Hazard Zone

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.