by Sam for protection. And just like the guys said, the damn things appeared to be unfired. We couldn’t smell discharge.”

“On top of that,” Rutherford added, “the two suspects are covered in cuts and scratches, which were probably caused by flying glass. That means they were in the shop when the shooting started.”

“Yep, and the initial 911 call mentioned a sniper as well.”

“What about their histories? Any warrants?”

“We checked their backgrounds, and neither of them have any prior convictions. Both of them have military academy educations, and both are currently employed by a reputable company, Payne Industries. In fact, the white guy in your car is CEO of the corporation.”

“You mean it’s

his

corporation?” Rutherford asked.

“Yes, sir. He’s the head honcho. Flew down here on his private jet.”

“I’ll be damned. What the hell is a rich corporate type doing in a New Orleans ghetto in the middle of the damn night?”

“Apparently getting a tattoo.”

Rutherford laughed at the suggestion. “Kind of unlikely, huh?”

“Yeah, but I’ll be honest with you. I don’t think he flew all the way down here to kill Jamaican Sam, either. A rich man like that doesn’t commit his own crimes. A millionaire pays to have them done for him.”

Rutherford nodded. “True, but we’ve already decided that Payne and Jones didn’t kill anyone, right? So what brings them here at this hour?”

“Drugs?”

“I doubt it. I ordered a background check on Jamaican Sam Fletcher, and he had no record other than a few busts for marijuana. The guy was a smoker, not a seller. The cops that patrol this neighborhood claim he ran a clean place. In fact, his artwork was so admired by the local gangs that thugs went out of their way to protect him.”

“Where does that leave us?”

Rutherford didn’t want to admit it, but he had no choice. “Honestly, it leaves us without a case. We can’t charge these two without just cause, and we can’t prove that these guys did anything wrong. We could hold them for twenty-four hours of questioning if we wanted to, but I guarantee that Payne would have a fancy-pants lawyer down here in the blink of an eye causing a big stink about something. No, thank you! It just wouldn’t be worth it.”

“Then we’re kinda forced to let them go, huh?”

“It looks that way, but that doesn’t mean we’re gonna forget ’em.”

The cop looked at his superior and grinned. “What do you have in mind? Some kind of tail?”

Rutherford laughed at the suggestion. “Nothing that drastic, at least not yet. I’m gonna do some digging when I get back to the station and see if I can turn up anything that makes sense. If I do, I’ll nail these guys before they know what hit ’em.” Rutherford groaned as he stared at the captives in the back of his squad car. “Let ’em loose, but tell ’em I want to have a brief chat with them before they leave.”

While waiting for the duo, Rutherford leaned against a nearby building, ready to verbally pounce on the men at the first opportunity. Payne and Jones barely had time to stretch their legs before the veteran cop started his lecture.

“Gentlemen,” he said sternly, “y’all should know better than to be roaming this type of neighborhood in the middle of the night. Violence is pretty common here, and the idiot that told you to visit Sam’s shop at night should’ve known better. Y’all are lucky to be alive.”

Payne nodded his head in agreement as he walked toward the sergeant. “Thanks to you, we are. If you guys didn’t show up when you did, we would’ve been killed by the sniper for sure.”

“Don’t thank me,” admitted the cop. “Thank the person who called 911. He was the one that made us aware of the shooting.”

“Actually, I’d like to. Is the guy around?”

Rutherford shrugged while staring at the crowd that had gathered across the street. “Probably, but I don’t know where to find him. He used a pay phone to report the incident, but refused to leave his name.”

Jones smiled to himself, wondering if Levon Greene was the person who’d made the call. If he had, they probably owed the Buffalo Soldier their lives. “If you manage to find out who it was, thank him for us, okay?”

Rutherford shook Jones’s hand and smiled. “You got it.” Then he turned to shake Payne’s. “In the meantime, stay out of trouble, all right? Keep in mind if I hear your names mentioned at the station in connection with any other suspicious events during your vacation in New Orleans, I might be forced to reconsider your involvement. Do I make myself clear?”

Both men nodded even though they realized that their trouble was far from over.

In fact, it was just beginning.

CHAPTER 23

LIGHTNING

bolts. The pain felt like lightning bolts surging through her brain.

Ariane did her best to ignore it-tried to open her eyes, tried to fight through the jackhammer that thumped inside her skull-but the agony was overwhelming. God, she wondered, what’s wrong with me? She’d never felt this bad before. Ever. She’d suffered through hangovers, migraines, and a skiing accident that left her with a severe concussion, but in all her years, she had never come close to feeling like this.

Hell, it felt like she was giving birth through her nose. The pain was

that

intense.

To escape the pounding, Ariane was tempted to fall back asleep. She figured if she got a little more rest she’d have to feel a whole lot better than she did now. Then, if all went well, she’d roll out of bed like she had planned and whip Jonathon’s butt in a round of golf.

Golf? Wait a second. Something about that didn’t seem right. She tried to figure it out, struggled to put her snippets of memory together in an orderly fashion, but was unable to. She could vaguely remember waking up and brushing her teeth and getting a shower and . . . the door. Something about the door. She could remember someone pounding on her door.

Or was the pounding in her head?

Wow! She honestly didn’t know. The details were hazy, like a painful childhood incident that had suddenly crept back into her consciousness. Why couldn’t she remember the door? What was it about her door?

Ariane tried to open her eyes, fought to pry her lids apart, but the pain was too intense. Wave after wave crashed inside her head, causing her to lurch forward into the fetal position. As she did, the maelstrom surged toward her gut, inducing the worst muscle spasms of her life. To her it felt like her innards were exploding upward. Like her gallblad der, liver, and intestines were inching their way toward her mouth, swimming ever so slowly up the back of her throat on a viscous river of bile.

“What’s wrong with me?” she called out, hoping God would provide her with an answer.

“Shhh,” a motherly voice replied. “Just relax. The pain will soon pass. I promise.”

The sound of a strange voice sent shock waves through Ariane.

“Who are you?” she shrieked, now trying to open her eyes with twice the urgency of before. “What are you doing in my bedroom?”

The voice sighed at the query. “You’re not in your bedroom.”

That was news to Ariane. She honestly couldn’t remember leaving her apartment. “I’m not? Where am I, then? What’s wrong with me?”

“I’m not sure where we are. I wish I knew. And as to what’s wrong with you, you’re having a reaction to the drugs. But don’t worry, it’ll pass quickly.”

“Drugs?” Ariane mumbled.

“Yeah, sis, I said drugs.” The female paused to let the information sink in.

Sis

? Did she say

sis

? Why the hell would this person call her

sis

?

Oh, God! The reason suddenly dawned on her.

“Tonya? Is that you?”

Tonya Edwards looked down at Ariane and attempted to smile. “Of course it’s me-unless you have another sister that you’ve been hiding.”

“No, but . . .” The presence of her pregnant older sister only added to Ariane’s confusion. Tonya lived in Colorado. What in the world was she doing in Pittsburgh? “Why are you here? Is something wrong?”

It was the understatement of the year.

“Yeah, sis, I’d say something is wrong.”

Ariane swallowed, the bitter taste of bile still in her mouth. “Is it the baby?”

“The baby, Robert, you, me. Pretty much everything.” Tonya tried to lower herself to the floor, but her belly prevented it. “I’m not sure why, but our family’s been kidnapped.”

SLIGHTLY banged up but happy to be alive, the two friends walked to their rented Mustang in total silence. As they strolled past the ancient cemetery, Payne shuddered slightly, realizing how close he’d come to his own funeral. If the sniper had been a little more accurate, Payne and Jones would’ve been returning to Pittsburgh in wooden crates, not in the comfort of a private jet.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Jones said, studying his silent friend. “Are you all right?”

Payne nodded as he slid into the car. “As good as can be expected.”

After strapping himself in, Payne allowed his mind to drift back to the incident at the tattoo shop. Even though the shooting was unexpected, Payne knew that Ariane’s kidnappers were bound to become aware of his presence. But the big question was, how? How did they find out about him so quickly? Was there a spy at the airport? At the Fishing Hole? Or was the late-night gunplay an unlucky coincidence? Maybe Sam’s death had been ordered several days before, and the sniper just happened to show up at the same time they did. Sam was the first one eliminated, so maybe he was the number one priority of the hit. Maybe the Plantation Posse, or some unrelated gang, had been planning to silence him for an entirely different reason. Even though it seemed unlikely, it was a possibility.

Shit, in New Orleans, anything was possible. One trip to Mardi Gras would prove that.

“By the way,” Jones asked, “where are we going? Or are you planning on driving around this city until someone starts shooting at us again?”

“That’s not what I had in mind, but now that you mention it, that’s better than anything I can come up with.”

“Stumped already?”

“I wouldn’t say stumped, but I’m pretty confused. There are simply too many variables floating around in my mind right now. And I can’t figure out which ones are important.”

“I was thinking the same thing. There are lots of questions and very few answers.”

“You’re right about that. However, two things are bothering me more than anything else. I can’t figure them out for the life of me.”

“And they are?”

“Number one, if Ariane was kidnapped for money, why the hell would the Posse try to kill me? I’m the one with the bank account. Why eliminate me? My death would instantly take away their chance of a big payday.”

Jones nodded. It was a thought that hadn’t entered his mind. “You’re right. That’s a pretty big issue, one that I can’t answer. What’s number two? Maybe I can help you with that.”

“That one’s even more confusing. Where the hell is Levon?”

CHAPTER 24

BECAUSE

of his size and the weapon he carried, Levon Greene showed no fear as he walked through Louis Armstrong Park. Like most American cities, New Orleans had a policy against large, gun-toting black men walking in its city parks after midnight. But Greene knew he was in no danger of being stopped since most cops were at Sam’s Tattoos, trying to solve that shooting.

As he emerged from the darkness of the tree-lined sidewalks, Greene tucked his pistol in the waistband of his Dockers, concealing it completely under his shirt. Despite the early-morning hour, up-tempo funk leaked from Don na’s Bar and Grill, a famous jazz club off of St. Ann Street. A group of well-dressed men and women waited to show the bouncer their IDs. Greene didn’t have the patience to linger in line, so he shook the hand of the starstruck guard and slipped inside without delay.

Celebrity had some privileges.

Since the sniper had prevented him from using the bathroom at Sam’s, Greene quickly made his way to the rear of the club while trying to conceal his identity from as many people as he could. He simply didn’t have time to sign autographs for anyone at the moment. There were more pressing matters on his mind-and his lower colon-to deal with. After making his way into the restroom, Greene found himself angered by his phone, which started to ring the moment he turned the lock on his stall door.

“Who’s this?” he demanded.

“This is D.J.,” Jones said, relieved. “Are you all right?”

The call was completely unexpected, like hearing the voice of a ghost, and it took Greene a moment to catch his breath. “Am

I

all right? I think the better question is, are

you

all right? I thought you were dead for sure! I can’t believe you’re alive! Did Jon make it, too?”

“He’s fine. He’s sitting next to me.”

“I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Greene muttered. From the number of bullets fired, he assumed nobody in the front of the shop could’ve survived. And if someone had, he figured they’d be bleeding all over intensive care by now. “How about Sam? Did he make it?”

“I’m afraid not. The first shot took him out clean. He didn’t have a chance.”

“What about the next one hundred shots? What the hell did they hit?”

“Everything but us,” Jones admitted. “I guess our military training helped us escape.”

“Training? What kind of training teaches you to dodge bullets? Are you guys fucking ninjas?”

“I swear I never fucked a ninja in my life.” Jones chuckled, hoping that Greene understood his joke. “The truth is, luck played a bigger role in our safety than I’m willing to admit.”

“Man, how lucky can two guys get?”

“Speaking of lucky, how did you get out of there? I could’ve sworn we left you in Sam’s bathroom. When we went to save you, you weren’t in there. How did you pull that one off?”

Greene smiled as he thought about his easy escape, but it was a secret that he wasn’t ready to share. He wanted Payne and Jones to ponder the mystery for a little while longer. “I’ll tell you in a little bit, okay? But I’m in a public restroom as we speak, and I don’t know if there are people in the other stalls listening.”

“What did you do? Flush yourself to another part of the city?”

Greene laughed. “No, nothing like that, but you’ll have to wait a few more minutes for the details. Where are you guys now?”

Jones asked Payne for details. “We’re somewhere in the French Quarter. Jon thinks it’s called Conti Street.”

“That’s pretty close to me.” Greene gave Jones directions to Donna’s Bar and Grill and told him that he’d be waiting outside when they got there. “But first,” he insisted, “I’ve got some urgent business to attend to, and I’m not willing to do it while we’re on the phone.”

THE

Mustang stopped in front of the crowded club and pulled away with its new passenger. As the car picked up speed, Greene greeted Payne and Jones, warmly shaking their hands. “Military? You guys never told me you were in the military. What branch were you in?”

Payne answered first. “I went to the Naval Academy. After that I got selected by the government to work on a special forces unit.”

“That’s where I met him,” Jones added. “I was assigned to the same team as Jon, even though I was from the Air Force. And we’ve been side by side ever since.”

“I’ll be damned,” Greene muttered. “I’m sitting here with two Rambos. No wonder you guys were able to escape the tattoo parlor. I’m surprised you didn’t kill the shooter in the process. What, are you guys rusty or something?”

“Actually, we wanted to get the bastard but weren’t able to because of you.”

Greene looked at Payne, confused. “Because of me? What did I do?”

“It’s what you didn’t do. You didn’t get us guns that worked.”

“They didn’t work? What do you mean they didn’t work?”

Jones jumped into the fray. “Just like he said. We pulled our triggers several times, and nothing came out. Like a guy with a vasectomy.”

Payne grinned at the analogy. “Tell me more about your gun dealer. Has anything like this ever happened before?”

“No,” Greene assured them. “He’s got a first-class rep on the streets.”

“Maybe so, but his faulty products almost got us killed.” Payne slowed to a stop at a red light and turned toward Greene. “I’d love a chance to meet this guy. You know, to see if I get a good feeling about him. Do you think you could set something up?”

Greene glanced at Payne and shrugged. “I could, but it won’t do you any good. You guys already met him, and you trusted him just fine.”

“Terrell Murray?” Payne asked. “The owner of the Fishing Hole?”

Greene nodded. “The one and only.”

“Why didn’t you mention that before we talked to him?” Jones demanded.

“Terrell is very hush-hush about his activities. Sure, he owns and operates some skin clubs, but those things are legal and can’t get him into trouble. What he refuses to do, though, is flaunt the things that could get him busted. If he sells something illegal, he deals with a restricted list of clientele, and if they betray him, he cuts them off immediately. That’s why I purchased the weapons by myself and why I didn’t mention his name earlier. Can you understand that?”

“Sure,” Payne admitted. “That makes plenty of sense to me. So, why tell us now? If Terrell is so secretive, why risk his confidence by mentioning his name?”

“Sometimes you gotta betray one trust to gain another.”

Payne and Jones pondered the comment, nodding their heads in admiration. For an ex-jock, Greene possessed a pretty good understanding of human nature.

“And besides,” he continued, “when we go to get your refund, I want you to do the talking. I’d feel safer if you pissed him off instead of me.”

CHAPTER 25

AS

they drove to the Fishing Hole, Jones patiently waited for Greene to answer the question that he’d asked earlier, but it was apparent that Greene had completely forgotten about it-or was trying to avoid it. “Levon, since you’re out of the john now, can you please tell me how you managed to escape from Sam’s? That’s been bugging me for the past hour.”

Payne glanced at Jones and smiled. “You must’ve been reading my mind. I was getting ready to ask him the same thing.”

Realizing that he was the center of attention, Greene grinned mischievously, his eyes twinkling like a small child’s at a birthday party. When he could hold it in no longer, he blurted the secret. “I went through the back wall.”

Jones laughed in a disbelieving tone. “Who are you, the Kool-Aid guy? I don’t remember seeing any Negro-shaped holes in the back room.”

But Greene stuck by his story. “How hard did ya look?”

“Pretty damn hard.”

“Apparently not hard enough, because I got my ass out.”

Payne joined Greene in laughter. “He’s got you there, Sherlock. I guess you aren’t the infallible detective after all.”

Jones leaned forward to object. “Yeah, but-”

“Actually,” Payne interrupted, “why don’t you let him explain things? Maybe you can learn a thing or two from the big man.”

Jones rolled his eyes while he waited for Greene to begin.

“Thank you, Jon. I’d love to help him out. When I got into the back, I did as you asked. I looked for anything suspicious, but there was nothing there but a bathroom and a closet.”

“Right,” Jones blurted. “That’s what I found, too.”

“So, like I said, I went into the bathroom to take care of my business, and-

boom! crash!

– I heard a gunshot then glass breaking in the front. I wanted to come out to check on things, but my pants were around my ankles, and that slowed me down a bit.”

“I bet it did,” Jones muttered.

“By the time I got my pants up, I heard a number of shots. Glass was breaking, walls were shattering, chaos! At that point, I assumed you guys were dead. I mean, come on! How was I supposed to know that you were commandos in a former life? Anyway, I figured I needed to get out of the place without going out the front door, right? I remembered from when I walked into the shop that there was a historical landmark plaque on the front wall, and it said the building used to be a part of the Underground Railroad.”

“Seriously?” Jones asked.

Greene nodded. “Like I told you guys, I’ve been doing a lot of research on my hometown, and one of the things that fascinates me was New Orleans’ role in the slave trade. A number of ports on the Gulf of Mexico were notorious for bringing slaves into this country, but at the same time, a number of ports were used to smuggle slaves out. Shit, there was so much diversity in this city during the eighteen hundreds that people often confused slaves with their masters. In fact, there was one period, in 1803, when ownership of New Orleans passed from Spain to France to the United States in less than a month’s time. If a city doesn’t even know what country it belongs to, how’s it gonna keep track of the people?”

Jones tried to absorb all of the information. Historical facts and local folklore normally fascinated him, but in this case, he wanted to get to the important stuff. He wanted to know how Greene got out of the damn shop without being seen. “Levon, not to be rude, but-”

“I know, I know. You want to know how I did it. Fine, I’ll tell you. The landmark plaque clicked in my mind, and I remembered going on a tour or two where there was a trapdoor or a hidden set of steps that allowed fugitives to slip out of the place undetected. And guess what?”

Payne answered. “You found something.”

“Exactly! The rear wall of the closet was actually a door. A well-concealed door.”

“Once you got outside, did you try to get the shooter?”

“To be honest with you, no. My nickname is the Buffalo Soldier, but I don’t have much experience with killing people. And the truth is, I thought you guys were already dead.”

“We probably should’ve been,” Jones admitted. “A well-trained gunman would’ve picked us off clean.

If

that was his goal.”

Greene frowned. “What does that mean? You don’t think he was aiming for you?”

“At this point, we don’t know. What would be the purpose of killing Jon if he hasn’t paid a ransom yet? If the kidnappers want his millions, they better not kill him. Right?”

The comment took Greene by surprise. “You’ve got millions? I thought you were some kind of unemployed street baller. You really got that many bucks in the bank?”

“I have a nice nest egg, yeah.”

“I’ll be damned! A rich Rambo! What the hell did you do? Auction your soldiering skills to the highest bidder? Or did you just sell a stolen warhead?”

“Nothing that dramatic. When my grandfather died, he left the family business to me.”

“Like a family restaurant or something?”

Payne shrugged, trying not to brag. “Something like that.”

Greene nodded his approval. “As I was saying, I didn’t have the expertise to take out the shooter, so I did the next best thing. I called the cops.”

“So, that was you!” Jones said, happy that Greene had come through for them. “The police said someone had reported the crime to 911, but they weren’t willing to give a name.”

“I told you, I don’t like dealing with the cops. Plus, I don’t want to read tomorrow’s newspaper and see my name linked to a bad part of town. That wouldn’t be good for my image.”

“Amen!” said Payne as he thought about the irony of Greene’s statement. “Now let’s go inside this strip club and bitch to the owner about the defective guns that you bought for us.”

DESPITE

the approach of daylight, the Fishing Hole was still crawling with semiaroused men and naked women, a sight that surprised Payne and Jones. Neither man was a huge fan of the skin club scene, so they weren’t aware that most dancers usually did their best business just before closing time-due to the horniness and intoxication of their fans.

“Let me see if Terrell’s still here,” Greene stated. “It’s nearly four A.M., so there’s a good chance he’s already gone home for the night.”

“Should we go with you?” Jones wondered.

“Probably not. Terrell’s pretty skittish around new people. If the three of us go charging back there, he’s liable to get pissed. And trust me, you don’t want to see him pissed.”

Payne nodded while receiving a skeptical glance from Jones. Once Greene had entered the club’s back corridor, Jones spoke up. “What’s your gut say about Terrell Murray?”

“It’s undecided. Earlier tonight he seemed pretty hospitable, but it could’ve been an act. I find it pretty suspicious that he sold us defective weapons and recommended our visit to Sam’s shooting gallery within a twenty-four-hour period. That’s a pretty big coincidence, don’t you think?”

“But what would he gain from our deaths? Like you mentioned, if the kidnappers want your money, they need to keep you alive.”

“I know. That’s why my gut is undecided. I don’t know why he’d want to eliminate us. Shoot, maybe all of this was just a fluke.”

Jones pondered Murray’s role as he watched the Fishing Hole’s crowd. “You know, maybe he doesn’t want to kill us. Maybe he has to.”

“How so?”

“In a perfect world, the people who took Ariane would want to take your money, but maybe our presence in New Orleans has everyone spooked. Maybe the kidnappers figure it’s better to cut their losses before they get caught. You know, live to play another day.”

“Possibly,” Payne admitted. It was a thought that hadn’t crossed his mind. “But to be honest with you, I didn’t get the sense that Murray was surprised by our visit. If he is, in fact, the ringleader of this crime, you’d think that our appearance would’ve flustered him.”

“You’re right, but if Levon had mentioned our names when he purchased the guns earlier in the day, Murray would’ve had plenty of time to gather his senses. Right?”

“Right.”

“And get faulty weapons for us.”

“Yep.”

“And arrange our death.”

“I see what you’re saying. But for some reason that last part just doesn’t seem to click. If Murray wanted us dead and he knew that we had broken guns, then why didn’t he have someone walk into Sam’s shop and shoot us at close range?”

“That’s a good point. So where does that leave us?”

Payne shrugged. “Confused and very tired. I’m sure there’s something staring us in the face, but I can’t think of it.”

“Then let’s get out of here,” Greene said from behind. His approach had been so silent he startled both Payne and Jones. “Terrell’s not here, so I think our refund is going to have to wait.”

“That’s okay,” Jones muttered. “I think all of us could use some sleep before we face our next round of confrontations.”

Payne nodded. “Trust me, my gut tells me that there are some big ones headed our way.”

CHAPTER 26

WITH

the help of several guards, Hakeem Ndjai ordered the captives out of their cabins at the first sign of daylight. He led the bruised and battered group across the dew-covered grass to the far end of the field. The walk was a brisk one, forcing the prisoners to maintain a pace that they were barely able to keep, but at no point were they tempted to complain since their journey was far better than the backbreaking labor that Ndjai usually put them through. Furthermore, a complaint would have resulted in a swift and vicious beating at the hands of the guards.

Not exactly the way the prisoners wanted to start their day.

When they neared the tree-lined edge of the field, Ndjai ordered the group to stop, then waited for everyone to gather around him. After clearing his throat, the African native spoke to the prisoners, lecturing in his thick accent on the torture device that they were about to see, an invention that he had constructed himself.

“What I am about to show you is a contraption that I was never allowed to use on the cacao plantations of Cameroon because the landowners felt it was too destructive to the morale of the workers. Thankfully, Master Holmes views things differently and has given me permission to use some of my toys on the people that need to be disciplined the most.” Ndjai paused, staring into the scared eyes of his prisoners. “I like to call it the Devil’s Box.”

Ndjai started walking again, leading the group along the edge of the forest, taking them even further from the cabins where they spent their terror-filled nights.

As their journey continued, the sights, sounds, and smells of nature were more prevalent than on the cultivated land near the plantation house. Ducks, geese, and brown pelicans waddled on the marsh’s edge, carefully avoiding the foxes that guarded the land and the alligators that patrolled the water of the swamps. White-tailed deer darted among the fallen timber like a scene from a Disney movie, while nu trias scoured for food on the hard ground. Doves, egrets, and wild turkeys squawked and sang in the dense groves of oak trees to their left, which dripped with thick blankets of Spanish moss. Small pockets of flowers-lilies, orchids, hon eysuckle, jasmine, and azaleas-dotted the terrain, filling the air with a sweet fragrance that overpowered the horrid stench that covered the skin and clothes of the prisoners, temporarily giving the group a reason for hope.

But five more minutes of hiking ended that.

The soft sounds of nature that had calmed them a moment before had been replaced by the distant howl of a man. The echoing scream was muffled at first, but it slowly increased in volume and intensity with every step that the group took.

“A little farther,” Ndjai said as he enjoyed the sound of torture. “Then you will see why my friend is so unhappy.”

With tired legs and shortness of breath, the group mounted a man-made slope that had been built decades earlier to prevent flooding. A few of the prisoners struggled with the climb, stumbling on the loose sand and gravel that covered the mound, but the guards showed them no mercy, flogging the fallen captives across their backs with punishing blows from their braided whips. The loud cracks of cowhide, followed by the sharp shrieks of pain, only added to the horrific sound of terror that came from the crest of the hill. In unison, the combination of cruelty, agony, and torment created a noise that was so sinister, so evil, that some of the guards shielded their ears from the heinous symphony.

When the last captive reached the top of the ridge, Ndjai ordered the prisoners to study his invention. He wanted their full attention when he explained the torture device. But his command wasn’t necessary. Members of the pilgrimage had never been more wide-eyed in their entire lives. The concentration of each person was focused solely on the wooden cube that had been anchored into the hilltop. Trembling, they waited for a detailed explanation of Ndjai’s masterpiece, the Devil’s Box.

Standing four feet tall and four feet wide, the cube did not appear threatening at first glance. Made out of thick slabs of oak, the device was secured in place by a number of sturdy metal cables that had been pounded into the rocky turf. The outside surface of the box had been sanded to a smooth finish, then painted with several coats of black waterproof sealant, giving the device the look of a giant charcoal briquette. The box was solid on all sides but one; the center of the top layer had been carved in an intricate lattice pattern, allowing fresh air into the cube without giving the occupant any view except of the hot sun above.

“I know what you are thinking. The Devil’s Box does not appear dangerous, but do not let its simplicity fool you. It can be nasty in so many ways. And if you do not believe me, you can always ask Nathan.” Ndjai put his face above the box and laughed. “Isn’t that right, Nathan? You thought you were tough when you were out here, but now that you have been in there for a while, you do not feel very tough, do you?”

The prisoner answered with a torture-filled grunt, but his words were indecipherable.

“You will have to excuse Nathan. He has been in my box since long before your arrival on the Plantation, and it seems dehydration has swollen his tongue to twice its normal size. Unfortunately, that makes words very difficult to pronounce.” Ndjai turned his attention back to Nathan. “Isn’t that right? You are a little bit thirsty, aren’t you? Well, you should have thought of that before you hurt one of my bosses, you stupid man!”

The guards laughed in amusement as they watched the taunting continue.

“But do not worry. I will not let you die of thirst. I will keep you like this for as long as I possibly can, teetering on the edge of life and death.”

Once again the captive screamed in agony, but this time with a far greater intensity. It caused each prisoner to shiver with fear and hatred for the man who had put him there.

“Before you get the wrong idea,” Ndjai continued, “and start to think that this device is simply used to bake the bad attitude out of a troubled inmate, let me point out your error. The Devil’s Box is not used for dehydration, even though I must admit the severe loss of fluids is a pleasant side effect to my invention. In fact, that is why I painted it black to begin with, to draw in the intense heat of the sun. You would be surprised at how uncomfortable a person can get when they run out of liquid.”

He moved closer to the group so they could see the emotion on his face.

“In the beginning you feel an unquenchable thirst, but from there the human body falls apart quite quickly. The tongue starts to balloon, followed by the drying of the throat lining and nasal passages, making it difficult to talk or even breathe. Lips start to crack, and skin starts to separate, painfully pulling apart with the slightest movement of any kind. Intense cramps surface in your arms and legs, causing spasms of agony that you cannot stop. Your bladder swells from the lack of moisture in your body, making you suffer through the severe urge to urinate, but the joke is on you because there is no liquid in your system to squeeze out. From there your kidneys fail, followed by the rest of your body, including your brain. All in all, not a pleasant way to go.”

Ndjai caught his breath while enjoying the horrified look of the crowd that surrounded him-children clinging to their parents, strangers holding hands for comfort and unity, fear and desperation in the eyes of everyone. It was a sight that he truly loved.

“But as I pointed out to you, dehydration is not the main intent of the Devil’s Box. It is merely a bonus, heightening the effects of its original purpose. And what purpose is that, you may ask. Well, let me tell you. The purpose is agony!”

Ndjai approached the box again, but this time one of the guards handed him a plastic container that was no larger than a carton of tissues.

“When we put Nathan in here several weeks ago, he was covered in cuts and scratches, wounds that I personally administered with the aid of a metal-tipped whip. Since that time his body has been unable to heal the torn flesh because of his severe thirst and his lack of a balanced diet. In fact, I would guess that his wounds are in worse shape now than the day I created them due to the infections that have developed. Tsk-tsk. It is really a shame. Nathan used to be such a large man. We even had a difficult time squeezing him inside the box because of his girth. But now, due to his lengthy stay in my device, he has been sapped of his size and strength-like Superman in a kryptonite cage!”

Ndjai grinned as he held the small container above the opening in the top of the box, taunting the imprisoned man by swooshing the object back and forth. This increased the intensity of Nathan’s screams, turning his moans and wails into terrified shrieks of torment. The sound, which filled the air with a sense of dread, quickly brought gooseflesh to everyone on the ridge.

“One of the most difficult things to deal with in the Devil’s Box is the loneliness. The heat is bad, the thirst is horrible, but the solitude is what gets you. Without companionship, the mind tends to wander, leaving sanity behind while looking for ways to amuse itself. It is a terrible thing, but it eventually happens to each of my victims.”

Ndjai peeled open the container’s cover and slowly started dumping its contents into the box.

“Since I worry about my friend’s sanity, I do my best to occupy him with tangible things. Instead of allowing his mind to drift into a fantasy world, where it is liable to get lost, I try to keep his brain focused on real-life issues. Each day it is something new, and each problem gets more and more difficult for Nathan to solve. You are probably wondering, what is today’s problem?” He laughed softly while answering his own question. “Fire ants!”

Ndjai drained the container into the Devil’s Box, glancing through the cube’s tiny slits to see how Nathan handled it. His intense screams proved that he wasn’t happy.

“As you can tell from his reaction, the sting of the fire ant is very painful. The poison is not life threatening-unless, of course, a person gets stung by several dozen ants in a short period of time. Did you hear that, Nathan? Do not let them sting you, if you can help it!”

Ndjai chuckled as he redirected his attention to the group. “Unfortunately, his task might be difficult. You see, fire ants are actually drawn to the taste of blood, and since he has a number of open wounds, they are going to get pretty wound up, like sharks in a sea full of chum. Oh, well, look on the bright side. If he is able to eat the ants before they eat him, he will get his first dose of protein since his capture.”

The guards smiled at the remark, showing their approval of Ndjai’s presentation.

“At this point of my lecture, I am sure you are wondering why I brought you up here to start this day. That is what you are wondering, isn’t it? Well, the reason is quite simple. I wanted to show you how good you currently have it.” Ndjai paused for a moment to let that comment sink in. “Is the heat of the summer sun intense? Sure it is. Is working all day in the field tough? Definitely. Is sleeping on the ground of your cabin uncomfortable? Of course.”

Moving closer to the group, Ndjai narrowed his eyes to tiny slits. “But keep this in mind. If you mess with me or my staff, I will make things so much worse for you. I will make your stay a living hell.”

CHAPTER 27

DRAPED

in a Tulane University blanket, Payne opened his eyes and gazed around the room. Wearing nothing but boxers, he had spent the night on Greene’s couch but barely got any sleep. Thoughts of Ariane had kept him awake way past daybreak.

Payne felt much better after a quick shower. His body was reenergized, and his mind was suddenly clear. Some people needed caffeine in the morning, but Payne relied on a bar of soap. After getting dressed, he looked for Jones, finding him downstairs in the living room.

“What time is it?” Payne asked.

“Almost noon. I would’ve woken you up earlier, but I know you didn’t sleep much.”

“You got that right.”

“Don’t worry. Levon and I were busy while you were getting your beauty rest.”

“Doing what?”

“Discussing last night. And after careful analysis, we came to the conclusion that Levon messed up bad.”

“How so?”

“He neglected to tell us something about our guns. Something important.”

“Such as?”

“They were loaded with dummy bullets.”

Payne shook his head as he sat on the couch next to Jones. “How did

that

slip his mind?”

“Apparantly, on the rare occasion that Terrell sells a weapon to a new customer, he likes to load them with dummy bullets-substituting sand for powder. That way his weapons can’t be used to rob him.”

“And Levon knew this?”

Jones nodded. “But since he was buying the guns for us, Levon assumed that they’d be loaded with regular ammo.”

“You realize his assumption could’ve gotten us killed.”

“You’re right, and he knows it. The big baby’s been pout ing all morning.”

“Why? There’s nothing he can do about it now. Besides, it’s not like we could’ve saved Sam, even if our guns had worked.”

“That’s what I told him, but he’s still taking it hard.”

“Don’t worry, he’ll be fine once I talk to him. Speaking of which, where is he?”

“At Terrell’s. While you were sleeping, he made an appointment to get us some new guns. This time, loaded with

real

bullets.”

“That should help. When will he be back?”

Jones pointed to a nearby security monitor. “Actually, I think that’s him now.”

Payne glanced at the screen and saw an Escalade pull through the front gate. A minute later, Greene walked through the front door.

“Guys!” Greene shouted. “Where are you?”

Payne and Jones made their way to the foyer, anxious to see why Greene was so excited.

“What’s gotten into you?” Jones asked. “You seem happier than before.”

“That’s ’cause I am! You know how I went to get you guns? Well, I came back with more than that. Something

much

better.”

“I hope you didn’t buy a missile, because Jon doesn’t carry that much cash.”

“No.” Greene laughed. “I got some news on the Posse!”

“On the Posse?” Payne demanded. “How did that happen?”

“Well, I went to the Fishing Hole to talk to Terrell about the dummy bullets. I figured if I bitched enough I could get him to cut us a deal on some new guns. Unfortunately, he was on the phone when I rolled in, and his boys said he’d take a while to finish. So instead of waiting by his office, I strolled out front to check out the talent. And that’s when I saw him!”

“Him?” Jones asked. “What the hell were you doing watching a guy dance?”

Greene rolled his eyes. “The guy I saw was a customer.”

“Was he cute?”

“Anyway,” Greene said, ignoring Jones’s teasing, “I saw this guy leaning against one of the brass railings, his hand and arm just dangling over the side. And guess what I noticed?”

Payne guessed. “A Posse tattoo.”

“Give that man a prize! Can you believe my luck?”

“Did you talk to him?”

“I tried, but he saw me staring at his wrist. I don’t know how he noticed me-I mean, I was being really careful-but he did. Next thing I know, he’s whispering something to the buckwheat next to him, then bolting from the club. Thankfully, the buckwheat at the bar knew everything we needed to know. Well, not everything, but he knew a lot.”

“And trust me,” Jones said, “I want to hear every last word. But first, you’ve got to explain something for me. You keep saying

buckwheat

. What the hell does that mean?”

“Sorry, man, it’s a Southern term. You remember that Little Rascals character, Buckwheat? You know, the one that Eddie Murphy played on

Saturday Night Live

?”

“O-tay,” Jones chuckled, using Murphy’s famous expression. “I remember.”

“Well, there are brothers around this part of the country that are

really

rural. Nappy-looking hair, old work clothes, messed-up backwater language. Well, we call those brothers buckwheats. And trust me, this guy was a buckwheat and a half. Fucked-up dreadlocks, gold teeth, taller than me. Shit, I almost felt bad for the punk.”

“Buckwheat, huh? I’ll have to remember that term.”

“Guys!” Payne yelled, unable to wait any longer. “What did he tell you, Levon?”

“Sorry, Jon.” Greene gathered his thoughts before continuing. “I went up to him all cool-like, just watching the girls for a while. After a couple of minutes, he turns to me and starts talking. As luck would have it, he recognized me from my playing days, and we started bullshitting about football. After this goes on for five minutes or so, I decided to push my luck. I asked him about the guy with the tattoo.”

“And what did he tell you?”

“He said he worked with the guy. He wouldn’t give me many details but said all the brothers he worked with had the same kind of tattoo. It was a requirement for their job.”

Jones frowned. “I didn’t know gangbangers had jobs, other than shooting each other.”

Greene shrugged. “Apparently, these guys do.”

“Or,” Payne added, “maybe they aren’t bangers. Maybe the tattoo isn’t what we think it is. Maybe it isn’t a Holotat.”

“Well, that gets me to the next part. This guy is pretty quiet about his friend, but he’s unable to shut up about himself. He keeps rambling on about his job and stuff. He says he cooks and cleans for a bunch of people every day, and the only time they let him leave is to pick up supplies. Then he mentions the guy with the tattoo is the one who brought him to New Orleans. I guess he’s the buckwheat’s driver or something.”

Jones groaned. “They’re not from New Orleans? That’s gonna make our job a lot more difficult. Or did this guy let the name of the town slip?”

“Nah, I wasn’t that lucky. I asked him where he worked and what kind of place it was, but he got rattled. Said it was top-secret stuff. Said he could get into all kinds of trouble from the state if he blabbed about it.”

Payne frowned. “From the state? What does that mean?”

“You’ve got me,” Greene admitted. “Louisiana might be a little backward, but I’ve never heard of any state workers getting inked for employment. Or any top-secret facilities that would hire a dumb-ass buckwheat like this guy.”

“What kind of place was he talking about?”

“I don’t know, Jon. I asked him, but he said he had to shut up. I even offered to buy him a drink for his trouble, but he quickly turned me down. He said he had to buy a bunch of supplies before it got too late, that he wanted to get his work done before the fireworks started.”

Jones raised an eyebrow. “Fireworks? Isn’t it a day early for that?”

“You’d think so, huh? But the local shows are gonna be held on the third this year. So if you fellas want to see fireworks in New Orleans, you better be looking at the sky tonight.”

Payne didn’t care for fireworks-the loud bangs and bright lights brought back memories of Iraq. But due to the circumstances of that night’s show, he was suddenly a fan. “I’m sure I’m asking for a miracle here, but did this guy happen to say where he’d be watching the fireworks? Because I’ll tell ya, I’d love to talk to him.”

Greene smiled at the inquiry. Not a sly smirk, but a big,

I got a secret

grin. “As a matter of fact, he did. He’ll be watching them at Audubon Park.”

CHAPTER 28

PAYNE

dropped off his friends on opposite ends of the park, then focused his attention on finding a nameless witness in a sea of sixty thousand people. Sure, he realized his chances were slim, but he knew he had three things going for him-his target’s unique appearance (very tall, gold teeth, and more dreadlocks than a Bahamas barbershop), his unwavering determination to find Ariane, and his two kick-ass partners.

Together, they made the Three Musketeers look like Girl Scouts.

With cell phone in hand, Payne parked his car on the Tulane University campus, then jogged for several blocks until he reached the spacious grounds that he had been assigned. Greene had told him that the center of Audubon Park would be packed with partygoers, but when Payne arrived, he was greeted by the exact opposite. The scenic grove was empty.

Confused, he pulled his gun and inched along the concrete walkway, suspiciously searching the green boughs above him for signs of a potential ambush. A cracking branch. A glint of color. The smell of human sweat. Yet the only thing he noticed was insects, dozens of chirping insects wailing their summertime song. Next he examined the massive trunks of the live oak trees that surrounded him, the decorative cast-iron benches that lined the sidewalks, and the Civil War fountain in the center of the park. But everything in the vicinity seemed clear.

Too clear for his liking.

Puzzled by the lack of activity, Payne paused for a moment and considered what to do next. He was tempted to call Greene for advice, but before he did, he heard the faint sound of horns seeping through the trees several hundred yards to the south. Relieved, he strolled toward the music and eventually found the scene that Greene had described. Thousands of drunken revelers frolicked on the banks of the Mississippi River, enjoying the hell out of the city’s Third of July extravaganza.

“Damn,” Payne grumbled. “This place looks like Go morrah.”

Clowns with rainbow-colored wigs trudged by on stilts while tossing miniature Tootsie Rolls to every child in sight. A high-stepping brass band blared their Dixieland sound as they strutted past an elaborate barbecue pit that oozed the smoky scent of Cajun spareribs and grilled andouille. Vendors peddled their wares, ranging from traditional plastic necklaces to fluffy bags of red, white, and blue cotton candy. And a group of scantily clad transsexuals, dressed as Uncle Samanthas, pranced in a nearby circle, chanting, “We are gay for the USA.”

But Payne ignored it all. With a look of determination on his face, he blocked out the kaleidoscope of diversions that pleaded for his attention-the gleaming streaks of light as kids skipped by with sparklers, the sweet smell of funnel cakes that floated through the air, the distant popping of fire-crackers as they exploded in the twilight like Rebel cannons on the attack-and remained focused on the only thing that mattered: finding the Plantation witness.

Unfortunately, Payne had little experience when it came to tracking civilians on American soil. He was much more accustomed to finding soldiers in murky swamps than buckwheats at carnivals, but after giving it some thought, he realized his basic objective remained the same.

He needed to locate his target as quickly and quietly as possible.

To do so, he tried mingling with the locals, slyly shifting his gaze from black man to black man as he made his way through the festive crowd. But his efforts to blend in were almost comical. No matter what he attempted, the scowl on his face made him stand out from the lively cast of characters that surrounded him. He tried smiling and nodding to the people that he passed, but the unbridled intensity on his face made him look like a serial killer.

After making a few children cry, Payne realized he needed to change his approach. Drastically. So instead of trying to hide in the crowd, he decided to stand out in it, making his anxiety work for him instead of against him.

Why be cautious when there was no risk in being bold? The Plantation witness had never seen his face, so it made little sense for Payne to slink through the crowd, hiding. He figured, why not approach every Rastafarian in sight and just talk to him? To do so, he simply needed an excuse, one that would allow him to talk to strangers without raising their suspicion. But what could he use? What could he ask anyone that would seem so harmless that a person wouldn’t flinch at the query? The question needed to be simple, yet something that explained the frazzled look on his face, a look with so much intensity that it actually scared kids.

Kids! That was it! He could pretend he’d lost his kids. He could move from person to person, pretending to look for his lost kids, while actually searching for the Plantation witness. Heck, in the few seconds it took for a person to respond to his query, Payne could study the man’s face, hair, teeth, and height. And if that wasn’t enough, Payne could listen to the man’s voice and see if it possessed the backwater accent of a buckwheat.

Damn! Payne thought to himself. The plan was ingenious.

It was bold, daring, creative . . . and completely unsuccessful.

Payne talked to every black man he saw, every single one, but most of them turned out to be way too short to be his suspect. And the few he found who actually stood over Greene’s height of 6’4” didn’t have the Fort Knox dental work or the redneck speech pattern that Greene had described. In fact, nobody in the crowd even came close.

Yet Payne remained undeterred. He had waited his entire life to find someone like Ariane-intelligent, witty, beautiful-so he wasn’t about to give up hope after an hour. If it was necessary, he would stay in New Orleans for the rest of his life, spending every cent of his family’s fortune, searching for the one witness that could bring her back into his arms.

But as it turned out, none of that was necessary.

His best friend was having a lot more luck on the eastern end of the park.

Payne hardly noticed it at first. The sound was too soft, too timid, to be heard above the cacophony of the boisterous crowd. But when it repeated itself a second and third time, it grabbed his attention. It was his cell phone.

“Hello?” he mumbled.

“Jon, it’s D.J. You’re not going to believe this, but I nabbed the bastard!”

“You what?”

“You heard me! I found him!”

A huge smile formed on Payne’s lips. “Are you serious? I was beginning to think this was a waste of time.”

“Me, too,” Jones admitted. “But I got the Bob Marley wannabe right here.” There was a brief pause on the line before he spoke again. “Say something, you little prick.”

For a minute, Payne thought he was being scolded. Then he heard a meek squeal on Jones’s end of the phone. “Howdy, sir. How is you?”

The accent brought a smile to Payne’s lips. “What’s your name?”

“Bennie Blount.”

“Well, Bennie, it’s nice to meet you. Now do me a favor and put my friend back on.”

Jones got on the line a second later. “Polite sucker, isn’t he?”

Payne ignored the question. “Where are you? I want to chat with this guy

now

.”

“We’re near the main road, about five minutes from the basketball courts where you dropped me off. How about you?”

“Not too far.” Payne paused to collect his thoughts. “Listen, get to the courts as quietly as possible. I don’t want our conversation to draw a crowd, and the courts should be deserted.”

“No problem. And I’ll give Levon a buzz on my way there.”

“No,” he growled. “I’ll call Levon. I want you to keep two hands on this guy at all times.”

Jones laughed at the indirect order. “Don’t worry, Jon. This boy ain’t going anywhere. I’ve got a gun shoved in his back. Plus, I’m using his hair as a leash.”

Payne chuckled at the image. “Well, don’t hurt him too much, you big bully. I want Bennie to be talkative, not comatose, when I meet him.”

After calling Greene, Payne ran to the basketball courts, hoping to survey the territory before his partners arrived. As he’d hoped, the courts were completely deserted. Plus they were far enough from the festivities to attract unwanted attention, which would come in handy if they had to pacify Bennie with force.

As for the area itself, it was divided into two contrasting regions. Three concrete basketball courts with tattered nets and bent rims sat off to the left, next to a jungle gym and an old swing set that had clearly seen better days. A sandbox sat dormant, decorated with a number of sandcastles that crumbled like many of the structures in the surrounding neighborhood.

Meanwhile, the second region was in impeccable shape. Finished in smooth black asphalt and recently painted with bright white lines, the full-length basketball court was tournament ready. It was surrounded on all sides by metal bleachers and a large barbed wire fence, designed to keep the ball in and vandals out. To get inside the compound, a person normally had to file past an armed park guard, but on this night, the only people who were armed were Payne and his friends.

“Yo, Jon!” called a voice in the night.

Payne turned from his perch on the metal bleachers and saw the massive form of Levon Greene jogging toward him. “Over here, Levon.”

Greene lumbered closer, a limp fairly obvious in his stride. “Where is he? I want to make sure you got the right guy.”

Payne shrugged as he watched Greene enter the main gate and approach the bleachers. “D.J. was the one who found him, but he hasn’t shown up yet. I hope he didn’t run into any problems.”

“None at all,” Jones bellowed from the shadows. Payne and Greene whipped their heads sideways, searching for the source of the sound. “I was just waiting to make a big entrance.”

Payne struggled to see him, but after a while, two dark faces emerged from the night.

“Gentlemen,” Jones announced, “let me introduce you to our new best friend and a future witness for the prosecution, Mr. Bennie Blount.”

CHAPTER 29

PAYNE

had seen thousands of people in his life, folks from dozens of different lands and cultures, yet despite all of his experiences, he could not remember seeing a more unique character than Bennie Blount.

Standing 6’6” with an elaborate web of dreadlocks that added an additional three to five inches of puffiness to the top of his head, Blount looked like an exaggerated stick figure, created in the mind of a warped cartoonist. He lacked muscle mass of any kind; instead, he resembled a limbo pole turned vertically, topped off with a poorly crocheted black wig. Gold front teeth were the only remarkable thing about his face, and his dark eyes revealed absolutely nothing, like the lifeless props often found in a taxidermist’s shop.

“How’d you find him?” Payne asked as he watched them enter the court.

“It wasn’t very tough,” Jones joked. “Some kids were using him to break open a piñata.”

Payne smiled despite the seriousness of the situation. “And does our new friend know why you’ve brought him here?”

“Not yet.” Jones released Blount’s hair and pushed him forward. “I figured you’d want to provide him with all the details.”

Payne nodded as he walked toward the witness. “Do you know why you’re here?”

Blount raked the dreadlocks from his eyes with his E.T.- like fingers, then responded. “I gets the feeling it ain’t to play basketball.”

“You got that right,” Greene growled from the bleachers. “You’re lucky I’m resting my knee, or I’d come down there and kick the shit out of you.”

Blount trembled as he cowered from the angry voice. “Mr. Greene, is that you? My lord, that is you! Did I do somethin’ bad that I don’t remember?”

“It’s not what you did,” Payne interjected, “it’s what you didn’t do. You failed to tell Levon the things that he wanted to know during your earlier conversation.”

Blount glanced at Payne and frowned. “Do I knows ya, sir? I don’t mean to be rude none, but ya don’t looks like someone I knows.”

“My name’s Jonathon Payne, and we talked on the phone a few minutes ago.” He pointed to Jones before continuing. “And that over there is David Jones.”

Blount instinctively massaged the top of his sore scalp. “Oh, yes, I knows him. We’s already been introduced.”

Payne tried not to laugh as he pictured Jones using Blount’s hair as a leash. “Bennie, as I mentioned, the reason that Mr. Greene is angry with you is because of your behavior earlier today at the Fishing Hole.”

“But I didn’t do nothin’ wrong! I didn’t drinks too much or cause no problems! Mr. Murray warns me about touching the gals, and I swears I didn’t do none of that today! I swears!”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. Mr. Greene is upset because you weren’t willing to answer his questions about the man with the tattoo. He asked you some simple questions, and you refused to answer.”

Blount glanced at Greene and shivered slightly. “Is that why you’s mad at me, Mr. Greene? ’Cause I wasn’t in a talkin’ mood?”

“I gave you an autograph, Bennie, and you weren’t willing to give me any information. That was kind of disappointing.”

“More like rude,” Jones chimed in. “You should be ashamed, Bennie.”

“Real ashamed,” Payne added.

As Blount considered his actions and studied the men that surrounded him, guilt flooded his face. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Greene! I didn’t know that it meant that much to ya! If I’d known things was that important, I’d’ve told ya everything I known. I promise I woulda!”

Grinning, Payne slowly reached out his hand and placed it on Blount’s rail-thin shoulder. “Well, Bennie, maybe it’s not too late to make amends. If you act nicely, I bet Mr. Greene would give you a second chance. In fact, I know he would.”

“Does ya think so, Mr. Payne?”

“I know so, Bennie.” Payne stepped aside, allowing Blount to get a full view of Greene. “Go ahead, Bennie. Apologize to my friend.”

Blount lowered his head in shame and looked at Greene’s feet as he spoke. “Mr. Greene, I swears I didn’t do nothin’ wrong on purpose. If you gives me one mo’ chance, I promise I make things up to ya!”

Greene sighed deeply, as if he actually had to weigh the consequences of Blount’s apology. “All right, kid. I’ll let this one slide. But you better tell us everything that we want to know, or I’ll never forgive you. Ever!”

Blount’s face erupted into a wide smile. “Anything, Mr. Greene. Just ask it and I’ll tells ya. I promise, Mr. Greene. I don’t wants ya to be mad at me. Really I don’t!”

Greene grinned with satisfaction, enjoying every moment of this mini drama. “I’m glad, Bennie. That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

“Me, too,” Payne interjected. He led Blount to the metal bleachers and asked him to sit down. “I’ve got a number of questions that I’d like to ask you, Bennie, and some of them might seem a little bit strange. But trust me, each of them is really important to me and my friends.”

“Okay,” he mumbled, slightly confused.

“First of all, what can you tell me about your friend with the tattoo? How do you know him?”

“Ya mean the

P

tattoo? I met him at work, Mr. Payne. Most of the people have it.”

“And where do you work, Bennie?”

Blount paused for a second, not sure if he should answer the question.

“Come on, Bennie,” Greene urged. “You promised you’d help us.”

“That’s true, I did. But it’s not as easy as that, sir. Ya see, I promised other peoples that I wouldn’t talk about this none.”

Greene moved forward on the bleachers, flexing his massive arms as he did. “But those other people can’t hurt you right now, can they?”

Blount gulped. “I guess you’s right. The place is called the Plantation.”

The word piqued the interest of all three men, yet Greene was the first to speak. “The Plantation? What exactly is the Plantation?”

Blount gazed at Greene. It was obvious that the Plantation was one of the things he wasn’t supposed to talk about, but all it took was one glare from Greene and he started to speak. “The Plantation is the name of the place that I be working. It’s a special jail that the state put in less than a year ago.”

“A jail? What kind of jail?” Payne demanded.

“The

secret

kind.”

“What the hell is a

secret

jail?”

Blount exhaled. “You know, the kind that people is sent to for special crimes.”

Payne grimaced. This was getting nowhere. “Special crimes? What the hell are they?”

“You know,” he whispered, “the kind that people ain’t suppose to talk about.”

Payne glanced at Jones, looking for an explanation, but it was obvious that he was just as confused. “Bennie? Can you please tell me what type of people commit special crimes?”

“Not really, Mr. Payne. There’ve been too many people for me to keep track of over the past months.”

“Men? Women? Old? Young?”

“Yes, sir. All of them.”

“Is there anything else that you can tell us about this place?”

Blount considered the question for a moment, then brushed the hair from his face. “Yes, Mr. Payne, there be one more thing I could tell you about the people at the Plantation.”

“And what’s that, Bennie?”

Blount pointed a long, bony finger at Payne. “All the people look like you.”

It took a moment for Blount’s comment to sink in, but once it did, none of the men knew how to respond. After a moment of silence, Jones spoke. “All of the people look like him? You mean everybody at the Plantation is ugly?”

The joke brought a smile to Blount’s face. “That’s not what I meant, sir. What I be tryin’ to say is they white. Everybody at the jail is white.”

“Levon?” Payne said in a soft voice. “Do you have any idea what he’s talking about?”

“I wish I did, but I’m clueless.” Greene turned his attention to Blount. “Bennie? What do you mean everybody’s white? You’re telling me there aren’t any black people at the Plantation?”

“No, I ain’t sayin’ that. There be plenty of black people at the jail. All the workers be black.”

“What?!” Jones demanded. “The prisoners are white and the guards are black? Holy parallel universe, Batman!”

Payne glanced at his friend. Sometimes he wondered if Jones was still a teenager. “Bennie, don’t you think that’s a little bit strange? Why are all of the prisoners white?”

“I don’t know, sir, ’cause I ain’t in charge of no prisoners. I just be in charge of the taters and grits. My bosses don’t allow me to get near the people. They keeps me far away.”

“And why do you think that is, Bennie?”

“My bosses tell me it be for my safety, but sometime I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

“Why’s that?” Payne wondered. “Why do you doubt them?”

“ ’Cause some of the prisoners ain’t that scary. I ain’t afraid of no girls, and I sure as heck ain’t afraid of no kids.”

Nausea quickly built in Payne’s belly. “Kids? What kind of kids, Bennie?”

“White ones.”

“No, that’s not what I meant. How old are the kids?”

“Well,” Blount mumbled, suddenly realizing he had probably already revealed too much information, “it be hard to say. I ain’t too good at guessin’ no ages.”

Payne moved closer, trying to intimidate Blount with his proximity. “This isn’t the time to quit talking. How old are the damn kids?”

“I don’t know,” he whined. “I really don’t. I just know that some of them have to be young ’cause I have to make them different chow. I have to cut up their food ’cause they don’t got big teeth yet.”

“Jesus,” Payne groaned. That meant the Posse had kidnapped kids under the age of five. “And you don’t find that strange? Come on, Bennie, you can’t be that dumb! What kind of prison holds toddlers?”

Blount lowered his head in disgrace, too embarrassed to answer the question.

“Levon,” Jones whispered, trying to take the focus off of Bennie, “what do you think? Could a place like this exist?”

Greene chuckled at the thought. “A state-run facility with black guards and white inmates? Hell, no! The government couldn’t get away with a place like that in Louisiana. There are way too many David Dukes down here to oppose it.”

“How about privately?” Payne wondered. “Do you think a black-run facility, one that imprisons and punishes white people, could secretly exist in this state?”

“Now that’s another story.” Greene sighed, closing his eyes as he did. “Racial tension has always been a huge concern in this state. For one reason or another, there are still thousands of people that are upset about the Civil War. I know that sounds ridiculous to a Northerner, but trust me, it’s true. White supremacists run some towns, while black militants control others. Then, to complicate things further, there are places in this state that no one controls. The swamps, the forests, the bayou. Shit, I guarantee you there are entire communities in Louisiana that don’t know what year it is-or even care. Those are the areas where a place like the Plantation could exist. No visitors, no cops, no laws. That’s where a place like that could

thrive

.”

The possibility didn’t make Payne happy. He had secretly hoped that Bennie Blount was a simpleton who mumbled to strangers about fictitious places in order to get attention, but that seemed less likely now. If someone like Greene was willing to believe that the Plantation could exist, then there was a good chance that it actually did.

And if that was the case, then it was up to Payne to find it.

CHAPTER 30

Sunday, July 4th

Independence Day

THE

leaders of the Plantation had waited several years for this day to come, and now that their plan had come to fruition, they could barely contain their enthusiasm. The special ceremony they had planned was originally slated to begin an hour before dawn, the same time they had held the symbolic ritual of the burning cross, but now that their big day was actually here, they realized that their adrenaline wouldn’t let them wait another four hours.

Their big announcement would have to be pushed forward.

Holmes notified Hakeem Ndjai, who told the rest of the guards. Within minutes, the Plantation’s tattooed battalion began assembling the prisoners into formation, forcing the tired captives into a very specific order:

Before Holmes, Jackson, and Webster made their appearance, the guards double-checked the prisoners, making sure everyone was where they were supposed to be.

Then, like a shadow through a sea of black, Master Holmes and his raven-colored steed charged through the night. The only thing announcing their presence was the sound of hooves tearing up the soft turf in rhythmic bursts and the occasional crack of a leather whip against the horse’s dark flesh. The sound brought chills to the recently flogged prisoners.

Once he reached the three groups, Holmes stared through the holes of his black hood and sighed. “Well, well, well! What do we have here? A bunch of frightened white people! The sight warms my heart!” He turned his attention to Ndjai. “Is everyone here, Hakeem?”

“Everyone except Master Jackson and Master Webster.”

Holmes nodded as he thought back to the days when he was the scared victim, when he watched members of the Ku Klux Klan ride in on horseback and terrorize his family with burning crosses and threats of violence. Shit, he could still remember the pounding of his heart and the knot in his gut. The way he trembled while clinging to his mom for safety.

“Will they be joining us?” Ndjai asked.

Holmes nodded, refusing to take his eyes off of the prisoners. He loved the way they quivered in the firelight. “My friends wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

BLOUNT gawked at the interior of Greene’s mansion as he walked down the hallways, glancing into every room he passed. He had never been in such a large house before and wanted a chance to snoop around. Unfortunately, his hosts had other ideas.

“Bennie!” Payne shouted. “Where are you hiding? Levon got off the phone five minutes ago, and we’ve been waiting for you ever since!”

“I sorry, Mr. Payne!” He jogged toward the sound of Payne’s voice. “I guess I gots a little bit lost when I left the toilet. I sorry!”

Payne grinned at Blount’s lanky form and easygoing country manner. “That’s all right. But if we’re gonna finish our preparations, we’ve got to get back to work.” He threw his arm around Blount’s shoulder and squeezed. “And you’re our star!”

The concept made him smile. “Let’s gets to it then! I been waitin’ my whole life to be a star!” Blount and Payne joined Greene and Jones at the massive dining room table. Maps and sketches were scattered all over the wooden surface. “So tells me, what does ya need to know?”

Jones, who possessed the strongest background in military strategy, glanced at the information in front of him. He had graduated from the U.S. Air Force Academy, where he had studied computers at the Colorado Springs campus. After receiving the highest score in Air Force history on the MSAE, the Military Strategy Acumen Examination, he earned his entrance into the MANIACs after a short stint in the military police. Once in the MANIACs, he served several years under Payne, planning a variety of successful missions.

“Now that we know about the Plantation itself, we need to talk about points of entry. How are we supposed to get onto the island?”

Blount answered. “The only way to gets onto the island is from the western dock. Cypress swamps is gonna block every other way to this place.”

“Then tell me about the west. What do we have to worry about before the dock?”

“There be a clean path, right down the middle, and you needs to follow it to avoid trouble. If you goes to one side of the path, boom! You hits some stumps. If you goes to the other side, boom! You hits some trees. But, if you stays in the middle-”

“Boom! The guards see us coming and blow our asses out of the water.”

Blount laughed at Jones’s comment. “That’s right! We’s gonna be gator stew!”

“If that’s the case,” Jones continued, “how do you recommend us getting there? If we can’t use the dock without being seen, how can we get there undetected?”

“Why does you want to make this so complicated, Mr. Jones? There ain’t no reason to find no back door when the front door is working just fine.”

“But I thought you said that there’ll be guards at the western dock.”

“Yep,” he chuckled, “but the guards won’t be expectin’ what I has in mind.”

“And what is that?”

Payne and Jones listened to Blount’s idea and liked what they heard. Even though they had won dozens of military awards, had planned intricate missions through several of the world’s most hostile countries, and had been in charge of the most elite fighting force in America’s history, they were forced to admit that Bennie Blount, a dreadlocked, slow-talking buckwheat from the bayou, had bested their military minds by devising the perfect plan all by himself.

And most importantly, it was simple enough that even he couldn’t screw it up.

DANCING

slightly with every hill and crevice, the headlights of the all-terrain vehicles looked like giant fireflies as they skimmed across the landscape of the Plantation. When the motors could finally be heard, the three groups of prisoners turned and watched the arrival of the two men. Wearing black hoods and thick cloaks, Jackson and Webster soared through the darkness, looking like supernatural beings on a mystical quest, their ebony robes flapping in the great rush of air. It was the type of entrance that nightmares were made of.

After stopping his vehicle, Jackson climbed off his ATV and walked toward Holmes, who was impatiently sitting on his steed. “Sorry we took so long. Right after you left, we got a phone call that we had to deal with.”

“Is everything all right?” Holmes asked.

Jackson nodded. “It seems that we’re going to be getting a few more captives, but it’s nothing to worry about.”

Even though he wanted to hear about the new arrivals, Holmes realized this wasn’t the time or place. He had more important things to deal with, like his announcement. “People, you have already met Master Jackson and myself. Now, it’s time to meet the real brains of the Plantation. I want you to say hello to Master Webster.”

Despite their hatred of the man, the group screamed in unison. “Hello, Master Webster!”

Webster laughed under his hood. When he’d started this mission of revenge, he had dreamed of this moment, but now that it was here, he no longer knew how to react. His reality had somehow intersected with his dream world, and he could no longer discern which was which.

“Soon the sun will rise on the Fourth of July. Independence Day. A day to celebrate the freedom of this great nation.” Webster took a deep breath while staring at the attentive crowd, wondering if they would understand the irony of their situation. “Unfortunately, some Americans weren’t given their freedom in 1776. In fact, thousands of men and women from the United States weren’t given their emancipation until after the Civil War had concluded. Yet we as a nation celebrate our independence on this day and this day alone. Ironic, isn’t it? A country celebrates its freedom on a day when only half of us were freed!”

He cleared his throat as the prisoners thought about his words.

“Wait! You want irony? Independence means freedom from control and restrictions. That’s the basic concept, right? So what’s the opposite of independence? Slavery! Back in the days, white people used to refer to slaves as indentured servants. Did you know that? That was the politically correct way to say

slaves

!

Indentured servants.

Has a nice ring to it, huh? Well, what does that term mean? If you’re indentured, it means that you’re bound to work for someone, literally forced to be a servant.

Forced.

In other words, slavery!”

Webster could tell that his guests were getting confused, so he simplified things for their benefit. “I’m sure you’re wondering, what’s so ironic about that? Well, look the two terms up in the dictionary, and guess what you’ll find? The two words sit next to each other. First, you’ll see indenture, then you’ll see independence! Side by side, one after the other! Two words with completely different meanings, yet they’re neighbors in the English language. Pretty damn amazing!” He shook his head at the irony. “And if you think about it, it’s kind of like us. We’re independent, but all of you are indentured!”

Holmes laughed loudly. He had never seen Webster so animated.

“And that brings us to the moment we’ve all been waiting for. The answer to the number one question on each of your minds . . . Why are you here?”

Under his dark hood, Webster smiled at the prisoners.

“That’s what you’re wondering, isn’t it? Why you’ve been selected to join us at the Plantation? Why, out of all of the people in America, did we bring you unlucky bastards here?”

He smiled again, loving the tension in the slaves’ faces.

“Why, you ask? We did it because of your past!”

CHAPTER 31

THE

boat inched from the private dock, slowly making its way through the dark water that surrounded Plantation Isle. Dressed in a black robe, the muscular figure tied a rope around the white man’s wrist, making sure that the knot was tight enough to pass inspection. He tested it twice just to be sure, and each time his handiwork held in place. Then, sliding toward the back of the boat, the black man repeated the process. After wrapping the thick cord around the next prisoner’s arms, he completed his knot with a series of quick jerks, pulling the extra slack from the restraint with a firm tug.

“Watch it! That hurts!”

Levon Greene sneered at Jones, then yanked the rope even harder. “We’re playing for keeps, D.J., and if that means you have to suffer a little bit, then so be it.”

“Yeah,” Payne seconded over the rumble of the boat’s motor. “You didn’t hear me complain when Levon tied me up, did you?”

“No,” Jones cracked, “but you’ve always liked that kinky stuff.”

After his comment, the joking stopped, giving everyone a chance to think about their duties. Since so much of the plan revolved around Blount, a simpleminded twenty-four-year-old, Payne was more concerned than usual. He turned to examine the eyes of the boat’s captain and could tell the dreadlocked servant was very uptight.

“Bennie,” Payne said, “we’ll only get one shot at a surprise attack, so we need

everything

to go perfectly. If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk about your plan one more time.”

“Yes, sir. That’s fine. I don’t wanna be doing nothin’ that gets no one hurt-especially me!”

“Don’t worry!” Greene said as he moved next to Blount. “This will go smoothly.”

Remarkably, as Payne stared at the pair, he suddenly realized that they were a study in contrasts. Even though both men were black, their appearances couldn’t have been more different. Greene was thick and defined, muscle stacked upon muscle, veins literally bulging through his skin. His head was shaved, his nose was broad, and his teeth were pearly white. If he were a tree, he’d be the biggest, baddest oak in all the land.

Blount, on the other hand, looked like a sapling gone bad. His limbs sprouted from a thin torso and appeared too feeble to support even the smallest amount of weight. His face, long and narrow, was topped with a haircut that resembled a rotting fern, black stems and roots tangled in every direction. And his gold teeth were straight out of the Mr. T School of Dentistry.

“Like I told you earlier,” Greene said, “as long as you stay by my side, you’re not going to get hurt. I promise.”

Blount smiled, but the action seemed forced. “If you says so, Mr. Greene.”

“Yes,” he asserted, “I say so.”

When Payne was done watching their conversation, he turned his attention to the back of the boat. “Hey, D.J., come up here so we can discuss some things. I want to make sure everyone knows what’s going to happen.”

Jones hustled forward and took a seat.

“When we pull up to the western dock, Bennie said we should expect two guards. As long as we don’t look suspicious, that’s all we’ll have to deal with. Unfortunately, if we don’t make this look believable, they’ll radio for backup, and our mission will get ugly before it even starts.”

Payne glanced at Blount and saw confusion in his eyes.

“Do you know what I mean by believable, Bennie?”

“I think so, Mr. Payne. You just want me to play Bennie. Right?”

Payne grinned. Things couldn’t be any easier. “That’s correct. But I need to remind you of one little detail that you keep forgetting. You have to stop calling me Mr. Payne. I doubt that the prisoners are referred to in such a polite manner.”

Blount smiled, and this time it seemed more sincere. “You’s definitely right about that. I ain’t even referred to in that polite a manner, and I works here.”

Payne nodded, turning his attention to Greene. “Obviously, you have the most important role of all. You have to make the guards believe that you’re one of them and you’re bringing two new prisoners to the island. Bennie claims that your black cloak is similar to the ones they wear, but it’s not a perfect match. So don’t let them get a good look at it. Always keep moving, okay?”

“Don’t worry. I will.”

“And make sure your hood is up. If they’re sports fans and they see your face, the game’s over. They’ll immediately know you’re not a guard. Then, once we get past the dock, you’ll need to borrow one of their vehicles to take Bennie’s supplies to the main house and us to the holding area. But before we get there, you’ll cut our ropes and leave us in the woods. That’ll give us a chance to do some recon.”

Jones asked, “When will we get our weapons?”

Payne answered. “One of Bennie’s boxes has our guns. We’ll take what we need and stash the rest in the trees. We don’t want to be bogged down until we know what we’re up against.”

He turned back to Blount. “Bennie, this is when you execute your part of the plan. I want you to go into the house and start breakfast. While you’re making food for the guards, I want you to mix in the drug that I gave you. Pour half the bottle in the coffee, the other half in the scrambled eggs. That way, everyone’s bound to get some, whether they’re eating or not.”

“Okay, Mr. Payne, I will. . . . Oops! I mean, okay, prisoner.”

Blount smiled with pride. He thought he’d done a good thing by remembering his line, but his momentary blunder would’ve been enough to get everyone killed.

“Keep working on it, Bennie.” Payne sighed, praying that Blount would improve before the big show actually started. “Where was I? Oh, yeah, within ten minutes of breakfast, everyone should be unconscious. That’s when D.J. and I will make our move. We’ll emerge from the woods in serious S amp; D mode.”

Greene frowned. He was unfamiliar with the term. “S amp; D mode?”

“We’ll search for the prisoners and destroy anything that gets in our way.”

“You mean, you’s gonna kill people?” Blount asked.

Payne nodded. He’d already gone over this at Greene’s house and during the car ride to the dock, and he didn’t feel like discussing it again. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a choice. He had to keep Blount as calm as possible. “We don’t want to, Bennie, but we might have to. That’s just the way it is. Sometimes, the only way to help one group is to hurt another, and that’s the situation we’re facing. In order to help my girlfriend and the innocent people on this island, we might have to hurt some of the guards. We’ll do everything in our power not to, but if it’s us against them, they’re the group that has to lose. I won’t settle for anything less.”

“Okay,” he whined. “I guess you’s right. Just try not to hurt me.”

“You got it, Bennie.” Payne smiled at Blount, then settled into his seat for the next portion of the plan.

BECAUSE of his frequent trips to the Plantation, Blount knew the appropriate channel through the cypress swamp. He carefully navigated the boat toward the moss-covered poles of the wooden dock until he could see the two guards.

“Is that you, Gump?” asked one of the guards as he stared at the captain of the boat. “We were expecting you a while ago.”

“Yeah,” said the other. “Did the fireworks run late or something?”

Before Blount could answer, Greene moved to the front of the boat and spoke for him. “It wasn’t the damn fireworks!” he growled. “There’s been a security breach! Now quit your small talk and take our damn line before there’s trouble. I have two prisoners on board.”

The guards glanced at the large figure in the black cloak and jumped to attention. After dropping their guns to the ground, they ran to the dock, offering their assistance in any way possible. Greene nodded at them, tossing them the boat’s rope. The two guards snared the line and carefully pulled the craft against the side of the dock.

“It looks like they’re buying it,” Jones whispered. “We might pull this off.”

Payne nodded slightly, but for some reason, he wasn’t nearly as confident. His gut told him there was something fishy, and it wasn’t just the stench from the murky water of the swamp. “I hate to say this, D.J., but-”

The confidence drained from Jones’s eyes. “Don’t tell me! Your gut?”

Payne nodded. But before he could explain, Greene approached the duo and ordered them to be quiet. “Things are going well. Don’t blow it by talking.”

Greene followed his command by forcing Payne off of the boat and onto the shore while one of the guards did the same with Jones. Once both of them were on the ground, Greene turned to the workers and spoke. “Bennie and I will watch them while you get me a truck. There are a lot of supplies out there, so start moving.”

“Yes, sir!” they blurted, running to complete their tasks.

Greene smiled at Blount, then glanced at the two captives at his feet. “How was that? Was I authoritative enough for you?”

Jones tried rolling onto his back, but his bound hands hindered his effort. In a strange way, he looked like an upside-down turtle that had trouble flipping over. “You sounded good to me, but I’m not the one you need to worry about. Ask Jon what he thinks. He’s worried about something.”

Greene turned his attention to Payne. “Is there something we need to talk about before the guards get back?”

“Not really,” he groaned. “I can wait until they return, if you’d like.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, you’re just going to tell them anyway.”

The smile faded from Greene’s lips as his bewilderment grew. In order to sort things out, he lowered his black hood and knelt on the ground next to Payne. As he did, his bad knee cracked several times. “What are you talking about?”

“Yeah,” Jones demanded. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Payne wanted to look Jones in the eyes, but the position of their bodies made it impossible. “D.J., I’m sorry to tell you this, but if my guess is correct, Levon is one of them.”

CHAPTER 32

HOLMES

and Jackson had planned on speaking to the prisoners, but since Webster was doing such an eloquent job, they allowed him to continue his lecture.

“Independence Day is a holiday that is supposed to symbolize freedom in this country. Freedom? In America? What a joke! A country that turned its back on my people, black people, for decade after decade believes in freedom? My black brothers and sisters were smuggled into America in the hulls of slave ships in the most unsanitary of conditions, brought here like cattle, then purchased by white men for their own personal use. And you call that freedom?”

The prisoners listened, trembling.

“Take a look around you! This plantation was built several decades before the Civil War. Nice, isn’t it? It’s probably hard to imagine, but the people who worked this soil were my ancestors. My

actual

ancestors! That’s right! Through painstaking research, I have traced my family tree back to this plantation. Isn’t that amazing? My forefathers worked this land! They slept here, ate here, and raised families in the tiny cabins that surround us!”

Webster shook his head at the thought, rage boiling inside of him.

“And because of you, my family was forced to die here, too!”

A slight murmur rippled through the crowd. What did Webster mean by

that

?

“For the past few days, you have been subjected to un pleasantries. Long hours in the hot sun, a scarcity of food and water, nothing to sleep on but the hard ground itself. But guess what? That pales in comparison to the hardships that my relatives had to endure. Back in the eighteen hundreds, slaves were forced to live in these tiny cabins year-round. Ten, twelve, sometimes as many as fifteen people were thrown together into one cabin and forced to make do, huddling in the center of the dirt floor for warmth. And if they bitched, they were beaten!

“During the rainy season, the ground became so saturated with water that the moisture would rise up into their cabins, forcing them to sleep in the mud. Like animals! These were my ancestors, for God’s sake, and they were treated like beasts! Meanwhile, the Delacroix family, the white bastards that owned this property, slept in the comfort of the plantation house. They didn’t work, but they lived like kings! Do you know what my relatives got to eat? At the beginning of every week, each person was given three and a half pounds of bacon from the smokehouse and enough corn to make a peck of cornmeal. That’s it! For the entire week! Just bacon, cornmeal, and water for every meal, for a lifetime!”

Webster paused to catch his breath.

“And what about punishment? Do you actually think we’ve been rough on you? The punishment that occurred in the nineteenth century was far more brutal than anything we’ve implemented here. Back in the old days, slave drivers used to whip their niggers until they could see

ribs

. The gashes on their backs were so wide and deep you could see their lungs! Have we done anything like that to you? Anything that brutal? Tell me, have we?”

Despite his point-blank questions, the crowd remained silent. They were way too frightened to talk. But that didn’t matter to Webster. He viewed the slaves’ silence as insubordination, which needed to be dealt with. Turning toward Master Holmes, he said, “Can you believe that? They don’t respect me enough to answer. Maybe you better show them what I mean about discipline.”

Holmes grinned savagely under his black hood. He’d been on his best behavior since the finger-chopping incident, but now that Webster was encouraging him, he figured he could slide back to his sadistic ways.

He stepped forward, searching for a target, staring at the scared faces in the moonlight. Who should he choose? Which person would be the most beneficial to their cause? Then he saw him, the perfect victim. He was the finest specimen in Group One. A middle-aged male, father of Susan and two other brats. What was his name? Ross. Jimmy Ross. Yes, he would do nicely. An impeccable sacrifice.

Devastate the strong and the weak will crumble!

With unblinking eyes, Holmes focused on him, quietly selecting him as his prey. And Ross knew it. Holmes didn’t even say a word, yet Jimmy dropped to his knees in fear. His entire body trembled with trepidation.

“Pick up the coward,” Holmes growled.

And the guards obliged, pouncing on Ross like hungry wolves before they dragged him to the front of the crowd. Then, just as quickly as they had attacked, they backed away, leaving Ross at the feet of his master, with nothing between the two but a palpable wall of hate.

“Master Webster?” Holmes continued. “Why don’t you tell our guests about the white man’s temple? I think they’d enjoy that tale.”

Webster readjusted his glasses, grinning. “In the nineteenth century, the white man considered his body sacred. It was a divine and holy temple that was not to be defiled by the dirty black man. Sure, it was fine for Massah to sleep with all the good-looking black women of the plantation. Famous men like Thomas Jefferson were reputed to have fathered many biracial children during their day. But if a Negro ever touched a white man for

any

reason, the slave could legally be killed. Can you believe that? The courts actually allowed it! Of course, that didn’t make much financial sense to the slave owner, so it was rarely done. I mean, why murder someone who is doing your chores? So the white man was forced to come up with a better punishment than death.”

Jimmy Ross gulped, waiting for Master Holmes to make a move. But the black man didn’t budge. He stood like a statue, not blinking, not breathing. Silent. Completely silent. Listening to the words of his friend.

“No one knows where the idea of the post first came from, but its popularity spread across the Southern states during the early part of the eighteen hundreds. In fact, it spread like wildfire.”

Suddenly, without warning, Holmes burst from his trance and lunged in Ross’s direction. The prisoner instinctively flinched, raising his hands to protect himself, but it was a grave mistake.

“You tried to hit me!” Holmes screamed, stopping six inches short of Ross. “You white piece of shit! You tried to hit me!”

“I didn’t, Master Holmes. I swear! I-”

“I don’t give a fuck what you swear! I’m in charge of your sorry ass, so your words mean shit to me! If I say you tried to hit me, then you tried to hit me!” Holmes turned toward his guards. “Get me the post, now! I need to teach this cocksucker a lesson!”

“In fact,” Webster continued, as if he was narrating an evil documentary, “even if the threat was an implied one-a swing that never landed, a tip of a cap to a white woman, or a hand being lifted for protection-slave owners were encouraged to administer this punishment.”

The guards carried a six-foot wooden post, approximately six inches in diameter, to the front of the group and slammed it into the ground. After straightening it with a careful eye, they drove the long peg into the pliable turf with several swings of a sledgehammer. Once it was anchored in the ground, the device was ready for use.

“Now get him!” Holmes ordered.

The guards clamped onto Jimmy’s arms much rougher than they had before and slammed him against the post. Then, before Jimmy could move, the larger of the guards forced Jimmy’s cheek against the rough wooden surface, holding his face against the post with as much strength as possible. And Holmes was pleased by the sight.

While watching Jimmy tremble, Holmes slid in behind him while pulling a claw hammer out of the folds of his dark cloak. The sight of the savage tool brought a smile to his lips. Even though he enjoyed chopping fingers, there was nothing Holmes enjoyed more than the post. The fear. The blood. The disbelief in his victim’s eyes. He loved it! For one reason or another, it satisfied something inside of him that most people couldn’t understand.

The desire to be violent.

Reaching into his pocket, Holmes fumbled for a nail. Four inches in length, silver in color, sharpened to a perfect point. He lifted the tiny spike behind Jimmy Ross’s head, then studied it with a suspicious eye. It was so small, yet capable of producing so much pain. God, it was beautiful. Holmes breathed deeply, thinking of the impending moment of impact. The smile on his face got even broader.

“The post,” Webster said, “was a two-step process. Step one was the attachment phase. In order to prevent a messy scene later, the slave needed to be attached to the post in the most appropriate fashion. According to the journals that I’ve read, there was one method in particular that was quite popular.”

Holmes raised the tip of the metal spike and ran it through the back of Jimmy’s hair, tracing the ridges of his skull, looking for the proper insertion point. Once it was located, Holmes lifted his hammer, slowly, silently. The crowd, realizing what was about to be done, gasped with fear and shouted pleas of protest, but to Holmes, the murmur of shock sounded like a beautiful chorus, only adding to his enjoyment.

With a flick of his wrist, Holmes shoved the nail through the elastic tissue of Jimmy’s outer ear, piercing the cartilage with a sickening snap. Before Jimmy could even yelp in pain, Holmes followed the attack with a swift swing of the hammer, driving the nail deep into the wood, anchoring the ear to the post.

After a moment of shock, Jimmy screamed in agony, then made things far worse for himself by trying to pull his head away from the wood. It was a horrible mistake. The more he pulled, the more flesh he tore, causing sharp waves of pain to surge through his skull. Blood trickled, then gushed down the side of his face. Warm rivulets of crimson flowed over his whiskered cheek, adding gore to the already vicious attack.

And the sight of it was too much for his family to endure.

In the crowd, Jimmy’s sixteen-year-old daughter, Susan, fainted from the gruesome scene. The image of her battered father was simply too much for her to handle. Tommy and Scooter, his two boys, vomited, then dropped to their knees in a series of spasmodic heaves. They had never seen anything that horrible in their young lives.

Unfortunately, the brutal part was yet to come.

With his left forearm, Holmes slammed Ross’s face against the post. “Stop your fuckin’ squirming,” he grunted. “You’re just causing more pain.”

“Okay,” Ross sobbed, willing to do anything to stop the agony. “Okay!”

“I promise if you stop moving, I’ll let you go. I’ll free you from the post.”

“All right, whatever you say!” He took an unsteady breath, wanting to believe the vicious man. “I will. I swear! I’ll stay still.”

Holmes nodded. Things were so much easier to complete with a calm victim.

“Good,” he hissed, “because your squirming is ruining my souvenir!”

From the constraints of his belt, Holmes unsheathed his stiletto, slipping the five-inch blade behind Ross’s head. Then, while calming his victim with words of reassurance, Holmes lowered the razor-sharp edge to the tip of Jimmy’s ear, pausing briefly to enjoy the scene. He truly loved this part. The quiet before the storm. The silence before the screams. There was something about it that was so magical, so fulfilling, that he couldn’t put it into words.

Finally, when the moment felt right, Holmes finished the job. He removed the ear with a single slice, severing the cartilage from the side of Jimmy’s head in one swift slash, like a movie on the life of Vincent Van Gogh.

A wave of pain crashed over Jimmy, knocking him to the ground. Blood oozed from his open wound, flooding his neck and shoulder with a sea of red. That, coupled with his loud screams, caused his wife to break from formation. She rushed to his side, crying, hoping to administer as much first aid as possible, but there wasn’t much she could do.

Her husband was missing his ear, and she didn’t have a sewing kit.

“The second part of this punishment, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, was the removal of the ear,” Webster said. “As a sign of the white man’s power, it was left hanging on the post right outside the slaves’ cabins for several days. Not surprisingly, it was an effective way to get the master’s message to his slaves.

If you do something wrong, you will pay for it in agony!

”

Holmes stared at his souvenir, left dangling from the pole like a freshly slaughtered pig. “And that, my friends, is how the Listening Post was born.”

CHAPTER 33

PAYNE

wasn’t sure about Greene until that very moment, but one look into his eyes told him everything he needed to know. The Buffalo Soldier was a member of the Posse.

“Were you always with them, or did they get to you after we showed up in New Orleans?”

Jones’s eyes widened when he heard Payne’s proclamation. “What are you talking about?”

But Payne ignored him. “Just answer me that, Levon. From the beginning or just recently? I’ve got to know. To me, it’ll make all the difference in the world.”

Greene continued to stare at Payne, no emotions crossing his face.

“Come on, Levon, just one little answer. Which was it? Before we arrived, or after?”

Greene refused to dignify the question, and to Jones, the silence was maddening. Because of his current position, he couldn’t see what was going on. “Bennie!” he called, trying to get involved in the conversation. He strained his neck, trying to find the dreadlocked servant. “Bennie! Help a brother out! Kick me closer to the action! Anything!”

“Be quiet,” Payne ordered. “If my guess is correct, Bennie’s one of them, too, so he won’t help you. He’s on Levon’s side.”

Jones’s eyes got even larger. He had no idea where any of Payne’s theories were coming from, but the mere possibility that they were true was mind-blowing. “Bennie? Levon? Guards? Will somebody tell me what the hell is going on? I’m supposed to be the detective here. Someone throw me a crumb.”

Payne shook his head. “D.J., just shut up and listen. Levon’s about to tell us everything.”

Greene glanced at Jones, then returned his gaze to Payne. “I can’t believe you, man. How can you think that after all the things I’ve done for you? I showed you my city. I let you sleep in my house. I let you eat my food-”

Payne interrupted him. “You gave us faulty guns. You tried to have us shot. You kidnapped my girlfriend. . . . Should I go on?”

“No,” Greene growled, “you shouldn’t. I’ve heard all that I’m gonna take. You called me up, and I went out of my way to help you guys. And this is how you’re gonna repay me? You accuse me of trying to have you killed? Get fucking real!”

In a burst of rage, Greene kicked a nearby rock, then stormed away in anger. But that was fine with Payne, because it gave him a chance to talk to Jones.

“Do you believe me?” he asked.

Jones tried to shrug. “I know you too well not to believe you, but I’d love to hear something that supports your theory.”

Payne nodded. “Bennie? Do you want to fill him in, or should I?”

Blount glanced at the two men near his feet, then stared at Greene in the distance. “I thinks you better do the talkin’. I don’t wanna make Mr. Greene mad at me.”

Payne smiled. Blount was a hard man to read, but if Payne’s theory about Greene was correct, then Blount had to know more than he was willing to reveal. He simply had to.

“Okay, Bennie, have it your way. I’ll do all of the talking. . . . Remember how things started bugging me on the boat? How my gut knew something was wrong? Well, it was the guards. The guards acted wrong when we showed up.”

Jones scrunched his face. “The guards? I could barely see the guards from the boat, but you could tell that they did something wrong? What, are you psychic or something?”

“When we pulled up to the dock, they approached the boat expecting Bennie. They called to him, asking about the fireworks. Remember? But before Bennie could say anything, Levon told them about a security problem and started giving orders. Right?”

Jones nodded his head.

“What did they do after that?”

“They jumped to attention.”

“And then?”

Jones thought back, trying to remember. He knew the guards ran onto the dock, following Greene’s instructions, but he couldn’t recall anything else. “I give up. Tell me.”

“What did they do with their guns?”

It took a moment, but the solution eventually popped into his head. “I’ll be damned. They threw them to the ground, didn’t they?”

“Even though Levon should’ve been a stranger to these guys, he tells them that there’s a security problem, and they throw away their guns. How in the hell does that make any sense? Come on, even mall security guards would know better than that! Unless . . .”

“Unless they were told what to expect ahead of time.”

“That’s what I figured.”

Jones nodded, admiring his friend’s theory. “I have to admit, that’s pretty good. In fact, I’d give you a round of applause, but . . .”

“You can’t because we let Levon tie us up?”

“Exactly.”

“Probably not the brightest thing in the world that we could’ve done, huh?”

“Nope. Probably not.”

“Right up there with being handcuffed to the desk, isn’t it?”

Jones smiled. The last few days had suddenly become cyclical. “So, did you have doubts about Levon before the guards?”

“Nope. The guards woke me up, but then I started to think back over the past couple of days. The broken guns, his rule against police involvement, his escape through Sam’s secret door, his discovery of Bennie, and so on. I figured all of that was too coincidental to be a coincidence.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Detective work should never be

this

easy. I mean, two days ago, we were in Pittsburgh with a license plate and a tattoo as our only clues, and here we are on the threshold of finding Ariane. Please! Things were too simple.”

“To be honest, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure about Levon until I mentioned it to him. There was a look in his eye that told me everything. He looked like a big ol’ dog that was caught sleeping on the couch-guilt all over his face!”

“It wasn’t guilt,” Greene remarked. He had circled in behind them, trying to acquire as much information as possible. “It was shock. I couldn’t believe that you caught onto me. I thought I’d done everything right.”

“Don’t kick yourself.” Payne sighed. “It was the guards’ fault. They ruined the entire scene. They should be fired immediately.”

“I concur,” Jones echoed. “In fact, I think you have a big future in acting, just like that other ex-football player from Buffalo. Hmm? What was his name? O.J. something.”

“Nah, Levon’s too good for that! He decided to skip O.J.’s second career and went right to his third . . . a life of crime!”

Jones laughed. Then, using the melody and the accent of the classic Bob Marley song, he began to sing. “He’s just a Buffalo Convict . . . works for da Posse! He took a bunch of steroids . . . now he’s their boss-y!”

“That was clever,” Greene admitted. “Very clever indeed.”

Jones gave him a big wink. “Thank you, Louisiana! I’ll be here all week!”

“Actually, you will be. Might not be alive the whole time, but we’ll worry about that later.”

Payne twisted his head and glanced at Jones. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to worry about that now.”

“Damn.” Greene laughed. “You guys don’t stop. I thought your black humor was just an act, but you guys are even like this in the darkest of situations.”

Payne ignored the comment, opting to change the subject. “Hey, Levon? I gotta know. Did you sell us out before we came to New Orleans or after?”

A grin crossed Greene’s lips. Since his cover was blown, he figured the answer to one question wouldn’t do too much damage to his ruined reputation. He crouched to his knees so he could stare Payne in the eyes. The kindness that had been present during the past few days had been replaced by a cold, hard glare.

“Jon, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve been involved with the Plantation from the very beginning. And just so you know, if you had told me why you needed my help during your initial phone call, I wouldn’t have invited you down here. Can you imagine my surprise when you finally told me why you were in town? I almost shit myself! But at that point, what was I to do? You were digging, and I had to stop you. It’s as simple as that.”

“Then why not kill us? Why take the time to lure us here?”

“Well, as you mentioned, I did try to kill you. I didn’t want to personally pull the trigger, but I set things up at Sam’s. Unfortunately, the damn sniper screwed that up. After that it would be too suspicious if you were killed somewhere else in the city this weekend. I figured getting you off the mainland was a better way to take care of things.”

“And what about Ariane? Why did you bring her here?”

Greene sighed. He was getting bored with the inquisition and knew that the rest of his partners were waiting for him. “I’m afraid that’s a question that will have to wait. They’re about to make a big announcement, and I don’t want to ruin their surprise.”

CHAPTER 34

THE

ringing telephone brought a smile to Harris Jackson’s face. He’d been expecting a call for several minutes now, and when it didn’t come, his anxiety began to rise. But now that the call was here, he was finally able to relax.

“Master Jackson, this is Eric down at the dock. Bennie and Master Greene just left our area, and they’re headed your way.”

“And the prisoners?”

“They’re tied up and docile. I don’t think they’ll be causing you any problems.”

“Good,” sighed Jackson. Since Payne and Jones had been a nuisance in New Orleans, he figured they might continue the trend on the island, especially since he’d learned of their military background. But now that he knew they were under control, he felt a whole lot better about their presence at the Plantation. “Very good indeed!”

“What’s good?” asked an eavesdropping Holmes.

Jackson hung up his cellular phone. “The two prisoners will be here shortly. No problems.”

Holmes patted Jackson on the back. “Nice work, Harris. It seems your guards have everything under control.”

“It seems that way, but we’ll find out for sure in a moment.” Jackson pointed to the truck as it emerged from the trees of the outer grounds. “Why don’t you tell Ndjai to keep the captives busy while I check into things? Come on down when you’re done.”

Holmes agreed and went on his way.

“Master Webster!” Jackson shouted. “Join me for a minute, would you?”

The two men walked cautiously toward the truck, not knowing what to expect. When they saw the huge grin on Greene’s face, they knew that things were fine. Holmes joined them a short second later, and the three of them finished the trip in unison.

“Gentlemen,” Greene crowed, “Bennie and I should win an Oscar for this. We just put on a spectacular performance.”

“Bennie helped out?” Jackson asked.

“He practically carried it by himself! You should’ve seen the performance he put on. Unbelievable! His acting is even better than his cooking.” Greene signaled for Blount to get out of the truck, and he willingly obliged. “Come out here and take a bow. You deserve it!”

“We heard you did a great job!”

“Congratulations, Bennie!”

Blount was flabbergasted. He had never been treated nicely by his bosses before. “Thanks,” he mumbled, barely smiling. He simply didn’t know how to react to their compliments.

“So,” Greene asked, “what are we going to do with them now?”

“You mean the new arrivals?” Holmes glanced into the flatbed of the truck and saw Payne and Jones, bound. “You know ’em better than we do. What do you think should be done?”

Greene considered the question, but it was obvious that he already had a plan in mind.

“For the time being, we need to keep Payne and Jones as far away from the other prisoners as possible. We don’t want them mentioning my name or our location to anyone. Then, after you guys make your big announcement, I think it would be best if my friends were eliminated. I figure, why take any unnecessary chances with men like these?”

ONCE the foursome had finished their discussion, they walked back to the prisoners and allowed Webster to finish his speech. Earlier, he had prepared the captives for his announcement by lecturing them on the concepts of freedom, slavery, and punishment, yet there was no way that they could be ready for what he was about to reveal.

“The concept of the Plantation came to me several years ago, back when I was in college. As part of my major, I was required to take a class in American history. The topic we were discussing was the Civil War, and somehow my white professor managed to talk during the entire class without mentioning black people. In my opinion, the Civil War was fought over the concept of slavery, and that white bastard managed to steer clear of the topic. After class I approached him and asked him about his oversight. I figured he’d tell me that an upcoming lecture would be devoted to slavery, or I’d get to learn about the topic in a future reading. But do you know what he had the audacity to say? He said,

‘Over the years, the impact of slavery in this country has become greatly overrated.’

Can you believe that? We’re talking about the main cause of the Civil War, and my professor tells me that it was overrated! Well, right then and there, I knew what I wanted to do with my life. I decided to devote my life to the promotion of black history, emphasizing the cruel history of slavery in our so-called Land of the Free.

“But how does one do that? I wasn’t really sure, but I knew I needed to get America’s attention. That’s why I immediately ruled out papers, studies, or projects. Why? Most people won’t pay attention to academics. What I needed was something spectacular, something unforgettable, something that would get this issue noticed. But what?

“Before I made my decision, I thought it was best if I did some extensive research on the topic. I read books and journals and manuscripts and diaries-anything that I could find about the topic of slavery-and before long, one common theme stood out: plantations! Everything I read about slavery in America mentioned plantations as the focal point. Plantations were the place where slaves lived, worked, birthed, and died. It’s where they escaped from when they could and returned when they were caught. For better or worse, plantations were the center of the black man’s world!

“Now, before you get bored with my ramblings, let’s move on to the good stuff. How does any of this involve you? I’m sure you’re asking that question right now. Why is this bastard making us stand in a field in the middle of the night to listen to this lecture? That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? You don’t think there’s anything in this world that I could tell you that would justify your being here. You think I’m just some kind of thug who abducted you and your families on a whim. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

Webster paused to let the tension build. He wanted to see the confusion and misery in his captives’ eyes as it continued to grow.

“Then each of you is about to receive the shock of your lives, because you were selected for a specific purpose!”

Harris Jackson moved forward, taking over the lecture. “During Master Webster’s research, he was able to compile some extensive genealogy, an actual list of black family trees. Why is this significant? Because it was nearly impossible to do. Unlike white people, whose history is well documented in public records, the history of the black man is often shrouded in obscurity. Slaves rarely had last names, marriages weren’t officially recognized, kids were often sold or given away as gifts. Shit, these were just a few of the drawbacks that Master Webster had to overcome in order to complete his work.”

Octavian Holmes grinned. “And that’s what brings us to you. Why are you here? It’s the question you’ve been wondering for a very long time. Trust me, I know. I’ve seen it in your eyes. ‘Why me?’ you constantly wonder. ‘Why us?’ you plead! ‘There has to be a mistake,’ you assure us! ‘We’ve done nothing wrong!’ ”

Holmes grimaced, his eyes narrowing to slits. “No! There have been no mistakes! Each and every one of you is guilty of crimes against the black race! Crimes that you are in the process of being punished for!”

The captives glanced at each other, panicked. The sound of Holmes’s voice told them that he truly believed what he said. Holmes actually believed that they were guilty of something terrible.

“Group One,” Holmes shouted as he pointed toward them, “step forward!” Members of the Metz and Ross families glanced at each other, then reluctantly inched ahead. “Jake Ross, age seventy-one, make yourself known.”

The old man emerged from the center of the pack.

“You are the father of Alicia and Jimmy Ross, are you not?”

Jake Ross nodded his balding head. “Yes, Master Holmes, I am.”

“After marrying Paul Metz, Alicia gave birth to Kelly and Donny Metz. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Jake agreed. “They’re my grandkids.”

“And your son, Jimmy? He married Mary DaMico, and she eventually gave life to Susan, Tommy, and Scooter. Right?”

Jake was mystified by the line of questioning, but he still answered. “Yes, sir.”

“Now tell me, what was your grandfather’s last name on your father’s side?”

“It was Ross, same as mine. The Ross name has lasted for several generations now.”

Holmes winced when he heard the pride in Jake’s voice. The tone actually made him want to vomit. “According to our research, the Ross family first surfaced in America shortly before the 1800s. They settled in Massachusetts, but slowly migrated south as this country expanded in that direction. Eventually, your great-great-grandfather purchased a large chunk of land in Georgia, where he grew peanuts to the ripe age of eighty-one.”

Jake wasn’t sure what Holmes was getting at, but he could tell that it was something big. “Yes, sir. That sounds about right.”

Holmes nodded contentedly. The Plantation had located the right family.

“Group Two,” Harris Jackson shouted, “step forward!” The Potter family took an immediate stride toward Jackson. “Richard Potter, as the oldest member of your family, I would like to speak to you!”

Richard groaned softly, then stepped ahead. “That’s me, sir.”

“If I am correct, you are fifty-eight and have three kids, Andy, Darcy, and Jennifer. Andy married Sarah Goldberg, and they have a three-year-old daughter named Courtney.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your one daughter married Mike Cussler, and your other daughter, Jennifer, is single.”

“Yes, sir. That’s correct.”

“Do either of your daughters have kids?”

“No, sir. Not yet.”

Jackson was fairly certain that they were childless, but if they’d had any kids out of wedlock, he wanted to know about them, too. “Where did your maternal grandparents come from?”

“Mississippi, sir. I lived there myself until my parents died.”

“Yes, I know.” Jackson moved closer to the man, hoping to scare him with his proximity. “What did they do for a living?”

“They were farming people, sir. Cotton, mostly.”

“And what was the name of their farm? Do you recall?”

“Yes, sir. I was forced to sell it after my folks died. It was called Tanneyhill Acres. Named after my mother’s side of the family.”

Jackson glanced at Holmes and nodded. Both of them were pleased with what they had learned. So far, Webster had made no mistakes in his research.

“I guess that leaves me,” Webster muttered. “Group Three, step ahead and join the others.”

Ariane Walker moved forward and was quickly followed by her sister, Tonya, and her injured brother-in-law, Robert Edwards.

“Since each of you is fairly young, you might not be able to help me with the questions that I would like answered. Therefore, I will give you a brief rundown on your family’s history. If you disagree with anything I say, please let me know.”

The three nodded, not knowing whose family he was referring to.

“Ariane, you’re the closest, so you will be the spokesperson. Two years ago your sister married Robert Edwards from Richmond, Virginia, and she is currently carrying their first child. Your parents, each of them an only child, died in a car crash. Each of your grandparents died at an early age, before you were even born. You have no cousins, aunts, or uncles. It’s just the three of you and the fetus on the way. Is that correct?”

Ariane agreed with everything. “Yes, sir.”

“Excellent,” he mumbled. “Your father’s parents were raised in a coastal town in North Carolina, but your father’s grandparents had roots that extended much deeper south. In fact, they stretched all the way to Louisiana.”

Ariane shrugged. “If you say so. I’ve never had the chance to research my family. As you’ve pointed out, most of my family is already dead.”

Webster smiled. “And they’re lucky they are. Because if they weren’t, they’d be standing here right next to you!”

The statement made Ariane wince. She knew her presence had something to do with her family’s background, but what? Her parents were both law-abiding citizens. Her sister was never in trouble, so it couldn’t have anything to do with her. And as far as she could tell, her brother-in-law was one of the sweetest guys in the world. So what the hell could it be?

“I can tell by your face, Ariane, that you are deeply confused. Your face is flushed. Your eyes are darting. Anger is boiling inside.”

In a moment of reckless courage, Ariane decided to voice her feelings. “Yes, sir, I’m angry. As far as I can tell, my family’s done nothing wrong, yet we’re here, suffering in this field for no apparent reason. So, if you would be so kind, I was wondering if you could tell me why! Why are we here? What possible explanation could you give me that would explain why we’re here?”

Ariane could tell from Webster’s eyes that she had spoken too harshly. In order to soften the request, she continued.

“That is, if you’d like to tell me, Master Webster, sir.”

Webster glared at the girl for a tense moment, then eventually grinned. “As fate would have it, we were just getting ready to tell the entire group that very thing. And for that, you are quite lucky. Otherwise, I would’ve been forced to punish you severely.”

Ariane nodded, relieved.

“Master Holmes?” Webster continued. “Would you care to tell old man Ross and the rest of his family why they are here?”

For a brief moment, Holmes thought back to his own childhood, one that was filled with racial threats against his family. This was finally his chance to pay the white man back for crimes against his ancestors, to get even for generations of pain and abuse. “With pleasure.”

Holmes turned toward the seventy-one-year-old slave and grinned. “During our research, we stumbled across a fact that I found quite interesting. We located the name of the man who was responsible for much of the pain in my family’s history. My ancestors, after they were forced to come to America in the belly of a wooden ship, were sold to a peanut farmer in rural Georgia. There, they worked, day after day, under some of the most horrible conditions imaginable. And what does any of that have to do with you? Their owner’s name was Daniel Ross, and he was your great-great-grandfather!”

Jake’s head spun as he took in the news. Even though he knew his family had a farm in the South, the thought that they had once owned slaves never crossed his mind. It should’ve, since it was a typical practice of the time, but it never did.

“And Group Two!” Jackson growled. “We’ve already discussed your heritage, but I left something out. Before your family owned and operated a warm and cuddly farm, they ran one of the strictest cotton plantations in the entire South. The Tanneyhill Plantation was known for its harsh guards and inhumane treatment of slaves. In fact, some modern-day black historians refer to it as the Auschwitz of Mississippi.”

Richard Potter took a deep gulp as he waited for Jackson to finish.

“For the record, many of my kin were murdered on that plantation. Their innocent blood dripped from the hands of your relatives, and I will never forgive or forget.”

Richard and the rest of his family lowered their eyes in shame. Even though they were never part of the horrendous events of the Tanneyhill Plantation, they still felt guilt for the actions of their ancestors. They had no reason to, because it was a different time, a time when they weren’t even alive, but the feelings surfaced nonetheless.

“And that brings us to you, Ariane!” Webster glanced at Tonya and Robert, then looked around the land of the Plantation. “Remember how I told you that your ancestors stretched way down to Louisiana? Well, guess what? Your family, formerly named Delacroix, used to own this piece of land that we’re currently standing on.”

The color drained from Ariane’s face. She had no idea if the information was accurate or not, but she knew that Webster believed it.

“That’s right! The family that you claimed was so innocent used to own this plantation and all of the people that worked on it. A group of workers that included my ancestors!”

Breathing heavily, Webster moved closer to Ariane and whispered, “That’s why you’re here. To make up for their sins by giving us your lives.”

CHAPTER 35

AFTER

leaving the announcement ceremony, Hakeem Ndjai checked on Payne and Jones. The guards assured him that neither man had put up a fight while they were being transported, and both of them had been switched from rope restraints to handcuffs, as ordered. The news pleased Ndjai. Because of the prisoners’ background, Ndjai realized that these two men would pose a special problem if they ever escaped from custody, a situation he’d rather not deal with.

Payne had been locked in the smallest cabin on the Plantation, one that was usually reserved for solitary confinement of the island’s troublemakers. It possessed a low-beamed ceiling, a rock-covered floor, eight square feet of living space, and the lingering odor of urine and vomit. All things considered, it was like the hazing room of a typical fraternity house.

Jones, on the other hand, was given the Taj Mahal of slave cabins, a room usually used by the guards. A narrow mattress filled the left-hand corner of the room, nestled between a sink and a small lamp that had been mounted to the thick wooden wall. A white porcelain toilet sat next to the basin, giving Jones a luxury that no other captive was afforded. To make up for it, though, they’d strapped an explosive to his leg, the same device used on the other slaves.

“Hakeem?” called a voice from behind.

Ndjai turned and was surprised to see Levon Greene approaching. He wasn’t used to seeing him on the Plantation. “Yes, Master Greene? Is there a problem?”

Greene shook his head. “I need to have a word with David Jones. Can you let me see him?”

The African nodded, inserting the key into the cabin’s lock. “I will be outside. Just call if you need me.”

“Don’t count on it,” he said dismissively. “This boy’s all mine.”

Greene pushed the door open with confidence and scanned the room for the captive, who was resting comfortably in the corner of the room, his hands bound behind him.

Sitting up on the makeshift bed, Jones spoke. “Levon, is that you?”

Greene nodded. “Are the guards treating you all right?”

“I’m still waiting for room service, but other than that, I can’t complain. How about yourself?” Jones paused for a second. So much had happened during the last couple of hours, he wasn’t sure if Greene’s presence was good or bad. “Oh, yeah! That’s right! You’re one of them, you bastard!”

He ignored the insult. “I came to get you out of here.”

Jones’s eyes widened in the dim light. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I came to get you out. Let me see your hands.”

This wasn’t something that Jones was expecting. When Payne had first warned him about Greene, he was skeptical. He couldn’t believe that the Buffalo Soldier was playing for the enemy. But after thinking things over, it started to make sense. The broken guns, Sam’s death, Greene’s escape. Everything fit into place. Greene had been pulling their strings from the very beginning, treating them like wealthy tourists in a game of three-card monte. And now this. One minute he’s Benedict Arnold, the next he’s a hero. “Are you serious?”

“You heard me. Turn around and let me see your hands. Be quick about it!”

Despite his skepticism, Jones leapt off the mattress and turned his back to Greene. “What’s going on? What are you doing?”

“This!”

With a quick burst, Greene forearmed Jones in the back of the head, sending him face-first into the corner of the cabin. Before Jones could gather his senses, Greene pounced on top of him, pummeling him with a series of vicious blows to his ribs and kidneys. Punch after punch, elbow after elbow, landed solidly on Jones’s back, causing him to gasp in agony.

“You have to be the most gullible brother I’ve ever met! Did you actually think I was gonna set you free?” Greene punched Jones again, landing another blow to the back of his head. “What good would it do if I let you go? As far as I can tell, you’ve already chosen a life of captivity. David Jones, house nigger for Jonathon Payne!”

Greene chuckled as he stood. “Of all the people in this world, I hate your kind the most. You’ve been given so many advantages that other brothers would kill for, yet you squander them by working for a white man. You take his charity. You call him boss. You kiss his ass!”

He cleared his throat and spit a giant wad of saliva on the barely conscious Jones. “You make me sick. Absolutely sick!”

The large man turned and walked back toward the door. When he opened it, he was surprised to see Ndjai standing nearby.

“Is everything all right?” Greene asked.

The African glanced past his boss and looked at Jones, who appeared to be a few blows short of a coma. “Did he cause you any problems?”

Greene glanced at his hands for a moment, then smiled. “My knuckles are sore, but other than that, things went fairly well.”

Ndjai nodded his head in understanding. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Yes. I understand that you currently have my good friend Nathan in the Devil’s Box.”

His eyes lit up with pride. “Yes, sir! Would you like to see him now?”

Greene shook his head. “How’s he doing? I don’t want him to die, you know.”

“Yes, sir, I am quite aware of that. We monitor his health frequently, and he is very much alive. He is a little bit swollen from a run-in with some fire ants, but other than that, he is fine.”

“Can he talk?”

“Not very well. He is too dehydrated to speak.”

Greene pondered things, then grinned. “Pump him full of fluids over the next few hours. I want to talk to him later today, and it won’t be fun if I can’t understand him. All of the others had a chance to speak to their guests, and I want the same opportunity with mine.”

“Yes, sir.”

“One more thing. Why don’t you move Payne to the Devil’s Box while you’re taking care of Nathan? It’s supposed to be such a lovely day. I would hate to keep him away from the summer heat. He is a guest, you know.”

Ndjai smiled at the possibility.

Let the torture begin.

CHAPTER 36

PAYNE

had always loved the sun. Whether he was golfing, swimming, or reading, he always tried to catch as many rays as possible. He couldn’t explain why, but there was something about the sunshine that made him feel good about himself, something that made him feel healthy.

Those views quickly changed as he baked in the Devil’s Box.

“What the hell was I thinking?” he moaned. “Winter is so much better than this.”

With his uncovered forearm, Payne tried to wipe the large beads of sweat that had formed on his cheeks and forehead. Unfortunately, since his hands were shackled to a metal loop in the floor, it was impossible, requiring the flexibility of a triple-jointed circus freak.

“Snow, ice, hypothermia. That stuff sounds

so

good!”

When Payne was initially dragged across the length of the island and up the slope of the hill, he wasn’t sure what to expect. The possibility of a lynching entered his mind, but for some reason, he had a hunch that the Plantation was more about torture than death. He wanted to ask the guards who were towing him, but the four men weren’t speaking English, mumbling instead in an African dialect.

After reaching the hill’s summit, Payne was actually relieved when he saw the Devil’s Box. No guillotine, no electric chair, no gas chamber. Just a box, a simple four-foot wooden box that had been anchored to the ground. Shoot, he figured, how bad could it be?

Then they opened it.

The figure that emerged was something from a horror movie, a grotesquely deformed zombie breaking from the constraints of his wooden tomb. Haggard and obviously dehydrated, the man’s skin practically hung from his bones, like a suit that was two sizes too large. Payne wanted to turn from the scene-no sense getting a mental picture of the personal horror that was to come-but he knew it would be a mistake. He had to study the prisoner, investigate the guards, analyze the device. He needed to know what may be in store for him, if there were any loopholes in the system. It was the only way he could plan an escape.

The first thing Payne noticed was the prisoner’s size. Despite his malnutrition, the man was quite large. It took three guards to lift his massive frame from the tiny device, and even then it took a concerted effort. In fact, the prisoner was so big, Payne was amazed that the guards had been able to squeeze him into the cube to begin with. His limbs seemed too thick, too long to contort into such a confined space, but it brought Payne some optimism. He figured if they could fit the giant in there, then there should be plenty of room to maneuver.

Once hauled from the box, the victim tried to stand on his own, but it was a foolish mistake. He had been imprisoned far too long to stand unaided. Atrophy and disorientation took over, forcing him to the ground with a sickening thud, his once-proud body melting into the rocky soil that surrounded him.

The memories of the tortured man, shivering and trembling at the feet of the guards, made Payne flinch. So much so that it snapped him back to the real world.

He had been in the device for several hours, and the intense heat of the Louisiana sun was already forcing his mind to wander. And he knew things would only get worse as time wore on. The more he sweat, the more dehydration would occur. The more dehydration, the higher his body temperature. The more heat, the more illusions. And so on. It was a vicious ride, one that he desperately wanted to avoid.

“Hello!” he yelled, hoping to find a savior. “Can anybody hear me?”

But the only reply was the sound of the breeze as it coyly danced around the Devil’s Box.

Payne leaned his head against the oaken interior and stared at the bright sky above. The tiny slits of the lid’s lattice pattern gave him a limited view of the world, but he wasn’t about to complain. He figured things could be worse. He could be rotting in a freshly dug grave right about now. Still, his current situation didn’t offer much hope.

At least until he heard the sound.

At first, Payne thought it was his imagination playing tricks on him, his lack of liquid causing the synapses of his brain to misfire. A heat-induced hallucination. But then he heard it a second time. And a third. Each more clear than the last. The sound, like a memory coming into focus, grew more distinct with each occurrence. Hazy, then muffled, then clear.

It was footsteps, the sound of footsteps.

Someone was coming.

Payne stretched his neck as far as it could reach, trying to peer through the intricate grate of the Devil’s Box. But the tiny slits in the device prevented it.

“Who’s there?” Payne called. “Hey, I’m in the box. Can you give me a hand?”

But there was no reply. In fact, the only sound that he heard was the whistling wind as it whipped over the crest of the hill, which was baffling to Payne. He knew he had heard movement only seconds before. No doubt about it. Someone was definitely out there.

In order to listen effectively, Payne turned his head to the left and placed his ear against the grate. From this position he hoped to hear things clearer, praying that it would somehow make a difference. And it did. Despite the constant rumble of the wind, Payne was able to hear the sound again. But what the hell was it? It was loud, then quiet. Close, then distant. It sounded like breathing, labored breathing, like a fat man’s in aerobics class.

“Hello,” Payne yelled, his voice cracking from thirst. “Who’s out there? I want to know who I’m talking to.”

After a short pause, the movement started again, this time with calculated strides. But instead of approaching the box, the footsteps circled it, like a hawk examining its prey, patiently waiting for its moment to strike. Payne took a deep gulp, pondering the possibilities.

What the hell was going on?

To find out, he shoved his ear closer to the grate, his lobe actually sticking through one of the air holes in the box. Someone was out there. Payne could hear him. Breathing and footsteps, nothing but breathing and footsteps. Why wouldn’t he say something? Someone was circling the device, faster and faster, building himself into a frenzy. What was this guy doing? Payne strained to catch a glimpse of him, struggled for any clue, but the only thing he could hear was breathing and footsteps, multiple footsteps.

Then it dawned on him.

“Oh, shit!” he screamed, pulling his head from the lid a split second before the attack.

The beast, a snarling mixture of teeth and sinew, landed on top of the box. Drool sprayed from its mouth like it was a rabid coyote. Hoping to get inside, the animal clawed and chewed at the sturdy lid, but the device held firm.

For the first time all day, Payne was happy to be inside the box. He was actually thrilled that the contraption was so damn sturdy. Crouching as low as he could, he tucked his head between his legs like a passenger anticipating an airplane crash. As he did, he felt the creature’s saliva coating the back of his neck with drop after drop of slobber.

“Close your mouth, you drooling bitch!”

With his heart pounding furiously, Payne twisted his neck, hoping to identify the animal without getting in harm’s way. He wasn’t sure if it was a wolf or a dog, but it was, without question, the sleekest animal he had ever seen. Covered in a sheer white coat, the level back and lean muscular frame of the creature glistened in the bright sun as it frantically clawed at the Devil’s Box, trying to rip Payne into tender, bite-sized morsels. Its face, thin and angular, revealed a full set of spiked teeth, each quite capable of inflicting serious damage, and a pink nose, one of the few instances of color on the entire beast. The most prominent of its features, besides its ferocity and propensity for drool, were its ears. Long and light pink, they stood at attention like an antenna on an old TV.

As the attack continued, Payne gained confidence in the cube’s sturdiness, which allowed him to take a relaxing breath. If the animal had somehow entered the box, Payne realized he would’ve been screwed. Since his hands were bolted to the floor and his legs were severely restricted, he wouldn’t have had a chance to defend himself.

“Bad doggie!” Payne yelled, cowering from the lid. “Go home! Return to Satan!”

Surprisingly, the command worked. Just as quickly as the attack had started, it stopped. The animal suddenly leapt from the box and scurried away.

Payne’s eyes grew wide from the surprising turn of events. He had never expected his request to work. In fact, he’d said it simply in jest. “Wow! Is my breath that bad?”

Before he could answer his own question, a voice interrupted him.

“Hello, Mr. Payne. How are you doing today?” The words were English, but they were tinted with an African accent.

Payne looked above but couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from. He strained his neck in all directions but was unable to see who approached. “God? Is that you?”

“Master Greene told me you were somewhat of a jokester. I guess he was right.”

Payne grimaced. “Actually, I’m not

somewhat

of a jokester. I

am

a jokester! There’s a big difference, my African friend.”

Hakeem Ndjai leaned his face over the top of his box and smiled, revealing a set of decaying teeth that had been neglected for some time. “Yes, I guess you are a jokester. Quite comical, especially for someone in your predicament.”

“By the way, I meant to talk to you about that. You know, you have to do something about this box of yours. Your wooden-mesh roof is seriously messing up my sunlight. If I’m not careful, it’s going to look like I tanned my face in a waffle iron.”

Ndjai grinned. “All you have to do is write down your request and put it in the suggestion box at the main house. Oh, I forgot! You are unable to get to the house. Too bad! I guess you will just have to deal with it.”

Payne sighed. “I guess so.”

“Now, if we are done with the fun and games, I would like to ask you a question. How did you enjoy your introduction to my pet?”

“Your pet? You mean the albino pit bull? Oh, yeah, it was swell. I bet it’s great around kids. Just make sure you get a head count beforehand.”

Ndjai sat on the edge of the black device and chuckled. “Surprisingly, he is wonderful around children. He is only hostile when I want him to be. That is why he backed away from the box when I called him. He is very obedient.”

“You called him? Damn! I was hoping it obeyed

my

commands. That would make my escape so much easier.”

“Yes”-he laughed-“I guess it would. Unfortunately for you, Tornado only listens to me.”

“Tornado? That’s a pretty stupid name for a dog. How the hell did you come up with that?”

Ndjai sneered. “If you did not notice, Tornado circles his prey again and again until he is ready to attack. It is how he whips himself into a frenzy.”

“Boy, that’s kinda weird, don’t you think? Why not call him Dizzy? That’s a good name for a dog. Or how about Re tardo? That seems to fit. I mean, let’s be honest, how smart can the dog be if it has to run in a loop to attack?”

“Quite intelligent,” Ndjai argued. “Ibizan hounds are some of the smartest dogs in the world. They were originally bred for Spanish royalty.”

“Well, some of them might be smart, but I don’t think yours qualifies. Did you get it at a clearance sale? Because that would explain a lot.”

Ndjai stood from the box. He wasn’t used to arguing with his prisoners. Normally, they were too scared to even speak. “You have a lot of nerve for someone who is about to die. Trust me, I will make sure you go slowly and painfully.”

“You mean, like your teeth? You know, if you started brushing now, you might be able to save the last few you have left.” Payne’s words hit his mark, and Ndjai responded by slamming his fist into the top of the box. “What? Was it something I said? If so, why don’t you let me out of here and kick my ass like a real man? Then again, you’d probably have to run around me like your fucked-up mutt. By the time you were done, you’d be too dizzy to hit me.”

Ndjai took a deep breath, finally understanding the game that the prisoner was trying to play. Payne wanted Ndjai to become so infuriated that he’d do something irrational, like opening the box to get at him. It was a nice try, but Ndjai was too smart for that.

“Do not worry about my aim, Mr. Payne. If I were to let you out of your cage-something I am not going to do-I would be able to strike you. In fact, let me prove my accuracy.”

Payne sat up in the box, trying to view the exhibition that Ndjai was going to put on for him. Unfortunately, as it turned out, it was a show in which he was forced to participate.

With a grin on his face, Ndjai climbed on top of the cube and lowered the zipper on his pants. “The reason for my visit, Mr. Payne, was to give you your daily dose of water, but seeing how uncooperative you have been, I have decided to alter your menu.”

A sudden stream of golden liquid fell from above, surging through the slits of the cube like a warm waterfall. By lowering his head and closing his eyes, Payne did his best to avoid the downpour, but his restricted mobility prevented much success.

“What do you think of my aim now?”

Payne wanted to answer, desperately wanted to scream insults at the sadistic guard, but he couldn’t risk saying a word. The possibility of the yellow liquid seeping past his cracked lips and into his mouth was far too great. Besides, he knew that he would somehow escape from the Devil’s Box and make Ndjai pay for his actions.

And when he did, he would pay for them with his life.

CHAPTER 37

IT

was hard for Ariane to believe, but her seemingly perfect life was spiraling out of control. Two days earlier, she was a successful bank executive, preparing to spend a relaxing holiday with the man she loved. The only activities on her itinerary were golfing, swimming, and fooling around. No business. No stress. Just pleasure. She’d been looking forward to it all summer and had done everything in her power to plan the perfect weekend.

Unfortunately, her plans were altered.

In a matter of forty-eight hours, she’d been drugged, kidnapped, and smuggled to Louisiana, where she was being tortured for the sins of relatives she’d never even known existed. Her days, which used to be filled with meetings and paperwork in an air-conditioned office, were now occupied with grueling field labor and the stinging crack of leather whips in the sweltering Southern sun.

If it wasn’t for her inner strength, a trait that was tested and fortified when her parents died several years before, she would have broken down. As it was, she stubbornly clung to hope, realizing that things were never as bad as they seemed.

Well, almost never.

Her current situation offered little hope, and because of that she decided to push her luck. While pulling weeds from the untilled ground, Ariane glanced around the spacious field, searching for someone to talk to. She knew that conversation of any kind was forbidden by the guards, but she had the feeling if she didn’t do something soon, there was a very good chance she was going to end up dead. And she wasn’t about to let that happen without a fight.

A young woman, no more than eighteen years old, stood fifty feet away from Ariane, busily plucking rocks from the dark brown dirt. She tried to signal the girl from a distance, hoping to catch her eye, but the teen remained focused on her task.

Undaunted by the threat of punishment, Ariane moved her wicker basket to the east, carefully approaching the teenager.

“Hello,” she mumbled under her breath. “My name’s Ariane.”

The athletic-looking girl was stunned at first, surprised that someone had the guts to speak under the close watch of the guards. After suppressing her shock, she whispered back.

“Kelly Metz.” She wiped the dirt from her hands on her orange work pants, then brushed the brown hair from her eyes. “Where you from?”

Ariane glanced around. The closest guard was over one hundred feet away. “Pittsburgh. What about you?”

“Farrell, Missouri.” As she spoke, she continued ripping rocks from the soil. “Heard of it?”

Ariane shook her head. There was no sense speaking when a gesture would do. “How old are you?”

Now it was Kelly’s turn to be cautious. Like a student trying to cheat on a test, she made sure the coast was clear. “Seventeen.” She carefully checked a second time, then continued. “Are you new? I don’t remember seeing you in the field before.”

“I think I got here yesterday. I’m not sure, though. Everything’s kind of foggy.”

Kelly nodded in understanding. “The drugs’ll wear off, you know. Don’t worry. Just hang in there. You’ll get through this.”

Ariane smiled at the optimism. She found it amazing that a girl Kelly’s age was holding up so well in such adverse conditions. “You here alone?”

Kelly searched for the guards. They were busy hassling one of the male slaves. “Me and my family are a part of Group One. Ten of us in all.”

Ariane thought back to earlier in the day, back when it was still dark. If she remembered correctly, Kelly was in Master Holmes’s group. “Are you the one with the cute little brother?”

For the first time in a long time, Kelly wanted to laugh. “I’ve heard my brother called a lot of things, but certainly never cute.” She looked over her shoulder, paranoid. “The cute one is Scooter. He’s my cousin.”

“But you have a brother, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “His name’s Donny.”

Something about Kelly’s voice worried Ariane. She wasn’t sure why, but she could tell something was wrong. She quickly looked for the nearest guard, who was still occupied with the men. “What’s going on, Kelly? Is something wrong with your brother?”

She brushed the hair from her face one more time. “He’s not what you would call tough. I get the feeling that he isn’t holding up too well.”

Ariane found that hard to believe. If Donny was anything like his sister, he was probably cutting down trees with his bare hands. “Are you sure? ’Cause you seem to be doing great.”

“I play sports year-round, so physical stuff doesn’t bother me. Donny, on the other hand, is in the band. The most exertion he gets is playing his trumpet.”

“So, he’s breaking down physically?”

“And mentally. My dad was tortured the first night we were here. I think that got to him.”

Ariane tried to picture the members of Group One. She distinctly remembered a middle-aged man with a bandaged hand. “What did they do to him?”

Kelly took a deep breath. “They cut off his finger. He didn’t even do anything wrong, but they still chopped it off. Probably to prove that they were in charge.”

Ariane was surprised that Kelly was handling it so well. Ariane knew there was no way she could have witnessed a loved one tortured and remained so calm-especially back when she was a teenager.

“How about your cousins? Have you talked to them?”

“Not really, but I can tell Susan’s on the edge. She’s real close to losing it.”

“Which one is Susan?”

“She’s a year younger than me. She’s petite, blond hair. Very pretty.”

Ariane tried to place the girl in her mind but couldn’t. Too many faces, too little time.

“She was abused on the same night as my dad. Master Jackson cut off all of her clothes in front of everybody. I think that rattled her something good.”

“He cut off her clothes? What did he do that for?”

Kelly shrugged. “She was wearing a bikini, so she kind of stood out.”

“And you think she’s in bad shape?”

She nodded. “I don’t think she’s gonna make it.”

DESPITE

her best effort, it took Ariane over an hour to cross the field-her basket of weeds and the guards’ careful scrutiny made her movement difficult-but in time she eventually made her way to Susan Ross.

As she approached the teen, the first thing she noticed were her eyes. They were striking, the color of the perfect summertime sky. But it was more than their light blue hue that made them stand out. It was also the tears.

Apparently, Kelly Metz was right. Her cousin was close to losing it.

Ariane inched closer, hoping to comfort the girl with a word or two, but the move backfired. Susan sensed Ariane’s approach and tensed with fear.

“Get away from me!” she shrieked. “Just leave me alone!”

The outburst stopped Ariane in her tracks. She assumed the plea was loud enough to be heard by the guards, and the last thing in the world she wanted to do was attract their attention. She had seen how rough they were with the other slaves and desperately wanted to avoid that.

“Calm down,” Ariane whispered. “You don’t have to be afraid of me. I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“I’m fine!” she screeched, not giving a damn if the guards heard her or not. “Are you happy? Now get away from me!”

Ariane was flabbergasted by Susan’s behavior, but under the circumstances she was willing to cut the kid some slack. “You’ve got to be quiet.”

She glanced over her shoulder, half expecting a stampede of guards to be headed her way, and felt a great sense of relief when she realized their attention was still focused on the men.

“I realize you don’t know me and probably don’t trust me, but your cousin Kelly sent me over here to check on you.”

The frightened girl stared at Ariane coldly. Her body language and icy glare suggested that trust was no longer in her vocabulary.

“You know, I saw you and Scooter at the ceremony this morning. He sure is a cutie.”

Susan blinked a few times but didn’t respond.

“How old is he?”

She licked her parched lips, giving the question some thought. “Eight.”

Ariane grinned, relieved that the girl was willing to talk. “Well, he’s just about the cutest eight-year-old I’ve ever seen. He looks like a little athlete.”

Susan nodded, but refused to comment.

“How’s he holding up? He seems like he’s doing pretty well considering the circumstances.”

She shrugged, never shifting her eyes from Ariane’s face.

“And you? What about you? How are you doing?”

Susan breathed deeply, sucking in the air through her dry mouth. “What do you want? There has to be some reason you’re talking to me. You don’t even know me.”

Ariane smiled warmly. “Like I said, your cousin wanted me to check on you.”

The answer didn’t sit well with Susan. “Then why didn’t Kelly come over here herself? Why’d she send you?”

Ariane moved closer, hoping her proximity would lower the volume of Susan’s voice. “No reason. I’m trying to talk to as many people as possible, and when I talked to your cousin, she mentioned that she was worried about you.”

“She’s worried about

me

? That would be a first from my family.”

“Come on! Don’t be silly. Your family’s worried about you. They’ve got to be.”

The statement brought a new batch of tears to the teen’s eyes. “You don’t know my family very well, do you? None of them have even asked how I’m doing. Not one of them.”

“Well, I’m asking you. How are you doing, Susan?”

“How the hell do you think I’m doing? Every time I turn around one of the guards is touching me. Last night I saw my dad’s ear get cut off. And when I do get to see my family, all my parents care about are my younger brothers. I mean, would it kill them to ask how I am?”

Ariane couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Despite the gravity of their situation, Susan was showing signs of sibling jealousy. How petty could someone be? “Don’t take it personally. I’m sure your parents are paying them more attention because they feel they need it. You’re older. They probably figure you can handle things by yourself.”

Susan wiped the moisture from her face. “Great! You’re on their side, too.”

“It’s not about sides. It’s about-”

“Just get away from me! I don’t want to hear it.”

“Susan.”

“Get away from me!” she repeated louder. “I don’t want to talk to you!”

Ariane pleaded for her to calm down, but the teen refused to listen. “Susan, if you keep making noise, the guards are going to come over and punish us.”

“Good! At least that’ll get you away from me!”

“Susan, I’m just trying to help.”

“I told you. I don’t want your help.” Susan picked up her wicker basket and began walking away. “And if you follow me, I’ll scream for the guards. I swear to God. I’ll scream.”

Despite the threat, Ariane was tempted to run after her. In her mind, she figured Susan wasn’t a bad kid. She was just a traumatized teen, one who was looking for someone to cling to. And if Ariane could be that person, she’d love to be able to help.

Unfortunately, the Plantation wasn’t the best place to make friends, so Ariane’s act of kindness would have to wait for another day. That is, if both of them could last that long.

CHAPTER 38

AFTER

waking from his nap in the plantation house, Master Jackson strolled into the field to check on the current group of slaves. As leader of the guards, he had many important duties at the Plantation, but most of them occurred before guests were even brought to the island. Jackson was in charge of training the guards, a task he shared with Ndjai since several of the men were straight off the boat from Africa. If it hadn’t been for the language barrier, Jackson would’ve preferred training the guards by himself, but as it was he didn’t really have a choice. He was forced to work with Ndjai, even though the African gave him the creeps.

Ironically, Jackson often elicited the same reaction from women, sending off a dangerous vibe that females instinctively disliked. It hadn’t always been like that. The bad vibe was more of a recent thing for Jackson. As a youngster, he’d been very effective with the fairer sex. He was suave, polite, and romantic. But all of that changed in a heartbeat, one misstep that altered Jackson’s life and his attitude toward women-and white people-forever.

He’d been a young associate at one of New Orleans’s top law firms, and as his friends used to say, he had the world by its balls. He was handsome, intelligent, and personable. People often confused him with Wesley Snipes, but he was quick to point out their mistake. No, he used to tell them, my name is Harris Jackson, and before long, people will say

he

looks like

me

. And he believed it, too. Jackson was on the fast track to success, and he knew in his heart that he was ultimately destined for greatness.

Until he met her.

A month before that fateful day, Jackson left his law firm to start his own business. The Harris Jackson Sports Agency. He figured that with his legal mind, quick wit, and black skin, he would be able to land professional athletes by the dozen. And he was right. Within two weeks, he had signed Levon Greene, a friend of his from college, and soon after several other stars in the world of sports started using his services.

As a token of his appreciation, Jackson invited his newest clients to New Orleans for a gala celebration and arranged everything that he needed to have a successful party: food, alcohol, strippers, and rap stars. Unfortunately, when he made the party arrangements, he didn’t count on the presence of a she-devil. Sure, she looked like a harmless exotic dancer-shoulder-length blond hair, great face, see-through dress-but underneath that beautiful exterior lived the heart of the Antichrist.

At the end of the evening, she begged Jackson for a ride home, and before he could say no, she was riding him in his limo. At the time, he figured it was just a one-night stand, a meaningless night of sex with a drunken vixen, but it turned into something more. It became the event that ended his career. Unbeknownst to Jackson, the girl was young. Too young. An uninvited sixteen-year-old who had snuck into the party to meet some of the celebrities. After sobering up, she regretted her actions and quickly told the cops everything that had occurred. The liquor, the nudity, the sex, everything. In a flash, Jackson was arrested, convicted, and disbarred. Before he knew it, his legal career was over, and all because of some white bitch.

After his release from prison, Jackson realized that he needed to experience the sweet taste of revenge if he was ever going to put the past behind him, and he figured the Plantation was the perfect way to do that. One white whore had taken everything that he’d ever worked for, and in his mind, this was his opportunity to get even with her and everyone like her.

Theo Webster had academic reasons for the Plantation.

Octavian Holmes had a childhood trauma to overcome.

But Harris Jackson had something different. He was in it for personal revenge.

As he scrutinized the female slaves in the dying sunlight, he tried to choose the one he wanted to play with the most. But it was a tough process, a lot tougher than the last group that had been brought to the Plantation. In order to prepare for Webster’s special group of slaves, the Plantation Posse abducted twenty-five homeless people for a trial run back in May. After practicing their kidnapping and transportation techniques on the vagrants, the Posse ironed out the kinks in the slaves’ housing setup. They perfected the guards’ work schedules and corrected any glaring errors in management strategy, guaranteeing that the real group of slaves would be handled as efficiently as possible.

Unfortunately for Jackson, the homeless group had only one good-looking female, a down-on-her-luck runaway, so he didn’t have many playmates to choose from. But the current crop of slaves was different. As far as he could tell, there were five females in the bunch that would please him immensely. They were young, pretty, and white-just how he liked them. It was just a matter of time before he chose the one that he wanted to break first.

After figuring out the girls’ names, Jackson spoke to one of the guards and told him to round up the following slaves: Kelly Metz, Jennifer Potter, Sarah Potter, Susan Ross, and Ariane Walker. As far as he was concerned, the other females were too old or too pregnant to mess with.

“Ladies,” he said to the five, “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve pulled you away from your work. Well, I’ll explain that in good time. First of all, a question: How have you enjoyed working in this wicked heat?”

Not surprisingly, the women were too scared to speak.

“Ah,” he sighed. “It seems that you have forgotten the policy that was established on day one. When I ask a question, you respond, or you will pay the price.”

He looked at Susan, who trembled at his presence. She remembered how he had treated her on that first night: the sharp edge of his stiletto as it slid against her flesh, his erect penis as he rubbed it against the small of her back, his threatening words. The memory of it all made her wince in agony.

“So, let me ask you again. How have you enjoyed the heat?”

“We haven’t liked it,” Ariane admitted. “Not one bit.”

The comment made Jackson grin. “Thank you! Even though no one else had the courage to speak, I’m sure each of you agrees with Miss Walker’s statement.”

The women nodded their heads.

“Finally, a sign of life!”

Jackson moved forward, glancing at the bodies and the faces of the slaves, looking for the tiniest of imperfections. Sarah and Ariane were older than he usually preferred, but they did have the nicest figures of the five. Full breasts, great legs, firm bodies. And Ariane definitely had the prettiest face. Shit, she could be a model if she wanted to be. Unfortunately, he knew that neither of them was a virgin. Good-looking women don’t reach their age without screwing someone. And for Jackson, that was a turnoff. He preferred his victims innocent and pure, like the other three girls in front of him.

He wanted the opportunity to ruin them for the rest of the world.

He wanted a chance to destroy a piece of their life, just like that whore had done with him.

“What I’m about to offer to you might sound too good to be true, but it’s an opportunity that is steeped in tradition. Plantations used to have house slaves, people that assisted inside the house instead of in the field. They cooked and cleaned and provided indoor services that were requested. As payment they were given a bed to sleep in and a bath to soak in.”

Jackson studied the faces of the women, trying to predict which one would jump at the chance. “Now, keeping in mind that this house has air-conditioning, I need one of you to volunteer for the position.”

The females glanced at each other. Each of them had a feeling what the job was really about. Everyone, that is, but Susan Ross. After a momentary delay, she stepped forward.

“I’ll do it,” she said. “Take me.”

“Splendid!” he remarked. In his mind, he figured that she would be the one to volunteer. Of all the females, she was the one who had struggled the most in the field. The tears in her eyes were another sign that she was looking for a way out. “Guards, take her inside so she can get cleaned up. I’ll be in shortly to give her further instructions.”

But as the guards moved toward the sixteen-year-old, Ariane did as well.

“Susan,” she pleaded, “don’t do it! This is about sex!”

Jackson jumped forward, viciously slapping Ariane in the mouth. “Get back in line, bitch, before I have you whipped.”

“She’s just a kid. If you need someone to abuse, take me. At least I can handle it.”

“Oh, sure,” Susan complained, not absorbing the extent of Jackson’s ulterior motives. “Use my age against me to take my spot inside. First you talk to me in the field, and now this. That’s just great!”

The moment the words sank in, Ariane took a step backward. She knew that Jackson was going to strike her again. He didn’t have a choice. She had broken one of his major rules, and he would have to punish her. And he didn’t let her down.

Jackson closed his fist into a ball and swung viciously, connecting with Ariane’s face just above her jawline. It was a savage blow, one that knocked her unconscious before she even hit the ground. Then, as she lay there, he kicked her once in the stomach just to prove to the other women that he was still in control.

“Guards, while you’re at it, take her in the house, too. Now that she’s broken one of my commandments, we’re gonna have to dispose of her. But before we do, I think she can provide all of us with some entertainment.”

CHAPTER 39

THEO

Webster answered the phone, smiling. If there was one thing in the world he could count on, it was Hannibal Kotto’s punctuality. “Hannibal, it’s nice to hear from you again. How are things in Nigeria?”

“They would be much better if America finally wised up and set its clocks to Nigerian time. It would make my sleeping habits much more routine.”

Webster laughed. “I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, tell me about the auction.”

“As I hoped, the winning bid exceeds your minimum price.”

“By how much?”

Kotto smiled and told him the number.

“Holy shit,” Webster mumbled as he did some calculations in his head. He had twenty-three units of snow on the Plantation. Throw in some extra cash for Tonya Edwards, the pregnant one, and they were going to make a lot more money than he had ever expected.

“How soon can you make the shipment?”

“The sooner the better.”

“Excellent,” Kotto said. “I’ll notify the buyers at once.”

Webster hung up the phone, stunned. The dollar amount that Kotto had quoted was beyond Webster’s wildest dreams. Actually, in the very beginning, the concept of cash had never even entered his thoughts. He wanted to establish the Plantation for revenge, not money. He planned to smuggle people onto his island and treat them the way his ancestors had been treated. In his mind it would teach white people about the horrors of slavery while striking a blow for the black culture. Of course, since he’d never been an athletic person, he knew he needed help to make his plan a reality. He could control the bureaucracy by himself, but he needed someone to handle the brutality, someone who had been trained for it. But who?

While looking for assistance, Webster solicited the advice of Harris Jackson, his ex-roommate from college. Jackson wasn’t very supportive of the idea at the time-this was before his legal problems had occurred-but he suggested the name of a client who might be willing to help. And it was the perfect recommendation.

Until that point, Octavian Holmes had made a good living as a mercenary, offering his military expertise to the highest foreign bidder, but he’d reached the point in his life where he was looking for a change of pace-guerrilla warfare in South America and jungle tactics in Africa were quickly losing their appeal. He was thinking about running a training camp for militia types or opening his own shooting range, but he’d never gotten around to it.

When Webster first called, Holmes was immediately intrigued with the idea. The concept of slavery was one that had always fascinated him, and the chance to actually participate in it was too great to pass up. Unfortunately for Webster, Holmes wasn’t willing to do it for free. To coordinate something as large as the Plantation, Holmes wanted to be compensated in an appropriate fashion. But Webster didn’t have that type of cash. He was willing to pay what he could, but it simply wasn’t enough to please a professional soldier like Holmes. So, before it even got started, the Plantation had hit a snag, a problem that threatened its existence.

But not to worry. Holmes came up with a logical solution that saved the day. Why not make money while getting revenge? That way, they could get profits and vengeance at the same time.

It sounded good to Webster, but he wasn’t quite sure how it would work.

Holmes quickly clued him in. He told Webster about an African who had hired him for some military exercises in Nigeria. The man’s name was Hannibal Kotto, and he was reputed to be as powerful as he was wealthy. Holmes claimed that Kotto was loved and respected throughout Africa despite his tendency to operate outside the letter of the law. In fact, while Holmes was in Lagos, he had heard rumors of a white slavery ring that Kotto was attempting to start.

The concept intrigued Webster. If the rumors were true, then he would be able to take his slavery idea to a whole new level. Instead of just kidnapping and torturing white folks for revenge, he could actually sell them to the motherland for money. It would be the original slave trade, but in reverse: whites going to a black land instead of blacks going to a white one.

After checking with his sources, Holmes discovered that the rumors about Kotto were true. In fact, he had already laid the foundation for the business. Kotto and Edwin Drake, an Englishman who lived in Johannesburg, had cultivated a long list of African entrepreneurs who were interested in buying white-skinned slaves. Even though Africans could hire black servants at a minimal price, the idea of having a white slave was too compelling to pass up. To them, a white slave would be a status symbol, like owning a Mercedes or a Ferrari.

If I’m rich, I can hire a servant, but if I’m super rich, I can buy a white one.

On top of that, many men planned on using white women as concubines, fair-skinned mistresses to have at their disposal.

Still, the concept wasn’t perfect.

After several failed experiments, Kotto and Drake realized it was difficult to find a reliable supplier of whites. Sure, the two men wanted to make money off of the slave trade, but neither of them wanted to get his hands dirty. They wanted someone else to do the hard stuff. Furthermore, even though there were thousands of white people scattered across Africa, neither man wanted to make enemies on the African continent. Kotto said it would be like defecating in his own backyard. In his mind, if they were going to get white people, they were going to have to smuggle them in from places where the two men had few ties: Australia, Europe, and North America.

And that’s when the Plantation organizers stepped in and offered their services.

They were the suppliers. Kotto and Drake were the distributors.

A partnership was forged.

CHAPTER 40

IF

there’d been food in his stomach, Payne was confident that he would’ve vomited; the strong stench of urine that engulfed him pretty much guaranteed that. But as it was, Payne was only forced to deal with dehydration, severe hunger pains, and intermittent episodes of dry heaves.

“Now I know what Gandhi must’ve felt like,” he croaked, his throat burning from the act of speaking. Yet it didn’t matter to Payne. He would continue to speak all night if he had to. It was the best way to stay in touch with reality. “Gandhi probably didn’t smell like piss, though.”

Payne leaned his head against the box, a position he had been in all day, when his right hamstring started to cramp again. He hastily tried stretching, doing anything to prevent the muscle contractions from striking, but the shackles on the floor made it impossible to move. He would be forced to ride out the wave of agony until the spasm passed.

As Payne suffered, Bennie Blount peered into the hole of the Devil’s Box. “You ain’t got enough

possium

in your body. That’s why you crampin’ like that.”

The voice stunned him, yet Payne quickly replied. “No,” he groaned. “I’m cramping like this because I’m locked in a Rubik’s Cube in the middle of a heat wave, not because I didn’t eat enough bananas.”

“I don’t know. I still think it’s the

possium

.”

Payne continued fighting through his cramp, in no mood to discuss the merits of potassium. “Nothing personal, but I have a policy about talking to traitors.”

Blount turned on a small flashlight and placed it under his chin. He wanted Payne to see his face as he talked. “I sorry about that, Mr. Payne, but I didn’t have no choice. I wasn’t allowed off the island unless I agreed to do it, and I really wanted to see the fireworks. . . . As it be, I didn’t even get to see ’em.”

Payne shook his head in pity. Blount was just a helpless pawn in this, caught up in something that he didn’t know how to control or escape from. And even though Blount worked for the Plantation, Payne could tell he wasn’t as sadistic as the others.

“Hey, Bennie, I don’t want to get you into trouble, but I was hoping you could give me a hand.”

“You mean free ya? They’d never trust me with the key. I’d probably lose it.”

“That’s okay. I don’t need a key. There are other things you could do for me.”

Blount lowered his face to the top of the box. “Like what?”

“Some food and drink would be nice.”

Blount frowned, then suddenly stood from his perch.

Payne could hear the servant walking away and was afraid that he was abandoning him for a second time. “Bennie? What’s wrong? Come back! Where are you going?”

The servant’s face filled the top of the box one more time. “I wasn’t going nowhere. When ya mentioned you could use some vittles, it helped me remember something. The reason I came up here was to bring ya some chow, but with all the talking I forgot to gives it to ya.”