EDGE of PARADISE Episode 4

Castro's Cuba

Gibardi's life came crashing down around him when Fidel Castro marched into Havana and took control of the government establishing his revolutionary army and political machinery. Sam Gibardi escaped Cuba with his family and his life, nothing else.

His entire fortune was nationalized by the Castro regime. The estate and Casa's Del Joven was used by Castro's government leaders as a retreat for a few years until it fell into regrettable disrepair. Juan luis Diega, the architect who built and designed the estate, was drafted by the revolutionary army to design schools and hospitals for Castro's redevelopment plans. It was widely known that Diega and Castro became good friends until 1991 when Diega disappeared.

Today the estate has been restored to all of its former glory and then some by its current resident, Antonio Diega, the son of Juan Luis. Antonio, an international businessman, acquired the home after guaranteeing and backing new development plans for the island and its 6000 plus residents.

Antonio has gathered with his guests in the pool room just as his predecessor Sam Gibardi always did. The view of the pool and the surrounding Caribbean is unsurpassed and makes for a surreal backdrop. Antonio is with two very well dressed men and in the back of the room are two Latina girls looking to be in their mid to late 20's. The girls are both wearing stylish but revealing swimwear. They have sprawled themselves across a large couch, sitting very un-lady like and looking very bored, totally uninterested in Antonio's two guests.

Commander Rasheed stands and takes a Cuban coffee from Antonio. The thick black coffee is a staple in Cuban life, a treat many Cubans look forward to throughout the day. Rasheed looks to his partner, Commander Alexsad. "Mr. Diega's father built this estate for a prominent casino owner in the 50's, and later he became a trusted advisor to Fidel and his brother. The mysterious disappearance of his father in 1991 has lead Mr. Diega to believe his father was disappeared by the "Say-Ah".

"Say-Ah?"" asks Alexsad quizzically. U.S. Central Intelligence, C.I.A. they call it Say-Ah here in Cuba." "That is correct," comments Antonio, "I must say you have certainly done your homework, Commander." Antonio holds his hand up, "One minute please." Antonio looks at the two girls. They both get up and leave, but not without a silent protest. They are making faces of impatience like children who are ready to go out and play.

Antonio returns his attention to his guests. "Gentlemen, I am very pleased to hear that our mission went so well and totally according to plan. I must say, rarely do I see such precision. It's impressive."

The two men seem appreciative. "As you know we are former Israeli strategic planners for the Israeli military air command," Rasheed says with obvious pride. "So our clients benefit greatly from our experience, Mr. Diega.""Please call me Antonio, Commander Rasheed ""Very well. I think we have taken the Americans' drug war and put it right up their ass."

Antonio, Rasheed and Alexsad hold their coffee cups up and clink the small demi-tasse cups together in a salute. Antonio has a broad smile upon his face, it's clear he is proud of this moment.

Commander Alexsad places a folder on the table before him. "Antonio, we have reviewed your request for the next mission it is very original, extremely original, but it will be enormously expensive. I'm concerned with the costs.""Cuanto? Commander, I mean how much?" asks Antonio slipping from Spanish to English, a slip he makes when excited or angered. " Twenty-five maybe Thirty,” answers Alexsad. "You see that large tablet on that pedestal over there" barks Antonio. The commanders acknowledge his question. "That's a hand written religious manuscript, written by a 14th century monk which probably took his entire lifetime to complete. It was taken from a bombed out monastery in Northern Spain during the Second World War. I paid 51 million for it. Senors, I did 1.3 billion in sales last year, and I expect to do 30% more business this year. The point I want to make is 25 or 30 million is meaningless to me. However, I'm not in the habit of throwing perfectly good money away. Therefore, I will instruct my accountants to review your cost projections. A 100% markup will be acceptable. I think you will find I can be quite generous, gentlemen.""Mr. Diega, we are very much aware of your resources and capabilities," replies Rasheed. "Please keep in mind that it's in our best interest to know as much as we can about a potential client. One of the things we are most curious about is a client's ability to see a project through. Not only to protect our global reputation, but as a precautionary measure for the client as well."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap. I'm so inundated with incompetent help that I jump off on people as standard course. Cubans today are thought of, in general, as poor poverty stricken peasants living in hovels, or refugees fighting sharks and currents out at sea in a rubber inner tube. I'm always dealing with those images which are sent out to the entire world everyday. Look around you and you can see that I am not that kind of Cuban."

Antonio places an attractive leather briefcase on the coffee table in front of Commanders Rasheed and Alexsad. Commander Rasheed pops the latches on the front of the briefcase and opens the lid. The case is filled with small credit Suisse platinum bars, 1120 ounces to be exact. "See guys, I told you I could be generous. My way of saying a job well done. Now, I'm very late for my next appointment. I'll have Andreas show you to your car. " Antonio steps from the pool room and walks down a hall and up a short staircase to a room where the door is cracked open. The two Latina girls, Luz Marie and Lucinda are laughing inside and Antonio can hear them through the crack in the door. Antonio slowly opens the door, and he can see the two young women have removed their cover-ups revealing their young taunt bodies, sporting bikinis. Antonio can see that Luz Marie and Lucinda are engaged in obvious lesbian love making. Antonio knocks at the now already open door. "Ah Mi, lesbianas," he sighs.

EDGE of PARADISE Episode 3

Men of Business

Miami is one of those half tourist, half business towns that wakes up late. The bars on South Beach stay open until 4 a.m. or later, so things are fairly quiet until 7:30 or 8:00 in the morning, even then it's the sanitation department or city workers who are milling around. South Beach, the southern most tip of Miami Beach has become a mecca for the young and beautiful. Wonderfully restored old art deco hotels line a mile stretch directly in front of the beach. An endless collection of trendy restaurants, cafes, and shops draws customers from an unending river of humanity that files by on the sidewalk that runs from one end of Ocean Drive to the other. Coconut Grove and Coral Gables have their respect as night spots, but the king or queen of the night, depending on your persuasion, is South Beach. Every language can be heard in the cafes that spill out onto the sidewalks and side streets, a veritable United Nations of party seekers, fashion models, movie stars, and perverts.

The respectful socially acceptable Miami is the downtown business district with its obligatory high-rise office buildings and banks. Just South of downtown is Brickell Avenue, some of the priciest real estate in the world. Here Miami's international jetset reside and work.

Many federal, state, and local government buildings are clustered together nearby. Julio Suarez, first generation Cuban/American and domino champion, begins his shift every morning as head landscapist for the federal administration and courts building near the Miami River. The federal building, built in 1927, has immaculately maintained lawns and landscaping. Julio has maintained the facility for 12 years. He has been offered other jobs in the past but he enjoys working downtown and, as a government employee, his benefits and insurance are excellent. Each morning the first thing Julio likes to do is trim the shrubs. It gets much too hot in the afternoons to work hard so he likes to get the more strenuous chores out of the way in the morning.

This morning as Julio trims the hedges next to the big buildings' front entrance he notices some damage to the hedge row. Julio can see that someone or something has trampled his hedge without much regard. As he surveys the damage he discovers that a complete section of hedge row has been destroyed and sitting in the midst is a startling find. Six white crosses, three feet high, are standing in a triangular arrangement like bowling pins. Each white cross is wearing a blue Metro-Dade police shirt. The uniforms look as if six disembodied spirits have taken to wearing clothes to give them at least some semblance of form. Julio is terrified and speechless. He notices a manila envelope pinned to the cross at the very front of the triangle. Printed in neat letters are the words, PLAY ME. Senior Suarez pulls the envelope free from the cross and looks inside. A shiny CD-ROM emerges from the envelope, totally non-descript.

* * * * *

Just south of Cuba lies Isle De Joven, Island of the Young. The island is a Cuban protectorate and is set 80 miles southwest of Guantanamo Naval Base and 200 miles north of the Cayman Islands. The island is sparsely populated and, for the most part, undeveloped. Along the southwest coast beautiful white sand beaches are draped in coconut palms that reach for the sky. The beaches, warm and deserted all year long, run for miles completely undisturbed by man.

The island has remained undeveloped primarily due to politics. Cuba hasn't had the resources to develop the infrastructure of mainland Cuba, much less invest in a small island. Plans were underway in the late 50's to build a luxury resort community near the beach. A development company, constructionnes De Joven, actually cut roads and cul de sacs into the jungle near Point Mar on the southwest corner, complete with driveways into future home sites. A large entrance way with stone walls and security check points still stand with the now rusty metallic letters which read Los Casas De Joven, Houses of the Young.

The project was headed up by a casino owner from Havana, an American who came to Cuba in the early 50's and capitalized on Cuba and Batista's liberal gambling laws. The fact that airplanes and ferry ships could move between Miami, Key West, and Havana made the prospect for gaming irresistible to Sam Gibardi. Mr. Gibardi built a respectful business for himself constructing motels and hotels in the booming Daytona Beach and Miami Beach areas in the late 40's and early 50's. It was assumed by many that he was a front man for New York mob interests. Many mob accountants were funneling profits from numbers, prostitution, protection schemes, and various criminal enterprises into legitimate business investments. These legit businesses gave the Mafiosos a way of retiring into a comfortable upfront lifestyle later in life.

Gibardi sold his construction business in Miami and moved to Havana with his family in 1955, subsequently building the Cordova Hotel and Casino along the waterfront. The Casino became immensely successful and Gibardi could be seen regularly driving his 1956 Eldorado Cadillac convertible while engaging a Cohiba cigar in a fitful fight to the very finish. Sam Gibardi and a number of his counter parts grew rich and obnoxious. Gibardi convinced a few of his friends that a luxury resort on the Isle of Joven with individual mansions, a golf course, and private landing strip would be the perfect retirement center for the fabulously wealthy and illegitimately gorged. Sam bought the land and built a great deal of the proposed accoutrements.

A choice home site on a small hill overlooking the beach and the Caribbean was his personal

choice for his own home that would also double as a model for others to follow. A well known Cuban architect, Juan Luis Diega, was hired to design what became a sprawling Spanish Mediterranean style villa with courtyards, circular driveways, separate guest and servants quarters. A large pool behind the home seemed to melt with the Caribbean below as a continuous body of water, an optical illusion designed by Diega known as an infinity pool. A large open room sandwiched between the main house and the pool served as a gathering place for Gibardi, his family, and occasional guests. The spectacular estate was very busy on weekends and holidays, but vacant during the week when the family returned by private plane to Havana

and the Cordova Hotel

EDGE of PARADISE Episode 2

DEALERS of DEATH

 

It's the morning shift at Metro Dade's downtown station and the midnight to seven shift is headed for home. Some of the guys stop off for breakfast at a Denny's across the street from the station, but most of the younger officers want to get home to their wives or girlfriends.

In the parking garage under the station the morning shift is milling around half heartily putting their police cruisers in order and preparing psychologically for an eight hour stint behind the wheel of an urban peace-making machine. The community's first line of defense, the thin blue line. And in Miami, one of the countries toughest cities and defacto capital of South America, that thin blue line is almost transparent. Officer James "Jimmy" O'Neil and Officer Gabriel "Gabby" Castra climb into their cruiser, fire up the high performance engine, and pull out of the garage and up onto an on ramp that merges them onto the world's largest parking lot: Interstate I-95 running North and South along the very edge of Southern Florida. This morning the traffic is moving pretty good. In 20 minutes it will grind to a stop-start pace as commuters pour onto the highway from a thousand suburban communities up and down the interstate as it passes through Broward and Dade county, Florida's densest and most populated area."Gabby, did you see the way Eric hit that ball last night?" "Yea, I saw it, and my little Melissa can hit harder than that. ""What is that supposed to mean? "

"It means my friend you need to work more with Eric." Gabby is moving the police cruiser in and out of traffic. "How's things going with you and Linly at home?" asks Jimmy, with a look of anticipation in his face as if a bowl was about to drop from a shelf. "It's good. I guess, she wants another child and I don't think we can afford it right now. I got that second job working security over on South Beach and we still just meet our expenses. I'm never home and Melissa asked me if I still want to be her daddy."

The three helicopters have passed over the Southern end of Miami Beach and split apart, one veering south, one north, and one out over downtown. That chopper passes near the hi- rise buildings and takes up a course overhead of the traffic on I-95, virtually indistinguishable from a traffic eye-in-the-sky copter. The pilot skillfully maneuvers the helicopter in low over the morning traffic and now has matched his airspeed with the flow of traffic. The pilot spots the Metro Dade police cruiser below and holds up his fist. The other three masked soldiers cock their automatic 10mm uzis, and check the magazines.

Gabby and Jimmy see the chopper flying just above them. "Gabby, it looks like he needs or wants to land on the highway. I'll get on the radio; you hit the lights. Dispatch, this is 118 - responding to a helicopter, appears to be in distress, may be executing an emergency landing on northbound lanes of I-95, approximately two miles north of downtown, near the Opalocka exit. Did you copy that dispatch?"" Yes 118, dispatching emergency teams now."Roger dispatch."

The pilot moves the chopper out ahead of the police cruiser and begins a slow decent to the roadway below. Traffic has come to a complete stop and the police cruiser is pulling up to within 50 yards of the grounded helicopter.

Jimmy is concerned with the fact that the choppers blades are still churning and there doesn't seem to be any smoke or other problem. "I wonder what's up with this guy, landing in the middle of rush hour traffic."

The doors on the helicopter swing open and three elite and daunting mercenaries emerge with weapons blazing. The police cruiser is engulfed in a rain of hot, ripping, tearing metal. Spent bullet casings are covering the ground as the scene turns to horrifying twisted steel, shattered glass, and torn flesh. The hail of gunfire could have stopped two minutes ago and been completely effective. But these assassins are creating terror. Two or three well placed bullets are more than enough to end a life but these destroyers are reaching for a deeper completely brutal exclamation. Suddenly, a cacophony of sounds breaks into an eerie silence. The only sound is from the tinkling of bullet casings rolling around on the pavement. Motorists have gathered their courage and are abandoning their vehicles. A full scale evacuation is underway.

The pilot has been waiting patiently aboard his jet helicopter, poised for a rapid ascent into the heavens. The three dark assassins return to the flying machine and begin to crawl aboard. The pilot yells at them above the screaming of the engine - "you IDIOTAS, you forgot to take their shirts." Two of the gunmen return to the police cruiser and drag the extremely mutilated bodies from the front seat of the now terminated conveyance. It's not a pretty site. It's, in fact, a difficult site even for these hardened, battle experienced mercenaries. Killing from a safe distance and leaving the quarry, having never to see your handiwork up close, is manageable, but having to confront the result of your efforts up close and personal is a degree different.

After dragging the officers' bodies out onto the hot roadway the gunmen have begun to remove their uniform shirts, complete with badge and name plate. Both men are disgusted by the request ,equating it with the act of scalping., the American Indian warriors tradition of cutting the scalp of a fallen enemy as an act of terror and as a trophy to be displayed later for the benefit of the tribe.

As the men leave the scene with the bullet riddled and blood soaked uniforms, one turns and tosses a remote controlled bomb into the back seat of the police car. The pilot has become very agitated and begins to lift the chopper skyward just as the men climb back aboard. As the helicopter lifts off rapidly and out away from the carnage below, a gunman takes a small remote control from his bag and punches the sole button on its face. The car below explodes into a 50- foot high fireball directly below them. The pilot follows the exact same vectors back out over the Atlantic.

* * * * *

Sitting in the crystalline blue waters just off the coast of Bimini, a small island in the dozens of tiny islands that make up the country of the Bahamas, sits an unusual looking yacht. The vessel is covered from stem to stern with what appears to be a canopy. At first glance one might think it's a giant bimini top named after the small canvas convertible tops small boaters use to keep the hot tropical sun off their heads during the hottest part of the day. But why would an obviously expensive luxury yacht need a bimini top. The boat was probably air conditioned in every room, including the engine room. It was only a mystery until seen from above, from the perspective of an airplane. The canopy was an ingenious form of camouflage. It provided a photo-realistic scene of the ocean as seen from above. An aircraft would look down and see nothing. The mural painted on the canopy virtually blended seamlessly with the surrounding water, rendering the yacht practically invisible from the air.

A young Latin man is searching the horizon with a pair of large binoculars that seem large enough to see the other side of the world or find craters on the moon. The young man is chattering in Spanish over a small hand-held radio.

Something has come into his field of view. He focuses the giant eyes and confirms his discovery. "Tres helicopteros," he shouts over his small radio.

Three black jet helicopters have rejoined and are flying in a loose formation, low over the blue water. The pilots are conversing over their radios frantically. All three birds slow and the four-man crews are exiting the airships and dropping into the ocean frogman style. The helicopters have been placed in autopilot mode and they continue to fly off into the distance. A twelve-man army is now in the sea floating courtesy of a life vest placed around their neck. One of the pilots pulls a hand-held control from his utility belt, holds it into the air,, and turns a dial. An audible tone is generated and suddenly the three helicopters in the distance flash in a brilliant ball of light. A million tiny fragments fall into the sea, making small splashes that churn and foam the salt water. All the men watch the pilot who now tosses the radio detonator into the ocean. All the soldiers have a look of disbelief on their now exposed faces, but the disbelief turns to a cheer, complete with ie...ie...ie, sounding like the wailings of a mariachi band. A deadly band of mariachis.

The celebration is short. The luxury yacht Estralla has come along side the 12-man party and the vessel's first mate has lowered a ladder normally reserved for swimmers and snorkelers. All 12 men scurry aboard.

A sultan's feast awaits the mercenaries as they arrive in the main salon of the yacht after showers and dry fresh clothes. The elaborate buffet table has been prepared by the on-board chef complete with grilled seafood, lobster tails, and an endless array of salads and sophisticated side dishes. A bartender is providing libation and refreshment. The mood has become quite celebratory, but the mood is broken instantly when a dark and well built man enters the Salon from a sliding glass door at the stern of the boat. The room is silent, a respectful gesture from these men. All eyes are transfixed on the dark gentleman as he walks to a table in the back of the room and examines a stack of blue Miami police uniforms. He picks one of the shirts up, looks at it, and places a finger thru a bullet hole. He pauses looks at the men, and begins to wiggle his finger profusely. The whole room ignites in spontaneous laughter. The men return to their eating, drinking and frivolity, it has been a long and dangerous day for these dealers of death.

EDGE of PARADISE Episode 1

 

© 2001 AVANTA INC.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Roc Hatfield is an author/producer/and recording artist who has lived in South Florida for many years. As a business executive in the 80’s he traveled and spent many months in South America and the Caribbean. His observations of the social and economic impact of cocaine and other drugs in­spired him to look deeper into the issue. His work placed him in the heart of the drug industry, traveling to Medellin, Bogota, and Cali Colombia frequently. Vacations in the Cayman Islands, and other Caribbean retreats helped focus
his knowledge of the banking and financial community that sup­ports the Narco economy. All of this up close information has provided the author with a wealth of details that make his first novel an amazing and riveting look at the inside world of the Kings of Cocaine.

Prelude

The cold war may be over, but the coke war is just heating up. The mayor of Washington D.C. caught on video using crack cocaine. South American drug lords appearing at the White House during state functions with the President. Fortune 500 business leaders engaging in cocaine trafficking. These and many more headlines blaze across local and national newspapers everyday. Just a reminder of how prolific drug use and the drug economy has become in our everyday lives.

The profits from the sale of cocaine exceed those of General Motors, Texaco, Microsoft, Coca-Cola, Motorola, Ford, Boeing and Exxon combined. The Narco dollars flow into a multiplex of business investments, real estate, private armies, and unthinkable lavish lifestyles.

World governments are paralyzed against Narco traffickers due in part to their own participation, and absorption of the ill gotten gains. The U.S. CIA has been accused recently of introducing crack cocaine into the black community in an attempt to finance various covert operations around the world. Today every government on the planet is engaged in battling against the flow of drugs into their countries, while simultaneously courting the Narco economy and its architects.

The Cold War Is Over . . . .

A Coke War Begins

Cuban native and international businessman Antonio Diega earns a lot of money, his connections within the Cuban and U.S. Government has given him clout. Diega's trans-shiping of cocaine has created an empire and a hierarchy that will stop at nothing to protect its billion dollar investments.

When a number of U.S. Senators who are knee deep in graft turn greedy Antonio sets them straight leaving six Miami cops dead. Diega's lust for South beach and its wanton women makes him vulnerable to the undercover tactics of two beautiful Justice Department investigators who want him behind bars. These seductive undercover investigators know of Antonio's dark obsessions and are not above using them against him. Antonio turns the tables on everyone and leaves a trail of death and destruction across South Florida that has never been seen until now. The violent effects set off shock waves at the highest levels of government in the U.S. and Cuba. A Cuban-American War becomes a realistic possibility . . . danger waits along The Edge of Paradise.

Death Comes

The water off the coast of Southern Florida is warm and calm this time of year. May is one of the best months, not too hot just warm and comfy. A light rain is moving in from the Bermuda Triangle and the sea has a slight chop. Captain Guillermo Miguel Uribe is tapping the top of a color radar screen in the bridge of his 600 foot freighter. Capt. Uribe has tread these waters a million times carrying containers from the islands to the port of Miami. 'This damn thing,' he says in Spanish as he hits the box harder, "this thing works only in good weather, a little rain and it stops." The first mate jiggles the wires leading into the back of the box - how's that - como Va. The good captain's vessel is in need of many repairs, he bought her with a loan from a childhood friend he grew up with in Santo Domingo. He convinced the friend they could become rich with the freighter by hauling freight from the Caribbean to the U.S., but after six years of hard work and struggle Captain Uribe was losing the ship to rust and creditors.

Today all that was going to change, an extremely profitable load was on the deck of his freighter. A voice cracks over a small portable radio, "Captain, are we in position?" Captain Uribe keys his mic while banging on the box once more. The radar screen becomes clear. "Yes, we are exactly at the location you desired. We have some weather moving in from the South, looks like light rain, some wind." The radio crackles and the voice is calm, "OK. Let's hope it moves around us, it's a go. Repeat it's a go." The Captain acknowledges the radio transmission in Spanish," Si Claro."

On the deck of the ship crews are moving methodically, opening 20' containers and pulling equipment from the freighters hold. Large pieces covered in black neoprene plastic are set on the deck, three in all. The crew is guiding the crane operator and the mysterious equipment is being precisely placed into position. As the crew rushes to remove the plastic covering, three shiny new helicopters are emerging like butterflies from a wintry cocoon. Three brand new McDonnell Douglas Explorers, twin jet engine "NOTARS" no-tail-rotors. One point five mil a copy. Fast, quiet, and agile. Crew members are prepping the aircraft and checking every feature. Cockpit instrumentation is being examined and a cadre of electrical switches are put into their proper positions.

The crew stops for a moment and all eyes are pinned to a door across the deck. As the door opens 12 men emerge dressed in black, S.W.A.T. like military uniforms. Each has a ski mask with dark aviator style sunglasses, not a single patch of skin is exposed. The crew returns to work preparing the helicopters.

Captain Uribe is standing on the bow of the ship and conversing with one of the masked soldiers.

"Capt. Uribe, you have been very professional and your hospitality has been exceptional." The soldier passes a nylon travel bag to Captain Uribe. The Captain immediately opens the bag and pulls a stack of bills from its interior.

"It has been a pleasure, con mucho gusto, Senor," the Captain replies. The soldiers move rapidly toward the helicopters, the blades have begun to rotate, and the smell of AV fuel has filled the air. Within seconds the noise level and heat from the jet exhaust is intolerable. Many of the freighter's crew have backed away. The pilots pull the birds one by one into the air and line up in single file as they circle around the ship, making a farewell salute. As they fly over the stern they see a crewmember removing plastic lettering that has changed the vessels name from "Artic Glass" to "Smart Girl", the ships real name.

Aboard the helicopters the masked soldiers are stowing equipment and organizing clipboards with charts and diagrams. The helicopters are moving at 130 knots, 43 feet above the surface of the ocean. 130 knots isn't fast in terms of airspeed but at 43 feet it can get your attention as the spray from the light chop mists over the windshields of the helos. Miami is only 40 miles ahead of them.

Aboard the lead helicopter the pilot is speaking in Spanish to the soldiers. The soldiers are wearing hi-tech earphones and small microphones that look like telephone operators' equipment. The pilot shouts," E.T.A. in 13 minutes, target zone in 13 minutes. Prepare your weapons, stand-by for deployment."

* * * * *

It's the morning shift at Metro Dade's downtown station and the midnight to seven shift is headed for home. Some of the guys stop off for breakfast at a Denny's across the street from the station, but most of the younger officers want to get home to their wives or girlfriends.

In the parking garage under the station the morning shift is milling around half heartily putting their police cruisers in order and preparing psychologically for an eight hour stint behind the wheel of an urban peace-making machine. The community's first line of defense, the thin blue line. And in Miami, one of the countries toughest cities and defacto capital of South America, that thin blue line is almost transparent. Officer James "Jimmy" O'Neil and Officer Gabriel "Gabby" Castra climb into their cruiser, fire up the high performance engine, and pull out of the garage and up onto an on ramp that merges them onto the world's largest parking lot: Interstate I-95 running North and South along the very edge of Southern Florida.