Watching the lone man place his order with a slim Latino waitress, Bolan wished he’d bought a Taser when he’d stopped at Kingston Loans. He made a mental note to have one handy in the future, though the idea did no good at all right now.
How would he pitch it? Introduce himself by some assumed name, or remain anonymous? Once he’d been seen, the cop could always get together with a sketch artist, or maybe check the CCTV feed at Norman Manley International. Names were irrelevant at that point, and his hours on the island would be numbered.
They could talk, and he would see what happened next. Worse come to worst, a simple threat might buy him time enough to slip away before the cop raised an alarm. Say he was in a sniper’s crosshairs while they spoke, for instance, and wouldn’t be clear for—what? Ten minutes afterward?
Better.
Bolan hoped threats wouldn’t be necessary, though. He didn’t mind squeezing a dirty cop, or sending one to prison, but he hoped the solitary diner would surprise him, would turn out to be a decent man with some of his ideals intact, if bruised and battered by experience.
You might say Bolan was prepared to stake his life on it.
Fed up with waiting in the dark, he left his car behind and went inside.
* * *
Tivoli Gardens, Kingston
WHEN THE NEWS CAME, it was bad. As usual, in recent days, but worse than most. Jerome Quarrie was not inclined to measure it against the other shocks he’d received since the Miami killings started, but it struck him close to home.
Trevor Seaga. Dead.
Not merely dead, but with his head blown off while sitting in his home, in Norman Gardens. If the enemy could reach him there, was anyplace in Kingston truly safe?
Quarrie decided on the spot, before he even finished talking to the officer of Babylon who’d called him with the tip, that he must leave the capital. While Tivoli was safer than the neighborhood Trevor had chosen to reside in, it could just as easily become a death trap if he stayed too long. To fight another day, he had to survive this one, and that meant getting out.
Already shouting as he cut the cell link, Quarrie began issuing orders, choosing who would come with him and who would stay behind, making the place seem occupied and worth a closer look from enemies. He needed time now, a distraction, and his men could serve as decoys, even if they’d been no good at tracking down his foe.
After he’d given his instructions, Quarrie made his private preparations. He already had the better part of half a million American dollars packed in two small suitcases. He’d armed himself and issued orders for his soldiers to continue searching every corner of the capital until they found the man responsible for murdering their comrades. Spilled blood cried aloud for vengeance and he would not rest until that cry was answered.
Or until his own blood was spilled.
But Quarrie thought he could lead best from a distance, now. Violence had claimed his oldest living friend and confidant. He needed time to think without the Reaper knocking on his door, and room to breathe without the smell of death assaulting him. Kingston was soiled, and he might have to take it back by force, but to do that, he had to be alive.
When he’d finished seeing to his own needs for the road, Quarrie moved on to supervise the other preparations. He could call ahead, alert the force he kept in readiness at his intended hideaway, but why take chances? Cell phone calls could be plucked from thin air by any group or individual who had the right equipment. It was worse than talking on a landline, where at least protective measures could be taken to detect a tap.
No warning, then. He would surprise the soldiers at his outpost, trusting that they hadn’t turned against him. Once established there, outside the city, he could focus on the problem of identifying and destroying his elusive enemy.
The white man.
Quarrie hoped he could catch the bastard alive, interrogate him and extract an explanation for the hell he’d wrought in Kingston and Miami. Quarrie needed names before he launched a war of retribution against those who’d attempted to destroy him and his empire.
And once they were identified, there would be nowhere on the planet they could hide.
* * *
Windward Road, Kingston
CLANCY RECKFORD WAS looking forward to his early breakfast, sautéed ackee and salt fish with a side order of johnnycakes. He smelled it cooking in the kitchen, had the diner to himself at this hour, except for the young waitress and the chef, until the door creaked at his back, a shadow fell across his coffee mug and someone sat down in the booth across from him.
A white man.
“Looked like you were on your own,” the stranger said. “I thought it couldn’t hurt for us to talk.”
“Who are you?”
“Maybe later. For the moment, let’s just say that I’m the man you’re looking for.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Boothe, Cassells and Moncrief,” the man said. “Trevor Seaga.”
“Am I supposed to recognize these names?”
“You’ve got Seaga on your jacket, just over the pocket where you keep your badge.”
“But nothing on my gun, I think.”
The man showed a weary smile. “That’s one way you could go, but I don’t like your chances.” He had both hands underneath the table, out of sight. Reckford took care to leave his own hands on the tabletop, in plain view.
“So, this talk you mentioned. What is it about?”
The waitress interrupted them at that point, bringing Reckford’s food. She asked the white man if he wanted anything and went to fetch a cup of coffee for him. Both of them sat silent until she returned, then left again.
“I thought we’d talk about the Viper Posse,” the stranger said.
“Oh? In what respect?”
“They’re going out of business. If you’re not one of the cops protecting them, you might want to consider keeping a low profile for the next few hours. If you are protecting them, well…”
“I am not,” Reckford replied, surprised to feel the heat rise in his face.
“I didn’t think so. Maybe you could call in sick, or find another case to occupy you through tomorrow or the next day.”
“You presume to give me orders?”
“Nope. Friendly advice.”
“Who are you?” Reckford asked again.
“The ‘who’ is less important than the ‘why.’ Quarrie has overstepped his bounds. If you can tolerate his crimes in Kingston, that’s your business, but he’s been exporting drugs and murder. This is where it ends.”
“Are you an agent of the US government?”
“A soldier, doing what he can with what he’s got.”
“A vigilante, then.”
“Semantics don’t concern me. When the smoke clears, I suspect there’ll be inquiries into how and why the Viper Posse operated for so long without official intervention. Granted, most Jamaicans know the answer to that question from their personal experience and observations, but a crisis always agitates the politicians. Gives reformers cause and opportunity to speak up for a change.”
“Your point is?”
“I’m no starry-eyed idealist,” the man said. “All governments are riddled with corruption. But a shake-up’s coming. Will it purify your country? Absolutely not. But certain people will be taking hits and losing jobs. A smart man knows enough to stay out of the crossfire.”
“You’ll forgive me,” Reckford said, “if I don’t believe you’re here to offer me career advice.”
The stranger laughed at that and sipped his coffee. “That’s a good one. No, I’m hoping you might provide me with a piece of information, then get under cover for your own sake.”
“Information?”
“An address in Tivoli Gardens where Quarrie would hide when he’s worried.”
“So you can kill him?”
And to that, no answer.
“What you’re asking violates my oath of office and at least three laws that I can think of,” Reckford said.<
br />
“I won’t tell if you don’t. As it is, you’re swimming upstream in a sewer, getting nowhere.”
More heat in Reckford’s cheeks. He glowered at his food, then pushed the plate away. “Bustamante Highway,” he replied at last, and spoke a number.
“Thanks,” the man said. “You have a card?”
Reckford surprised himself by pulling one from his pocket, passing it over the table. The stranger gave him one in turn, blank on both sides, except where he’d penned a phone number. That done, he rose and left some money on the table.
“Breakfast’s on me,” he said. “You ought to eat it while it’s hot.”
* * *
Embassy of the United States, Kingston
DALE HOLBROOK’S CELL PHONE buzzed and quivered in the right-hand pocket of his blazer, instantly distracting him from the cocktail in front of him. He’d ordered a Jamaican breeze—rum, pineapple juice, Angostura bitters, simple syrup and fresh ginger—but he hadn’t had a chance to taste it yet, and now his intuition told him it might go to waste.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.” The voice he couldn’t fail to recognize.
“We can’t talk on this phone,” he said, reminding Quarrie of a fact they’d discussed not once, but half a dozen times.
“It’s an emergency!” the posse leader hissed at him. “I’m leaving Kingston tonight.”
“That’s good,” Holbrook said, reaching for his drink. “Let things cool down a little and—”
“You have to help me!”
“I’ve been working on it,” Holbrook said, dropping his voice another notch. “We really can’t go into it right now.”
“I don’t care what you’re working on,” Quarrie replied. “I need to see you. We have to talk in person. It’s the only way to know if I can trust you.”
“Listen—”
“Will you come, or not?”
Jesus. “Where can I find you?” Holbrook asked.
“My place outside the city. You remember?”
Holbrook pictured the estate, said, “I remember.”
“Don’t take too long. We’re running outta time.”
The line went dead without so much as a goodbye. He cut the call from his end, downed his drink in one long swallow, barely tasting it until the rum and Angostura hit his stomach like a blast of napalm. Grimacing, he set the empty glass down, shaking his head at the embassy’s bartender.
No refills.
He had a drive to make, and Holbrook wasn’t looking forward to it. First, however, there were preparations to be made. He had to fetch the pistol from his desk, a Ruger LC9 autoloader never registered in the embassy’s arms inventory, and make sure it was loaded.
What else would he need? A toothbrush? Screw it. He wouldn’t pack extra clothes, because he didn’t plan to be with Quarrie that long, or attract attention from the busybodies at the embassy by leaving with an overnight bag.
Should he write a note explaining where he’d gone, in case something went wrong? What would it say? Should he inscribe the envelope, “Open if I have disappeared”? What good would that do? The ambassador had zero jurisdiction outside of the embassy compound. He could suggest, entreat, cajole, but could not order or demand.
Useless.
Once he left the grounds and passed into the night, Holbrook would be on his own. It was exciting, in a way, but also frightening. With rum to take the edge off, he departed from the small salon and went to fetch his gun.
* * *
Windward Road, Kingston
BOLAN DROVE WESTWARD, heading toward Spanish Town Road. It was a relatively short drive, but he didn’t rush it, taking time to think.
He had a feel for Clancy Reckford from their conversation. The sergeant seemed to be a good cop, within limits forced upon him by the agency he served, the city it protected, and his own background. Reckford had grown up knowing things worked a certain way in Kingston, probably believing they couldn’t be changed short of a revolution, which police were duty-bound to foil at any cost. It was a catch-22 for honest men, a license to steal for the rest.
Reckford might go either way, as far as Bolan was concerned. Giving away a business card was no commitment. As for Quarrie’s address—if it proved to be legitimate, and not a trap he’d thought up on the spot—the sergeant might begin to brood over his personal responsibility for what came next. Some cops could live with it, embittered by the filth they had to wade through every day, the predators they saw slip through the tattered net of justice. Others couldn’t bear the strain. It would begin to gnaw at them, maybe invade their dreams.
With any luck, if Reckford went that way, Bolan would already be out of Kingston, safely Stateside. If not…well, it wouldn’t be the first time Bolan waged his war against an underworld cartel while ducking cops at the same time. It made his work more difficult, but not impossible.
So time was of the essence. And what else was new?
Passing Kingston’s Downtown Market, closed now, Bolan started watching for the turnoff onto Bustamante Highway, westbound. Once he made that turn, he’d be on the Viper Posse’s home turf, penetrating Kingston’s most notorious slum. He had a fix on Quarrie’s hideout now, if such it was, from satellite images. The house was square, surrounded by a larger rectangle of grass and asphalt, likely fortified, although those renovations were invisible from space.
How many soldiers would the posse leader have surrounding him? There wasn’t a number that would intimidate Bolan. He’d been facing long odds from the day he first put on his country’s uniform, through all the long years of his private war. When he penetrated Quarrie’s stronghold, he would be prepared for anything the enemy might throw at him, and give it back in kind.
That was life—and death—in Bolan’s world. He did the best he could, in terms of preparation, then relied on strength, skill and audacity to do the rest. So far, that combination had been adequate to keep him breathing, keep him fighting. Friends helped, too, the team at Stony Man, but when it came to rolling up the enemy, he bore that burden on his own.
Three blocks, and Bolan started looking for a place to stash the Camry while he made his probe. The neighborhood was mostly residential, but he found a small convenience store half a block southwest of Quarrie’s place. He stood beside the car in shadow, strapping on his gear, slinging the L85A1 rifle from his shoulder, underneath a lightweight raincoat.
Ready.
Staying in the dark as much as possible, he walked back toward the killing zone.
* * *
Port Kingston Causeway
IT WAS GOOD to leave Kingston behind him, rolling westward, with the city fading, blurring, in his rearview mirror. Quarrie felt himself beginning to relax already, even knowing that the struggle was not over and the worst might still be waiting for him. Movement, in and of itself, had healing qualities.
It wasn’t really running, he’d convinced himself, but rather seeking an improved position on a mobile battlefield, from which to kill his enemy. Or to evade him. Either way, survival was the top priority, and he wasn’t concerned with anyone who mistook his intentions.
Not yet, anyway.
He had a spliff going, surrounded by the heady smell of ganja, but he didn’t share it with his men. He wanted them alert throughout their journey and upon arrival at his home away from home. It was unlikely that his foe could find the place before Quarrie arrived, but everything he’d suffered in the past few days had been unlikely. Near impossible, in fact.
The weapon in his lap—an Uzi submachine gun with a folding metal stock and 32-round magazine—was probably unnecessary, with his well-armed soldiers all around, but who could say for sure? Even as mellow as he felt right now, the eight-pound weapon resting on his thighs provided comfort. Like the Kevlar vest he wore beneath his tailored jacket.
He might have worn a helmet if he’d had one, but the thought of squeezing one over his dreadlocks brought a smile to Quarrie’s face. He nearly laughed aloud, in fact, but swallowed i
t with more smoke from the spliff.
His enemies, whoever they were, would expect him to stay hidden in the city. Quarrie thought—hoped—that the last place they would look for him was on a farm ten miles west of the capital, out beyond Portmore, south of Morris Meadows. His closest neighbors lived something like a quarter-mile from Quarrie’s house, and they were private types who didn’t welcome visitors or come snooping around another’s property without an invitation. If they knew who occupied the place from time to time, if they discussed it over rum or Red Stripe, they wouldn’t share their conclusions with outsiders.
It was true he hadn’t fortified the farmhouse, as he had the house in Tivoli Gardens. Certain renovations had made the place more comfortable and secure, but Quarrie hadn’t gone all out. How could he have guessed it would ever come to this?
Ah, it’ll be good enough, he thought, and hoped that was true. He had a dozen men already waiting for him, plus the soldiers in his caravan, and he’d put out the call for others to arrive as soon as possible. Not quite an army, but he thought it should be good enough to keep him breathing through the night.
Or was that the ganja talking?
Quarrie did laugh then, and saw a couple of his men shoot sidelong glances toward him, trying not to frown. He grinned at them and said, “Think about the fun we’ll have if this bastard finds us after all.”
12
Tivoli Gardens, Kingston
Bolan circled the property once more, on foot this time, and found his point of entry at the rear, a locked gate that faced an alley lined with garbage cans. The other fences, small garages, and what have you had been tagged with gang signs and more elaborate graffiti, but Quarrie’s wall remained pristine, untouched by any of the slums artists.
Bolan thought of simply climbing over, then decided that could be a problem if he had to exit in a hurry. Instead, he drew the Glock 18, stepped back a pace, and fired a 3-round burst into the spot where the latch must be. The shots were nicely muffled, but their impact on the wood and latch were clearly audible, a short, harsh ripping sound. He waited in the darkness for a sentry to respond, then pushed his way in through the gate when no one came.
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