Hazard Zone

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?”