Blood Rites. Don Pendleton

he pegged the odds at fifty-fifty. Either way, demolishing the joint and taking out the posse soldiers he found on-site would send a message to the man in charge, and ultimately back home to Jamaica.

      Bolan parked his Mercury a half block north of Kingston House, secured it and set the ear-splitting alarm. If all went well, he wouldn’t be gone long, and he’d return to find his rolling arsenal where he had left it. Otherwise, he’d have to improvise.

      Leaving his ride, he took the Steyr AUG with an AAC M4-2000 suppressor attached, both handguns and a couple of grenades. It was supposed to be a hit-and-git, not a protracted battle, but he prepped for any snags he could imagine, and a few that didn’t come to mind immediately. Bolan’s protracted war had taught him that preparedness counted for more than luck.

      The place looked dead as he approached it. Never meant to draw outsiders, the exterior was relatively drab: two stories, with beige stucco on the outside, a flat roof, no neon flashing in the night. Unless you were a Viper Posse member or associate, you had no reason to stop at Kingston House, and any trespassers would be discouraged in a most emphatic way.

      He scouted the approach and found no guards watching the street. Given the state of modern CCTV cameras, lookouts might well be watching him from inside, but Bolan wasn’t bothered by that possibility. He was expecting opposition.

      Counting on it.

      He walked behind the club, bringing the Steyr out from underneath his lightweight raincoat. It had drizzled off and on all day, reason enough to wear the coat that hid his hardware, but the time had come to let it rip.

      Bolan tried the back door, found it locked and fired a muffled 3-round burst into its dead bolt, shattering the lock. He followed through without a second’s hesitation and found himself inside a corridor that passed a kitchen on the left and restrooms on the right. Apparently no one was using either of the two facilities just now. Ahead of him, Bolan heard voices coming from some kind of rec room, half a dozen by the sound of it, engaged in a friendly argument. Above his head, the sound of footsteps told him there were other posse members on the second floor. There was a heady scent of ganja in the air.

      “That girl’s hot,” one of the possemen was saying, “know what I mean?”

      “You’re speaking true,” another said.

      “I wouldn’t lie to ya,” the first voice said.

      Bolan crashed the party, counting seven heads around a pool table. He was quiet till one of them spotted him and squawked a warning to the others. Then he began to take them down with nearly silent 5.56 mm NATO rounds. They scrambled, seeking cover, groping for their weapons.

      First to draw his pistol was a porky soldier with a rainbow-colored Rasta cap atop his head. Before he had a chance to aim, Bolan’s next burst sheared off the left side of his face, but the soldier still managed one wild shot as he was falling, wasted on the ceiling. A shout up there told Bolan that the club’s other inhabitants were on alert and pounding toward the stairs.

      * * *

      “WHAT’S THAT?” WINSTON CHANNER demanded, standing over his captive with a hacksaw in his hand.

      “Sounds like your boys are shooting each other,” Garcelle Brouard told him, smiling.

      Channer swung his free hand, striking her across the right cheek. Spitting blood, Garcelle supposed she was fortunate he hadn’t used the saw.

      “Big man,” she sneered, with crimson lips. “Untie me, and we’ll see how tough you are.”

      “I’m gonna fix this, then come back and fix you, hear me?”

      “Big talk,” she spat at him, expecting to be struck again, but Channer turned away, setting the hacksaw on a nearby table as he left the room. A moment later, he was back again, drawing a switchblade from his pocket, snapping it open as he moved behind her chair.

      “Looks like your daddy sent his man to fetch you home. I’ve got a big surprise for him. He’s as good as dead.”

      She felt the blade pass through the plastic ties that held her arms behind the chair. Then the knife was at her throat, the point drawing a bead of blood below her jawline on the right. Channer’s free hand gripped her hair as she slowly rose to stand beside him, measuring her chances of escape.

      Not good.

      “You think I’m gonna let you go? Not gonna happen, trust me. I want your daddy’s man to see your head come off.”

      Hearing that, she almost turned to grapple with him, then decided she might have a better chance once they were on the staircase leading to the ground floor. He would be off balance then, distracted by the chaos going on below, and if she timed her move exactly right—

      Big if, she thought.

      One slip, and he would punch the blade up through her soft palate, into her brain, or simply slash her throat. There’d be no time to cut her head off with the relatively small knife, but Channer didn’t need to. He could kill her with a short flick of his wrist, and have the same effect on her father.

      Not that it would save Channer.

      Garcelle hoped she’d live long enough to see her father’s men blast Channer into hamburger and leave him leaking on the stairs. It would be worth it, to die knowing she had outlived the worthless Rasta piece of crap.

      He shoved her through the office door, onto the landing and toward the staircase. More shots echoed from below, but they were dying out now. Which side would emerge victorious? She guessed it didn’t matter, but she hoped to see Channer’s thugs laid out, dead or dying, when they reached the stairs.

      Not justice, necessarily, but vengeance.

      Other Viper Posse soldiers had collected on the second-story landing, staying well behind their captain and his human shield. They seemed content to let Channer press forward, face the danger on his own and possibly distract the enemy before they joined the fight.

      Cowards. Given the chance, she would have spit on them. But there would be no chance. Garcelle knew she was almost out of time, about to die at twenty-six years old.

      They reached the stairs and Channer shouted, “Hold on down there! I wanna show you somethin’.”

      “Come down, then,” somebody answered. Not a voice she recognized.

      A white man stepped into view, surprising Garcelle. She didn’t recognize him, knew she would have remembered that grimly handsome face if they had ever met. Who was he, then? And why was he here, killing Channer’s men?

      “Who are you?” Channer demanded, tightening his grip on Garcelle’s hair, pressing his blade’s tip deeper into yielding flesh until she nearly sobbed.

      “Is that your last question?” the white man asked.

      “How about I cut this gal’s head off. How’d that be?”

      “You could do that,” the gunman said. “But what comes next, without your shield?”

      “I’m not joking,” Channer snarled. “Ya think I’m scared? I’m going to—”

      Before he could complete the thought, the white man raised his weapon, aimed, and fired a shot that seemed to be directed at Garcelle.

      * * *

      THE BULLET FOUND its mark, ripping through Channer’s left arm, which was raised to let him clutch the woman’s hair. Its impact drove him backward and broke his contact with the hostage, who immediately lurched away from him and tumbled headlong down the stairs. A fall like that could kill you, but she landed at the bottom more or less intact and started struggling to her feet.

      “Come on!” he snapped at her, still covering the balcony above. Channer had fallen back, beyond Bolan’s line of sight, but others were crowding after him, their faces peeping cautiously downstairs.

      Bolan