Blood Rites. Don Pendleton

      “As I was trying to explain—”

      “You damned quack! I’m going!”

      He rose, fighting the sudden dizziness. Two of his soldiers came forward to support him as he rolled off the table and found his unsteady footing. Behind Channer, the doctor seemed about to panic. “You must rest!” he warned. “Your blood loss—”

      “You’ll lose blood, if you don’t shut your mouth!”

      The doctor backed away, nodding in resignation.

      “Gimme a phone!” he ordered no one in particular. Both of his men extended cell phones, and he took one, opened it, began to dial.

      “Who ya callin, Boss?” one dared to ask.

      “Gordon. We shoulda heard from him by now.”

      The call went straight to voice mail, ramping Channer’s fury up another notch. “Damn! Where is he?”

      “He hasn’t called, Boss,” one of Channer’s soldiers said.

      “I know that! I woulda talked to him if he’d called.”

      He was about to close the phone and hand it back when it surprised him with a chirping tone. Channer almost dropped it, let another ring pass while considering if he should give the cell back to its owner, then decided he would answer it himself.

      “What?”

      On the other end, a voice he recognized asked, “Germaine? Where’s the boss?”

      “You’re talkin’ to him. Did you find ’em?”

      Hesitation on the line, before the caller answered, “They’re dead, Boss.”

      “What? Who’s dead?”

      “Those boys, all of them.”

      “What?” Channer repeated, feeling foolish. “That can’t be right.”

      “It’s true. I seen ’em myself, and Babylon’s all over there.”

      “Damn it! Did they kill the white man?”

      “Didn’t see him, Boss.”

      “What about the woman?”

      “She’s not here.”

      Snarling an incoherent curse, Channer switched off the cell and tossed it from him. Someone caught it, tucked it in a pocket and was wise enough to ask no questions.

      “All our brothers are dead,” he told them. His wounded arm throbbed—the local anesthetic wearing off—which only worsened Channer’s mood. “How could one man do all that?”

      When no one answered, Channer decided on his own. “He couldn’t do it! It’s impossible.”

      “He must’ve had help,” one of his soldiers offered.

      “This shit isn’t finished,” Channer said. “I’m gonna find this bastard and he’s gonna say who sent him.”

      “And the woman?” asked his other bodyguard.

      “She’s run home to her papa,” Channer replied. “Where else?”

      “Good thinkin’, Boss.”

      “I’m gonna hear this white man screaming out his lungs. He’ll beg to die before I’m done.”

      One of the soldiers cleared his throat and asked, “You gonna tell the Don, Boss?”

      Damn! Channer had almost let that aspect of the problem slip his fevered mind. His master would be waiting for a call in Kingston, and he couldn’t stall much longer.

      “Of course,” he replied. “I’ll call him soon as I find the scrambler phone.”

      “I’ve got it,” said the soldier to his left, reaching inside his jacket.

      Channer could have slapped him, but he took the phone instead and switched on its scrambler, waiting for the green light to stop flashing and burn steadily. When it was ready, he speed-dialed the only number in its memory.

      Nearly six hundred miles away, a grim voice answered on the second ring. “What’s happening?”

      “I’m sorry, Boss,” he said. “I’ve got bad news.”

      * * *

       Briar Bay Park, Kendall, Florida

      BOLAN HAD PARKED his Mercury and sat there in the dark with Garcelle Brouard. She had declined medical treatment and agreed to speak with him before he dropped her off, her final destination still unspecified.

      “So, Channer picked you up to strike a blow against your father,” Bolan said.

      Garcelle nodded. “I’m not sure if he expected to collect a ransom or dispose of me. Either way, he misjudged my father.”

      “Your father wouldn’t miss you? Wouldn’t pay to get you back?”

      “I cannot say how he might feel if I was dead,” Garcelle replied. “I like to think he’d mourn, of course, but that may be wishful thinking. As for paying ransom? Never. It would set a precedent that he could not abide.”

      Clearly, she was an educated woman, not the standard mobster’s daughter raised on perks and privilege.

      He changed tacks. “Are you sure about the hospital?”

      “I’m fine,” she said, raising a hand to lightly touch her swollen lower lip. “You came—how do they say it—in the nick of time?”

      “That’s how they say it. Were they grilling you about your father’s business?”

      “Trying to, but there was nothing I could tell them. From the time I was born, I’ve been excluded from that side of Papa’s life. It was important to him, I believe, to have a semblance of a normal family. As if that’s even possible.”

      He heard a note of bitterness in Garcelle’s voice and followed up on it. “I guess it isn’t easy on your mother, either.”

      “I suppose it wasn’t, but she died when I was four years old. Was murdered, I should say. A business rival of my father’s set a bomb, and… It was difficult for me to understand, at first. I missed her, as you may imagine. Papa never remarried, although whether out of loyalty to Mama’s memory or to avoid another incident, I couldn’t say. There were tutors, and a governess.”

      “We’ve all lost people,” Bolan said, remembering his parents and his younger sister, lives cut short by the Mafia intrigue that launched his never ending war.

      “That’s true, of course. The past five years, I’ve been away at school in Paris. Papa thought I would be safe there.” With the bare trace of a wicked smile, she added, “If he only knew.”

      “And now, you’re back.”

      “Six weeks ago. It took that long for Channer’s men to find me, I suppose.”

      “Where will you go now?” Bolan asked.

      “Back to Papa, first, to put his mind at ease. From there, I would imagine he’ll send me off again. As long as it’s not Haiti, I’m content.”

      “Not homesick, then?”

      “You’ve been to Haiti?”

      “On occasion.”

      “Then you know the answer to your question. While my family has never suffered poverty, at least within my lifetime, Haiti is a pit of misery and crime. That must sound quite ironic, eh?”

      “Well… Men like your father haven’t exactly helped make things better.”

      “Of