“Describe the estate.”
“Most of it, up to the edges of the swamp, is wooded,” Barbish detailed.
“An eight-foot-high brick wall encloses five acres, the main area. There’s a house to the north, a barn to the east—”
“A barn?”
“Arlo raises horses,” Barbish said. “He likes the races. The gate to the compound is located in the north wall.”
“What about quarters for the guards?”
Barbish grinned. “Did I forget to mention that? Their quarters consists of a barrackslike building on the west side.”
“And the southern section of the five acres?”
“Gardens,” Barbish said. “Arlo fancies himself a horticulturist, another reason he lives in the country.”
“Do the guards make regular rounds?”
“Yes,” Barbish responded. “But I don’t know their schedule.”
Blade peered out the window at the darkened landscape, reflecting. He estimated there were three hours until dawn, ample time to reach the estate and penetrate it before sunrise. The predawn assault would give the Warriors a decided advantage; any guards awake would be sluggish, either just waking up to start their day or closing out a night shift and ready to hit the hay. The delays in Miami had not proven too costly. He recalled the ride across the General Mac Arthur Causeway, and dumping the bodies of the Genie and Hugo in the first alley they’d found. They had driven to the southwest, staying under the posted speed limits, doubling back on themselves repeatedly to insure they weren’t being tailed.
“What the heck!” Hickok abruptly exclaimed, slamming on the brakes.
Blade looked ahead.
Not 15 yards away, vividly revealed by the car’s headlights, was an enormous alligator crossing the road. The reptile lumbered from left to right, ignoring the vehicle.
“Where the blazes did that critter come from?” Hickok asked.
“Ever hear of the Everglades?” Barbish responded.
Blade thought of the century-old map. “Aren’t the Everglades southwest of here?”
“You’re thinking of the Everglades National Park, as it was once known,” Barbish said. “The Park covered a million and half acres on the southwest tip of the peninsula. But the Park was a small part of the total Everglades. You’re on the eastern edge of the Everglades right now. Five thousand square miles of swamp. Nothing but water, gators, and snakes for miles and miles and miles.”
“Snakes?” Hickok said.
Blade watched the alligator disappear in the brush on the right side of the road. “Let’s go?”
“Snakes?” Hickok said again, driving forward.
“The Everglades are a haven for snakes,” Barbish elaborated. “Swamp snakes, brown snakes, ribbon snakes, garter snakes. And they’re the harmless ones. Poisonous varieties abound in the Everglades. There are the coral snakes, the cottonmouths, and the rattlers, of course, as well as the exotic types, like the cobras.”
“Who are you tryin’ to kid?” Hickok demanded. “Cobras live in India and Africa, not Florida.”
“That was true once,” Barbish said. “But not anymore. You see, a lot of people imported exotic species into Florida before the war. Cobras.
Piranhas. Others. And some escaped or were deliberately let loose by their owners. The climate in Florida was ideal for breeding. The cobras and piranhas multiplied, despite the best efforts of the authorities to eradicate them. Don’t believe me if you want, but I assure you that there are cobras in the Everglades. One of Arlo’s men was bitten by a cobra a few years ago.”
“What happened to him?” Hickok asked.
“What else? He died.”
Blade remembered a schooling class on Florida and voiced a question.
“What about the alligators? There seem to be a lot of them, and yet I read that they were almost exterminated before the war.”
“Not quite true,” Barbish answered. “The alligators made a comeback before World War Three. They were protected by law, and they reproduced so fast that special hunting seasons were set up. After the war, of course, with so few hunters and poachers to reduce their ranks, the gators made like rabbits. Now the damn things are everywhere.”
“I don’t reckon I’ll retire in Florida,” Hickok joked.
“The gators and the snakes aren’t the worst of it,” Barbish went on.
“There are other—things.”
“What kind of things?” Blade queried.
“Mutant things,” Barbish said. “Huge things.” His tone changed, becoming filled with awe. “I saw one once, from the south dock on Arlo’s estate. It was splashing in the swamp, heading from east to west. The moon was out, and we could see it fairly well.”
“What did it look like?” Blade probed.
“How can I describe it?” Barbish responded. “It was like a dinosaur.
Think of an alligator fifty feet long, only with spikes on its back and a head like a frog. It was bizarre.”
The mention of mutants had stimulated Blade’s curiosity. He stared at the Dealer. “And the Masters?”
“What about them?”
“They’re mutants. What do they look like?”
“Only two of the Masters have attended the annual Dealer meetings,” Barbish said. “Orm and Radnor. How can I describe them? Walking nightmares? And,” he emphasized, “they never revealed where their base was.”
“Weren’t you ever curious? Didn’t you ask Arlo questions?”
Barbish snorted. “It’s not healthy to ask too many questions of your superiors in my line of work. Yes, I was curious. Yes, I tried to gather as much information as I could on the sly. But I didn’t learn much.”
“How much?”
The Dealer looked at the giant for a moment. “Perceptive, aren’t you? All right. What harm can it do? I learned there are seven Masters, and they’re all part of the same family.”
“They’re all related?”
“So I was told,” Barbish confirmed. “But I don’t know the specifics.”
“And that was it?”
“Trying to discover more would have cost me my life,” Barbish stated.
“So working for mutant Masters never bothered you?”
“Maybe a little,” Barbish said. “But the benefits outweighed any qualms of conscience.”
“So you sold countless souls into a life of drug addiction to line your own pocket and please the Masters,” Blade commented scornfully.
“We all have to look out for number one.”
Blade frowned. “That’s twice I’ve heard the same stupid statement. It’s so selfish, it’s disgusting. We’re not put on this planet just to look out for number one, just to think of ourselves first all the time. We’re put here to learn to care for others, to learn the meaning of love and sharing—”
Barbish laughed. “Where did you ever hear nonsense like that?”
“Our Elders taught us the importance of possessing fundamental values.”
“Your Elders? Where are you from?”
“Never mind.”
“Your philosophy on life is all backwards,” Barbish commented. “It’s a dog-eat-dog world. Only the strong survive, by any means necessary. If you want something out of life, you have to take it. Love is an illusion. Power is what counts. Power and wealth. And by rising through the ranks of the Dragons, by becoming a Dealer for the Powder of Life, I’m living proof of what I say.”
“What is the Powder of Life?” Blade asked.
“Cocaine. The Masters refer to coke as the Powder of Life. They like the Dealers to encourage the pushers to push coke over the other drugs,” Barbish replied.
“Why?”
“The profit potential is greater, for one thing,” Barbish said. “Smaller quantities bring bigger profits. Coke is easy to handle, easy to measure and packet. Plus the addiction factor is incredible.”