building even now, getting his thirty pieces of silver.
Hawke used this rare moment of lucidity and made a decision. He was not going back to the camps. No matter what his new captor planned for him, when Wajari returned and opened his cage he would kill him. Take the machete and use his own blade on him. He’d kill anyone who got in his way.
Then he’d see what he could learn in the small dock office. There were sure to be papers there, documents of some kind that he could use to support his story of the camps. And if he was really lucky, maybe even a vehicle parked on the other side of the warehouses. He’d heard the sound of a motor revving and then being silenced.
He waited patiently in his bamboo cage and plotted his escape. He knew in his bones he was still too weak to run far. But, if he could somehow steal a boat, even a dugout and summon the strength to paddle, make his way back upriver, maybe he could get to a wireless radio, or even a telephone. He would only get one chance to survive this ordeal.
Who would he contact first? There was a man he knew, who now lived up in Miami. A true friend of many years. A man who sometimes worked with a Martinique outfit called Thunder and Lightning. They were the best freelance Hostage Rescue team in the world. He had U.S. Navy connections, too, maybe good enough to get a search and rescue plane in the air.
His friend’s name was Stokely Jones.
Somehow, he would contact Stokely. The man was the most reliable soul he knew; the toughest human being Hawke had ever encountered. Stoke had survived and even thrived in the jungles of Vietnam and New York City. He was a true friend, one of Hawke’s closest. Over the years, he had helped Hawke out of far worse scrapes than this one. Hell, this rescue would be child’s play to the human mountain named Stokely Jones Jr.
Hawke felt tiny sparks of hope-neurons firing somewhere inside his brain. For the first time in months, he began to think he might actually survive this bloody adventure. If he could just hold fast a bit longer, Stoke would think of some way to get him out. That was the ticket. Somehow, he had to live long enough to get to a bloody telephone.
Is that you, Mrs. Crusoe? Hold on a tick, will you, I’ve got young Robinson on the line.
4
MIAMI
S o how much you want for the trade?” the used car guy said to Stokely, eyeing the silver Lincoln Town Car rental. Man had his pink hanky plastered on top of his balding pink head to soak up the sweat pouring off of him. His clothes were plastered to the skin, like he’d just come in out of the rain. It wasn’t a good look. It was eighty-eight degrees, according to the radio. Which was warm for early December in most places and just a tad hot for the Miami-Dade metropolitan area.
Even the salesman’s little ponytail was limp.
Stokely Jones Jr., who had just recently packed up and moved lock, stock, and barrel to South Florida, didn’t mind the heat one iota. In fact, he enjoyed it. It was part of the reason he’d moved down here from New York City in the first place. Heat, humidity, and lots of sunshine. Big blue ocean to play in. Palm trees, swaying in the breezes, lift all the girls’ dresses above their kneeses. Paradise, man, no doubt about it. He absolutely loved it.
Stoke was keeping John Greevy, the Auto Toy Store salesperson out in the sun as part of his negotiation technique. Make him sweat. Somewhere on this vast lot full of heavy metal was an automobile he’d give his eyeteeth for. Not one of the fancy Italian F-cars or Lambos John was pushing, they were way out of his league. No, much better. And he was damned if he’d let this slippery pink rascal get the best of him.
South Florida car lots were notoriously dangerous places to begin with. The tricky thing now was, how to handle this negotiation. Stoke wasn’t sure all the wiring in the guy’s attic had been properly soldered on the day of installation. He had a bad habit of talking down to the customers. And, he wanted to take Stoke’s rental in trade on a new car.
“Let me take you through this one more time, John,” Stoke said, smiling at the little guy in the purple linen shirt. Johnny took pains to dress native, creamy slacks with no socks, and tiny little tasseled loafers, but the accent, the mannerisms, were unmistakable. Pure Brooklyn. Park Slope, maybe, but Brooklyn for sure.
“Can we do that, little buddy?”
“Please, Mr. Jones,” John Greevy said. “Be my guest.”
“This Lincoln right here? It’s not mine, okay? What I’m trying to tell you. It’s a rental. It belongs to Mr. Hertz. You can’t trade in a rental car to buy another car.”
“There are ways,” the guy said, bending over to check the Town Car’s left front tire tread. “Believe me, Mr. Jones, there are ways upon ways upon ways.”
“I do believe you. But I’m telling you one more time I’m not going to trade it in. Okay? Man, I haven’t even seen the eight-second Pontiac yet. So what are we even talking about here, Johnny? Where the hell is that Pontiac?”
The Auto Toy store guy had moved so he was standing in Stoke’s shadow again. Stoke was about six-eight and built like a very large armoire. He tended to create a lot of shade wherever he went.
Johnny mopped his brow. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. You’ll see the Pontiac, all right? Just as soon as my boy finishes the detail. Like I told you. Look. Tell you what. Let’s step into my office over there and talk about it. I got air in there. You can sit down. I can get your information. You got kids? I got a nine-year old. Johnny Jr. He’s a pisser. Lemme show you his picture.”
Johnny whipped out his wallet and flashed some pictures in a cloudy accordion plastic holder. Stoke glanced at the kid and said, “Cute as a button all right.”
“Yeah. Kid just can’t keep his mind on his schoolwork because he—”
“Johnny. Stop. What’s that thing over there?”
“Which? The black Ferrari 430 Spider? Gorgeous automobile.”
“No.”
“That turquoise convertible? You don’t want that. No resale. A color only Ray Charles could love.”
“How do you know I don’t want it?”
“It’s a replica.”
“It looks real.”
“That’s why it’s called a replica.”
“Holy maca-moley.”
“What?”
“Is that it? Is that the car? Over there?”
A gleaming dark car had rolled out of the detail shed behind the guy’s back. Johnny craned his head around to look at it and wolf-whistled like he’d never laid eyes on it before this very minute.
Stoke was wishing his jaw was wired shut so it wouldn’t be hanging down on his collarbone like this. Bad negotiating tactic, see a car your jaw drops involuntarily on you.
Johnny let out another long wolf whistle.
“Oh, yeah, there she is, my friend, in the flesh. The 1965 Pontiac G-T-O convertible. Piece of friggin’ work, I kid you not, Mr. Jones. You’re looking at one bad-assed muscle car. Pumping major steroids, I shit you not.”
Stoke managed to get his own smile muscles under control before he let the guy see his face. He even managed a frown in reaction to the car’s absolutely gorgeous color.
“Black?” Stoke said, holding a hand up to shade his eyes. “Is that black? The ad said black.”
“Black? Hell, no it ain’t black. Black Raspberry, my man. Metallic. Totally custom job by my guys in Lauderdale. You like, amigo?”
“Yeah. I like. How much?”
Stoke, trying unsuccessfully to be cool about it, nonchalant as his friend and employer Alex Hawke might say, walked over to the car. Johnny followed close behind, trying to stay in his shadow.
“How much you ask?” Johnny said. “Well, we gotta talk about that, don’t we? How the hell you put a number on a piece of automotive art like this?”
“No. I mean how much horsepower has it got.” Stoke ran his hand over the almost liquid finish of the bulging
