Kingston Carnage

by Gar Wilson

  Sergeant Bristol rose from his chair and drew a snubnose Colt .38 from a pancake holster at the small of his back. He jammed the muzzle between the shoulder blades of the Asian mulatto who had punched Encizo across the table. The thug stiffened and raised his hands in surrender.

  "Kingston police!" the sergeant announced. "You're under arrest..."

  The report of a large-caliber handgun bellowed within the confines of the tavern like a baby cannon. A heavy bullet splintered wood in the wall behind Bristol. The cop flinched and unintentionally triggered his Colt revolver. A 148-grain solid-ball slug ripped through the spinal cord of his prisoner. The high-velocity bullet bored a dime-sized exit wound in the man's chest. The thug's eyes opened wide in astonishment as his lifeless body fell to the floor.

  "Oh, my God!" Bristol exclaimed, stunned that he had shot an unarmed man in the back.

  Bristol was too startled to realize that someone had tried to shoot him. He stared, motionless, at the man he had accidentally executed. An easy target, he probably would have been picked off by the enemy gunman if Encizo and Delia Walkins hadn't turned their attention toward the muzzle flash that had appeared at the edge of the stage.

  One of the drummers from the phony obeah voodoo act had fired at Bristol. His weapon had been a .45 caliber Colt 1911-A1 pistol. Luckily for the police sergeant, the man was a poor marksman. He didn't get another chance to waste Bristol. Rafael Encizo drew his Heckler & Koch autoloader, snap-aimed, and fired two rounds into the enemy gunman.

  Both 9 mm parabellum slugs ripped into the gunman's chest. One bullet punched his breastbone into shards of internal shrapnel that carved into heart and lungs. The other messenger of death hit directly in the life pump. The gunman dropped his .45 Colt and fell back against the stage, dead.

  Encizo, just as he was firing his H&K piece, glimpsed another figure beside the stage, and instinctively ducked behind the cover of a table and chairs. A split second later, another gun roared, and a slug pierced the tabletop above the Cuban's head. It narrowly missed his left shoulder as it sizzled past and burrowed into the floorboards near his left knee.

  "Cristo!" he exclaimed, his teeth clenched as the close brush with a lethal chunk of hot flying lead sent a familiar tremor up his spine.

  By then, Sergeant Delia Walkins had taken a .38 Colt from her purse. She gripped the snubgun in a two-handed Weaver's stance and triggered two shots at the second gunman. Another voodoo drummer screamed and staggered into the open, a Star pistol still in his fist.

  Bloodstains streaked the gunman's yellow T-shirt. Two .38 slugs had pierced the man's upper torso, but he was still on his feet. As the wounded man started to raise his weapon, Delia shot him again. The third slug was charmed. Now no more than food for worms, the guy toppled backward and hit the floor.

  Suddenly the bald and ail-but-naked figure of the obeah dancer, reappearing on stage, shrieked at the Phoenix pair and their police allies, and began to whirl his boa constrictor overhead by its tail like a reptilian lasso. He hurled the deadly serpent at Delia, who screamed and leaped away. The snake, hissing and squirming, landed on a table near the lady cop. Instinctively she fired her pistol at the reptile. Her bullet missed and punched through the wood near the snake's thick, coiled body.

  The dancer scooped up the .45 pistol discarded by one of the slain drummers and aimed the weapon at the distressed and distracted Delia Walkins. With his Beretta 92-SB, which he had by then unsheathed, Calvin James lined up the sights on the head of the dancer and squeezed the trigger. A single slug smashed into the hairless dome. The man's head recoiled as the bullet drilled through his skull. His corpse wilted to the floor without uttering a whisper of protest.

  "You okay, Delia?" James called out as he moved toward her.

  She bolted forward, hugged him. She was trembling slightly as James wrapped an arm around her, unable to resist a grin. She felt good. The warmth of her body, the pressure of her breasts against his rib cage, reminded James that he had not been with a woman for a long time. Too long.

  "That was the last of them," Encizo announced, but he did not holster his weapon. "Everybody okay?"

  "My God," Bristol said, still looking at the man he had shot in the back. "What have I done?"

  "Get a hold of yourself, damn it!" Encizo snapped. "We don't have time to put up with any hysterics. There could be more of them outside. Don't worry about that damn snake, either. Boa constrictors aren't poisonous and the only time one ever crushed a person to death was in the movies."

  "I know," Delia said, obviously embarrassed. She slowly released Calvin James. "Sorry. I guess it just startled me when he threw that snake..."

  "We were all kinda startled," James assured her, smiling at the pretty lady cop. "You did just fine, and I didn't mind the fact you wound up in my arms. Like to do it again under different circumstances."

  She wasn't certain how to respond, but a sly smile betrayed her feelings. "Maybe we'll see about that later..."

  "That's real nice, you two," Encizo remarked as he approached and flattened a dazed opponent who was starting to get to his feet, "but we got a couple of live prisoners to collect before we leave here."

  "Always something comes along to ruin the mood," James muttered sourly.

  7

  "Your people certainly play rough, Mr. Gray," Colonel Wells remarked as he met with Yakov Katzenelr enbogen, Gary Manning and David McCarter in Lieutenant Farley Smith's office at Kingston police headquarters. "They killed five men at the Creole Dream."

  "Service must be pretty lousy there," McCarter said with a shrug. The Briton was in a surly mood because he had missed the first battle with the enemy. McCarter thrived on action, and he always resented it when he did not get to participate.

  "I don't find this amusing, Mr. Carver," Lieutenant Smith declared tensely. He was a white Jamaican, a descendant of a long line of British colonials, but he did not seem to care much for the commando from Mother England. "We've had more than our share of violence in Jamaica, but we don't take it lightly."

  "So you fret about it bloody well," McCarter replied, meeting Smith's glare without flinching. "What else do you do, mate? Have conferences to discuss the effects of violence on society? Sit on your arse having tea and crumpets while the bastards are running around free..."

  "Mr. Personality strikes again," Manning snorted, pouring some black coffee into a cup.

  "Take it easy, Mr. Carver," Katz told McCarter. The Phoenix Force commander had quietly read through the incident reports written by Sergeants Bristol and Walkins. "As for you, Lieutenant Smith, I suggest you take a look at these. Two of your fellow police officers confirm that our friends acted in self-defense. In fact, they both agree that Johnson and Sanchez probably saved their lives during the gun battle with the 'unidentified assailants.' If you expect my men to agree to get themselves killed instead of defending themselves because it upsets you, then you're a damn fool, and we don't have time to waste with such nonsense."

  "You act as if you and your people were in charge here," Smith huffed, jutting out his lower lip until it nearly touched the tip of his hawkish nose. "This isn't your country..."

  "But they are in charge of this operation," Colonel Wells told the police lieutenant in a flat, hard voice. "The governor-general and the prime minister agreed to this unorthodox chain of command due to a direct request by the President of the United States."

  "Why should Jamaica have to oblige the American President?" Smith demanded.

  "Because the United States happens to be the most powerful and influential government and country in this hemisphere," Katz replied. "Whether you like it or not, that's the way the world is, Lieutenant. Your government doesn't want to be on bad terms with the U.S., so they've agreed to cooperate with the President's wishes. We get our authority from the Oval Office, so our presence here is the President's wish at this time."

  "I can't place your accent," Smith told Katz, "but it doesn't sound like you're from the United States. This Carver cha
racter or whatever his real name might be sounds like a cockney thug from an East London slum."

  "Been to my old neighborhood, Smitty?" McCarter asked with a twisted smile that would have looked right at home on the face of an ax murderer. "I doubt that. They wouid've chewed you up and spit you out, you prissy little bastard."

  "This is bullshit," Manning announced in a serious tone. "I'm about ready to knock their heads together. What's really important isn't who is in charge or how many low-life hoodlums got killed in a gunfight tonight. No innocent bystanders got hurt, and neither your officers nor our partners were injured. That's not bad news. The fact that two enemies were taken captive could be our first big break in this assignment."

  "They weren't 'taken prisoner,'" Smith corrected. "They were placed under arrest by the Kingston Police Department. Unfortunately, Sergeant Bristol admits in his report that he shot an unarmed suspect point-blank in the back and killed him. Bristol will be suspended from duty until that matter has been investigated and the department decides what action to take against him."

  "He'd never been in a firefight before," McCarter declared. "Bristol's reaction to being shot at is pretty understandable under the circumstances. The bloke could have claimed the bastard tried to whirl about and disarm him. Instead, Bristol told you the truth. I think that took a lot of guts."

  "The conduct of our police officers is not your concern, Carver," Smith told him. "We are still entitled to decide that much about our own department... or has the American President taken over that as well?"

  "Please, gentlemen," Colonel Wells urged, holding his pudgy hands up to get their attention. "We're getting away from the important issues here. We must learn if these gunmen are members of the conspiracy to murder Americans in Jamaica, or if tonight's incident was simply some sort of hideous coincidence."

  "Mr. Johnson is presently trying to determine if the two prisoners are in sound medical condition to be interrogated under the influence of scopolamine," Katz stated. "The drug is a very powerful truth serum and can be lethal if improperly used or if the subject has any sort of heart trouble or other ailment."

  "I don't think it's legal to use such a drug," Smith said, turning to Wells. "Are you going to let them do this?"

  "They are in charge, Lieutenant," Wells reminded him. "Does Johnson know what he's doing with this truth serum?"

  "He's used it many times in the past," Katz assured the colonel. "Johnson has never lost a patient under the influence of scopolamine. If he has any doubts, he won't even attempt to use it."

  A knock on the door interrupted the conversation. Smith asked who it was, and "Johnson" and "Sanchez" identified themselves. The lieutenant opened the door to allow Calvin James and Rafael Encizo to enter the office.

  "Well," James began as he sat on the edge of Smith's desk. "I won't be giving either one of those dudes any injections to make them chatty for us. Neither man is a safe subject. They're both heavy cigarette smokers, and they've both been using cocaine pretty regularly for at least a year. A dose of scopolamine would probably kill either man rather than make him talk."

  "One of them did say something," Encizo announced as he helped himself to the coffee. "It's sort of crazy, but it sure is interesting."

  "What are you waiting for?" McCarter asked impatiently. "Background music? What did the bastard say?"

  "He said nothing we could do would make him talk," Encizo explained, "because Cercueil would know if he talked or not. Cercueil, he said, can read minds and see into the future. He can protect our little jailbird with his bocor magic or kill him with a juju curse."

  "Cercueil?" Manning stared at Encizo. "That's impossible."

  "That guy doesn't think so," the Cuban replied. "He really believes Cercueil is aware of everything that happens on this island, and that he can really carry out this supernatural stuff. He thinks Cercueil can destroy him. He's afraid of a slow and painful death. Then his corpse could be turned into a slave and his soul cast into some very nasty region of voodoo hell. I don't know what we can threaten him with, but it'll be pretty hard to top that."

  "But Cercueil can't be behind this," Manning insisted.

  "Cercueil?" Smith asked, confused by the conversation.

  "Maurice Cercueil," Katz explained. "He was formerly the head of the Ton Ton Macoute under Papa Doc Duvalier. After the old man died, Cercueil created a terrorist network in the United States known as the Black Alchemists. They managed to infiltrate production lines of food-processing companies, cosmetics and tobacco products and sabotage the goods with poisons and acids. More than a dozen people were injured and killed by these vicious and ruthless terrorists."

  "Why did they do such terrible things?" Wells asked.

  "Cercueil tried to blackmail the U.S. government into giving him arms and money," Manning answered. "Probably planned to go back to Haiti and overthrow Jean-Claude Duvalier and put himself in charge. Whatever his final plan, he didn't live to carry it out."

  "Are you sure he's dead?" Smith inquired with his absurd pouting frown. "Did you actually see the body, or is this all information you read in intelligence reports?"

  "Maurice Cercueil is dead," Calvin James assured him. "I killed him myself, is that good enough?"

  "If you're positive you killed him," Smith answered.

  "The sonuvabitch is dead," James sighed. "I cut his head off, for God's sake. That's about as dead as you can get."

  "But you didn't stuff the mouth with salt and sew it shut to make sure Cercueil didn't stick his head back on and come back to life," McCarter snickered.

  "That's not funny," Wells told him.

  "Cercueil isn't a goddamn zombie, either," McCarter snorted as he started to pace the office floor. "It's bloody obvious some other bastard has taken over Cercueil's identity and they've revived the Black Alchemists — or something just like it."

  "Wouldn't be the first time something like that happened," Manning was forced to agree. "Everybody figured the Baader-Meinhof gang was dead after both leaders committed suicide and terrorism in West Germany seemed to taper off a bit in the late seventies. Then nine American military bases were sabotaged in 1981, and the Baader-Meinhof gang took credit for it."

  "Let's look at what we've learned so far," Katz began, placing a Camel cigarette between the tridentlike hooks of the prosthesis at the end of his right arm. It was his favorite device, more obvious than the five-fingered prosthesis, perhaps, but also far more practical. "Since at least one of the hoods apparently really believes in voodoo, there is a genuine connection here. Not just a front."

  "Agreed," Encizo stated. "Cercueil's name suggests Haitians are involved. I doubt if many people outside Haiti would be familiar with the former boss of the Ton Ton Macoute. Probably members of the Haitian secret police are part of the outfit."

  "Well," James commented, "Haiti is pretty close to Jamaica, and the Ton Ton Macoute had good reason to flee Haiti in a hurry when Jean-Claude Duvalier went down the tubes. God knows the Haitian people had plenty of old scores to settle with the secret police. Any Ton Ton storm trooper who wanted to stay alive would get the hell out of the country PDQ. Closest places to run would be the Dominican Republic, Cuba and Jamaica."

  "They wouldn't want to go to Cuba," Encizo remarked. "Castro would probably send them to Angola."

  "I assume you've got information on Haitian refugees currently living in Jamaica?" Manning asked Colonel Wells. "That might be a good place to start looking for the new Cercueil."

  "How far back should this material cover?" Wells responded, frowning. "The last two years or the last twenty? The Duvaliers were in power for quite a while."

  "Concentrate on refugees who came here after the fall of Baby Doc's rule or a couple of months earlier," Manning answered. "That would probably be the most likely time Ton Ton Macoute fugitives would have fled to Jamaica. If that doesn't produce anything promising, we'll have to check refugees and immigrants before and since that date."

  "That's going to be a tiresome tas
k that will probably fail to produce anything at all," Smith muttered.

  "My office will deal with it, Lieutenant," Wells told him. "We have computer operators who specialize in this sort of thing. That's why we have tons of trivial data stored in the computer memory banks. Of course, you realize these Haitians may have entered the country illegally, and then we wouldn't have any record of them at all."

  "Still worth a try," Encizo stated. "For now, I think we ought to get some sleep. People trying to kill me and forcing me to fight to stay alive always wear me out a little. I know I should be used to it by now, but I guess I'll never really earn that superman badge. I admit I still do get a little upset when somebody tries to rearrange my brains with a bullet."

  None of the members of Phoenix Force would argue with Encizo. They felt the same way, and not one had come as close to sudden death by a high-velocity projectile as the Cuban had when a 9 mm slug had creased his skull during a previous mission. Encizo had been laid up in a USAEUR military hospital in West Germany for several months before he had been fit for duty. Obviously, that wasn't an experience he wanted to go through again. Of course, the odds of surviving another bullet to the skull were somewhere between slim and Rest In Peace.

  "Good idea," Katz agreed. "I think we should all get some rest and tackle this again in the morning."

  "Are Bristol and Delia Walkins getting the rest of the night off?" James asked Lieutenant Smith. "I saw them out in the corridor. They looked like they weren't sure whether to leave or not."

  "Sergeant Walkins can leave," Smith declared. "Bristol may as well go home for now, too. We'll have to decide what to do with him later."

  "Bristol hasn't exactly won any personality contests with us, Lieutenant," James remarked, "but he didn't murder that suspect in the bar. He had his gun in the guy's back. A bullet whistled past his ear and he pulled the trigger. You so sure you wouldn't have done the same thing under those circumstances?"