Fortress Farm Trilogy: Volumes 1, 2 & 3 (Fortress Farm Series)

by G. R. Carter

  Pavoni seemed different to Jalen this morning. Like his internal threat radar told him something was definitely not right. He just couldn’t get a handle on what was bothering the man.

  “I decided to check the Sprinters, you know, just in case we needed to move to the beta site,” Pavoni said, referring to the bulletproof Mercedes Benz conversion vans used to transport the Jordan family and their security detail. “The lights came up, went through a startup cycle, and then went dead cold. All three of them, the same thing. Now here’s the crazy part: I decided to try your old '69 Impala, and guess what? Fired right up. I’m going to send one of the boys over to your shop to get another of your classics and bring it over. Any recommendations?”

  Jalen thought briefly, doing a quick inventory of all the classic American chrome sitting in his private mechanic’s shop. The building had been one the first Jordan Inc. buildings purchased after an early life of want and struggle. Each vehicle Jalen purchased – his weakness was '60s muscle and luxury – stayed warm and comfortable in the individual stalls of the restored warehouse. All except his Impala, which was also the first luxury item he ever bought himself. He wasn’t able to drive it much these days. The car and the man were both too high profile to parade through town like a giant target.

  “Bring the Lincoln, the one with the suicide doors,” Jalen instructed. “And then bring back the '57 Ford. That will give us three for a motorcade.”

  Pavoni gave a nod and spun on one heel to head toward the basement and begin the day.

  “AP, wait,” Jalen said using the nickname that he alone used with Pavoni. “I think this is something big. I don’t know why. I’m pretty sure you’re feeling the same way.”

  “Yes I am, sir. I didn’t want to alarm you and I don’t have anything solid to base my feelings on. Just call it intuition. I thought I might bring it up when I had a few more moments to think it through. I’m sorry, I should have discussed it with you immediately,” Pavoni said.

  Jalen smiled. Pavoni was the picture-perfect employee. If he ever resented being employed by a man from the streets, he never once let on. Perhaps my own stereotypes got in the way of doing business. I’ll fix that. Prejudice is expensive. Jalen had zero doubt that Pavoni would put his life on the line to save the Jordan family. He had proved it at least once. Jalen suspected there had been other times, too, though he was smart enough not to ask questions.

  “AP, you’ve never let me down. We’ll get this thing figured out together. What are your suggestions?”

  “Let’s bring five of my best agents here to stay at the house with Marti and the girls,” Pavoni said, referring to Jalen’s wife. “Then my suggestion, if you’ll take it sir, is that you call every one of your neighborhood captains in to meet at Ice as quickly as possible. This morning if they can all be found. I never developed an SOP for a city-wide outage, but my men will know instinctively to get in touch with home base. They’ll figure we’ve headed for Ice and at least send a runner to find out what the plan is before moving the captains.”

  “Ice” referred to the Willard Ice building, the former headquarters of the Illinois Department of Revenue. Jordan Inc. happily snatched it and several of state government buildings at a preordained price during sham auctions. No states had their own tax agencies anymore; the Feds hated the competition.

  Once purchased, Jordan Inc. refurbished the Ice building and turned it into a glittering headquarters for legitimate businesses used to wash illegal profits coming in from the city neighborhoods. Every day Jalen’s motorcade pulled in the underground parking garage, the irony washed over him that he was using the former headquarters of an agency once feared by his predecessors.

  “You don’t think Marti would be safer in the penthouse at Ice?”

  “She’d be safe there, I think. But that puts them on dark roads between the two spots. And if someone decides to capitalize on this confusion and make a move, they’ll try to hit Ice first. This house is a fortress, sir. Before anyone could penetrate the defenses, we’d be back here to make them regret trying.” Pavoni wasn’t a man to bluster; he had done the math and calculated the time a reaction force would hit would-be assailants trying to penetrate the foot-thick walls and reinforced doors. A tank could get in – anything less would have a hard time.

  “Okay, let’s do it. Give me a chance to get my gear on and we’ll roll.”

  One hour later, Jalen slid behind the wheel of his Impala. Feeling the hard plastic steering wheel in his hands brought a flood of memories. Driving over a hundred miles an hour with would-be assassins in hot pursuit, his friends shooting out of the back window. Driving back around the block the first time he saw a girl named Martinique standing with friends outside her mama’s church. He circled repeatedly until she finally stormed out into the road demanding to know what he was staring at. Three years of “yes ma’am’s” and Sunday Church services finally convinced Marti that Jalen wasn’t a common street thug destined to be dead in a gutter somewhere by the time he twenty-five.

  Jalen adjusted the rear-view mirror, smiling at Pavoni sitting in the middle of the back seat. Just like “Godfather 2,” Jalen chuckled to himself. Hit men always go for the guy in the back seat first. What assassin would think a man like Jalen Jordan would be driving his own car? Little did they know that the man in question would drive his own car every day if possible. All this time on top, and he was still uncomfortable with people waiting on him hand and foot. Sure it was nice to be pampered occasionally. But the power always left you wondering who was pandering and who was truly respectful.

  The Impala’s lights stayed off as the long low sled rolled down the driveway. Headlights finally appeared as the lead car headed down the quiet street ending at the cul-de-sac in front of the Jordan household.

  The typical twenty-five-minute drive took only about ten this morning. No traffic and no stop lights cleared the way for their steady speed on the way to downtown Springfield. An occasional flash of candle or lamp peeked out from a house on the way, but the slowly approaching dawn was the only steady light piercing the darkness.

  Approaching their destination, they could see two guards standing outside the entrance of the underground parking garage built beneath the Ice building for visiting VIPs. Only Jalen’s most important captains had the transponder necessary to raise the blast-proof door. Even with the electronic device, an authorized retina scan still provided protection from a forced entrance. None of that was working this morning, but the hidden manual jacks allowed for entrance. The door was immediately closed behind the suicide Lincoln as Jalen’s entourage moved down the ramp to his parking spot.

  Two men headed up the stairs, careful to stay a full flight above them as Pavoni himself escorted Jalen to the main conference room on the fifth floor. Two of Jalen's most trusted men – one his first cousin and one Marti’s first cousin – stood to greet him with a quick hug. A look of concern hung on both men’s faces. Neither were soft men; family ties helped in business but weren’t a guarantee in the Jordan organization. But both clearly were a little confused both by the city-wide power outage and the call for an emergency meeting. Their respective organizations would be supervising both legitimate businesses that would be opening soon as well as other business that was concluding about the same time of day. Any interruption in the schedule threw the well-oiled machine off-track.

  Jalen’s captains were supposed to be up and working from about 2 am to 2 pm each day. That still left time for school activities and family dinner; both of which Jalen insisted his men observe. The work schedule allowed the neighborhood supervisors to collect cash from the night’s activities and get everything reconciled and in the safes before the start of their legitimate day. Jordan Inc.’s convenience stores, auto dealerships and restaurants provided city residents with what was most important to them while the sun was up.

  Meanwhile, Jordan’s GangStar organization provided everyone with what was most important to them after the sun went down.

  Ear
ly success came for him with the realization he could work with the powerful instead of against them. Police and local officials were happy because one man could help them solve crime or keep it out of areas that made them look bad. Jalen and his family worked diligently to make sure rogue elements didn’t cause trouble in the part of the city where the bureaucrats lived. He also provided jobs and tax revenue through his small-business fronts; businesses which otherwise never would have survived without a steady stream of ill-gotten profits being washed through them.

  The Jordans and their allies made plenty of enemies in their rise to the top. But the police were always very helpful to the respectful young man who handled himself as a businessperson and who made sure that anyone who assaulted a cop was never seen or heard from again. As the Jordans took out the rival organizations in town, Jalen began the process of integrating the younger members of competing groups. The concept of GangStars, or an all-star team for gangsters, soothed the idea of losing generations of loyalty to a particular sign or color.

  With the help of references from his contacts in power, Jalen spread the GangStar brand to surrounding communities such as Peoria and Decatur. Chicago was high on his list for expansion, as was St. Louis. In fact, he already had a connection to one of the law firms that ran the rackets in St. Louis. MC Consultants now helped Jalen manage the family’s money and legal affairs. MC was one of the big six mafia families, disguised as law firms, which ran most of the rackets in the vicinity of St. Louis. Aldo Pavoni made the introductions, connecting Jalen with a cousin working in the firm.

  That was the future. Right now he had to deal with a very dark present. As two more captains were led in by their entourages, Jalen brought all attention to him to start the discussion.

  “We’ve still got Robbie and Elijah to come in yet, but we need to move ahead with some plans. Where do we stand if the power is out for a few days?”

  Anthony Jordan spoke first, as he usually did. “I was up last night when everything started shuttin’ off. Weird stuff. First the lights got real bright, then poof! Gone! I don’t know for sure, but I think there’s a bigger problem than just an electrical short.”

  Jalen looked at Marti’s cousin, Malik Masen. “You think the same, cuz?”

  Malik nodded his head. The only one of his captains who had a college degree, his middle-class background and education helped in negotiations with groups like MC Consultants. But the civilized veneer didn’t make the man inside any less ruthless than his street-educated colleagues.

  “Yes, Jalen, I believe we have a major problem. As you and I have discussed, this city-centralized food and shelter program run by a government office makes our business much easier to conduct. Control the process, control the profits. But if our customers don’t have their Wristbands, and as near as I can tell not a single one is working, we can’t transfer credits. That means we’re all cash right now,” Malik said, pausing to let that sink in with the men in the room.

  Jalen felt Pavoni tense up. If cash was the only currency available, suddenly those with the cash became targets. The electronic currency stored on the government-issued Wristband devices went a long way to controlling robbery on the streets. No one could use your Wristband without your unique bio signal, and that made stealing them pointless. But if cash was floating around again, there would be people desperate enough to take the risk of stealing it.

  Malik continued: “Here’s the more important thing. Desperation is bad for business. Right now, our customers are fat and happy. They get their meals fed to them during the day by the Feds, and they get their vices fed to them at night by us. If the Feds aren’t feeding them, they’re going to get angry and hungry. You’ve got entire generations out there that have never missed a meal or a good time. I’m not talking about the poor neighborhoods, I’m talking about the middle and upper class neighborhoods, too. What do you think is going to happen if they go without Syn for a few days? What if something is really wrong and a few days turns into a few weeks?”

  Jalen heard someone whistle from the doorway. He smiled and nodded as his best friend walked into the room and greeted him with a long hug. “I was getting worried about you, E,” Jalen said to Elijah Morales, the man responsible for keeping an eye on the largest part of the Jordan Empire. “You see Robbie anywhere?”

  “Not yet, JJ,” Morales said. The two men were closer than brothers since first grade. Even though the Jordan name appeared on the organization, Jalen always made it clear he considered his inner circle his equals in every way.

  “I hope he gets in soon, things are getting a little interesting out there.”

  Pavoni spoke for the first time: “So we have control of the night, who controls the day?” Jalen always welcomed Pavoni’s input, especially on matters of security and interacting with other powerful organizations. With no desire to control any part of the Jordan organization, Pavoni made the perfect unbiased balance to Jalen’s ambitious captains. The men pondered the question, then blurted the first answers that came to mind.

  “The cops?”

  “The Feds?”

  “The state police?”

  As each man answered, Jalen began to put the puzzle pieces together in his mind. When it was his turn to answer, he simply grinned and said, “We do.”

  Pavoni nodded his head. “That’s right, sir. You control the people who control the daytime. If I may suggest so, sir, it might be time to use up some of those favors I know you store up.”

  Jordan’s men began to grasp what Pavoni was suggesting.

  Elijah spoke first: “He’s right, JJ. Most of the big shots have moved to Chicago already. The ones left behind are a lot weaker. They don’t have the organization you do. We can really own this town now. We’ve got the weapons and the cash, what else do we need?”

  “Food.” Malik had moved to the conference room windows, watching as the sunlight spread its warmth over the quiet buildings. He continued to stare out, speaking to them as though conversing with himself. “If we want to control the daytime, we have to get our hands on the food. Not just the ration bars in the stores, but the whole thing. Go right to the source.”

  “If it’s scarce, people will do anything for it,” Elijah agreed. “If anyone should know that, it’s us.”

  Pavoni let the words soak in and spoke directly to Jalen. “Sir, let’s get our men over to the Feds' food warehouse. The guys that work there are members of one of our unions. And the guy that runs the local is all twisted up with something. You remember what it is? I know we’ve got some of those guys working for you somehow. Give the nod to take the warehouse. We’ll offer nicely at first, I promise.”

  “We’ll need trucks,” Malik added.

  “The Major at the Air National Guard base is a customer of mine,” cousin Anthony said. Shrugging, he continued, “It gets lonely for some of those guys out there, so we throw a little on-base party every week. I’ll speak with him myself, get him to understand. I’m sure he’ll make a trade to borrow the trucks and some manpower. Can I offer to let him keep his post?”

  Jalen nodded. “Better to negotiate than fight. We’ve got more weapons and more soldiers, but their guns are bigger. Let’s make them ours the old-fashioned way, with sugar.”

  Anthony headed for the door to start on his mission, and Pavoni followed close behind.

  Jalen turned to his cousin-in-law. “Malik, I want you to consider something for me. We’ve got GangStars in each of the prisons around here. Took me some favors to keep them all close. How long do we have before those places go into full meltdown?”

  “Good question. Figure that some of the guards will show up the first day, but only those with old vehicles. No newer vehicles are running. I see from your motorcade you’ve been able to ascertain that. That leaves a small handful or armed staff, and they’ll split for home as soon as they think they can. The question will be if they leave the inmates locked up in their cells, or if some can get loose.”

  Malik turned and looked at Jalen.
“Do you understand there’s almost twenty thousand state and federal prisoners within sixty miles of here?”

  “Is that good news or bad news?” Jalen asked grimly.

  “Good news if we can control the men and the facilities where they’re at. Think about it. It’s a ready-made army for us, all those vicious SOBs. The prisons are built like a fortress and there's lots of supplies stored up,” Malik said.

  “Do you think we could make it work?”

  “Yes, with some selective reduction in population,” Malik stated coldly.

  “I’m glad you’re on my side, cuz. That’s some scary stuff right there. Use our boys already inside to give us a list of who makes the cut?” Jalen asked. The plan was formulating in his mind, he just wanted to talk it through out loud.

  “Right. Figure we keep no more than a few hundred per facility. Each one holds about fifteen hundred right now. I imagine the culling has begun already.” The bespectacled Malik looked every bit the stereotypical accountant, right down to the bow tie look for Sunday church. But something was different about the eerie calm settled over the man this morning, as though a new creature had been unleashed.

  “Jalen, I want to make my feelings clear to you. I have been very concerned about what the future held for your...our organization. With so many of our wealthy clients leaving town, I was afraid we would be left behind also. If the power stays out, and I believe it’s going to, now’s the time for us to chart a new future. Throughout history, men have risen to great power in times of chaos. This is your moment. This is one of the pivot points that make the history books.

  “There’s absolutely nothing and no one to stop you from controlling the entire space between Chicago and St. Louis. And who knows about those two places? They’ll probably be burnt down by the end of the week. I’m talking nuclear-war type destruction. You see what I’m getting at?” Malik asked.