Don Pendleton - Blood Rites

“What? Who’s dead?”

“Those boys, all of them.”

“What?” Channer repeated, feeling foolish. “That can’t be right.”

“It’s true. I seen ’em myself, and Babylon’s all over there.”

“Damn it! Did they kill the white man?”

“Didn’t see him, Boss.”

“What about the woman?”

“She’s not here.”

Snarling an incoherent curse, Channer switched off the cell and tossed it from him. Someone caught it, tucked it in a pocket and was wise enough to ask no questions.

“All our brothers are dead,” he told them. His wounded arm throbbed—the local anesthetic wearing off—which only worsened Channer’s mood. “How could one man do all that?”

When no one answered, Channer decided on his own. “He couldn’t do it! It’s impossible.”

“He must’ve had help,” one of his soldiers offered.

“This shit isn’t finished,” Channer said. “I’m gonna find this bastard and he’s gonna say who sent him.”

“And the woman?” asked his other bodyguard.

“She’s run home to her papa,” Channer replied. “Where else?”

“Good thinkin’, Boss.”

“I’m gonna hear this white man screaming out his lungs. He’ll beg to die before I’m done.”

One of the soldiers cleared his throat and asked, “You gonna tell the Don, Boss?”

Damn! Channer had almost let that aspect of the problem slip his fevered mind. His master would be waiting for a call in Kingston, and he couldn’t stall much longer.

“Of course,” he replied. “I’ll call him soon as I find the scrambler phone.”

“I’ve got it,” said the soldier to his left, reaching inside his jacket.

Channer could have slapped him, but he took the phone instead and switched on its scrambler, waiting for the green light to stop flashing and burn steadily. When it was ready, he speed-dialed the only number in its memory.

Nearly six hundred miles away, a grim voice answered on the second ring. “What’s happening?”

“I’m sorry, Boss,” he said. “I’ve got bad news.”

* * *

Briar Bay Park, Kendall, Florida

BOLAN HAD PARKED his Mercury and sat there in the dark with Garcelle Brouard. She had declined medical treatment and agreed to speak with him before he dropped her off, her final destination still unspecified.

“So, Channer picked you up to strike a blow against your father,” Bolan said.

Garcelle nodded. “I’m not sure if he expected to collect a ransom or dispose of me. Either way, he misjudged my father.”

“Your father wouldn’t miss you? Wouldn’t pay to get you back?”

“I cannot say how he might feel if I was dead,” Garcelle replied. “I like to think he’d mourn, of course, but that may be wishful thinking. As for paying ransom? Never. It would set a precedent that he could not abide.”

Clearly, she was an educated woman, not the standard mobster’s daughter raised on perks and privilege.

He changed tacks. “Are you sure about the hospital?”

“I’m fine,” she said, raising a hand to lightly touch her swollen lower lip. “You came—how do they say it—in the nick of time?”

“That’s how they say it. Were they grilling you about your father’s business?”

“Trying to, but there was nothing I could tell them. From the time I was born, I’ve been excluded from that side of Papa’s life. It was important to him, I believe, to have a semblance of a normal family. As if that’s even possible.”

He heard a note of bitterness in Garcelle’s voice and followed up on it. “I guess it isn’t easy on your mother, either.”

“I suppose it wasn’t, but she died when I was four years old. Was murdered, I should say. A business rival of my father’s set a bomb, and… It was difficult for me to understand, at first. I missed her, as you may imagine. Papa never remarried, although whether out of loyalty to Mama’s memory or to avoid another incident, I couldn’t say. There were tutors, and a governess.”

“We’ve all lost people,” Bolan said, remembering his parents and his younger sister, lives cut short by the Mafia intrigue that launched his never ending war.

“That’s true, of course. The past five years, I’ve been away at school in Paris. Papa thought I would be safe there.” With the bare trace of a wicked smile, she added, “If he only knew.”

“And now, you’re back.”

“Six weeks ago. It took that long for Channer’s men to find me, I suppose.”

“Where will you go now?” Bolan asked.

“Back to Papa, first, to put his mind at ease. From there, I would imagine he’ll send me off again. As long as it’s not Haiti, I’m content.”

“Not homesick, then?”

“You’ve been to Haiti?”

“On occasion.”

“Then you know the answer to your question. While my family has never suffered poverty, at least within my lifetime, Haiti is a pit of misery and crime. That must sound quite ironic, eh?”

“Well… Men like your father haven’t exactly helped make things better.”

“Of course. And, as you can see, I’ve taken full advantage of his filthy money.”

“It’s a choice,” Bolan acknowledged. “You’re well educated. You could make your own way in the world.”

“Blood tells, as the saying goes. Also a song, I believe.”

Bolan wasn’t a preacher. He dropped it. “So, where should I take you?”

“I have a friend in Coral Gables, if it’s not too far out of your way.”

He estimated twenty minutes on South Dixie Highway, give or take.

“Sounds good,” Bolan replied, and fired up the Marauder’s mill.

* * *

Windward Road, Kingston, Jamaica

JEROME QUARRIE HAD NEVER learned to take bad news in stride. He’d been trying, lately, to control his temper. It was sheer folly, in the midst of war, to kill his men each time they disappointed him.

The way things had been going lately, he’d have no soldiers left.

And so he listened, teeth clenched, to the story of pathetic failure Winston Channer told him. Nineteen soldiers dead, seven at Kingston House, and twelve lost in pursuit of the mysterious white man who staged the raid. It was a grave loss, nearly ten percent of Quarrie’s whole Miami garrison, but what infuriated him the most was losing the woman.

His hostage.

Channer had stopped talking. Quarrie took a deep breath, tried counting to ten as he’d been advised, but only got to five.

“All those brothers dead, but you’re still livin’.”

“I nearly lost my arm.”

“I find out this is your fault,” Quarrie said, “you’re gonna lose your head.”

“Boss, I didn’t—”

“Shut up!” Quarrie said. “Find the woman and the man who snatched her from you. Kill the two of them and bring me proof. You can’t do that, I’ll do the job myself, and then kill you. Understand?”

“All right, Boss.” Relief was audible in Channer’s voice. “It’s all good. I miss, I’m dead.”

“Remember that,” Quarrie replied, and cut the link.

He reached for some rum and ganja, for the maximum effect. One scorched his throat, the other seeped into his lungs and made his troubles seem, if not remote, at least a little more removed from his immediate concern. He had already given orders to be left alone, unless the house burst into flames, and even then he knew his men would hesitate to clamor for attention.

“I’m gonna drink your blood,” he muttered to the unknown enemy, the man who’d appeared from nowhere, slaughtering his men and foiling Quarrie’s scheme. “Don’t think I’ll forget. I won’t stop until I pay you back for this.”

Until the job was done .

* * *

Coral Gables, Florida