William Heffernan - Red Angel

“How do you feel, boss?”

Mattie Ippolito helped Rossi to his feet. The old man’s legs were cramped, and he held tightly to Mattie’s arm.

He stood and stretched. He shook one leg, then the other, forcing the flow of blood back into each limb.

“I feel good. Good, Mattie. It’s unbelievable how good I feel.”

“I thought I’d puke when I saw you drinking that goat’s blood,” Ippolito said.

Rossi chuckled. “I thought I would, too. But, you know, it didn’t taste bad at all. Like a warm, sweet wine.”

Mattie shuddered and shook his head. “Hey, I’ll stick to Chianti. You know what I mean?”

Rossi reached up and gave his cheek a sharp pat. “When those bastards in the other families see me like this, they’ll shit their pants,” he said. “They already had the stinking lilies ordered for my funeral.”

The rear door opened and Argudin slipped inside. He hissed a warning at the two Abakua inside, and they immediately went for the rifles that lay on the floor at their feet.

Argudin hurried across the room and began babbling at Rossi.

“What the fuck is he talkin’ about?” Rossi snapped. He grabbed the woman by the arm. “Tell me what the fuck he’s saying.”

“He says the police are outside. He says they will be here in minutes.” The woman’s eyes were wide with fear.

Rossi pushed her toward Argudin. “Ask him if Devlin is with them. The American. Ask if the American is with them.”

The woman did as she was told. Argudin nodded vigorously at Rossi, then used some of the few English words he knew.

“Outside. He come. Berry soon.”

Rossi moved across the room, more quickly than Mattie had seen him move in years. He grabbed a rifle from one of the Abakua and thrust it toward Argudin. He turned to the woman. “You tell him to get outside and kill the American. I want him dead. No matter what happens I want that son of a bitch dead.”

On Martinez’s orders, the drivers killed their lights and coasted to a stop fifty meters from the house. A bend in the road provided concealment, and Martinez dispersed his men in two teams, one along the rock-strewn beach, a second through the heavy foliage at the base of a small hill that rose above the sea. Two men remained behind with Adrianna. Their orders were to hold that position, even if the others came under heavy fire.

Devlin, Martinez, and Pitts moved down the road, keeping to the edge that offered the most cover. They would be the first to draw fire, Devlin realized, and while he admired Martinez’s chutzpah as a leader of men, he felt a sudden longing for an NYPD SWAT team.

Martinez raised a hand, stopping them near a banana tree. A cluster of the green fruit hung just above their heads, and Pitts reached up and picked one.

“You taking a meal break?” Devlin hissed.

Pitts ignored him, peeled and bit into the undersized banana, then spit it out. “Tastes like shit,” he whispered.

Martinez shook his head. “It is a plantain. It is better cooked.” He inched closer to Devlin. “Is he always like this?” he asked.

“Always,” Devlin said.

Martinez pointed toward the house. It was little more than a shack built on pilings. Narrow stairs led to a porch that ran along the entire front. Two Abakua stood at the bottom of the stairs, two above on the porch. All were dressed in white, all easy targets for the rifles and shotguns carried by Martinez’s men.

Devlin estimated the distance to the house at thirty yards, and he knew Martinez’s men would be even closer.

“They have to know we’re here,” Devlin said. “If they’re going to resist, they should have at least taken cover by now. I can see two more at the windows. They haven’t even killed the lights behind them.”

“Senor Rossi may be counting on Cabrera to protect him if he is taken.”

“What about the rear of the house? Any chance of a boat coming in to pick Rossi up?”

“It is low tide, and it is shallow near the beach. He would have to wade out at least fifty meters. Such a plan would be suicidal.”

Martinez brought his handheld radio to his lips and whispered orders to his men.

“I am sending three men to the rear of the house, and the others will begin closing in on the front from both flanks. Let us go forward, slowly.” He began to move down the road again, staying low and close to the heavy foliage. Devlin and Pitts followed.

Argudin slipped out the rear door and flattened himself against the sand. He crawled the ten meters to the overturned skiff, keeping the rifle parallel to his body, then rolled into the thick brush at the edge of the sandy strip. He waited, listening for movement, then crawled again to the heavy foliage at the base of the hill. Just as he reached it, two men came out of the thick growth ten meters ahead and ran low to the ground to the rear of the house. Both carried automatic assault rifles.

Argudin let out a relieved breath. He touched the red-and-white beaded necklace at his throat and thanked Chango for watching over him. Had he left ten seconds later, he would have been trapped on the sand with no chance of escape.

He waited and watched as the two men were joined by a third, who had come from the other side of the house. When they took up positions outside the rear door, he began to inch his way up the hill. He wanted a shooting position that provided a clear field of fire at the front door, and close enough to his waiting car to provide a quick escape.

Rossi looked out the window and smiled. Twenty yards out he could make out three figures moving at the edge of the road. They were staying close to cover, but sooner or later, he knew, they would have to enter the house. With the lights from the windows and the open door, the Abakua on the hillside should have a clear shot at that son of a bitch Devlin.

He turned back to Mattie. “Tell the woman I want the Abakua to get rid of the weapons. Then I want them outside. Tell her they should have the others ditch their weapons, too. No resistance, tell her. Our friends will get us out of this later.”

“What about Devlin?” Mattie asked.

“I think he’s gonna have an accident,” Rossi said. “But we’ll be in here with our hands up. We won’t be part of it, capisce ?”

Martinez lowered his radio. “My men say the Abakua have thrown their weapons into the brush.”

“Don’t trust it,” Devlin warned.

“Yeah,” Pitts added. “Where that old bastard’s concerned, don’t trust anything.”

Devlin studied the house, now only twenty yards distant. The front door was open, and together with the windows to each side, it threw a heavy beam of light on the front porch and stairs. Too much light.

“I suggest we keep to the side of the road, then get inside as fast as we can when your men hit the door.”

“The light,” Martinez said. “Yes, I have noticed it, too.”

They moved up until they were only ten yards from the stairs. Martinez’s men had herded the Abakua to one side, searched them, and forced them to the ground with their fingers locked behind their heads. A second team had moved through the front door, weapons ready, and Devlin was certain those at the rear of the house had also closed in.

At Martinez’s order they moved quickly, low to the ground, up the stairs and in, pistols held low against their legs. High up on the hillside Argudin scrambled to a position just below his car. He saw the Americans follow the Cubans into the house too late to line up a shot. He touched the beads about his neck. When they came out, with the help of Chango, he would be ready.

Rossi sat in a chair in the center of the room, his eyes fixed on Devlin. His shirt was still unbuttoned, and beneath it the marks of the ritual were still visible. Mattie Ippolito stood slightly behind him, and to his left the palero knelt before the nganga.