Blood Rites Read online

  Which he could use, right now.

  Meeting Quarrie in public was dicey, a risk at best, career suicide at worst. They hadn’t been caught yet, and Holbrook only set such meetings in the direst of emergencies. Unfortunately, this was one of those—or could turn into one, unless he nipped their problem in the bud.

  For that, he needed Quarrie’s help.

  Five minutes later, Quarrie strolled in behind a pair of burly bodyguards, with two more trailing in his wake. The shooters peeled away to find their places, two at the counter, two more in a booth near the door, as Quarrie made his way to Holbrook’s table. Holbrook rose, nodded, then sat again when Quarrie did.

  “You have a worried face,” he said.

  “I’ve been advised about your difficulties in Miami,” Holbrook said. “Instructed to cooperate and make the problem go away.”

  “Instructed. Not your choice, then.”

  Holbrook held the gangster’s level gaze. “I get assignments and complete them. We’ve been working well together so far. No one wants to see that partnership disrupted.”

  “I think somebody does,” Quarrie replied. “He’s been killin’ my brothers all over South Florida.”

  “My people weren’t aware of that before it happened,” Holbrook said. “It didn’t come from us, I promise you.”

  “Who, then? Some other part of the alphabet? The FBI or DEA? Homeland Obscurity?”

  “We’re working on it energetically. No answers yet.”

  “What good are you to me, then?” Quarrie asked him.

  “I have contacts, resources. If this guy’s from the States, I have a longer reach than you do.”

  “And when you find him?”

  “Your call. I can either hand him over or dispose of him myself.”

  “Kill him yourself? I’d like to see that.” Quarrie laughed.

  “Whatever it takes,” Holbrook said earnestly.

  “You have to find him first.”

  “Together, we can do that. All I need is your assurance that the favors go both ways.”

  “The same as always, eh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You scratch my back—”

  “Both ways,” Holbrook repeated.

  “Let’s do it then.”

  A phone chirped in the booth, and Quarrie took the call. His face went hard ten seconds in, and he cut off the call without saying a word.

  “No time for breakfast now,” he said. “That trouble’s started in my own backyard.”

  * * *

  New Kingston, City Centre

  SOMETIMES GORILLAS NEEDED ACCOUNTANTS…lawyers, too. The Viper Posse was rolling in money, coming and going from black-market sources and highly placed sponsors. They required sage advice where investments were concerned and when its members found themselves in court. Enter the bean counters and legal eagles, scooping up whatever they could for themselves.

  The firm of Boothe, Cassells and Moncrief occupied the fourteenth floor of a high-rise located at the corner of Tower and Princess Streets. Bolan peered into its windows from a rooftop opposite, through the scope on his AS50. Corner offices meant partners, hence prime targets in his game of hit and run.

  He’d checked the firm beforehand, learning that they only handled posse clients, staying well away from small investors and the legal clientele whose cases ran toward traffic accidents, divorces and the like. Their lawyers had gone to court for thirteen murderers within the past six months, winning acquittals for eleven. The accountants channeled millions into secret bank accounts, legitimate investments, and the pockets of selected politicians who could help the posse grow and prosper.

  Bad news all around, and now the tab was due.

  The fat man sitting in the northeast corner office was Aaron Moncrief, recognizable from his smirking photo on the firm’s website. Bolan zeroed in on his jowly face from ninety yards—the next best thing to point-blank with the AS50’s telescopic sight—and stroked the rifle’s trigger, sending 750 grains of armor-piercing death downrange. The office window rippled but did not implode. Behind his massive desk, Moncrieff’s round head erupted into gray-and-crimson mist before he toppled over backward in his high-backed swivel chair.

  While rolling thunder echoed over Princess Street, startling pedestrians below, Bolan shifted to the window at the building’s southeast corner. Henry Boothe was on his feet, after a fashion, leaning on his desk while talking—maybe flirting—with a pretty secretary half his age. He hadn’t heard the first shot, insulated in his air-conditioned private sanctum, or perhaps dismissed it as a backfire from the street.

  He didn’t hear the next one, either.

  Bolan fired a second time, aiming precisely so there’d be no danger to the secretary, going for the target’s torso to avoid a swarm of bone chips flying toward her face. His .50 BMG round drilled the office window neatly, still no shatter from the tempered glass, and entered Boothe’s shoulder, passing on to clip his pulmonary artery and leave his heart a spurting chunk of ravaged meat inside.

  Enough.

  The second shot had people peering up toward Bolan’s rooftop aerie, and he registered that it was time to go. He stowed the AS50 in its case, roughly the size of a golf bag, and double-timed back to the service stairs.

  A job well-done, and he could almost feel the shock waves spreading now.

  * * *

  New Kingston, City Centre

  DETECTIVE SERGEANT CLANCY RECKFORD wasn’t used to tidy murders. In his twelve years with the Jamaica Constabulary Force he’d seen machete hackings, some dismemberment, bodies run over half a dozen times and more gang shootings than he cared to think about. The latter cases—like the one he’d just come from, out in Arnett Gardens—normally involved a frenzied burst of automatic fire or shotgun blasts, leaving a clutch of mangled bodies on the pavement or inside some cheap apartment. That was how the Shower Posse had earned its name, by showering its enemies with lead. Various competitors had emulated that approach to the extent that Kingston’s streets were little better than a shooting gallery.

  But this was different.

  The homicides at Boothe, Cassells and Moncrief were almost surgically precise. Two long-range shots and two men dead, the one almost decapitated while his partner’s blood and other vital fluids had evacuated from an exit wound the size of Reckford’s fist.

  High caliber, a marksman on the roof directly opposite. If Reckford peered through Aaron Moncrief’s punctured window, he could see a uniformed patrolman on that rooftop, standing guard over the cartridge casing he’d found. The Special Operations Unit was en route to analyze the scene, collect forensic evidence, but Reckford knew the basic facts already.

  And he knew the victims by their reputation, lawyers and accountants who were well-paid servants of the Viper Posse, meaning that Jerome Quarrie had owned their souls. Reckford wished he could see where they were now: in heaven, hell, or simply floating in eternal darkness.

  At least, he thought, they’re off the street.

  Just like the Viper Posse thugs who’d been shot to ribbons in The Jungle.

  Were the crimes connected? Reckford didn’t trust coincidence, although he knew that some things simply happened. Once, he’d seen a pedophile run over by a bus while in pursuit of an intended victim. He’d seen two members of a single family killed in separate and unrelated shootings on the same weekend. The murder rate in Kingston was so high that anything was possible.

  But Reckford looked around him now and knew that something serious was happening.

  Perhaps he’d have a word with Quarrie and take along a team from the Motorized Patrol in case of trouble. But confronting posse leaders meant he’d have to get permission from his superintendent. Posse business was so inextricably related to the country’s politics these days—a national disgrace in Reckford’s view—that special rules applied to “bothering” the top-tier gangsters. Short of evidence condemning a posse leader for murder, in front of witnesses, they were protected from invasi
ons of their privacy.

  Officially, at least.

  But watching Quarrie was another matter altogether. No one could control who Reckford looked at, in the course of any given day. And if surveillance helped him solve the latest rash of murders, he might have the case wrapped up before the ever-present lawyers had a chance to make a mess of things.

  * * *

  Ministry of National Security, Oxford Road, Kingston

  DALE HOLBROOK SHOWED ID to a pair of armed guards at the entrance to an underground garage, waiting while one of them checked his name against a list of expected visitors on an iPad. When that was done, he passed through into shade that smelled like oil and gasoline, parked his embassy compact in a visitor’s space, locked it up and set the alarm. He rode the elevator skyward, ascending through the National Commercial Bank building’s north tower, where Jamaica’s Ministry of National Security operated from a third-floor suite of offices.

  He’d called ahead, of course. Jamaican politicians didn’t like to be surprised, particularly with bad news. The fact that Holbrook came to help should ease the way, but he’d learned that certain islanders obstructed logical discourse simply because they could.

  And one such man was Perry Campbell, undersecretary of the MNS.

  Holbrook passed through a security checkpoint in the building’s lobby, then another on the third floor as he left the elevator, finally reaching the office where a stern-faced receptionist checked her own list of appointments, grudgingly admitting that he had the date and time correct. Holbrook sat in the waiting room and thumbed a dog-eared travel magazine until he finally was summoned to the undersecretary’s lair.

  Five minutes late, of course.

  In half a dozen meetings, he’d never caught a glimpse of Campbell’s smile. Today was no exception. Campbell was frowning slightly as he waved Holbrook in the direction of an empty chair before his desk. No handshake, either, which was out of character.

  “You’ve caught me at a hectic time,” Campbell said. “Many problems to be dealt with.”

  “And I’m hoping I can help with some of them. Are you recording this?”

  Campbell feigned injured innocence. “Recording? I’m sure I don’t know what—”

  “I can’t discuss this if you’re taping it,” Holbrook cut in.

  Campbell regarded him with frank suspicion, then slipped one hand underneath his desk. “All right,” he said. “What secrets do you have for me today.”

  Only half-sure the recorder was switched off, Holbrook decided to proceed. “I’m here about the Viper Posse.”

  “Oh?” Same old charade.

  “As you’re aware from other conversations—” getting it on record, just in case “—they have provided useful information to my people in the past. Just as they’ve helped your party at election time.”

  No audible response to that.

  “They’re coming under fire,” Holbrook said, “source unknown as yet. They’ve lost a lot of people in Miami, and the trouble’s started here. A shooting at The Jungle, as I understand it.”

  Campbell’s meaty shoulders slumped a little. “And another in New Kingston,” he replied. “A legal and accounting firm.”

  “Connected?”

  “Almost certainly.”

  “I’ve spoken to the man,” Holbrook said. No names mentioned, whether the recorder was switched off or not. “We’ll be collaborating to resolve the problem, and I’m hoping for assistance from your office.”

  “We’re assigned to solve the crimes,” Campbell replied, stating the obvious.

  “Of course. But there is solved, and then, there’s solved.”

  “A fine distinction that escapes me, I’m afraid.”

  “Does it?”

  “Perhaps, if I knew what you have in mind…”

  “A parallel investigation with a permanent solution. Minimal publicity, if any. Zero internal leaks to TV Jamaica or any print media.”

  “What would I tell my superiors?” Campbell inquired.

  “Whatever suits you. All they really want is peace and quiet, am I right?”

  “And what would I have to do for this peace and quiet?”

  “Nothing, literally. Go through all the motions of a usual investigation, but make sure your men don’t get in anybody’s way.”

  “Mmm-hmm. For which, I would receive…?”

  “Aside from acclamation? How about ten grand?”

  “Twenty sounds more agreeable.”

  “So, split the difference? Fifteen?”

  Campbell sat back. Still didn’t smile. “A swift solution is imperative,” he said.

  “You’re preaching to the choir,” Holbrook assured him. “‘Speedy’ is my middle name.”

  * * *

  Passmore Town, Kingston

  FULL DARK MASKED BOLAN as he climbed a fire escape on Potters Row, west of Kingston’s General Penitentiary. The metal stair creaked underneath his weight, but Bolan wasn’t worried about anybody hearing him. His target, on the fourth floor of an aging tenement, blared music from its partly opened windows to the alleyway outside.

  And inside, Bolan knew, the night shift would be hard at work.

  The loft had been converted to a cocaine cutting plant, where kilos from Colombia were “stepped on”—cut with anything from baking soda to baby laxatives—and repackaged for street sale or freebased into crack.

  Tonight, however, Quarrie’s primo cutting plant was going out of business.

  Bolan hunkered down on the landing just outside one of the open windows, listening to Shaggy sing “It Wasn’t Me.” No music connoisseur, per se, he liked the beat and let the lyrics go, peering inside the loft to sort his targets out.

  The cutting table was staffed by women dressed in thongs and surgical masks, nothing else, to keep them from inhaling or pilfering product. More drones at a second table handled packaging for street sales, scooping powder into little glassine envelopes. Farther back, a cooking station made the crack, its techies wearing headgear that resembled army-surplus gas masks. Circulating through the plant were half a dozen guards, the only people fully dressed, their automatic weapons shoulder-slung, eyes constantly shifting above paper masks.

  How many altogether? Call it twenty-five.

  Bolan felt no animosity toward any of the drones, beyond the fact that they were making misery for thousands. He knew about Jamaica’s rate of poverty, the lure of relatively easy money for a single mother or a kid going to school, and he didn’t care. They’d picked a dirty business, also dangerous. Sad to say, some might end up being collateral damage.

  Tonight, the ones who lived could say they’d earned their pay.

  He primed one of the L109A1 frag grenades and pitched it sideways, watching as it bounced once on the cutting table, then resumed its wobbling flight toward the cooking station. Bolan ducked well before it detonated in midair, the razored fragments of its casing slicing into bodies, lab equipment and the big room’s redbrick walls. Women and men were crying out, some of them down and writhing on the floor, a rain of crystal powder falling over them.

  Before the guards could work out what was happening, Bolan cut loose with his L85A1, firing short bursts that took them down wherever they were standing, fumbling with their weapons, blinking teary eyes and coughing. None of them enjoyed the sudden high, as bullets ripped into their heads, chests, torsos, and their lives winked out like dying candle flames.

  Enough. He left the wage slaves to their own devices, scrambled back downstairs into the narrow alleyway, and north from there to reach his waiting rental car. He hadn’t bribed a crew to watch the vehicle this time, just stashed it in the shadow of a service station long since closed. In moments, he was out of there and rolling toward his next appointment with the Viper Posse.

  Hunting, as another drizzling tropical rain began to fall.

  9

  Passmore Town, Kingston

  Sergeant Reckford stayed outside the cocaine plant and watched the cleanup crew. The corpses h
ad already been removed, while wounded workers were conveyed to Kingston Public Hospital. The handful without open wounds, once they’d found their clothes and dressed themselves, were on their way to processing at the Elletson Road police station. Reckford hoped to interview them there, once they were booked.

  Assuming the rash of killings slowed enough to give him time.

  He’d given up on counting corpses. Reckford knew that only two of them, so far, would matter to his superiors, because the dead lawyers were affluent and shared their wealth with the politicians who controlled Jamaica’s destiny. Their families would clamor for results, and for revenge. He was already taking heat for failing to provide a list of suspects in the crimes.

  “Looks like somebody’s doin’ us a favor, Sergeant,” a constable said in passing.

  Reckford grunted, understanding how the man felt, still unwilling to endorse mass murder as a means of crime fighting. If that was all it took, why not dismiss the force and send in troops to scour Passmore Town and other districts like it, shooting anyone they caught out on the streets?

  Corporal Walcott approached him, frowning at the sight of Reckford’s solemn face. “Did you hear what the girls were saying?” he inquired.

  “What girls?”

  “The workers here.”

  “I haven’t seen them yet.”

  “They claim the shooter was a white man. Crazy, eh?”

  “What kind of white man?”

  Walcott shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “We need to make the rounds, find out if anybody else remembers seeing him.”

  “You take it seriously?”

  “Is there any reason I shouldn’t?”

  “Well, there’s the notion of a white man here, in Dunkirk. And the girls were rattled, maybe high from all the cocaine dust floating around.”

  “I’ll judge that when I’ve spoken to them. In the meantime, start making the rounds.”

  “This neighborhood,” Walcott reminded him, “no one sees anything. We’re Babylon.”

  “It doesn’t hurt to ask. They might give up a white man quicker than a yardie.”