Don Pendleton - Blood Rites

GARCELLE BROUARD HAD no friends in Coral Gables, but she did have an apartment on Granada Boulevard. The man who called himself Matt Cooper dropped her off, wished her well and drove away in his Mercury Marauder with its motor rumbling.

The doorman greeted her with all the courtesy her high-priced rent deserved, and he solemnly assured Garcelle that no one had come asking for her in her absence. Neither had there been reports of any lowlife gangster types lurking around the neighborhood. The very notion seemed outrageous and amusing, given the development’s security precautions and its good relationship with the police.

Despite that reassurance, Garcelle exercised her usual degree of caution as she rode the elevator to her floor, one level underneath the penthouse occupied by the star of a TV show set in Miami. She checked the tiny scrap of paper that she wedged between the door and jamb each time she left, unnoticeable until it had been dislodged, and then impossible to put back in the same place once the door was opened. Only Garcelle knew the combination to the door’s keypad. In the rare event of an emergency, firefighters would be forced to use an axe or pry bar to get in.

She let herself inside, then instantly secured the two dead bolts before she searched the flat, armed with a pistol she kept in the kitchen. There was another wedged between the cushions of her sofa, and a third in Garcelle’s nightstand. One of many things she’d learned from Papa: always be prepared.

It was embarrassing that she’d been taken by surprise, out on the street, but she was home now, relatively safe—a concept more or less devoid of meaning in the present circumstance—and it was time to let her father know that she’d escaped. As to how much she’d tell him, Garcelle knew the answer.

Everything.

She’d lost her cell phone to the Viper Posse, but it didn’t matter. Garcelle grabbed the cordless from the kitchen, took it with her as she roamed through the apartment, checking every room and closet, stopping down to peer beneath the bed. When she was satisfied at last, she sat down on the bed, two guns beside her now, and dialed her father’s number. Abner Biassou took the call, her father’s second in command.

“Hello.”

“Abner, I need to speak with Papa.”

“Miss, are you—”

“I’m fine. Just put him on.”

Another moment passed before her father’s voice came on the line.

“I’m sorry, my dear, but I cannot—”

“Negotiate with kidnappers?” She laughed at him. “Of course not, Father.”

“But—”

“That’s why I had no choice but to escape.”

“You’re free? Where are you? How did you—”

“Not now,” she interrupted. “This line’s not secure.”

“Of course. But I must still know where you are, to send protection.”

“I’m at home and safe for now. But if you’d care to send a car…”

“I’ll send a caravan,” her father said. “A convoy.”

“Nothing quite so obvious.”

“Two cars, then. I insist.”

“That should be more than adequate.”

“You constantly surprise me, child.”

“There are more surprises waiting, when I see you.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed.”

“Good news, or bad?” he asked.

“I’m not sure yet.”

“I am intrigued.”

“You must be patient for a little longer.”

“Lock your doors, and—”

“I know what I’m doing. Goodbye, Father.”

She cut the link, cradled the cordless phone and spent the next ten minutes packing what she needed for a stay away from home. Cosmetics were not a priority, but she packed clothes, two extra pairs of shoes and every document she could think of: her driver’s license, passport, birth certificate professionally altered to present her as a native-born American, and so on.

Garcelle packed her three pistols, as well. There was no point in leaving them behind for an intruder to discover. Two of the guns were Glock 19 Compacts, both perfectly reliable and efficient, but her favorite was the Heckler & Koch P2000 SK, a sub-compact model that weighed only twenty-four ounces while packing ten hollow-point rounds. Garcelle was proficient with all three weapons, but she’d never shot a man.

Since her experience with Channer’s thugs, she hoped—not for the first time—that she might be favored with the chance to find out what it felt like.

All in due time, she decided, and was ready when the buzzer rang from downstairs, the doorman announcing that her escorts had arrived. She took her rolling bag, two guns inside it and the P2000 SK in her purse, and left her comfortable flat, perhaps for good. If she did not return, so be it. Finding new accommodations would not be a problem.

She was more concerned about survival at the moment.

And revenge.

* * *

FROM CORAL GABLES, Bolan traveled north to Miami Shores, a stretch of waterfront abutting Biscayne Bay. Here, the Viper Posse made their presence felt by dealing drugs while skirmishing with the gangs that had preceded them, as well as latecomers who’d claimed a slice of turf after the fact.

His target was another posse hangout, this one called Armagideon, a Rasta variation on the final clash of good and evil from the Book of Revelation.

Bolan parked a block down range, on Northeast 96th Street. He locked up the Marauder and took the Steyr AUG and pistols with him as he walked down to the club, scanning the street along his way for any lookouts. He saw none and wondered if word of his first clash with Channer’s minions hadn’t reached the village yet, or if the soldiers here had chosen to ignore it.

Either way, they were about to get a wake-up call.

As he approached the club, Bolan heard its roof-mounted air conditioner kick into life, its droning loud enough to cover him as he tried the front door’s knob. It turned and Bolan slipped inside, his silenced rifle up and ready to meet any challenge from within, but no one stopped him as he cleared a smallish entryway and moved along a short hall, toward the sound of reggae music. He had nearly reached a curtain made of colored beads when the expected outer guard appeared, clutching a sandwich in his right hand, a beer bottle in his left.

The shock of being confronted by a man with a gun immobilized his adversary for a crucial second. Bolan took advantage of it, squeezing off a single shot that drilled the hungry man’s chest and punched him backward through the rattling curtain, toward the strains of island rhythm. Bolan followed, arriving just as the dead man’s companions registered his body flopping on the floor.

Four of them leaped up from a card table where they’d been playing poker; two more bolted from a bar on Bolan’s right, reaching for weapons hidden underneath their baggy tie-dyed shirts. A seventh posse member was behind the bar, cracking a beer, but he dropped it when he noticed the intruder and his automatic rifle.

Time does not slow down in combat. Quite the opposite, in fact. When the smoke clears, survivors may have only fragmentary memories of what they did, or who they killed, in order to survive. Bolan, thanks to his long experience, saw everything that happened with a perfect clarity, but had no images of slow-mo tumbling corpses, bottles shattering artistically behind the bar, or any other tricks well-known from Hollywood.

It was an ugly business, killing, and he did it very well.

He had the Steyr set for 3-round bursts and made them count, beginning with the guy behind the bar, who had more cover and was reaching for a weapon. That target fell, surrounded by a drifting mist of blood, as Bolan turned to work the room, tracking from left to right and nailing others as they came. When he finished, there were nine rounds left in his translucent magazine, and pools of blood were spreading on the vinyl-covered floor, merging to form a single crimson lake. Of seven adversaries, only one had fired a shot, and that was wasted on the ceiling.