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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?”
