by Gar Wilson
Calvin James figured the odds on taking on the captors without the cavalry arriving to bail them out. Hell, he thought, McCarter, Encizo and the others might have their hands full with de Madrid's security people. From the way Penn seemed to be giving orders to Jemal and the other "help," James suspected those guys were probably Jamaican gunsels on Penn's payroll. A thug dressed up in a fancy suit was still a thug.
The odds didn't look very good. Cercueil and his muscle-bound Haitian pal were armed, and both were smart enough to stay eight or nine feet away, far enough that it was futile for James to try to grab an opponent's gun hand or to kick the weapon out of his grasp. Perm and his hired hoods were no doubt armed, as well. Three against six — not including the other goons prowling around the estate. Except for Katz's single-shot .22 Magnum, all the guns were in the hands of the enemy. Poor odds, but as long as the three Phoenix warriors were still alive, they had a chance.
"Penn," Cercueil began, not taking his eyes from Katz or altering the aim of his little silver pistol. "These so-called bankers are here because of you. This is your dirty laundry, and you're the one who'll take care of it."
"Goddamn it, Cercueil," the Jamaican gangster complained, drawing a Largo pistol from his jacket. "These blokes could be genuine. In fact, we don't have any proof otherwise."
"Get rid of them," Cercueil ordered as he stepped back and slipped his .25 auto into a pocket. "Have de Madrid help you with the bodies. Whatever you do, you'd better do it fast."
Cercueil and de Broglie turned to leave. Perm opened his mouth but decided any protest was useless. Jemal and his two comrades had also drawn weapons and pointed the guns at the three Phoenix Force pros.
"You two really are Ton Ton Macoute," Gary Manning jeered at the Haitians' backs. "Shooting unarmed peasants for sport is your style, but when people start to fight back, you're ready to run."
Louis de Broglie spun about, his eyes blazing with anger. The big Haitian stepped forward and swung a wild right cross at Manning's head. The Canadian warrior weaved slightly to avoid the full impact of the other man's knuckles. The punch still connected, but it appeared to have more force than the blow actually delivered. Manning's head snapped back and he fell ungracefully to the ground.
"You don't fight so good, white pig," de Broglie growled as he swung a leather-shod foot into Manning's stomach. "I like to beat up whitey pigs. Like to kill them!"
He kicked Manning in the ribs. The Canadian groaned loudly and curled into a ball on the ground. He began coughing as if he might throw up and moaned, "No, no..."
"Come, Louis," Cercueil ordered sharply. "There isn't time for this."
"Fishbelly-pale lump of shit," the big Haitian growled, and spat on Manning's bowed head.
"Au revoir," Cercueil announced, throwing off a mocking salute with a gesture of the death's-head handle of his walking stick. "It has been interesting. Too bad, Mr. Bellefontaine. It appears you should have gone to Haiti after all."
"Maybe you shouldn't have left," James replied, sounding a hell of a lot more confident than he felt. "We'll talk about it next time, fella."
"I doubt that," Cercueil said with amusement. He hoisted the cane across his shoulder and headed for the house, followed by Louis de Broglie.
Glancing over his shoulder at the two Haitians, Penn muttered something. The gangster aimed his Largo pistol at James while Jemal covered Katz. The other two henchmen, each holding a snubnose revolver, seemed uncertain of what to do. Gary Manning was still curled in a ball on the ground, hugging his belly, moaning softly.
"What are we going to do with these fellers, Mr. Penn?" Jemal inquired.
"There's got to be somewhere to dispose of three bodies around here," Penn replied gruffly. "Doesn't Carlos have a big furnace somewhere in the fields? Sort of an incinerator to burn up waste products left over from chopping the sugarcane?"
"I think so," the henchman answered, "but I really don't know any more than you do about how this plantation is set up."
"Shit," Penn rasped through his teeth. "We'll have to get Carlos. This is his bloody problem, too."
"We're not goin' into them fields, mon," Jemal said, glaring at his boss. "A bunch of those things are out there..."
"Don't talk like one of those idiots from the obeah cults," Penn snapped. "We got more cause to be worried 'bout the coppers than those brain-dead bastards."
Manning started to rise and moaned loudly. Then he fell on his side, still clutching his ribs. Penn clucked his tongue in disgust.
"He... broke... my ribs," Manning groaned.
"Christ," Penn muttered. He turned to his flunkies. "Get this overgrown sissy to his feet."
Jemal, his gun still trained on Katz, jerked his head toward Manning. The two underlings nodded and stepped toward the groaning Canadian. They jammed the guns into their belts, then dragged Manning to his feet.
"Get up, ya paleface weaklin'," one man growled as he grabbed Manning's left wrist and pulled.
Gary Manning sprung from the ground like a rocket. His right fist smashed into the point of the thug's chin with bone-jarring force and precision. The punch lifted the startled hood off his feet to land abruptly on his ass. The second goon gasped with surprise and reached for the Magnum in his belt.
The Canadian snap-kicked the guy in the groin. The polished tip of his shoe caught the thug in the testicles. He uttered a bestial moan of pain and folded at the middle. The hood managed to draw his revolver, but Manning's fist delivered a hammerlike blow to the man's arm. The gun fell from shaky fingers, and Manning's other fist slammed into the thug's jaw to knock him to the ground.
Startled by the scuffle, Jemal turned. Katz had been waiting for such an opportunity. From the moment Manning had provoked de Broglie, Katz had known that the clever Canadian was setting a trap for their opponents. Manning's trick had distracted the enemy, and Katz quickly took advantage of it.
The Phoenix Force commander pointed the gloved index finger of his prosthetic arm at Jemal's head. Katz flexed the muscles in the stump of his abbreviated arm to trigger the built-in gun. The crack of the high-velocity projectile sang into the night as flame appeared from the end of the "finger." Jemal never heard the shot. Moving faster than sound, the diminutive .22 bullet punched a hole through Jemal's skull between the left eyebrow and temple. The slug burned into his brain and tore an exit at the back of his head.
Calvin James also took advantage of the distraction arranged by Gary Manning. When Montgomery Perm turned toward the fistfight, James delivered a sword-kick. The edge of his shoe chopped into the back of Perm's wrist, and the Largo pistol dropped to the floor.
"Wha...?" Perm gasped as James followed through with an uppercut to his stomach.
Intending to deliver a karate chop to the side of Perm's neck with his other hand, James missed his target and smacked the gangster's right ear instead. Penn staggered backward from the blow but did not go down. The Jamaican crime boss had not become a big fish in a violent world without being plenty tough.
He jammed a solid right into James's sternum. The Chicago-bred commando grunted from the pain of the blow but managed to fully dodge the left hook Penn swung next. James lashed out another fast tae kwon-do kick and drove his shoe under Penn's rib cage.
The gangster moaned as James moved behind him and rammed a seiken punch to his opponent's kidney. The Phoenix fighter did not let up. He slammed a karate chop between the guy's shoulder blades, then grabbed Penn's jacket collar. He yanked hard and kicked Penn's feet out from under him. The gangster fell on his back hard, the wind knocked out of him.
Manning had decked both of his opponents, but now one slowly rose and reached for his .357. Manning's fist connected with the guy's head; as the hoodlum started to fall, the Canadian knocked the gun from his belt with one hand and grabbed the lapel of the goon's fancy red jacket with the other.
Twisting the cloth, Manning shoved the guy upward. His other hand snaked between the hoodlum's thighs. The man cried out as Manning scooped
him up in a crotch-lift. The powerful Canadian raised the hapless hood over his head, turned him upside down and hurled him at the second opponent who was just rising to his feet.
The human projectile slammed the other man to the ground. Both moaned, dizzy and dazed. Manning quickly scooped up the hoodlums' revolvers, holding a .357 in each fist. Glancing around, he noticed James and Katz had likewise taken care of Penn and Jemal and confiscated their opponents' 9 mm pistols.
"Oh, God!" a voice cried out.
Gabriel Carlos de Madrid and three hoods in red jackets had returned from the great house. The rich man waved a chrome-plated .45 Government Colt. Two of his companions carried handguns. The third held a Stirling submachine gun.
Yakov Katzenelenbogen reacted first, instinctively aiming his gun at the opponent who presented the greatest threat. He pressed his thumb on the safety catch to be certain the unfamiliar Largo pistol was ready to fire. Then he squeezed the trigger. Two 9 mm shots bored into the chest of the guy with the Sterling blast machine. The gunner screamed and went down without firing the British chattergun.
One of the red-jacketed gunmen swung his Smith & Wesson revolver toward Katz. Calvin James, holding the Largo pistol taken from Penn, snap-aimed the weapon at the gunman who was about to waste Katz. James fired hastily and hit the gunsel in the upper arm. The force of the slug spun the guy around as James triggered two more shots. One bullet tore into the man's breastbone, shattering the sternal notch. The other 9 mm ripped through the hoodlum's heart.
Carlos de Madrid fired a panic-stricken shot at the Phoenix trio. He didn't bother to aim his Colt autoloader, perhaps expecting fate to guide his bullet. Fate did not. The big .45 slug tore into the ground between James and Katz. De Madrid's arm jerked violently upward with the recoil. The plantation owner had owned the gun for years, but this was the first time he had ever fired it. De Madrid discovered too late that just owning a gun did not mean one knew how to use it.
Manning fired one of the two Magnum revolvers taken from his vanquished opponents. The powerful snubgun bucked in his fist. The third bodyguard with de Madrid shrieked as a 158-grain .357 projectile sliced through his belly. The high-velocity slug ravaged his intestines and ripped through his left kidney. The man collapsed, blood seeping from his bullet-gouged body.
The Magnum in Manning's left fist roared a split second later. A second slug slammed into de Madrid's left leg. The shot was poorly aimed and almost missed the plantation owner. The powerful Magnum round ripped into de Madrid's thigh, plowing through flesh and muscle. The bullet missed the bone but caused massive tissue damage as it penetrated de Madrid's leg with brain-numbing force.
The man whirled, fell, and tumbled several feet to the edge of the pit. The wild snarling and snapping sounds of battling pit bulls still emanated from the trench. De Madrid screamed as he slid over the edge. He released his Colt .45 to cling desperately to the lip of the pit into which his legs and lower torso dangerously dangled.
"Help me!" de Madrid cried as he clawed at the concrete to try to pull himself up.
He shrieked as the dogs turned on the intruder. De Madrid's fingers scraped the edge of the pit, then vanished from view. The snarling of the pit bulls accompanied de Madrid's screams. The man who had enjoyed watching the vicious dogfights was now a participant.
"Jesus," Calvin James rasped. "Those dogs will tear him to pieces."
"Yeah," Manning commented, unable to feel much sympathy for a man who mistreated animals in such a fashion. "Isn't that a shame?"
"Penn!" Katz shouted, pointing his Largo pistol at the retreating figure of the Jamaican gangster, who had dashed for the house while the three Phoenix commandos were busy with de Madrid and his gunsels. Before Katz could get a clear target, the crime boss ducked through the French doors and vanished from view. However, another figure appeared at the threshold — holding an FMK-3 submachine gun, an Argentine weapon similar in design to an Uzi.
The three Phoenix pros instantly dropped to the ground and ducked behind some palm trees as the FMK-3 blasted a ruthless volley of 9 mm rounds. Bullets splintered chunks of bark from the tree trunks, but none struck the trio of warriors. Dirt spit up from the ground near Manning's left leg as a ricochet struck the earth beside him.
"Cover me!" James called out as he leaned around the tree shielding him and fired at the French doors.
The bullets whined against the frame of the doorway and convinced the gunman to stay behind cover. James took a deep breath and ran for the doors, head low, back arched, pistol held in a two-handed grip, arms extended and elbows slightly bent.
As the FMK-3 gunner poked the stubby barrel of his weapon through the doorway, Katz and Manning opened fire, careful to avoid hitting James as the black commando dashed toward the house. Bullets pelted the doorway and drove the machine gunner back.
Closing in, James dived to the patio, hitting the pavement in a fast shoulder roll. Pain laced a bruised deltoid muscle as he completed the motion and landed in a kneeling stance near the French doors, pistol aimed at the threshold. The guy with the FMK-3 leaned around the corner to fire his Argentinean blaster.
Calvin James fired his Largo twice. One bullet drilled the gunman under the rib cage; the other pierced the solar plexus and tore upward into his heart. The man dropped his submachine gun and slumped to the floor. He was very, very dead.
James glanced inside the house, standing clear of the doors in case more armed opponents lurked inside. The ballroom was a mess. Furniture had been bowled over by the fleeing guests. The floor was covered in dropped food, spilled champagne and broken china and glass.
After seeing James blow away the machine gunner at the door, a pair of thugs had overturned the banquet table to use it as a shield. James glimpsed the thick metal tube of a shotgun barrel with a grooved wooden grip protruding from the side. He could only guess what the other hood might be armed with. The shotgun was enough to convince him to stay behind the cover of the doorway.
The shotgun boomed, buckshot smashing into the French doors, shattering glass and whining against the framework. James shielded his face with a forearm and a moment later, a flying shard of glass snagged the sleeve of his dinner jacket.
Katz jogged to the doors, carrying the Sterling subgun discarded by a slain opponent. The Israeli braced the weapon across his prosthetic right arm with the pistol-grip in his left fist. Manning followed. Magnum revolvers in his fists. Having seen and heard the shotgun blast, they approached the doors cautiously.
"Two guys behind a table," James told them. "Roughly two o'clock. Not sure what kinda firepower they've..."
Another blast tore into the doorway. More glass burst across the threshold, and shotgun pellets screeched through the opening. Katz dropped to one knee and fired the Sterling where James had directed, spraying the upper right corner of the room with 9 mm rounds. The Phoenix commander glimpsed the table and the shotgunner — who fell backward, blood and brains dripping from his skull. At least one parabellum slug had torn through the guy's upper face.
Manning stood over Katz and, feeling a bit like a character in an old cowboy movie, fired the revolvers, right hand and left hand, and repeated the salvo. Four .357 rounds splintered the tabletop. Bits of wood went flying, and the echo of the booming handguns all but drowned out the scream of the man hidden behind the table.
The three Phoenix warriors entered the ballroom; Katz rushed in first, while Manning and James covered his advance. The Canadian fighter entered next. James jammed the Largo pistol into his belt and scooped up the fallen FMK-3 submachine gun as he followed his partners.
There were no living opponents in the ballroom, but the roar of automatic fire continued in the hallway. A bloodied figure, clad in a red jacket, hurtled from the hall to the ballroom. There were three bullet holes in his chest and bloodstains on his white shirt. An unfired pistol slipped from the dead man's fingers.
"Hello, mates," David McCarter announced as he appeared in the hall. The Briton pointed the muzzle of
his Ingram machine pistol at the ceiling. Smoke curled from the end of the barrel. "I see you chaps have been busy."
"It hasn't been dull," Katz replied, canting the Sterling subgun across his left shoulder. "How are things going out front?"
"Lots of cars were speeding out of this place by the time we arrived," McCarter answered. "We stopped a couple of 'em, and the cops formed a roadblock to stop a few others. At least two cars got away. Probably more."
"I hope you got Cercueil and Penn," James commented as he approached the banquet table. The two blood-spattered corpses wouldn't improve anyone's appetite.
"Where's Rafael?" Manning asked, gathering up the dead shotgunner's weapon. It was a Winchester riot gun, a 12-gauge pump with an extended 6-round tubular magazine.
"He's helping the cops and the CIS lads check the rest of the house," McCarter explained. "Doesn't sound like they found more hired guns lurkin' about. Guess we're finished here."
"Not quite," Katz declared. "We've still got to search this house for evidence even if we were lucky enough to catch Cercueil and Penn before they could flee the area."
"Might have caught Penn," James said with a sigh. "But I bet Cercueil was in the first fuckin' car to light outta here."
"We'll find out soon enough," Katz stated, taking advantage of the chance to light up a Camel cigarette. "We've got another problem to look into. One of Penn's men mentioned something odd about the sugarcane fields."
"You think there's something out there?" McCarter asked.
"The man was afraid to go into the field," Katz explained. "He said, Those things are out there.' Maybe we'd better find out what he meant."
"Maybe we'd be happier if we didn't know," Manning said grimly, bracing the shotgun across his shoulder.
11
The tall stalks of sugarcane swayed slightly as a cool breeze swept over them. A chilly wind in Jamaica was unusual at that time of year. The five men of Phoenix Force wondered if the breeze was really cold or if the chill came from within.