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  “Find out his name.” Hart lit a cigar.

  The rich, leathery flavor drifted down on Mason and replaced the petroleum essence of war.

  “He says his name is Mason Guillot.” A medic called out.

  A soldier ran out of the gloom. “We found the other two,” and shook his head.

  Hart dropped his gaze and spit out a bit of tobacco. As he turned to leave, the medic called again.

  “He’s trying to tell us something.”

  Mason lay on his back and brushed the medics away. He managed to call Hart over with a hand gesture. The Captain’s expression showed he was impressed that the soldier still had the ability to ask for his presence.

  Hart expelled a cloud of Dominican pride and knelt by the injured warrior. “What is it, son?”

  “They know . . . mission . . . Khan Bani Sad . . .”

  “Save your strength, solider. There is no mission into Khan Bani Sad. Never was.” Hart took another puff off the cigar.

  Mason’s eyes widened, struck by the fiercest blow yet. He lifted his arm and placed his hand on Hart’s forearm. “W-what?”

  “The Army knew there were Iraqi soldiers working with us on the base that were in cahoots with this terrorist. We just didn’t know which ones. Your team was given false information where our next strike in Iraq would be. Not only that, but we leaked your last mission. The informant got the news to the insurgents. They were waiting for you even before you entered the hotel. They also knew you were members of the invading team and would have the strike location.” Hart looked away. “What we didn’t figure on, was that they would kill any of you before the rescue. We expected you to break and give up the location. The insurgents normally keep prisoners alive for weeks, even months to use as bargaining chips.”

  Mason lifted his brow. “You used us for bait?”

  “No, son. War is a chess match. You were pawns sent to protect your king. The plan didn’t go as anticipated. Happens sometimes.”

  Mason dug his fingers into Hart’s forearm. “You sent us here to die?”

  “No, I told you we sent you here to give a false location. The insurgents at the base were captured right after they set the IEDs along the roadside. We let them return to the base before we arrested them, gave them time to report to their leader over here that their mission was a success. We got your location out of them in no time. You’re a hero, son.”

  “I’m not a hero. I’m a sacrifice.” Mason’s fingers dug deeper into Hart’s flesh.

  “The Army had a problem that needed taken care of. Orders are orders. You have no right to question orders.” Hart tried to pull his arm away, but couldn’t. “Let go, son. You are in a lot of pain. Damn rag-heads fucked you up good. Once you get all fixed up, you’ll see we did the right thing.”

  With renewed vigor, Mason squeezed Hart’s arm with the last of his strength.

  Hart yelped and tore his arm away in a sudden jerk.

  Mason felt bits of wet skin underneath his nails just before a blanket of darkness covered his mind. He quickly succumbed to unconsciousness, and was granted the peace he had been desperately craving.

  Chapter 2

  Just Another Day in Paradise

  Modern Times

  The tiny town of Botte was nestled deep near the instep of the boot-shaped state, Louisiana. Coastal wetlands surrounded the majority of the landmass, except for one natural land bridge that precariously held on to its mother. Long leaf pine savannas, mixed with tall, moss covered cypress trees. Other bottomland hardwoods stood majestically in swamps and marshes. Alligators sunned in the afternoon, blue herons stalked fish in the shallow waters, and nutria voraciously chowed down on plant stems, unknowingly exacerbating the demise of their marsh habitat. Any direction a person faced in the wetlands framed a breathtaking scene.

  It wasn’t the backwater Louisiana stereotyped in television shows and movies, but the true majestic beauty of the natural bayou setting. Days were lazy and nights peaceful. A chorus of crickets, cicadas, and bullfrogs serenaded the good people of the town. It was a community where most were born and never left, and a few settled just to get away from the hustle and bustle of city life. Time slowed, many times appearing to stand still.

  Coastal erosion had forced the town 20 miles inland from where it was originally founded in 1835. As with most coastal towns in the state, the majority of residents earned a living fishing the blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Red fish, snapper, and speckled trout, offered the easiest catch. Those willing to risk the boat ride offshore chanced to hook tuna, amberjack, cobia, and wahoo. There was a steady stream of tourists during the summer months, booking charter-fishing trips in advance with hopes of landing the big ones.

  In 1932, the state of Louisiana acquired 1,000 acres from the township to build a maximum-security prison, Paradis, which, ironically, was French for ‘paradise.’ The popular saying around the jail was, predictably, ‘Just another day in paradise.’ Botte’s geographical location was close enough to unload the swelling, vermin infested jails of New Orleans, and the area was destitute enough to qualify for a federal economic program to justify the project.

  Paradis supported itself by operating as a farming prison. The concept was to give the prisoners, most who would die either in jail, or from the prick of the execution needle, a purpose to live. The prison directors felt that giving them a sense of accomplishment would help not to only keep the tenants in line, but also reduce money spent on food. The only vegetables served to the prisoners came from the farm, grown by their hands. Any excess produce was sold on the open market. The profits from sales were returned to the inmates in an individual monthly check, where it was then quickly blown in the inmate store that offered some of the comforts of home at an extremely high price. Earning enough to purchase a candy bar or a pack of smokes offered an incentive to many lifers to continue playing by the rules.

  Mitch Blackwell, Assistant Warden of Paradis State Prison, lifted his wide brimmed hat and wiped the first beads of sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. His horse reached for a mouthful of tall grass, glistening with the remains of the morning dew, by the side of the road. Mitch gave it a reminder in the side with his right heel to curb the horse’s enthusiasm for venturing farther. He slapped his face without thinking, a sharp sting erupting from nowhere. The palm of his hand revealed a smashed mosquito. A red smear showed it had its last meal.

  Corn, tomatoes, pole beans, yellow squash, okra, potatoes, and greens, mapped nearly forty acres of the area. Armed guards casually maneuvered steeds, with shotguns at the ready, and an eye fixed on the inmates as they toiled under the Southern skies above.

  Rows of prisoners worked hard removing weeds, tilling soil, cultivating crops, and watering plants. Large baskets bulged with a variety of vegetables, waiting their turn to be processed.

  Warden Butler Burl attempted to pluck a cigarette from its pack with his lips. He maintained a taut hold on his horse as he held the bridle firmly in his right hand. After successfully capturing the coffin nail, he placed the pack back in his front pocket, and switched it out for his lighter. The flame bent in the soft breeze at the flick of his thumb until the end of the cigarette glowed a fervent orange. The lighter went back in his pocket, and his left hand pulled the cigarette away after his lungs expanded with gray smoke.

  “Business as usual, I’d say.” Burl turned to Mitch with an expecting gaze.

  “Yeah, except for that Humvee parked over there by the fence.” Mitch nodded toward the truck.

  “I saw it. It’s not in the way. Let’s just pretend like it’s not there.”

  Mitch leaned to his side and spat a wad of tobacco juice, then shrugged his shoulders. “It’s only been a few hours since the Army started the treatment. It’s way too early to declare victory and go about our business as if nothing is different.”

  Burl held his cigarette and wiped the corner of his mouth with his left hand. He darted his head about and craned his neck as if to see farther than
his aging eyes would allow. He sucked down hard on another lung full of smoke.

  “Warden, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re nervous over all this.” Mitch gave Burl a smirk.

  “I got five years before I can retire. If this thing blows up, the Governor will make me the scapegoat.”

  “Hell, he’s the one that gave you the order to do it. He’ll go down before you will.”

  “Bullshit. You’re brighter than that. I had to sign the papers. The Governor will deny he knew anything about it. The only way I could have covered my ass is by going public, preventing the Army test. That would get me replaced for sure, or hell, killed. I’m playing the odds to keep my pension at its highest level. I’m forced to roll the dice and pray everything goes right.”

  Mitch spit again. “Ah, you’re worried about nothing. Try to look at the positive side of things. Paradis is the perfect place for the Army to experiment with the vaccine. If it’s supposed to make soldiers immune to biological weapons, then it will surely cure that E. coli strain the prisoners have been passing around. I can’t understand why they don’t just give our inmates injections instead of putting the vaccine in the water supply.”

  Burl’s horse shook a fly off its nose. “The way it was explained to me, the concentration of the vaccine has to be increased a little each day. It has to be ingested, so that the drug can mix with bacteria in the stomach in order to alter it genetically. From there, the vaccine is passed along in the water throughout the cells in the body. Not only that, but they want the inmates to bathe in it. It’s supposed to act like some kind of sanitizer. Ha! Listen to me sounding like that Army Colonel who sold it to us.”

  “That vaccine sounds like Miracle Grow. You can use that stuff as a fertilizer on the roots and spray it on the leaves too. I hope it don’t turn them inmates blue.” Mitch raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t be an ass clown. This is some serious shit.” Burl shifted his weight in the saddle as if to get the blood flowing again.

  “To tell you the truth, Warden. I’m pretty excited about the Army’s project. Back in the day when I was a Ranger in Vietnam, half of the war we fought was against malaria and other diseases. Nowadays, troops have to worry about biological weapons, too. If the vaccine works, our ground strength will increase tenfold during a conflict just by staying healthy. And if biological weapons are used on us, our guys will live to fight another day.”

  Burl grinned. “Well, I guess you can take a Ranger out of the war, but you can’t take the war out of the Ranger.”

  Mitch returned the grin. “You got that right. Surrender is not in a Ranger’s vocabulary. As long as America has enemies, I will always keep the Ranger Creed.”

  An inmate working in a nearby field fell face first between two rows of mustard greens. His companions rushed to his side, as two guards quickly dismounted their horses and hurried toward him.

  Burl met Mitch’s gaze. Only silence passed between them. Mitch hopped off his horse and handed the reins to Burl, dashing over to where the prisoner had fallen. He recognized the man instantly as Jeffrey Williams. He knew Jeffrey to be a quiet man who did his job without complaining. Jeffrey had been a resident of Paradis for the past 27 years, after being found guilty of rape, battery, and kidnapping of a juvenile. Mitch didn’t see an old rapist when he looked down at the convulsing man. He saw a man in trouble.

  “Well, goddammit, don’t just stand around. You, go fetch some cold towels, and you, go get some water—not from the nasty hose either!” The two guards standing dumbstruck jumped to attention and ran off to follow orders.

  “Come on, Jeffrey, breathe easy, man.” Mitch cradled the prisoner in his arms, wiping the clammy man’s forehead with his bandana. Jeffrey seized. Mitch saw his eyes roll up and mouth go slack. Jeffrey let out one long gasp of air and then fell still.

  “Dammit,” Mitch said. He laid Jeffrey gently on the ground. Now that the immunization program had begun, he realized that any medical emergency brought new concerns. Bleeding heart liberals were already up in arms, accusing Paradis’s use of inmates as being equivalent to a slave labor camp. If the initial treatment made the inmates weaker at first, there could be a backlash when the monthly medical reports came out. That might also expose the Army’s involvement, something that was to be avoided at all cost.

  All of this led to Mitch’s next fear. What if the Army’s vaccine did this to Jeffery? He had just undergone a physical, as they all had to comply with the Army’s guidelines. Jeffrey was only 47 and had been in good shape. Mitch was convinced heatstroke wasn’t to blame. It was too early in the morning, and he had shown none of the warning signs beforehand.

  The two guards returned with soaking towels and a bottle of water, but Mitch waved them off. If Jeffery were still alive, he showed no signs of it. The guards set down the supplies and marched the prisoners back toward the fields. Burl had dismounted his horse and placed a hand on Mitch’s shoulder.

  “Never gets any easier, huh?”

  “Nope. Day it does, is the day I walk out of here. Did you radio ahead for medical? I can’t know for sure if he’s dead.”

  “Sure did. You’re a funny guy, Mitch. You’d think these were all choir boys we were watching over.”

  “Yeah, I’ll just say a tour in Vietnam changes the way you view people. I fought alongside plenty of scumbags, but in the end, they were still my people. I’m entrusted by the state of Louisiana to watch over these prisoners, which in my mind, makes them my people. Just hate seeing one of them fall.”

  Mitch rose to his feet and brushed the dirt from his slacks. The military Humvee rolled up the road and came to a stop. Two soldiers jumped from the back and walked toward them. Mitch saw a black body bag in one of their hands. A third soldier, the driver, exited the vehicle.

  “Damn. These guys must have been monitoring the radio,” Burl said.

  “Gentleman,” the soldier said, “this body is now officially the property of the United States Army. Please step aside so we may collect it.”

  Warden Burl moved out of the way without offering any resistance. Mitch remained where he stood.

  “Mitch, let them pass.”

  “This isn’t your property. This is a man who’s been under my care at Paradis ever since I came aboard. You can’t just take him. We have protocol to follow, too.”

  The driver appeared disinterested by Mitch’s plea. He motioned for the soldiers to continue.

  “Sir, I do not mean to be rude, but if you interfere with our mission to retrieve this body, I will be forced to place you under military arrest. Now, step aside.”

  Mitch relented and moved away as the two soldiers rushed past him. One unrolled the vinyl bag and laid it beside Jeffrey. Together, they rolled Jeffrey into the bag and zipped it closed. Each soldier grabbed a side. They carried the corpse away, strapped it securely to a gurney, and then loaded it into the Humvee.

  “The U.S. Army thanks you for your patience and understanding,” the driver said, before he got behind the wheel and drove off. Small pebbles and dust kicked into the air as the Humvee disappeared from sight.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Burl asked.

  “Me? What the hell was that all about? Man drops dead and the Army immediately shows up to take him away? What kind of shit are we dealing with, Burl? I don’t like it.”

  “It’s not your job, or mine, to approve or disapprove of anything going on around here. The Army is giving us nice healthy bonuses for keeping the peace, and that’s what I plan to do while they’re here. Now, either fall in line, or drop your badge on my desk when you leave tonight.”

  Mitch balled his fist in anger, but let it go just as quick as it had come up. With bills mounting and a note due on his boat, he had no choice but to comply. But he didn’t like it. Something wasn’t right, and ever since his tour in ’Nam, he was distrustful of the military. It wasn’t the boys who served, but the fat politicians at the top who worked the system to get what they wanted. However much bloo
d was spilled, both American and enemy, was simply a necessary evil to them.

  “You’re the boss. You know what’s best.” Mitch closed his eyes and slowly nodded his head.

  “Good man.” Burl patted Mitch’s back. “Come on, let’s get some lunch. I think its fried catfish today.”

  The two wardens mounted their horses and set them on a slow walk toward the ominous monolith of Paradis. Mitch didn’t say it aloud, but he thought the prison resembled a mausoleum waiting for the dead to arrive.

  Chapter 3

  The Fallen Ranger

  The alarm sounded five times before Mason slapped it hard enough to stop the shrill beeps. With blurry vision, and his mind swimming with the intoxication from the previous night, he squinted at the red numbers on the machine. 8:05 AM. He was supposed to be at work five minutes ago.

  He didn’t care. What was five minutes late or thirty minutes late in the tiny town of Botte? It’s not like anything of importance had happened in this town in quite a while, and Mason loved it.

  Mason received an honorable discharge from the military once he returned to the States. He had rambled to anyone who would listen about how his group was set up. He told them that his two friends had died for nothing, but the hearing committee dismissed the ramblings as the nonsensical rants of a man suffering from a severe case of post-traumatic stress disorder, and that had been it. Here are your papers, sir. Thank you for serving our country. Don’t let the door hit your ass too hard on the way out.

  That door had hit him particularly hard. Mason tried his best to return to a normal job in New Orleans as a deputy sheriff, but after an incident where he snapped and beat an inmate nearly to death, he was relieved of duty. His superior took pity on the soldier, and, instead of throwing him into a cell, made a few calls. The sheriff found a job opening in the small town of Botte and recommended Mason for the job. The sheriff had figured the small, quaint town, would be perfect for the scarred warrior to nurture his internal injuries.