Little Havana Exile (Cold Blooded Series Book 1)

by Hale Chamberlain

  “Most of these guys can’t function in society anymore,” another left-behind convict had replied.

  “Exactly. and I’ll tell you what. What surprised me the most in all this madness wasn’t the prison break in itself. Everyone knew that a concerted effort from the convicts could overthrow that weakly guarded shithole,” Ray had said. “No, what really blew my fucking mind was the sheer number of inmates breaking loose, following the crowd like sheeps. Almost every single one of them! Can you believe this shit? The herd effect is powerful my friend. Even I did so. Just makes me another dimwit I guess.” He had then gone on to elaborate on another of his theories that was supposed to shed light on how a strong sense of community and close-knit family ties favored Hispanics over other races in a spontaneous prison break.

  From the confine of this cell, gazing at the sleek metal door, Teddy listened to those familiar voices absentmindedly. From that moment forward, he would only have one image running through his mind vividly. That of Robert Harper and Adam Wilkinson chatting in the kitchen of his uncle’s home, plotting their next old-dog mischiefs. Bloody hell, why do I miss the two old farts all of a sudden?

  To a degree, a return to England – on his terms – would be his way to claim his life back. He had felt like a passenger ever since James’ assassination – the inescapable revenge, the flight to Florida, the inexorable pull into a sanguinary feud, and his eventual downfall into the abyss of the local penitentiary system. A frustrating feeling of helplessness seized him, as always when unhinged thoughts of his tumultuous past popped into his head. Enough of that fucking victim mindset!

  He rose from the cozy comfort of his bed with a resolve only seen in convicts about to be freed. He jumped to the door of his cell and banged three times on the steel frame. He had to call the old gangsters, tell them to prepare his return. Little Havana, Paco, the perfidious Joaquin Herrera, the Corporacion, the cops, the flying bullets, the goddamn slammer. He wanted to put this waking nightmare behind him right now, and move on for good. He had reached the boiling point.

  Teddy’s release was still five months away, but things would have changed by then. It was time he learned from his incalculable mistakes and build upon the lessons from the past ten years. All he had been through, all he had learned the hard way, integrate all of it to become more of a man. In a hundred and forty-five days, he would have paid his debt to society. He would begin this new chapter as a free man with a clean slate and he would have completed his education as a hardened ex-convict. The world would be his to conquer.

  CHAPTER 29

  The Cuban-led mass prison break had benefited Teddy in several ways, some more unexpected than others. The cells and narrow corridors of the correctional facility were less jammed, more breathable, and in a sense more halcyon. In the five months following the escape, the death toll amongst convicts and correctional officers alike had been nil, when it had been over a dozen in the five months prior.

  None of the four leaders of the Hispanic gangs had been recaptured. The pattern was clear and obvious, the only escapees that were still on the outside and blood flowing in their veins, were those who had organized the jailbreak. All the alert opportunists, the freeloaders, and the tentative passengers had found themselves as free men without a plan and had been no match for the swift and efficient regionwide police search effort.

  His White Supremacists pals – bare the unfortunate Logan – were back, the Bikers were there, the most isolated convicts – essentially Asians and Caucasians – had forcefully been brought back to DCCI as well, and the less predatory members of the Black and Hispanic gangs were returned to sender in truckloads. Lost kitties, couldn’t survive in the real world.

  “A small-scale version of the survival of the fittest model,” Ray had theorized. “Look, the strongest – those goddamn Cubans – are still out there, prospering, probably not even in hiding. Meanwhile, we are back to square one. Now you’ve got a sample of the most feeble convicts this institution has ever hosted. Punching bags, whipping boys, heartsick wimps. The laughingstock of the jail system – myself included – unable to take advantage of a picnic of an escape plan served on a silver plate.”

  As usual, Raymond was all talk. It was obvious that the man relished giving lectures to clueless convicts who, for the most part, just about tolerated his strong opinions. Teddy had spent the better half of a year with those men, each one of them inspiring and formidable in his own way. The scathing comments were uncalled for and those men deserved more credit than Ray gave them.

  For Teddy, the perks of a convict population freed from its most problematic elements were evident. There were no overt threats to his timely release, no ill-intentioned inmates looking for troubles weeks away from his liberation.

  The vast recapture operation had the unintended consequence of reshuffling the power structure amongst inmates. The gangs were still omniscient as ever, effectively ruling the prison, despite the oversight of the correctional officers. Yet, practically all convicts were demonstrating a puzzling camaraderie and an outright togetherness the face of a common enemy – the correctional officers. No convict beating had occurred since the prison break and guards were ostensibly trying to avoid angering the prisoners. In hindsight, Teddy realized that Ray had been pulling the strings from the shadow of his cell, ever since the evasion, and was stealthily running the prison by way of a subtle form of blackmail – the riot blackmail. Raymond Cooper, for all his sins, enjoyed nothing more than to alternate between a self-given mission of mediation, solving conflicts between inmates and guards, and a role of troublemaker, a loudmouth testing the guards’ limits. In a world of brawn where muscles and temerity were the only imaginable means to achieve a position of power, his manipulative ways were going largely unnoticed.

  And that played in Teddy’s hand brilliantly. His final months of detention in the Dade County Correctional Institute were the smooth sailing of his imprisoning. Under the combined protection of the supremacists and Ray Cooper, and without any life-threatening menace left in the rough slammer, he finally woke up on the day of his release with a light heart.

  The farewells to his fellow inmates had been brief, if not curt. For the better part of a year, Teddy had spent most of his waking moments in the company of these men in radical acceptance of their past sins. But when the time came to part ways, no one in the joint expected an outpouring of emotions.

  “Good luck out there, tough guy. You definitely look more like a man than when I first met you,” Ray said. “We better not see your ugly face around here again,” another convict added, not even joking.

  Teddy flashed a compassionate smile, and replied, “Don’t worry baby, I’ll go straight to the bloody airport and get as quickly as far away from you smutty lot as possible.”

  . . .

  At three P.M. sharp, Teddy crossed the doorstep of the steel gate that had seen countless convicts escape only six months earlier. He let out a nervous sneer.

  He was wearing a plain white T-shirt, grey shorts, and run-down sneakers, and was the only prisoner set free on that day. He did not exactly know much about Homestead, where the correctional facility was located, but he had received enough instructions to make it back to the more familiar urban jungle of downtown Miami.

  Right in front of him, the prison parking was filled with cars, none of them waiting for him. He peered further out, across the dry land, at the wide expanse of the southern Everglades. He could almost make out the stunning Florida Keys ten miles away.

  His sole focus since the mass evasion had been his timely release from this hell hole. Not once had he thought about his former life in Little Havana, lost in the fangs of the Corporacion. But now that he was out at last, all those buried memories resurfaced. Recollections of genuine camaraderie and companionship, stained with the death of Paco, and the ensuing disintegration of the most pervasive drug enterprise in the history of south-west America. The very thought of the brutal demise of his friend and mentor consumed him profoundly,
and he could feel his heart pump blood at a frantic pace as painful, forgotten memories blinkered in his mind. He breathed in deeply, composing himself and calming his neurons in overdrive. Birmingham was so close.

  He gazed back at the Everglades. In all likelihood, this would be the last time he would stare at the lush beauty of southern Florida. Ever since he was admitted to Dade County Correctional Institution, he had longed for a boat ride across the wide coral cay archipelago, just off the southern coast of the state. This was unlikely to happen now.

  His immediate destination was over twenty miles to the opposite direction, right in the heart of the Magic City – the Miami International airport. And there was no time to lose. After a demented decade in a place as foreign to him as the people living in it, Teddy was finally going home.

  CHAPTER 30

  For the half million returning citizens released from US prisons every year, the first hours following their liberation were the most vulnerable. Inmates walking out alone were typically slapped in the face with the urgent necessity to navigate transportation, find shelter, food, and attend to other basic needs they took for granted inside the correctional institution.

  Ray Cooper had explained that up to a third of these newly free men would make their way to a shelter right after their release. Absolutely shocking, Terry had thought, yet again questioning the veracity of his cellmate’s lyrical musings. What was certain was that Teddy, although technically homeless, wouldn’t have to seek shelter.

  A majestic home was waiting for him over four thousand miles away. In less than a day, he would be celebrating his homecoming with a bottle of cheap single malt whiskey and with the delightful company of two old-school small-time British Mafiosi. All Teddy had to do for that vision to materialize was to follow the script discussed with them over the phone just a day earlier. It can’t get much easier than that, Teddy had thought after hanging up the handset.

  He walked briskly in the direction of the nearest bus stop two streets to the north of the correctional institution. As he approached the bus shelter, he pictured his uncle’s face upon telling him all about the event of the past few months. Then Adam Wilkinson would join them and they would all launch into a good, whole-hearty, drunken laugh. Those pre-retired old farts need me in their life!

  He leaned against the structure’s glass wall of the bus shelter and drew out a brochure from his pocket. It was the release booklet the prison staff gave him just before he was escorted out in the open.

  It was fittingly entitled Guide to A Successful Social Reinsertion and looked every bit like good bedtime reading material. He flipped through it, skimming for anything even remotely relevant to his particular situation – ex-gang member with no local connection, looking to get the fuck out of the country on short notice. He didn’t hold his breath.

  The transition checklist for the newly released ex-convict on page three drew his attention. It was a bunch of obvious recommendations, none of them of actual use to a man spat out in the real world after years of captivity. He giggled when he realized that he couldn’t check any of the list’s items. Complete and utter horseshit! Do they seriously expect ex-long-time convicts to fall back on their feet with this pile of rubbish? Might as well let Ray write the bloody thing. At least half the crap he spits out is useful.

  He glanced up at the road ahead. It was deserted. Teddy reckoned that the economic activity in the area revolved around the prison. There wasn’t much going on there besides the comings and goings of convicts, prison staff, various suppliers and other trades from the state’s judicial system.

  Teddy ripped the brochure in half and tossed it in a bin nearby. Fumbling into his pocket, his fingers brushed his passport, and then a wad of banknotes – two hundred dollars, courtesy of the prison staff. More than enough to pay for the bus tickets and treat himself before his flight later that day.

  He produced an envelope with his name on it. Inside of it he found a one-way plane ticket to Birmingham, with a stopover in Dublin. The total flight time was almost nine hours, and Teddy was amused by the irony of the situation. Rob Harper had arranged for him to be handed over the ticket before his release. This was a piece of paper Teddy had wanted to hold practically since the moment he set foot on US soil.

  The takeoff was at fifteen past eight P.M., which would leave him over five hours to reach the airport, check in and board the plan. Plenty of time. He even considered stopping at his old house, as a way to pay his respects to Paco, maybe even exchange a few words with Cristina, who he assumed would still be there haggling with Cubans bolita players. But there was no being swayed away from his goal this time.

  The heavy buzz of a diesel engine in the distance yanked him from his thoughts. The bus pulled over in front of the shelter and Teddy hopped on. He produced a fiver. The driver looked at him warily as he gave him his change back.

  The shuttle would only take him to the outskirts of Miami, and he would use the coins for a second bus that would complete the journey to the airport. He hurried to the back of the mostly-empty bus but swallowed hard when he noticed two Hispanic men sat in the penultimate row. The two strangers were blatantly glaring at him, and he could have sworn that one of them was trying to suppress a smile.

  The bus only carried two other passengers, an old lady with grocery bags and an obese man in dark green overalls. Teddy’s idleness and cautious optimism vanished in a heartbeat. It might just be a coincidence, it has to be. After all, Florida was home to two and a half million Hispanics, including over eight hundred thousand Cubans. But he could also smell a rotten fish if there ever was one. He sat on the bench at the rear extremity of the vehicle, keeping the strangers a row ahead of him in his line of sight.

  The thirty-minute ride to South Miami was nerve-wracking. Teddy was attentive to any word the two men uttered, even though they mostly kept silent. The more he stared at them, the more Teddy noticed physical similarities with Santi, an unfortunate Paco faithful who had perished trying to escape Herrera’s sbires on Miami Beach. The bus had essentially made a U-turn in Homestead, and Teddy couldn’t fathom how this could be a sensible route for any purpose other than a ride from the DCCI. The two bloody Cubans must be up to something shady, he thought. It would slow him down, but he was adamant that now wasn’t the time to take risks, however neurotic and unjustified they might be.

  As the shuttle approached his stop on Red Road, Teddy stayed put. The bus decelerated, progressively coming to a halt at the corner of the road. The door swung open. One of the two Cuban strangers whispered in his seatmate's ear and the man threw a quick glance sideways. Teddy wouldn’t budge. Did I just hear “Padrino”?

  Two young girls got in enthusiastically and bought their tickets from the driver at the front, while a third man in suit took seat in the middle row. Teddy waited until the girls had gathered their change and dashed for the exit door, squeezing himself out of the closing panels and tripping on the concrete floor. The doors were sealed, and after a couple of unnerving seconds, the bus drove away.

  CHAPTER 31

  Teddy breathed a sigh of relief as the danger, imaginary or real, disappeared into the distance. He stumbled back to his feet and watched the shuttle take a left turn on Miller Drive, fifty yards ahead.

  His heart was racing and his chest still tightening from the aftermaths of the scare. He found support on the bench under the nearby bus shelter and counted ten seconds, his eyes firmly locked on the edge of the block where the bus had turned. Just as he was about to break eye contact and forget about the misadventure, he watched in disbelief the two strangers pacing back around the corner of Red Road.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake!

  Teddy’s body was suddenly stiff, as if gripped by the riveting fear of failing in his own legal escape attempt, right before the finish line. The two Cubans were closing in on him fast, despite an apparent chubbiness, which was probably induced by the local carb-heavy diet. One of them pulled out a handgun.

  They were just forty yards away
when Teddy spotted the firearm. Something sparked into his head and in a flash his body was in full swing in the opposite direction, slaloming like a maniac between passersby. The sidewalk was dotted with pedestrians, but only sparsely so, in a manner typical to large American avenues.

  The armed man apparently viewed this configuration as worthy of a shot, and he fired twice at Teddy. In broad daylight?! Madmen! Goddamned Herrera.

  Both bullets missed, and Teddy was unsure what to make of such recklessness. A whirlwind of questions swirled in his confused mind. Where they so desperate to ice his ass that they were willing to risk attracting cops’ attention and killing civilians? At this distance, surely the man knew he was likely to miss. Were they just looking to scare him off?

  To hell with this!

  Without even a glance behind, Teddy plunged head first into the bushes on his right and cut across the Memorial Plan Miami Memorial Park. As he rushed through the cemetery, a funeral procession was about to reach the tombstone of the defunct, and Teddy was certain that the Cubans wouldn’t fire in such a place. God was probably the only being that his pursuers feared more than Joaquin Herrera.

  Taking stock of his surroundings, Teddy realized that he had lost sight of the two Cubans. If they had split, escaping them would be even more treacherous. He took cover behind the narrow trunk of an isolated tree and made another nervous three-sixty in recon. Aside from the group mourning in silence, the emptiness of the cemetery conveyed a calming serenity. This was a place of restraint and reverence, which contrasted bluntly with Teddy’s current hyperactive flight-or-die mental state.

  Bar the occasional trees, the grass pitch was leaving him dangerously exposed. He could probably be seen from half-a-mile away, and the few scattered gravesites would be poor hideouts.