Книга - Hazard Zone

Hazard Zone
Don Pendleton


A luxury Jamaican tourist resort turns into a death trap when a vacationing American senator's daughter is murdered. When her body is then used to unleash chemical warfare on the U.S., it's clear this wasn't just a random crime. It was a message–and Mack Bolan intends to respond.Tracking the bioterrorist behind the gruesome attack back to the Jamaican ghettos quickly turns into a deadly chase. Bolan soon finds himself the target of the island's most lethal gang. But they aren't the only ones prepared to kill to protect their secrets. There is another high-powered operator in the game, and the Executioner is determined to take him out–even if it means bringing the battle back to Washington.









A moving shadow was all the warning the Executioner had


Bolan did a full running roll to get out of the way as a machete glinted in the moonlight.

“Got to kill you,” the heavily accented voice said. “For the Obeah Man.”

Bolan kept moving and came up with the Desert Eagle in his hand. He needed someone left alive who could talk, so he fired low, blowing out the man’s kneecap.

The posse member screamed and went down, and Bolan immediately turned back to the driveway, hoping to catch up to his target. But the car kicked up gravel as it peeled away, and he got only a glimpse inside—enough to see that the Obeah Man was getting away.

Bolan walked back to the man screaming on the ground and kicked the machete out of reach. “We need to have a talk.”

“Screw you!” the man muttered.

“It’s a start,” the Executioner said. “But I’m looking for something a little more informative.”





Hazard Zone


The Executioner







Don Pendleton







www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


Everyone has his superstitions. One of mine has always been when I started to go anywhere, or to do anything, never turn back or to stop until the thing intended was accomplished.

—Ulysses S. Grant

1822–1885

Each mission has its challenges, and the path to resolution is never predictable. But regardless of the hurdles, I promise to always follow through until every last enemy is taken care of…one way or another.

—Mack Bolan




THE MACK BOLAN LEGEND

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.




Contents


Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22












Prologue


“Shiver shot!” everyone screamed at once, laughing and giggling.

Bastiene “Spook” Durene smiled at the group of college students seated around the table, while the young woman to his right blushed. For their evening entertainment, they’d chosen a popular drinking game called Suicide Kings, and with some subtle manipulation of the cards, he’d drawn the King of Spades.

They were far too drunk to realize he’d been stacking the deck all night, moving the game to the outcome he desired, while ensuring his own sobriety. There was too much to accomplish this night to allow himself to become inebriated. Bastiene pointed a long finger at the woman, then picked up a thin wedge of lime from the bowl on the table. “You,” he said, pitching his voice low enough so that only she could hear him.

“Me,” she said, blushing again as he placed the lime between her lips. She grasped it between her teeth.

He leaned closer, then slowly ran his tongue along her neck. She shivered and he smiled once more, hiding his grin beneath a long curl of her hair. Everything was going according to plan. He reached for the saltshaker and tossed a few shakes at the damp line he’d put on her neck, then he licked it clean, drank off the shot of tequila and moved to her lips. He took the lime from her mouth into his, turning it into a deep kiss.

“Mmm,” he whispered against her neck as the kiss ended. “I be bettin’ you glamity tastes even finer.” Bastiene purposely used the Jamaican accent and slang she and her friends expected, though he could, and often did, speak perfect English.

“Glamity?” she asked, giggling.

“I be showin’ you soon,” he said. “And you be showin’ me.”

The young woman laughed and leaned away. Her name was Amber Carson. Tall and seductive, she had a body that would make any frat boy her willing slave. She pushed a strand of her blond hair over her shoulder as she moved the shot glasses out of the way. So far, she’d already had six shots of from the large bottle of tequila. This night, all his work would pay off. This was Amber’s fourth trip to Jamaica, and each time, he’d made a point of meeting her, getting to know her a little bit better. He tried not to laugh as she even now had to puzzle over the true meaning of his words.

He watched as she grasped what he meant—that she would taste good in her most private of places—then openly grinned as her blush deepened even more. “Maybe,” she said, laughing and pushing him away. “And maybe not! First I’ve got to get something to eat!”

“Then let’s get you something to eat,” he said, gesturing at the nearby buffet table that was loaded with food.

Her chair scraped the floor as she rose unsteadily to her feet. “Deal me out,” she said. “It’s food or puke, and I’m voting with my feet.”

Everyone laughed again and waved her off as she headed to the buffet. Bastiene followed closely behind her. In the times she’d been here, he’d learned a great deal about her. Her father was a U.S. senator, but before that, he’d built a pretty sizable fortune in various types of mining. She was obviously spoiled—how many young women got to spend their downtime at a private resort in Jamaica—but he also knew she was just a year away from finishing her undergraduate degree in international law in the top ten of her class. He’d even overheard her talking with her friends about graduate school and someday working in a U.S. Embassy somewhere overseas.

With her connections, such a dream would be attainable. If Bastiene had any truly compassionate feelings at all, he might feel a little sad that her dream would never come true. Unfortunately for her, he didn’t feel much compassion for anyone, let alone a spoiled little rich girl who was merely one cog in a much bigger plan. The world was filled with young women like her, and one more or less would make no difference.

The Goldshore Villas Resort was a custom-built haven for the rich and the privileged. The private condominium community was especially popular this time of year, when wealthy kids from the U.S. came to Montego Bay for spring break. With private hot tubs and lots of hidden paths for secret trysts, it was the perfect place to escape the notice of overprotective parents and the prying eyes of paparazzi that hounded them in the States. For this trip, Amber had brought a half-dozen friends with her, and they lived it up in a style that would make most of the other students in Jamaica for the weeklong party green with envy. There was plenty of booze, mountains of food and enough ganja to keep everyone happily stoned. When they weren’t playing in the surf or lying on the beach, they were dancing and partying and having sex.

Bastiene was one of a handful of locals who knew her well—and he’d made it a point of being one of the few who always showed up to party on his off-hours. His time working here was almost done, however, and he was grateful for that. She was the one, the Obeah man had assured him, that would allow their plans to move into the next and final phase. They would finally be ready.

Amber stopped at the buffet, picked up a plate and began to load it with fruit and cheese. She glanced over her shoulder at him as she continued along the line feigning interest that was even less subtle with her overindulgence of tequila. He knew she was checking to see if he’d followed. From what he’d overheard on her first day there, she’d just broken up with a fairly serious boyfriend, and was committed to having a commitment-free but very fun weekend. He’d turned on the charm after that, using his dark good looks and deep voice to every advantage. He had some fun in mind, too. The mission was important, but there was no reason not to indulge in the little slice of American pie, especially after all of his hard work.

Adjusting his dreadlocks, he moved behind her and put his large hands on her shoulders, rubbing gently. She leaned back into him, rubbing seductively. He kissed her neck just behind her ear.

She giggled once more, and he leaned close to whisper, “What’s so funny, girl?”

“Nothing I’m willing to share yet,” she said archly, turning her attention back to the buffet. She loaded up a plate with jerk chicken, seasoned rice and coco bread. “Come sit with me?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said, gesturing to a small, private table beneath an umbrella, then leading the way to pull out her chair. “Something to drink?” he asked as she sat down.

“Just a cola,” she said. “If I’m going to last the night, I need to slow down a little.”

He nodded and crossed the patio to the wet bar, slipping behind it to get her cola. With his hands hidden by the front of the bar, he slipped the small vial of white powder from his pocket. He tapped the vial with the roofie to keep it from sticking in the humid Jamaican climate and poured it into the glass. After adding a few cubes of ice and filling it with cola, he used a swizzle stick from the bar to mix it carefully, ensuring that the powder had dissolved completely. Then he returned to the table where she had made a sandwich from the jerk chicken on the coco bread.

“Ask and receive,” he said, offering her the glass.

She took it from his hand, then gulped down several large swallows. “Thanks,” she said. “I was getting a little dehydrated.”

“I understand,” he said. “Eat and you’ll feel better.”

She resumed her meal and he watched her carefully, noting how often she drank from the glass, and seeing the drug slowly take effect. “I must have had…” she started to say, her words slurring as she verbally stumbled. She tried again, laughing. “More tequila than I thought.”

“Don’ you worry on it,” he said. “Jus’ relax and everything gonna be fine.”

Amber turned and stared into his eyes. “You’re…beautiful,” she said. “You have a voice like…like…melted chocolate.”

“Thank you,” he said. “You are beautiful, too.”

She finished off the cola and the food, and tried to get to her feet. It was only by moving quickly that he was able to catch her and keep her from falling flat on her rear end. “Oops!” she said.

“Perhaps you should be lying down,” he suggested, holding her tightly in his arms.

“Is that an offer?” She laughed.

“It is,” he said.

“Then take me to my room!” she demanded, pointing back at the resort and swaying on her feet. In another few minutes, the drug would rapidly overcome her system. He needed to move quickly.

“Ask and receive,” he said again, scooping her off her feet completely.

“Whee!” she cried.

Her friends turned to see the commotion and laughed. “Hey, Amber,” one of her girlfriends shouted. “Are you off to explore the dark continent?” Laughter echoed over the patio again.

“Every…single…inch!” she crowed. “Got to sample the local cuisine!”

He smiled broadly and began carrying her toward the resort building where her condo was located. In less time than it took him to get there, she was passed out completely. Before he got to the building itself, he turned and made his way around the side. No one was in sight, and he moved to the front and to the waiting Jeep.

Another man got out and opened the back. He put Amber’s unconscious form inside. “Take her to the Obeah man,” he said. “She is not to be harmed. I will be there as soon as I can.”

“You got it,” the other man said. He jumped back in, started the engine, then drove away.

Bastiene returned to the main building and made his way to Amber’s room. Once there, he checked to ensure that her bed looked slept in—it did—and that nothing else was out of place. He took a glass from the bar and poured a generous serving of rum. He wandered around the room as he sipped his drink. A mirror next to the dresser showed the red lipstick smudge on his collar. He moved to the wet bar and sat quietly for several minutes finishing off the rum. When he was done, he put it back on the bar and headed out of the room.

He took his time, walking calmly, and arrived back at the patio. Amber’s girlfriend—a redhead whose name he didn’t know—laughed uproariously when he explained sheepishly that she’d passed out before the explorations could begin. “Perhaps I’ll do better tomorrow,” he said.

“Not if she’s sober!” the young woman replied.

Everyone laughed, including Bastiene, and he made a point of staying for several more hours, then excusing himself for the night. On his way out, he stopped by the front desk and chatted with the clerk for several minutes, then he went out the front door, got into his own Jeep and left.

On his way to the hidden home of the Obeah man, he scrubbed away the makeup on his face and arms that hid the tattoos and scars marking him as a member of the Undead Posse…and an apprentice to the Obeah arts.



“THIS PART IS CRITICAL, man,” Bastiene said. “The trigger must not move until the autopsy.”

The little man with the wire-rimmed glasses nodded. “I know, I know,” he said. “I’ve got my orders.”

On the slab before him was the body of Amber Carson. The drug Bastiene had given her had done its work well. Half-conscious, she was almost unresisting as he’d raped her. The Obeah man had said that his seed would be the magic that ensured their success. As far as Bastiene was concerned, magic or not, taking the young woman had been a pleasure. Her body had been warm and supple, her breasts firm. The way she’d squirmed and wriggled beneath him in protest had added greatly to the experience. Even in death she was still beautiful, the perfect corpse, looking almost alive, a siren drawing in its prey.

After, it had been a matter of little work to smother her to death, then mark the body with his thin-bladed knife. This final step, however, was crucial. The little man was Dr. Steffens, and he’d been sent by the man helping them in the United States to perform a special surgery. Using a tiny camera and going in through her esophagus, Steffens was placing two items in Amber’s abdominal cavity. The first was a thin metal tube filled with anthrax spores, and the second was a unique triggering mechanism.

When the doctor performing the autopsy in the United States made the initial incisions to open her up, the mechanism would be armed by the change in internal pressure. Then, when he delved farther to explore her internal organs—specifically her stomach—the trigger would be released by this second change in pressure. The resulting small explosion would tear a hole in the metal tube, spilling the anthrax spores into the room and killing everyone present.

If it worked.

The double pressure switch had to be positioned perfectly next to the tube, and also resistant to the natural gases that would build up in her body as it decomposed and the pressure changes that would occur when her body was flown back to the United States. Finding the perfect methodology had been a matter of numerous experiments, conducted in extreme secrecy. Once they’d finalized their technique, they needed to decide on a target.

It had been their friend in the United States who had suggested Amber—young, beautiful and a senator’s daughter. Her body would be flown back to Washington, D.C., and treated with the utmost care. Taking the job at the private resort where she came to play had been a hassle, but the Obeah man often told Bastiene that the best magic came from association with the victim. It was unfortunate that he’d have to continue to work there for some time afterward—it was the only way to avoid being accused—and even then, suspicions would be high. There was always a price to be paid for such powerful magic, and if he needed to still play serving boy then he would do so.

Steffens mumbled something under his breath, then let out a long, slow exhale and leaned back.

“What?” Bastiene demanded. “Is there a problem?”

“No,” Steffens said. “She’s ready. Just be sure not to bounce her around too much when you move her.”

“I’ll be as soft as a lamb,” he said.

“Good,” the man replied. “Then I’m out of here. There’s a chopper waiting to take me back to my ship.”

“Go, man,” Bastiene said, gesturing toward the door. “I’ll be takin’ care of the girl.”




1


Other than imminent violence, few things had the power to bring Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, fully awake like a phone call in the middle of the night. As the first tones sounded from his cell phone, he sat up in bed, aware that these calls never came with good news—usually just the opposite. Someone was either dead or someone needed to be.

“Yeah,” he said, answering before the second ring had finished.

“Sorry to wake you, Striker.”

He recognized the voice of Hal Brognola immediately. Brognola was the director of the Sensitive Operations Group—located at Stony Man Farm, Virginia. He used to work for the clandestine organization directly, but now had an arm’s length association with the outfit. Their mission hadn’t changed—they still took on terrorists and criminals that the U.S. government couldn’t or wouldn’t. When the situation was complicated, they called on Mack Bolan to uncomplicate it. His presence was never official.

“It’s not a problem, Hal,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“We’ve got a full-scale mess,” he said. “There’s been an anthrax attack in Washington, D.C. It’s been contained, but a senator was killed, and the whole thing is getting ready to turn into an epic disaster.”

Bolan knew the security precautions that had been in place since 9/11. “That’s a mess all right. How’d they get anthrax that close to a U.S. senator?”

“You won’t believe me when I tell you,” Brognola said. “It was stored inside the body of his dead daughter. Somehow, these terrorists rigged it to explode during the autopsy—and, of course, Senator Carson demanded to be on hand.”

“What?” Bolan was rarely disturbed by the things he saw and heard, but this was going too far. “Her body exploded?”

“Apparently it was some kind of pressure trigger,” Brognola explained. “When they got to her stomach…”

“Jesus,” Bolan said.

“Yeah, I know. It’s unheard-of, and the kind of play that only truly bad men would even consider. The entire thing is on video, and it will be in the file I’m sending. Anyway, Senator Carson was killed, along with his Secret Service agent, the doctor and his assistant, and several other people who ran into the room after the explosion. This was weaponized anthrax, Stricker. They’ve had to seal off an entire section of Bethesda Naval Hospital, and the other bodies in the morgue were contaminated, too. The whole place has to go through decon.”

“I assume you want me to track down the source of the attack?”

“Yeah, that and…” Brognola’s voice trailed off.

“And what?” Bolan asked. “Come on, Hal, you don’t usually hesitate.”

The big Fed sighed heavily. “Look, this wasn’t just a well-executed biological attack. They used her, Striker, and I mean that in the most literal sense. The coroner had already completed the rape kit and some of the toxicology before the explosion. She’d been given Rohypnol. She was raped and killed. Symbols had been carved into her body with some kind of thin-bladed knife. And then they filled her with a deadly virus and killed her father, along with some other good people. I don’t just want the source, Striker. I want to know every bastard that was behind this and…”

Bolan could hear the deep anger in Brognola’s voice, and he felt some of it himself. “What exactly do you want me to do, Hal?”

“I want you to do whatever it takes,” he snapped. “I want the son of a bitch responsible for this to pay. The full tab.”

“All right,” he said. “Where do I start?”

“Looks like you’re going back to Jamaica,” Brognola said. “Amber Carson was down there on vacation. I’ll send you over everything we’ve got on her. You’ve been booked on a flight leaving in—” Bolan could hear the clicking of a keyboard in the background “—five-and-a-half hours.”

“What’s my cover?” Bolan asked.

“I know you prefer something less flashy, but I’m going to send you in as CIA, and I’ll get you a meet at the American Embassy in Kingston. Amber’s death has already created a shitstorm down there, and it’s a guarantee that every government agency we’ve got is going to have people traipsing around. One more agent asking questions should go unnoticed, but still get you a little cooperation.”

“I don’t know that traipsing is the word. With a dead senator, you won’t be able to move five feet without running into some government official from here or there. Our deal is usually low profile, and this has the makings of a very high-profile mess. Why is Stony Man Farm so quick to jump in when there are so many other agencies involved?” Before Brognola could respond, he added, “Look, I understand it’s bad, what they did to the girl, and the anthrax, even the death of a senator, but that doesn’t automatically make it one for us.”

“Striker, I know,” Brognola said. “It’s… Yeah, this one is a little personal, I get that, but it’s well within our mandate.”

Bolan considered his friend’s words. “And you’re sure this is how you want to play it, Hal?”

“I’m sure, Striker,” he said. “I need you on this one. I can’t trust that anyone else will do it right, and I don’t want there to be some kind of cover-up if this gets really big.”

“All right,” he said. “I’ll find whoever did this, Hal.”

“I know you will, Striker. Good luck.” Brognola ended the connection.

Bolan put his phone back on the nightstand and headed for the shower. It was going to be a long day, and he wanted to review the file Brognola was sending to him before he got on the plane, as well as review anything the news might have on the situation.

As he stepped under the hot spray of the shower and leaned into the pressure of the water, Bolan couldn’t keep the disturbing thought of how brutal it was to kill a man’s daughter and then use the grief to kill the parent, as well. There was a lot of evil in the world, but this was a level of brutality that didn’t come around too often.

He decided it wouldn’t hurt to do some research online. He’d run across some Jamaican gangbangers in the past, and they played hardball. He also had a recent run-in with chemical zombies in Jamaica. But biological weapons didn’t seem to fit with anything the gangs had done before. Any intel he could come up with before he went in might be a weapon he could use later.

And Bolan had the feeling that he’d need every weapon he could get.



SITTING IN FRONT of his laptop, Bolan reviewed the file Brognola had sent, then went online and used the instructions the big Fed had given him in order to view the video file of what happened at Amber Carson’s autopsy. It had been stored behind several federal law-enforcement firewalls, but Aaron Kurtzman and the cyberteam at Stony Man Farm had no trouble finding work-arounds to get him in.

The video showed the autopsy suite at Bethesda Naval Hospital. On the stainless-steel table, a beautiful young woman was covered with a sheet. Nearby, the coffin in which she’d been transported back to the States sat on a table, the lid open. Bolan froze the image and saw that the coffin was metal and stamped with the seal of the Coast Guard. That explained why the trigger, which had to have been pressure based, didn’t activate prior to the autopsy—the coffin had been pressurized and sealed to preserve evidence.

He tapped the play icon and the video resumed. Standing over the body of Amber Carson was a man who spoke into the hanging microphone, identifying himself as Dr. Harvey Palfrey. He gave the particulars of her name and date of birth, while across the room, a sad-faced man Bolan recognized as Senator William Carson stood and watched. Next to him, a Secret Service agent stared at nothing, while occasionally speaking into his wrist microphone to update the other agents that were undoubtedly outside the room. Reading from a sheet of notes, Palfrey gave the findings of the already completed toxicology report and the rape kit.

Bolan felt a thread of anger burn in his stomach. Amber Carson had been young, beautiful and well educated, with a world of opportunity in front of her. She should have lived a long, full life. Now she was dead—raped and murdered by some thug. He also felt badly for Dr. Palfrey. As one of the handful of physicians at Bethesda Naval Hospital who regularly served members of Congress, it was his unfortunate task to conduct the autopsy. Under normal circumstances, performing an autopsy on a young person was undoubtedly unpleasant; with Senator William Carson watching as he did so, would have made any doctor tense.

Bolan froze the video on Carson’s face. The poor man obviously hadn’t slept in several days, and it was a little strange that he’d be present for the autopsy itself. Still, he was a grieving father, and a powerful Senator, so if he’d made an issue of being there, even Dr. Palfrey couldn’t rightly gainsay him. He started the video once more and listened as Palfrey asked the senator again if he would consider waiting outside. Carson frowned and shook his head.

“Please, Senator,” Dr. Palfrey said. “I understand—”

“Enough!” he snapped. “I want the answers. Nothing is going to happen unless I am around to see it. I wasn’t there when she died, but I sure as hell am going to find out who did this and make them pay. You and I both know that nothing in Washington is a coincidence, and I don’t believe that the daughter of a senator is killed this way by happen-stance.”

Senator Carson moved forward and instinctively Palfrey moved back. Bolan watched as Carson stretched out his hand and stroked his daughter’s blond hair. The pain seemed to almost overwhelm him as he leaned on the table with his other hand. The room stayed silent for another minute. Palfrey finally broke the silence by clearing his throat. The senator straightened and turned on his heel to return to his place next to the Secret Service agent.

“Get on with it. The sooner you’re finished, the sooner we can have the full findings. I flew to Jamaica to pick up her body, and I will stand by her until she is properly laid to rest. It is…it is the least I can offer her until the raping, murderous son of a bitch who did this to her can be brought to justice.”

The doctor’s shoulders slumped in defeat, but he nodded and resumed his position next to the table.

Not knowing the man, Bolan couldn’t make a guess as to Carson’s motivations, but he was obviously obsessed with knowing everything—and if everything was horrible and disturbing, it would likely only further fuel his rage and insistence on justice.

Palfrey turned his attention to the body on the table and lowered the boom microphone, then selected a scalpel from the tray next to him. Lifting up the vital-statistics card, he started the official recording, giving Amber’s name and statistics, then turned to the body. “Beginning the initial incision, a standard Y cut to prepare the chest and abdominal cavities.”

He worked quickly, speaking his findings into the microphone as he went. An assistant stood nearby, making notes and moving in clean containers for the organs when they were needed. Carson and the Secret Service agent stood silently, flinching only when they used a small saw to get past the rib cage. The doctor examined and removed Amber’s lungs, kidneys, spleen and liver, noting that each appeared healthy and undamaged.

“Moving on to the intestinal tract and the stomach,” Palfrey said. He made another incision, angling the cut slightly to avoid slicing open the stomach until he’d removed it from the abdominal cavity. “The appearance of the stomach organ is—” he started to say, then stopped. “Did anyone else hear that?” he asked.

Bolan could detect a barely audible high-pitched whine, and he saw the Secret Service agent begin to move.

Then the stomach exploded in Palfrey’s hands, and he screamed in agony. The video captured the flash of powder-filled light and then stopped.

“Damn,” Bolan muttered, knowing that the attack was not only vicious, but required genuine imagination and intelligence. He closed the file and finished packing. He had a flight to catch and some very bad men to track down and bring to justice.




2


The American Embassy in Jamaica was a diplomat’s dream. Located in the center of Kingston in a converted hotel, it towered over the surrounding neighborhoods, with gleaming white walls and windows on every floor. Bolan was reminded of many of the older towns in Europe and the Middle East, where the community developed around a central fortress.

As Bolan stepped out of his rental car, the humid Jamaican air filled his lungs. After showing his credentials to the well-armed Marines stationed at the front gate, he’d been waved through and found a lone parking spot far enough away to guarantee he’d be covered in sweat by the time he got inside the building. He grabbed his briefcase and headed toward the front entrance.

The soldier stepped into the lobby with a sense of relief, the humid air having made quick work of soaking his clothing, evident as he tried to pull the damp material away from his skin. The air-conditioning was going full blast. He’d been here before and in enough similar environments to know how to tolerate the humidity, but that didn’t keep him from appreciating cooler air. He moved to the reception desk and displayed his credentials to the blond-haired receptionist. “Matt Cooper for Conrad Anders,” he said.

The young woman behind the desk visibly flinched when Bolan flashed the CIA badge. He was curious about the reaction. CIA agents tended to make people a little nervous, but the look in her eyes was more “scared rabbit” than “what’s he know about me that I wish he didn’t?”

“Oh…yes, sir. He’s expecting you, sir.”

“Good,” he replied. “Where will I find him?”

“His office is on the second floor. Take the stairs, turn right and go straight down the hall. You can’t miss it.” She gestured with one well-manicured hand to the double-wide staircase that had once led to the mezzanine level of the hotel but now led to offices.

Deciding to test his suspicions, Bolan leaned over the desk slightly, his size and direct gaze causing her to flinch again. “Thank you,” he said. “But I’m curious. Is there a problem I should be aware of? You seem…nervous.”

She shook her head so rapidly that her hair came loose from its pins and formed a swirling cloud around her head. “No, sir,” she said rapidly. “I’m…I’m just new here and not used to everything yet. And we’ve been particularly busy with the death of Senator Carson’s daughter. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing.”

He leaned back and glanced at the nameplate on the desk. “Then you should try to relax, Anna. CIA agents are government employees, just like you.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “But I don’t carry a gun or have…secrets.”

“Everyone has secrets, Anna,” he replied, then turned away.

Still thinking that her behavior was a bit strange, Bolan headed up the stairs, checking that the Desert Eagle was secure in its holster. Something was off with this place, he could feel it, and he wasn’t about to get taken by surprise. The stairs and hallway were carpeted in a deep red shag that went halfway up the walls, and the effect was somewhat disconcerting. It looked as if he was walking on a river of blood. He reached the end of the hallway and saw that Anders warranted a receptionist of his own, though unlike the blonde downstairs, this lady was in her late twenties or early thirties, with skin as dark as coffee, and thick, heavy braids in her hair.

“Agent Cooper?” she asked as he approached. “Mr. Anders is expecting you. I’ll take you right in.”

When she stood up, Bolan saw that even in heels, she barely reached his chin. She wore a floral sundress that clung to her body in all the right places, and the effect was obviously intentional. She moved to the closed door, opened it and gestured for him to enter. Bolan walked in and paused as the door clicked shut behind him.

Conrad Anders stood up from his desk and crossed to the middle of the room. Bolan recognized the posture and the frown—a stance that said, “This is my sandbox.” Standing a good six foot two and built like a brick outhouse, Anders was a formidable enough figure to give most men pause. But Bolan wasn’t most men and had very little use for men who proclaimed their territory like a rooster. In his experience, most of them were as full of hot air as the Jamaican countryside.

“Agent Cooper,” Anders said, offering his hand. “Welcome to Jamaica.”

“Interesting,” he replied, shaking hands. “I’m not sure welcome is the right word.”

Anders sighed and nodded. “Sorry about that. The truth is that I’m hoping you can explain to me some of the cloak-and-dagger crap I’ve been getting fed since this mess with Amber Carson started. To tell you the truth, the bullshit is starting to pile up, taste bad and stink to high heaven.”

This guy might not like him playing in his sandbox, Bolan thought, but at least he wasn’t going to play the political game. Maybe his initial pose had been one he’d adopted due to the situation, rather than his normal way of acting.

“You know the drill, then,” Bolan replied, “and you won’t be surprised when I tell you that explanations are not going to be forthcoming anytime soon. About all I can offer is what you already know—we’re looking into Amber Carson’s murder.”

“You and everyone else, Agent Cooper,” Anders said. “But now I’ve heard that there was some kind of explosive planted in her body that killed her father.”

“That was supposed to be a secret,” he said. “You must have good sources, because it’s true.”

“I’m the intelligence officer for this embassy,” he said. “But my sources have less to do with it than the fact that we’re in Jamaica. Keeping secrets here is like telling a four-year-old not to tell Mommy or Daddy. It’s a guarantee they’ll talk. This place is rife with rumor and speculation.”

“It must make separating the truth from the lies more difficult.”

Anders shrugged. “That’s part of my job. The sad thing is that with so much trouble in the region, there’s almost always some shred of truth to the rumors. Leads are difficult to track down because the culture here makes deciphering meaning almost impossible. Just when you think you’ve pinned something or someone down, you find out you’ve been on a trail that leads to nowhere. And now with a senator dead, getting anything useful will be twice as hard.” He moved to look out the window.

“Sounds frustrating,” Bolan said. “But what can you tell me that I need to know before I go looking for answers?”

“What you really need to know about are the posses. Everything else is just window dressing.”

“Posses?” he asked, playing dumb. “Like the Old West?”

“No,” Anders said, chuckling. “The posses are Jamaican gangs, but unlike most of the inner-city thugs you see in the U.S., these guys are organized and revered. They control the neighborhoods with money, drugs, weapons, you name it. The police don’t have half their power or influence, and the posses actually wield political power because they control the people here.”

“How likely is it that one of these posses was involved in Amber Carson’s death?”

“Very likely,” Anders said. “Almost guaranteed.”

He reached for a file on his desk. Flipping through the pages, he opened to a picture of a body in a morgue. Centered in the frame was a tattoo on the right arm of the deceased—a grim reaper cradling a skull. “Take a look at this,” he said. “The Undead Posse.”

“They sound charming,” Bolan said. “Why are they called the Undead Posse?”

“If you ask the locals,” Anders replied, “it’s because their leader is actually one of the living dead.”

“Really,” Bolan said, handing the folder back to Anders. “The living dead?”

“I’m not kidding,” he said. “You’ve heard of voodoo, yes?”

Bolan nodded. In fact he was all too familiar.

Anders tossed the folder back onto his desk. “The locals believe that this new posse, the Undead Posse, is being led by some kind of…” He shrugged. “I don’t even know what the hell to call it. Someone back from the dead, but not a zombie or a vampire. Or maybe it’s a zombie. Who the hell knows?”

“Tell me about the posses in general,” Bolan replied.

Anders returned to his desk and sat down, gesturing for Bolan to do the same. “Like I told you, they’re gangs, but better run than anything I’ve ever heard about in the U.S. They run drugs, mostly, here and in the U.S. Very big in Miami, New York and up into Canada. But they’re willing to fight with automatic weapons over turf—drive-bys are common—and they don’t fear law enforcement at all.”

“Why are they tolerated?” Bolan asked, thinking of all the various forms of organized crime that he’d rooted out over the years.

“Because they’re everywhere,” Anders replied simply. “They outnumber law enforcement, have more money and better guns. When arrests are attempted, the people riot in the streets because the posses supply them with drugs, food, money and protection.”

“So why do you think this Undead Posse was involved in Amber Carson’s murder?” Bolan said.

“The dead man in the picture,” he said. “That tattoo is their symbol. He was found near the resort where she was staying. His throat had been cut.”

“Professional or personal?” Bolan asked.

“Probably both,” Anders replied. “The posses hand out their own form of justice. It’s likely he’s the one who killed her and when his posse leader found out, he was executed for it.”

“Case closed,” Bolan said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

Anders shrugged again. “It’s where the trail leads,” he said. “I’ve seen it before down here.”

“It seems a little convenient to me,” Bolan replied. “So if the killings here are personal, why take out a senator’s daughter? Or is that coincidence?”

Anders shrugged and looked away. He looked back and Bolan knew that the next words out of his mouth were going to be a lie. He didn’t care about territorial people, but liars who were supposed to be on his team were bothersome. Anders started to speak and Bolan held up his hand.

“Look, Anders, I don’t know what crap you’re getting ready to spout, but just…don’t. If there is a link to the senator that you suspect, then you need to let me know. If not, you’re likely to have a bad day. I don’t care about political garbage, I care about getting the people who did this and seeing them brought to justice.”

Anders took a step back and looked up at Bolan.

“No bullshit.”

“No bullshit.”

“All right, there are drugs and guns coming out of Jamaica, and we can’t seem to stem the flow.”

“What does that have to do with the senator?”

“Someone is helping them and I intend to find the culprit,” Anders said.

“She was staying at the Goldshore Resort, according to what I’ve got on file.”

“That’s right,” he said. “Are you going to check it out?”

“Yes,” Bolan said. “There’s something about all this that sets my teeth on edge.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” Anders asked. “If I knew more, maybe I could help more. You said no bullshit.”

“Maybe so,” Bolan said, standing up. “But if I told you, I’d have to kill you.” He stared hard at the man. “We wouldn’t want that, now, would we?”

“Funny,” Anders said. “But you aren’t the first CIA badass to try that with me. If you get serious, let me know if you want my help. Jamaica isn’t like most playgrounds. The mix of serious thugs with tourists is a pressure cooker, and the locals have no problem sending a clear message that if they aren’t left alone to do as they wish, they will seriously damage the notion of an ideal tourist spot. Other than that, there’s nothing else I can offer you.”

“I don’t need anything else,” he said. “I’ll see myself out.”

“Good,” Anders said, not bothering to rise or offer to shake hands again. “And, Agent Cooper?”

Bolan stopped halfway to the door and turned back. “Yes?”

“Obeah may seem like superstitious nonsense, but it’s very real to the people who believe in it. I advise you to be careful. Lots of people just…disappear in Jamaica.”

“I’m always careful, Mr. Anders,” Bolan replied. “It’s why I’m still alive and so many of my enemies aren’t.” He turned his back on the man and walked out the door.




3


Bolan parked his rental car across the street from the Goldshore Villas Resort. He knew from reading the dossier on Amber Carson that she’d been staying there, in her father’s condominium, while in Jamaica. He’d taken the time to do some quick research, but the pictures he’d seen online hadn’t done the place justice. It was a monument to wealth and excess, brought to life in the form of a private resort for the rich and powerful.

High adobe walls were decorated with vines and flowers, providing beauty, privacy and a botanical scene before a person even entered the front door. The main building was the largest of three, reaching up ten stories, with two smaller towers of eight stories on either side. The walls were nothing but windows—obviously opaque—to provide a view of the ocean and the beaches, or the island itself. A gated entrance protected a circular drive, and beyond it Bolan could see the double doors trimmed in polished brass. A valet and a bellman waited at a small podium.

He crossed the street and stopped at the inconspicuous, though obviously new, guard shack. Inside, a uniformed security officer stared back at him through the glass. “Can I help you, sir?”

Bolan showed him his CIA credentials. “I’m Special Agent Matt Cooper, CIA. I’d like to see the manager.”

“Do you have an appointment, sir?”

“No, I don’t,” he replied. “Just call the desk and ask him if I can talk to him for a few minutes.”

“You and every other guy with a badge wanting access,” he said. “Hold on.” He let go of the button that allowed them to converse through the small speaker in the glass and picked up a house phone inside the booth. He spoke a few words into the receiver, then hung the phone up.

“You can go on in,” he said. “Sorry about making you wait.”

Bolan lightly tapped the glass. “Better safe than sorry, right?” he asked.

“That’s what they’re saying now, since that girl got killed,” the guard said. “Before, the gates were just for decoration. This booth is brand-new, and I was only hired a few days ago. They brought in a new security manager, too.”

“I imagine things will settle down soon,” Bolan said.

“I hope not,” the man replied with a grin. “Easiest guard job I ever had catering to the rich folk. Not too many people want to make a fuss with the richies around. They want them to spend their money and then bring their friends to spend their money. Even the posses leave the tourists alone in this area.”

Bolan walked over as the guard opened the pedestrian gate for him. He stepped through and followed the walk around the drive to the front door, where the bellman was waiting to open it. Bolan thanked him and moved forward into the lobby.

Plush carpeting in warm colors and leather furnishings greeted him, while indirect light kept the interior lit without being overly bright. The greenery from the outside continued throughout the lobby, creating a tropical paradise with hidden alcoves and paths that led out to the gardens. Quiet New Age music played on hidden speakers. The front desk was along the wall to his left and topped with a highly polished slab of driftwood large enough to serve as a raft should the need arise. An attractive young woman stood behind it, and she smiled when she saw him.

“Agent Cooper?” she asked. “Go right in. Mr. Kroger is waiting for you.” She gestured at a door positioned to one side of the front desk.

“Thanks,” he said, scanning the lobby for trouble even as he went to the door and opened it to see a large office dominated by a desk and multiple file cabinets. Behind the desk, a thin, tired-looking man waved him in.

“Please, Agent Cooper,” he said, gesturing at one of the chairs, “have a seat.” He rose and offered his hand. “John Kroger, by the way. I’m the general manager of the resort.”

“I appreciate your taking the time to see me without an appointment,” he said. “The guard out front made it clear that things have been hectic.”

Kroger laughed dispiritedly. “It’s been a trip through hell,” he admitted. “Ever since Amber Carson was…found.”

“She was raped and murdered,” Bolan said bluntly. “There’s no need to soft sell it with me.”

Kroger shuddered. “I find it all so horrible,” he said. “As I’ve told the other investigators, nothing like this has ever happened here.”

“In Jamaica?” he asked.

“No, no,” Kroger said. “I mean here at the resort. We’re not that kind of place. Even during spring break, most of our younger guests are well-behaved.” He stood up and paced back and forth behind his desk, waving his stick-figure arms. “I don’t understand it,” he continued. “Oh, they’ll come here and drink, maybe get high, but they don’t usually cause trouble for anyone but the housekeeping staff. Their families compensate the hotel well for any damages, and everyone continues to have a good time. It’s a long-standing tradition down here. They come and play, spend lots of money and we don’t ask a lot of questions. The parents like to send them here because they know our staff is discreet.”

Bolan watched as the man finally stopped and sat once more. “It’s not an easy situation for anyone,” he said. “And I don’t want to take up a lot of your time…?.”

“Of course, of course,” Kroger said. “I apologize. I’ve talked to so many people this past week, and none of them have been able or willing to tell me anything. I don’t even worry about what this will do to our business, you understand. I know Ms. Carson’s father personally. How will I ever look him in the eye again?”

Bolan already knew that the senator’s death was being kept quiet for a few days for security reasons, so telling Kroger anything about it now wouldn’t serve any larger purpose. “I’m sure he’ll understand that you weren’t responsible,” he said.

“I hope so, very much,” he said. “Now, what can I do to help you?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure there’s much you can do,” he admitted. “At this point, I’m simply following my instincts. Would you mind if I took a look around the property, maybe talked to some of the staff?”

“Not at all,” Kroger said. “I can escort you, if you like, or our new security manger, Mr. Kowal, whichever you prefer.”

“I’d like to meet Mr. Kowal, anyway,” Bolan said. “Since he’s new, he may be able to offer a unique perspective.”

Kroger agreed and picked up the phone, calling Mr. Kowal, who arrived several minutes later, and introduced himself. “Call me Rob,” he said.

Kowal was a rather unassuming man, with brown hair and eyes that likely made him unnoticeable most of the time. His manner was one of friendly professionalism. “What would you like to see first, Agent Cooper?”

“Let’s start with the security tapes from the night Amber Carson was last seen alive,” he suggested. “Then I’d like to talk with housekeeping.”

“If you’ll follow me?” he asked.

Bolan nodded, thanked Kroger and followed Kowal out of the office. The security manager’s office was a short distance down a back hallway, and Bolan found himself pleasantly surprised. Most hotels and resorts couldn’t afford—or wouldn’t spend—the money for a genuine security professional, let alone the kinds of equipment on display here. The office was clean and well organized, and a bank of camera monitors was placed against one wall. They displayed views of every hallway, the lobby, the driveway and the back patio area. A uniformed security officer was watching the monitors closely, occasionally tapping a button to change a camera angle.

“Impressive,” Bolan said. “This is a pretty nice setup for a resort.”

“Unfortunately, it’s not as good as it could be,” Kowal said. “I was brought on board just a few days ago, and it’s too late to help that young woman.”

“What was the security situation when you were hired?” Bolan asked.

“Pretty standard,” he said. “The cameras were all operational and recording, but there was no monitoring security staff. After midnight, the resort was running only a single security officer for the entire property, and he spent most of his nights rousting drunk rich kids instead of looking for real trouble.”

“What have you changed since you came on board?”

Kowal gestured to the man seated at the monitors. “As you can see, I’ve got a man assigned just to watch the camera feeds—rotating staff there every three hours to keep their eyes fresh. I also added the gate guard, and we have four officers on foot patrol during the day–it bumps to six between 6:00 p.m. and midnight, and then drops to three between midnight and 4:00 a.m.”

“Sounds about right,” Bolan said. “Any trouble so far?”

The security manager shook his head in disgust. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Drunk rich kids carrying on, for the most part. A couple of minor scuffles out on the patio, and once on the beach—all easily handled and nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Have you talked to the staff on duty that night?” he asked. “Reviewed the video footage?”

“Both,” Kowal said. He turned to the officer seated at the monitors. “Dave, can you bring up the footage from the night of Amber Carson’s murder, please? Just from the patio.” He moved to a blank monitor, turned it on and gestured for Bolan to sit down.

Both men watched as Amber and her friends drank shots out on the patio, then saw her move to get something to eat. There wasn’t an audio feed. “Who’s the guy hitting on her?” Bolan asked.

“Actually, a member of the staff. He was off duty, and so long as things didn’t get out of line, the management had allowed it. I’ve since changed that policy.”

“Wise,” he said. “Has this employee been questioned?”

“By the local police, myself, Mr. Kroger and two federal law-enforcement officers who came in yesterday evening,” Kowal said.

Bolan thought that was curious. He asked which agency the federal officers were with, and Kowal snorted. “They showed FBI credentials, but I don’t think so. Maybe military or NSA, but not FBI.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Educated guess,” Kowal said. “They didn’t talk like FBI.”

“You seem to know your way around law enforcement,” Bolan said. “Better than most resort security officers I’ve ever heard of. What’s your background?”

Kowal smiled. “Secret Service until four years ago. I quit to launch my own company.”

“Doing resort security? Kind of a step down, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

This time Kowal actually laughed. “No, my company is a security consulting agency. Once they’re set up here and I’ve got a good man in place to run things, I’ll be on my way to wherever the next job takes me. It may not sound as cool as Secret Service, but it’s about ten times the money.”

“Makes sense,” Bolan said. “So, what’s your take on this situation?”

“Jamaica is a gilt-covered cesspit,” he said. “But generally speaking, the real bad guys, the posse crews, leave the tourists alone. Too much trouble—high risk, low reward. I think Amber Carson was targeted, if what I’ve heard is true.”

“What have you heard?” he asked.

“She was raped, ritualistically murdered, and then somehow her body was rigged with a light explosive that was attached to weaponized anthrax. When it went off, it killed Senator Carson, some folks in the examination room where they were conducting the autopsy, and turned Bethesda Naval Hospital into a quarantine zone.”

Bolan leaned back in his chair and reassessed the man sitting before him. Not only was his information dead-on accurate, but it was only known to a handful of people in the world right now. “I thought you were out of the Secret Service,” he finally said.

“I am,” Kowal said. “But I still have friends there, and I like to keep in the loop about what’s going on in that end of things. You know how it is. You’re never really out of service.”

“You’re well-informed,” he admitted. “Most of that hasn’t been made public yet. Kroger still thinks her father is alive. Have you heard anything from the staff that makes you think they might know more than they ought to?”

“No, but I’m the new guy and not a local, so that makes me persona non grata with the islanders. It’s a closed community in general and really hard to break into, but I’m not here to make best friends. I’m here to get a job done.”

“Kroger’s going to find out, probably sooner than later. They won’t be able to keep that under wraps for long,” Bolan said.

“I know,” he said. “But he won’t find out from me. Right now, I’m just doing the job I was hired to do—make the resort as secure as possible. Though that horse has already left the barn, I think.”

“Me, too,” Bolan said. “I just wish I knew where the damn thing ran off to.”




4


After finishing up with the security manager, Bolan decided to give the property a quick visual inspection. Kowal had happily agreed. Though the man seemed more than competent, another set of eyes might spot something new or different. First, Bolan went up to Amber’s floor and checked out the condominium, which was still protected by police tape and unchanged from the night of her death. Then, he went all the way to the roof, which turned out to be unremarkable—as did the beach, the patio and the walkways around the main resort building. In short, nothing jumped out at him as out of place.

Walking along the rear of the building, Bolan heard two male voices on the other side of a brick screening wall, and he stopped to listen. The conversation was unclear, but both men seemed to be unhappy with their jobs. He started to dismiss them and move on, when they walked away from the area with their backs to him. One of the men wore a sleeveless T-shirt, and it revealed a heavily inked tattoo that looked all too familiar—the symbol of the Undead Posse.

Pausing to take another look, Bolan saw that the other man sported the same tattoo. Two people from the Undead Posse working here felt like a lot more than a coincidence to him. Bolan decided to follow them to see if they led him somewhere interesting—or at least somewhere he might be able to ask them some questions in a more private setting.

Bolan followed the two men as they left the employee’s entrance and exit area and walked toward a private parking lot shielded from sight by a row of massive palm trees and a vine-covered iron fence. They rounded the corner and Bolan walked a bit faster, not wanting to lose them. As he came around the fence, he saw that they had paused, and one had drawn a compact semiautomatic handgun.

Bolan hit the ground in a dive roll just as the shot rang out. He didn’t stop his movement, just kept the roll moving forward until he found his feet, then launched himself full force into the man with the handgun, driving his head like a battering ram into his gut and knocking him to the ground.

The man lost his grip on the gun, which bounced and clattered over the pavement of the parking lot. Out of the corner of his eye, Bolan saw the second man take off running. He’d have to finish this one quickly if he had any hope at all of catching up. He drove his knee piston-style into the crotch of the man beneath him, then shifted as the man groaned in pain and dropped the knee into his rib cage. Bolan felt at least one give way beneath his weight, and the groan became a breathy scream.

“Who are you?” Bolan demanded, leaning back slightly to let the man breathe.

Through a grimace of pain, the man said, “Death!” He spit the word as he brought around a hidden knife with his free hand, trying to stab the blade into Bolan’s neck.

The Executioner grabbed his wrist before he could connect, silently thanking his lucky stars that he’d seen it coming, and twisted the joint. As the man fought beneath him, Bolan contorted the wrist further, the ligaments snapping as he pushed it down, down, and then with a final shove stuck the blade into the man’s throat. The nameless thug twitched beneath him, then sagged in the release of death.

“Damn it,” he muttered, pushing himself up off the body that lay on the ground. He looked around for the other man, and saw him slipping into a Jeep on the far side of the parking lot. Knowing he had no time, Bolan leaped to his feet and took off running back toward the resort and the street where he’d parked his rental car. He ran all out, shouting for the guard to open the pedestrian gate.

The man came out looking stunned at Bolan’s sudden appearance.

“Open it!” Bolan yelled as he slammed into the gate. “Open it now!”

The guard hurried into his shack, and the big American saw the Jeep pull out of the employee lot two blocks down. The gate buzzed and Bolan shoved himself through it.

“What’s going—” the guard tried to say as he ran past.

Bolan didn’t have time for conversation. He raced to his car and jumped in, gunned the engine and took off after the Jeep.

The roads were crowded enough that he had to weave through traffic like a madman. Tires squealed and horns honked as he forced his vehicle past irritated drivers until he saw the Jeep ahead of him by several blocks and he felt comfortable enough to slow down. The traffic thinned as the Jeep headed out of Montego Bay, back toward Kingston. He stayed back as far as he could, noting how the driver of the Jeep was moving along the street carelessly and dangerously. It careened around cars that were moving slower than he wanted to go, and a couple of times he nearly caused an accident. Still, Bolan didn’t think the man could see that he was being followed so much as he was in a hurry to get away.

The Jeep continued on down the highway, and Bolan was thankful that this was really the only road between the two cities. A number of vehicles stayed on the highway the whole time, so there was no reason for the driver of the Jeep to think he was being followed simply because Bolan’s car happened to be behind him. It took a couple of hours for them to reach Kingston, and then he had no choice but to move closer.

The late-afternoon traffic was getting heavier and heavier, and if Bolan lost his mark, then all of this would have been for nothing. The soldier wished he hadn’t had to kill the man back at the resort. No doubt that Kowal and Kroger would be upset by another death on the property—even a necessary one.

The heart of Kingston was the polar opposite of Montego Bay, which was mostly a tourist area. Kept clean and inviting, with signs of wealth the hallmark of the coastal area, Montego Bay was welcoming and looked safe. The heart of Kingston was anything but hospitable: it was a place for the locals, mostly members of Jamaican posses. Spray-painted graffiti, rusted or burned-out cars and garbage in the streets made for a stunning contrast to where he’d just come from.

As the Jeep got closer to the Tivoli Gardens district, Bolan began to wish he was in an armored truck, instead of a four-door rental car that wouldn’t hold off a determined attack by a Chihuahua, let alone a gang of Jamaican thugs.

The fighting in the Tivoli Gardens area was practically legend, and the area had been highlighted in his mission briefing materials as extremely dangerous to outsiders. He knew that already. One large graffiti sign said Shoes of Jamaica and had an arrow pointing to a bloody shoe on the ground.

Bolan maneuvered his car through large stacks of pallets, and vehicles that were parked partly in the road. He was making another turn when the Jeep stopped and cars swarmed from different directions to pin his vehicle between them. Two cars were behind him, the Jeep in front and another blocked the exit to his right as several Jamaicans got out of their cars and began to move in on his rental. Two men were holding crowbars, while a third held a bat with massive nails through the end.

“Here we go,” Bolan muttered, watching in his mirror as the closer of them reached the back of his car. He slammed the stick into Reverse and gunned the engine. The tires screeched and the man tried to get out of the way, but he wasn’t fast enough. The rear bumper crunched into his legs, and he let out a scream of agony even as he smashed the crowbar he was carrying into the back windshield. The glass spidered but somehow held.

Bolan shifted into First and floored the gas pedal, ramming into the back end of the Jeep and narrowly missing the man he’d been following, who’d gotten out and was approaching his car with the others. The Jeep shuddered with the impact and rolled forward slightly, offering a narrow exit. The sudden burst of gunfire from behind made it more than clear to Bolan that it was time to go. But first it seemed as if making a point was necessary.

The Executioner drew his Desert Eagle, aimed through the passenger window and fired. The .50-caliber round shattered the safety glass with ease and made a mess of the nearest posse member. The entrance wound was bad, but the exit wound was worse, and the velocity knocked the man backward into the vehicle he’d been driving, a bloody, dying heap.

Another burst of gunfire blew out Bolan’s back window, and he ducked lower, shoved the car into gear and aimed for the small opening. His car clipped the Jeep with the grating sound of metal, but he managed to make it through. Behind him, angry shouts and gunshots continued, and he knew they’d follow. Considering his mode of transportation, Bolan considered himself extremely lucky to have all four tires and a vehicle that ran at all.

The other vehicles were behind him in seconds, still shooting. Bolan whipped around a corner and found himself in a narrow lane that was crowded with wooden pallets and ended in a rusted chain-link fence. With the other cars right behind him, he didn’t have any other choices but to floor the accelerator, shift and plow straight ahead. The pallets shattered with a crash and wooden splinters flew in all directions. He ducked again as he hit the fence, which gave way before him, but not before a large section of it smashed into his windshield, spidering the glass.

Obviously, the people living in the area were not unaccustomed to gunfire. Whereas most people would stay hidden, Bolan saw these residents running out of their homes to see what was going on. He yanked hard on the steering wheel, choosing the first street that went away from the residential buildings.

Just as he glanced in the mirror, a burst of automatic gunfire sounded and took out the last of his rear windshield. Bullets pounded into the heavy cloth seats. Bolan accelerated until he saw a large truck blocking the road in front of him. “Damn it,” he said, tapping the brakes and looking for a way to pass. Knowing it was a risk, he started to move around, but another barrage of gunfire took out the back tires of the truck and the sudden change in speeds forced them together. Metal crunched, and Bolan slammed on the brakes, letting the truck go past, then he downshifted, popped the clutch and moved to the other side of the truck, which was weaving all over the road.

He steered around another corner, only to see an oncoming pickup truck headed straight for him. In the bed, two men opened fire with mini-MAC-10s. “Son of a—” he said as two trails of bullets ran up the length of his hood. Bolan ducked, then popped back up, the Desert Eagle in hand. He fired off five quick shots, and the final one smashed the engine block of the truck. Smoke rolled as it skidded to a halt.

Bolan rocketed past the slowing vehicle and slammed on his brakes as he realized he was at a dead end. He locked the car into Reverse, spinning it and spearheading his way back into the oncoming cars. The slam from the side caught Bolan by surprise and knocked his car into an apartment building.

Gunfire poured in through the windows as Bolan shoved the driver’s seat backward and shimmied into the rear area. He opened the pass-through compartment, pulled out his briefcase and opened it in one smooth motion. The gunfire suddenly stopped, and he could hear a voice shouting, “Enough! Enough! Stop!”

Pulling two grenades out of the case, he pulled the pins and waited three seconds. Then he popped through the sunroof like a paramilitary jack-in-the-box and tossed the bombs directly at the feet of the men closing in on his vehicle. They detonated milliseconds after impact, and the explosions ripped through the gang. Screams sounded as shrapnel tore into their bodies.

Bolan grabbed the case in one hand as he bailed out of the car. It contained his primary arsenal and there was no way he was leaving it behind.

He whipped around the corner and into an alley as the first rounds of renewed gunfire sounded behind him. Using the building as cover, he put the case on the ground and rapidly assembled the Tavor MTAR-21 mini assault rifle inside it. Slamming the magazine home, he risked a quick look around the corner.

They were headed his way once more.

“Persistent,” Bolan muttered, glancing down the alleyway. He needed to either end this or escape—and fast. The risks to his mission were mounting quickly. He couldn’t do the job if he was seriously injured, killed or captured, but these men obviously didn’t care about civilian casualties, either. They were in an area of rundown apartment buildings and a few shops. With all the gunfire, sooner or later there were going to be people hurt or dead who had nothing to do with the situation.

He risked another look and opened up with the Tavor in short, sharp bursts. The building facades echoed with the sound, and two of the approaching posse members went down before the others found cover.




5


Jacob Crisp stared out the window at the small market that filled the streets below his window. He smiled as the armored police vehicles drove by and bystanders threw rotted fruits and vegetables at the intruding vehicles. The irony that they were protesting in small ways because of his supposed death and all of the things that his posse had created was not lost on him. The vehicles continued out of the square, and Jacob closed the wooden shutter, blocking out further opportunity for distraction, and returned his attention to the men behind him.

Bastiene Durene was his most loyal companion. At six foot he was a couple of inches taller than Crisp, but leaner and meaner. Everyone called him Spook because he seemed to appear and disappear without any evidence. It made him an effective killer and an even more effective spy. He had almost left Spook out of his reincarnation, but he knew that the man would find out eventually anyway and then only see the slight as a betrayal.





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