Don Pendleton - Hazard Zone

Bastiene was one of a handful of locals who knew her well—and he’d made it a point of being one of the few who always showed up to party on his off-hours. His time working here was almost done, however, and he was grateful for that. She was the one, the Obeah man had assured him, that would allow their plans to move into the next and final phase. They would finally be ready.

Amber stopped at the buffet, picked up a plate and began to load it with fruit and cheese. She glanced over her shoulder at him as she continued along the line feigning interest that was even less subtle with her overindulgence of tequila. He knew she was checking to see if he’d followed. From what he’d overheard on her first day there, she’d just broken up with a fairly serious boyfriend, and was committed to having a commitment-free but very fun weekend. He’d turned on the charm after that, using his dark good looks and deep voice to every advantage. He had some fun in mind, too. The mission was important, but there was no reason not to indulge in the little slice of American pie, especially after all of his hard work.

Adjusting his dreadlocks, he moved behind her and put his large hands on her shoulders, rubbing gently. She leaned back into him, rubbing seductively. He kissed her neck just behind her ear.

She giggled once more, and he leaned close to whisper, “What’s so funny, girl?”

“Nothing I’m willing to share yet,” she said archly, turning her attention back to the buffet. She loaded up a plate with jerk chicken, seasoned rice and coco bread. “Come sit with me?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said, gesturing to a small, private table beneath an umbrella, then leading the way to pull out her chair. “Something to drink?” he asked as she sat down.

“Just a cola,” she said. “If I’m going to last the night, I need to slow down a little.”

He nodded and crossed the patio to the wet bar, slipping behind it to get her cola. With his hands hidden by the front of the bar, he slipped the small vial of white powder from his pocket. He tapped the vial with the roofie to keep it from sticking in the humid Jamaican climate and poured it into the glass. After adding a few cubes of ice and filling it with cola, he used a swizzle stick from the bar to mix it carefully, ensuring that the powder had dissolved completely. Then he returned to the table where she had made a sandwich from the jerk chicken on the coco bread.

“Ask and receive,” he said, offering her the glass.

She took it from his hand, then gulped down several large swallows. “Thanks,” she said. “I was getting a little dehydrated.”

“I understand,” he said. “Eat and you’ll feel better.”

She resumed her meal and he watched her carefully, noting how often she drank from the glass, and seeing the drug slowly take effect. “I must have had…” she started to say, her words slurring as she verbally stumbled. She tried again, laughing. “More tequila than I thought.”

“Don’ you worry on it,” he said. “Jus’ relax and everything gonna be fine.”

Amber turned and stared into his eyes. “You’re…beautiful,” she said. “You have a voice like…like…melted chocolate.”

“Thank you,” he said. “You are beautiful, too.”

She finished off the cola and the food, and tried to get to her feet. It was only by moving quickly that he was able to catch her and keep her from falling flat on her rear end. “Oops!” she said.

“Perhaps you should be lying down,” he suggested, holding her tightly in his arms.

“Is that an offer?” She laughed.

“It is,” he said.

“Then take me to my room!” she demanded, pointing back at the resort and swaying on her feet. In another few minutes, the drug would rapidly overcome her system. He needed to move quickly.

“Ask and receive,” he said again, scooping her off her feet completely.

“Whee!” she cried.

Her friends turned to see the commotion and laughed. “Hey, Amber,” one of her girlfriends shouted. “Are you off to explore the dark continent?” Laughter echoed over the patio again.

“Every…single…inch!” she crowed. “Got to sample the local cuisine!”

He smiled broadly and began carrying her toward the resort building where her condo was located. In less time than it took him to get there, she was passed out completely. Before he got to the building itself, he turned and made his way around the side. No one was in sight, and he moved to the front and to the waiting Jeep.

Another man got out and opened the back. He put Amber’s unconscious form inside. “Take her to the Obeah man,” he said. “She is not to be harmed. I will be there as soon as I can.”

“You got it,” the other man said. He jumped back in, started the engine, then drove away.

Bastiene returned to the main building and made his way to Amber’s room. Once there, he checked to ensure that her bed looked slept in—it did—and that nothing else was out of place. He took a glass from the bar and poured a generous serving of rum. He wandered around the room as he sipped his drink. A mirror next to the dresser showed the red lipstick smudge on his collar. He moved to the wet bar and sat quietly for several minutes finishing off the rum. When he was done, he put it back on the bar and headed out of the room.

He took his time, walking calmly, and arrived back at the patio. Amber’s girlfriend—a redhead whose name he didn’t know—laughed uproariously when he explained sheepishly that she’d passed out before the explorations could begin. “Perhaps I’ll do better tomorrow,” he said.

“Not if she’s sober!” the young woman replied.

Everyone laughed, including Bastiene, and he made a point of staying for several more hours, then excusing himself for the night. On his way out, he stopped by the front desk and chatted with the clerk for several minutes, then he went out the front door, got into his own Jeep and left.

On his way to the hidden home of the Obeah man, he scrubbed away the makeup on his face and arms that hid the tattoos and scars marking him as a member of the Undead Posse…and an apprentice to the Obeah arts.

“THIS PART IS CRITICAL, man,” Bastiene said. “The trigger must not move until the autopsy.”

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.