men ran or crawled from the melee to escape. Other men with stones chased them down and beat them to death. By now, the guards in the towers had stopped firing warning shots and began shooting indiscriminately at the mass of men. Helicopters with speakers circled from above, announcing commands for the prisoners to fall to the ground with their hands behind their heads. The vicious fighting didn’t slow down. Men resorted to beating each other to death with their bare hands.
Inside, the “forgotten zone” began to fill with smoke. As the sirens wailed, Carnicero relaxed on his bed with his eyes closed. His long black hair spilled down to his shoulders. Cries of help from men in the cells around him became more panicked as the heavy smoke filled the corridor. The sound of a key in the lock to his cell and the illumination from a flashlight caused Carnicero to sit up. Even in the dark, Carnicero knew the man standing in front of his open cell. It was the prison warden. A lone guard accompanied him.
“Come with me,” the warden said. “Quickly. There is little time.” Carnicero followed the two men down the long corridor as desperate inmates pleaded to be released from the suffocating smoke. The warden led them down several flights of stairs before turning to the prison guard, drawing his pistol, and shooting him three times in the chest. “Put on his uniform. Hurry,” the warden said. Carnicero stripped the dead man of his clothes and put them on. “Rub the blood from his wounds on your face. No one will recognize you.” Carnicero, dripping in blood, followed the warden through a set of doors. Ahead, prison guards in riot gear were assembling. “Put your arm around my shoulder,” the visibly nervous warden said. “Now limp along like you are injured.” The two men stumbled through the crowd of men in black helmets and riot shields. Carnicero kept his head down. He looked at no one. “Get to the main yard now!” the warden commanded as he pushed his way through the guards, dragging Carnicero with him. “Move! Out of my way! This man is seriously injured. I must get him out of here.” Clearing the crowd, they headed down another smoke-filled corridor. Slowing only for the warden to fumble with his keys, they passed through a series of locked gates. Soon, the two men arrived at the prison’s loading dock. A black limousine with tinted windows and a driver behind the wheel was idling in the bay. Two armed men wearing suits stood by the rear door of the car. “These men will take you to the Padre,” the warden said. “The guards at the main gate are instructed to let you pass. Hurry. I must get back inside before I’m missed.” He turned to leave.
“Warden, one moment please,” Carnicero said. “May I have your pistol?” The warden reluctantly handed it over. Carnicero took the weapon, checked the chamber, and fired one bullet straight into the center of the warden’s forehead. “That’s for the ‘forgotten zone,’ you piece of shit,” he said as the man fell to the pavement. Carnicero spit on the man’s corpse before climbing into the limo. One of the men in suits handed him a wet towel. Carnicero wiped the blood from his face. The long car pulled out of the dock and worked its way through a throng of police cars and vans. Once clear of the confusion, it sped through the main gates without slowing down, leaving the smoking prison behind it.
CHAPTER SIX
The Ferret of the Vieux Carre
Later that evening, back at the Hotel Sonesta Royale, Avery sat in his dank, humid room and typed away at his laptop while slamming a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew. He had some correspondence to catch up on, as well as some online research to knock out regarding the history of Mexico. Not to mention some high-altitude recon via Google Earth. Luckily, the one person in the neighborhood who had wireless Internet service apparently skipped securing their network. But before he could start his research, Avery had some government business to attend to.
To: The Deputy Secretary
United States Department of State
Dear Sir:
I am writing to you today to convey a matter of greatest urgency. Several months ago I received a facsimile document from an overseas attorney informing me of a recent inheritance of significant value. My timely good fortune has unfortunately come at the untimely expense of one of West Africa’s wealthiest philanthropists. My benefactor, Dr. Onabanjo, expired while stuck in a traffic jam as hundreds of Nigerian citizens clogged the streets to fill plastic buckets with gasoline pouring from a ruptured pipeline nearby. Of course, the greedy throng undoubtedly intentionally ruptured the pipeline for its own benefit. Amazingly, one remarkably dense individual apparently paused during the petrol feeding frenzy for a brief smoke break. The Doctor’s flaming demise was a horrible tragedy for his country. However, the executor of his estate informed me in his communication that the doctor was a huge admirer of my work. He wasn’t specific about which work, as I am well known in many scientific disciplines, although I assume it was probably due to my recently self-published treatise regarding the true story of Dr. Livingstone and Henry Stanley. In short, Dr. Livingstone was not lost in Africa searching for the fabled sources of the Nile River. Rather, he was on the run from a series of overwhelming gambling debts owed to a notorious Welsh gangster, Mickey Biggs. “Brick Top” Mickey, as he was known at the time, sent a violent leg- breaker by the name of Henry Stanley to track down Dr. Livingstone. After catching up with the aforementioned doctor on the Dark Continent, Henry Stanley did not utter the oft-quoted but historically inaccurate phrase, “Doctor Livingstone, I presume?” Instead, Stanley snarled, “Doctor Livingstone, you cheeky bastard!” Unfortunately, history texts seem to favor the more gentile conversation. Anyway, I digress. Dr. Onabanjo’s last will and testament instructed that his entire fortune of $17,230,561 and twelve cents be left to myself. Alas, his attorney informed me via his fax that corrupt government officials, upset with the doctor’s controversial views on indigenous land ownership, have seized the estate’s bank accounts and corresponding assets, no doubt intending to use the proceeds for the purchase of secondhand Romanian land mines and flat-screen televisions. My contact generously offered to bribe the appropriate bank officials on my behalf and transfer to me my rightful inheritance. He explained that his only impediment was raising the $2,800 necessary to execute the bribe, as his personal financial difficulties since the doctor’s death had left him illiquid. The offer was clearly legitimate, as the attorney’s knowledge of the English language was horrifically appalling. Only an actual foreigner could butcher the common rules of grammar so proficiently. So I trusted him. Unfortunately, after wiring the bribe money to my contact, our communication has been spotty at best. Several weeks of correspondence, beginning with a string of dubious replies and unlikely excuses ranging from family illness to transit strikes and ending with no communication at all, have left me fearing that my contact will not execute our agreed-upon transaction. I’m formally requesting that the United States Department of State take immediate action on behalf of my situation. Please urgently deploy U.S. military forces to repatriate my inheritance, including my $2,800 wire transfer. I must insist that you utilize only Navy SEAL teams or Delta Force operatives, and under no circumstance inform the United Nations. Their peacekeepers are as useless as WWII German war bonds and as corrupt as carnival vendors. Seriously, never trust a soldier who wears periwinkle blue. Thank you for your prompt attention in this matter.
Meanwhile, deep in the heart of the French Quarter, Ziggy ambled through the crowds of tourists and late- night revealers. He’d been looking to find a smoke shop where he might procure some local paraphernalia. It wasn’t going well. He was lost. Since he was lost, Ziggy decided to drop some low-grade acid. Then it wouldn’t matter where he was going; he’d already be there. It was a technique Ziggy used when he couldn’t find what he was looking for. It also was a technique with decidedly mixed results, but Ziggy believed strongly in karma. Sooner or later it had to work. Or maybe it wouldn’t — it didn’t really matter, since he’d be high as a kite. Besides, it helped to pass the time and the chaos of the French Quarter, which was really starting to freak the little guy out. This was no place for the sober. Within a few minutes, Ziggy began to feel the drug kick in, and it kicked in with a vengeance. That was the number-one problem with pharmaceuticals manufactured in bathtubs; their potency and efficacy was suspect at best. Ziggy struggled to maintain his balance as he wove his way down the middle of the bustling street. Coming to a corner, he noticed the street signs at the intersection of Bourbon and Toulouse.
