The Hand of Mercy (A Porter Brown Journey) (13 page)

As Ben's goons were opening Porter's mouth for the first dose of coke, Porter played the only card
his mind could conjure.  "Holland."

At that name, Ben froze.  "What'd you say?"

"Holland," Porter muttered again, "my employer."

"The Hell are you saying?" asked Ben.  "Don't dick around with me.  Who's your guy?"

"James Holland, Attorney General of the State.  He sent me here to check out your operation," Porter pleaded.  "He needs some boys down here to help with his operation and I'm his guy to make sure you've got what he wants."

"Holy Hell!  Let him go!" shouted Ben to his men.

Porter crumpled to the floor. "I'll think you'll do."

Still reeling from this information, Ben
asked, "Why the Hell didn't you say something?  I could have killed you.  And why the fuck did you knife me?"

"Holland needs the best," answered Porter.  "He heard you were and I had to test it."

"Yea, but you just about got water-boarded by coke.  That's a huge risk to take, even for Holland."

"Not if you knew him like I do," answered Porter.  "Plus, you weren't going to do it immediately.  Just like Holland, you like to watch."

"He knows that?" asked Ben.

"Sure he does.  He's
had tabs on your operation for a while."

"No shit?" said Ben.

"I never do, especially when it's the boss's job." said Porter.  "So let's head to my car and we'll talk about this where there aren't any other ears."

"Sure," said Ben anxiously.

As they stood in front of Porter's car, Ben quickly removed the knife he had embedded.

After Porter finished dancing around trying to
stop the pain, he retrieved his knife, started his car, and addressed Ben.  "So here's what the boss will expect.  He's going to make sure you cut him in on your deals."

"All the way," said Ben, knowing a d
eal with Holland was a trip to easy street.

"Don't let me hear about you running anything you don't give a piece to Holland.  If that happens, one minute you'll be breathing, the next you'll
wake up in Hell."

"
You tell Holland he has my word.  He'll be in on all the guns, drugs, and girls we run."

His interest now piqued, Porter
ignored the blood oozing from his wound and pressed this last statement.  "Careful with the girls.  Holland can influence a gun or drug charge, but girls...they like to talk when they get pinched."

"Not these," answered Ben proudly.  "These bitches
only hablo Español.  If you know what I mean.  Plus, even if they could, they wouldn't. We got most of them from illegals who had to pay off a debt or," he paused to display a menacing grin, "if they were gorgeous and inexperienced, let's just say I persuaded their families they should work for me."

Excruciating pain
changed Ben's expression from a smile to an open-mouthed inhalation of disbelief as he looked down to see Porter's knife deep in his chest.  Using his weapon, Porter pulled Ben close, twisted then retracted the blade, watched this stuck pig fall to the ground, and drove to Charleston.

Chapter 13

Contradictory Alliance

February
2012

The stark white attire worn by the leaders
contrasted sharply with the black cinder block walls in the basement of the South Charleston Full Gospel church.  The 50 folding chairs were only half-filled as the members began slowly entering the room for the monthly meeting.  Membership had waned for years, but with the Executive branch of the Federal government now run by a black man, concerned citizens in the Charleston metro felt the need to once again defend their own.

“The meeti
ng will be called to order,” said Bill Cockrell in a commanding voice.  “Gentlemen, David Harrah will be running things tonight because the leadership has some pressing matters we need to get to.  He will welcome a few new members, go over some things the porch monkey leading our country is doing that you need to be concerned about, and give you the names of some folks to talk to who are interested in our cause.  So with that, I’ll turn it over to David.”

Cockrell
moved from behind the lectern and into a classroom normally used for a children’s Sunday School class where Chandler Gibson and Ron Allison, the other executive team members of the Klan's Charleston chapter were waiting, as was James Holland. 

“Men
,” began Holland as he offered his salutation to the group, “Thank you for giving some time to address a topic I think your group should be concerned about.  But, I only have about five minutes.  The Governor needs a little strategy session on how to control a couple of rogue union locals."  Holland paused for a moment to collect his thoughts and then continued, “But with the time I have, I want to propose something huge for your cause.”  Holland inhaled and said, “You need to be done with niggers.” 

The
inner circle looked between themselves and Holland, puzzled by what he had just uttered. “What do you mean ‘done’ Jimmy?” asked Chandler. 

Holland
answered quickly, “Let me say it in a language you understand.  I mean those jigs aren’t your problem anymore.  They’re not organized.  They’re killing themselves faster than you can. And as fast as your daughters can spread their legs, they’re all spitting out little mulatto jungle bunnies.  Pretty soon we’re all gonna have some family who’s mixed and everybody’s gonna be okay with that.”

“Well
, Jimmy, your kids won’t be,” added Bill as a dig at Holland’s sexual orientation, while the others chuckled.

“Fuck you, Bill
,” Holland snapped.

“Take it easy, Jim.  I’m just p
layin’ around,” responded Bill.

“
This isn’t any time to play, Bill.  We’ve got a serious problem, and we all know what it is but none of us want to talk about it,” answered Holland forcefully, even if he did not believe it.  “The problem is those fuckin’ wetbacks.  They’re taking over our country.  Rolling in here for the work we won’t do, or doing it cheaper than any of us will.  Then they’re breeding like rabbits, and now that spook president is courting them like they are some white supermodel he wants to fuck while all of us watch.”

“But Jim,”
interjected Chandler, “how’re you gonna go against the President?  I mean, he’s a Democrat like the rest of us.  You mess with him, you lose your power.”

“Don’t paint me
with that Democrat brush,” commanded Ron.

“Who gives a shit which side of the aisle you
’re on,” Holland firmly stated.  “I don’t need him or anybody else on the Hill.  The old boys had to use the Presidents and Congress from each political party to maintain the proper social structure, but not me; not you.  No, we’ll let the spics keep their own kind down.” 

Bewildered and confused, Bill questioned,
“How you gonna do that, Jim?”

Holland slowed his breathing and smiled widely,
“It’s called cannabis.  All the cartels in Mexico are looking for allies on this side of the border.  If they can grow their shit here, then not having to get it across the border is one less obstacle they have to deal with.  And our hills are perfect for growing boat loads of that plant.  Raleigh, Mingo, Fayette, or any of the other southern counties are way too rugged for the Feds to really monitor.  Plus those dumb shits down there hate the current coon government ‘cause all their coal jobs are being taken away.”

Holland took a breath, then continued with his plan.
  “What you're gonna do is get the bosses of the local chapters to select some guys who know how to stay quiet and set them up at guard posts outside the shuttered mines.  Since nobody goes there anymore, we’ll say they’re there as a safety measure so hikers don’t wander into the dangerous abandoned mines.”

Holland
could see the leadership team was intrigued and rapidly unveiled his plan.  “I’ve already contacted one of the cartels.  The Zetas.  There are thousands of acres of unused mine space for them to plant in using growing lights.  And since they'll be underground, there’s no way they will be detected by the helicopter flyovers.  Plus, all those mines have their own power source we can turn on.  So they won’t be found out for using a huge amount of electricity.  The locals will get a cut and we’ll use the rednecks to harvest it so that no spics come in and raise concerns.  The Zetas will then distribute it without any interference from us.” 

“But
I still don't get how that hurts the spics, and how the hell you gonna keep the Feds out?” asked Bill.

D
isplaying a slightly annoyed expression, Holland continued, “As chief law enforcement officer in the state, I have complete control over who is in charge of the territory down there.  Plus, if the Feds ever do come in, as a courtesy, they always let me know where they’re gonna go and when.” 

Having successfully defended his position,
Holland added, “If the Zetas can produce here with our labor, then fewer illegals come across the Rio Grande to harvest.  Because they don’t have to pay off border guards or transport it two thousand miles, the Zetas will make a shit ton more than their biggest rival, the Sinaloas.  Then they'll have the funds to go on an all-out assault down there in Mexico killing the other cartel leaders.  Once the heads of the rivals are dead, especially the leader of the Sinaloa cartel, then the Zetas will run that country.  If we tell them to keep their kind away, they will.  Hell, they’ll set up an army on their side of the border to keep them away and protect the ‘legal’ processing they have here with us.  Who needs a fucking fence on our side when we’ll have a goddamned fence of brown faces with AK-47s keeping them on their side,” Holland concluded triumphantly. 

"
I'm not sure any of us wants to be in the killing business, Jim," Ron said without hesitation.  "We haven't lynched or killed anybody for 45 years."

“
You won't be," added Holland.  "You will just improve the Zetas ability to do what they do best.  And whether we like it or not, in our world, violence is the rule.  Living by any other code will only subjugate us to the inferior races."

The
group took a moment to process the plan.  As none had the courage to challenge Holland anymore, Ron asked his final question slowly and deliberately.  “Jim, how in God’s name did you get in contact with the leader of a Mexican cartel?  And why them?  I mean is there some database you go to when you want to talk to a drug lord?  And what’s to say these grease balls will honor any deal we cut with them?” 

Holland was
pleased their objections had ceased.  They were in and he knew it.  “Good question, Ron,” Holland answered flatly.  “For a while, I’ve been studying how the power structure is shifting in our country and where the real problems lie.  Everything I studied showed me it was the Mexicans, not the Blacks like you guys think.  But it all came together when I went to Chicago for that benefit gala. I met a young lady named Paloma Peréz Guzmán.  She was rubbing shoulders and networking with all the politicians there,” he lied. “When I saw how everyone just fell over themselves to talk to her, it hit me.  The Mexicans are making a play from the inside out.  She’s connecting with the power class to get the legislation done so more of her kind can come over here and take back the Southwest that they think we stole from Mexico, and then the rest of the U.S.  So I did a little research on who she is.  Turns out her father is Mario Peréz Vasquez."

"Should we know that name
?" asked Chandler.

"
No, but it will all make sense very quickly," answered Holland.  "To the uninformed, he is a multi-billionaire, who amassed his wealth ostensibly in telecom, shipping ports, mining, and,” he paused for effect, “agriculture.  He has the largest cattle operation in Mexico, is the largest land owner, and produces more fruit than the entire state of Florida.  Plus, Don Mario, as they call him, has a secret,” Holland paused again as he held the attention of all three men, ”He’s the head of the Sinaloa cartel.”

“No shit
!” exclaimed Bill.

“I shit you not. 
Once the Zetas take him out, the other cartels will cower under the boots of the real bosses…but we’ll be the ones giving the Zetas their boots.” 

“But that still doesn't answer
how you got a hold of the Zetas,” said Ron.

“
First, let's just say I may have dealt with them previously.  Second, one does not 'get a hold of the Zetas'. They contact you.  Third, I’m the Attorney General,” Holland said emphatically. “As such, I am privy to a lot of information about the prisoners in our state.  I looked up Mexican nationals in the system and found one who was a really bad Zeta up at the Federal prison in Moundsville.  So, I made him a deal.”

Bill interrupted
, “How do you get to make deals with Federal prisoners?  You’re just a state guy.”

“I didn’t make the deal with the Feds” Hollan
d said, perturbed the questioning had resumed.  “I made it straight with the inmate.  I told him I wanted to talk to his boss about a business arrangement and that I would show him I was serious by letting him know when and where he was being transported next, so that his boys could free him.  He told me the house the Zetas use in Charleston where I could leave my contact information. I simply put my card in an envelope and dropped it in their box.”

“I remember tha
t,” blurted Chandler.  “There were two prison guards and three prisoners who were killed.  Only one escaped.  That was your guy?”

“It was
,” answered Holland coldly.  “Two weeks later, the guard at my house brought me a packet with only a phone number.  I knew immediately it was the number to the Zeta boss.  When I went down to Puerto Vallarta for my vacation,” said Holland as he attached air quotes to the word vacation, “I met with him and told him my plan.  I said I had to get you guys on board with it and then we would work out the logistics of recruiting the locals.  Now listen,” Holland said sternly and without pausing, “we’ve got about a month to get this underway and we can’t have any loose ends.  So I need you all to swear to me you’re in for this.”  He paused to deliver his ultimatum.  “If you’re not, well, you already know too much.”