Hazard Zone. Don Pendleton

has already left the barn, I think.”

      “Me, too,” Bolan said. “I just wish I knew where the damn thing ran off to.”

      4

      After finishing up with the security manager, Bolan decided to give the property a quick visual inspection. Kowal had happily agreed. Though the man seemed more than competent, another set of eyes might spot something new or different. First, Bolan went up to Amber’s floor and checked out the condominium, which was still protected by police tape and unchanged from the night of her death. Then, he went all the way to the roof, which turned out to be unremarkable—as did the beach, the patio and the walkways around the main resort building. In short, nothing jumped out at him as out of place.

      Walking along the rear of the building, Bolan heard two male voices on the other side of a brick screening wall, and he stopped to listen. The conversation was unclear, but both men seemed to be unhappy with their jobs. He started to dismiss them and move on, when they walked away from the area with their backs to him. One of the men wore a sleeveless T-shirt, and it revealed a heavily inked tattoo that looked all too familiar—the symbol of the Undead Posse.

      Pausing to take another look, Bolan saw that the other man sported the same tattoo. Two people from the Undead Posse working here felt like a lot more than a coincidence to him. Bolan decided to follow them to see if they led him somewhere interesting—or at least somewhere he might be able to ask them some questions in a more private setting.

      Bolan followed the two men as they left the employee’s entrance and exit area and walked toward a private parking lot shielded from sight by a row of massive palm trees and a vine-covered iron fence. They rounded the corner and Bolan walked a bit faster, not wanting to lose them. As he came around the fence, he saw that they had paused, and one had drawn a compact semiautomatic handgun.

      Bolan hit the ground in a dive roll just as the shot rang out. He didn’t stop his movement, just kept the roll moving forward until he found his feet, then launched himself full force into the man with the handgun, driving his head like a battering ram into his gut and knocking him to the ground.

      The man lost his grip on the gun, which bounced and clattered over the pavement of the parking lot. Out of the corner of his eye, Bolan saw the second man take off running. He’d have to finish this one quickly if he had any hope at all of catching up. He drove his knee piston-style into the crotch of the man beneath him, then shifted as the man groaned in pain and dropped the knee into his rib cage. Bolan felt at least one give way beneath his weight, and the groan became a breathy scream.

      “Who are you?” Bolan demanded, leaning back slightly to let the man breathe.

      Through a grimace of pain, the man said, “Death!” He spit the word as he brought around a hidden knife with his free hand, trying to stab the blade into Bolan’s neck.

      The Executioner grabbed his wrist before he could connect, silently thanking his lucky stars that he’d seen it coming, and twisted the joint. As the man fought beneath him, Bolan contorted the wrist further, the ligaments snapping as he pushed it down, down, and then with a final shove stuck the blade into the man’s throat. The nameless thug twitched beneath him, then sagged in the release of death.

      “Damn it,” he muttered, pushing himself up off the body that lay on the ground. He looked around for the other man, and saw him slipping into a Jeep on the far side of the parking lot. Knowing he had no time, Bolan leaped to his feet and took off running back toward the resort and the street where he’d parked his rental car. He ran all out, shouting for the guard to open the pedestrian gate.

      The man came out looking stunned at Bolan’s sudden appearance.

      “Open it!” Bolan yelled as he slammed into the gate. “Open it now!”

      The guard hurried into his shack, and the big American saw the Jeep pull out of the employee lot two blocks down. The gate buzzed and Bolan shoved himself through it.

      “What’s going—” the guard tried to say as he ran past.

      Bolan didn’t have time for conversation. He raced to his car and jumped in, gunned the engine and took off after the Jeep.

      The roads were crowded enough that he had to weave through traffic like a madman. Tires squealed and horns honked as he forced his vehicle past irritated drivers until he saw the Jeep ahead of him by several blocks and he felt comfortable enough to slow down. The traffic thinned as the Jeep headed out of Montego Bay, back toward Kingston. He stayed back as far as he could, noting how the driver of the Jeep was moving along the street carelessly and dangerously. It careened around cars that were moving slower than he wanted to go, and a couple of times he nearly caused an accident. Still, Bolan didn’t think the man could see that he was being followed so much as he was in a hurry to get away.

      The Jeep continued on down the highway, and Bolan was thankful that this was really the only road between the two cities. A number of vehicles stayed on the highway the whole time, so there was no reason for the driver of the Jeep to think he was being followed simply because Bolan’s car happened to be behind him. It took a couple of hours for them to reach Kingston, and then he had no choice but to move closer.

      The late-afternoon traffic was getting heavier and heavier, and if Bolan lost his mark, then all of this would have been for nothing. The soldier wished he hadn’t had to kill the man back at the resort. No doubt that Kowal and Kroger would be upset by another death on the property—even a necessary one.

      The heart of Kingston was the polar opposite of Montego Bay, which was mostly a tourist area. Kept clean and inviting, with signs of wealth the hallmark of the coastal area, Montego Bay was welcoming and looked safe. The heart of Kingston was anything but hospitable: it was a place for the locals, mostly members of Jamaican posses. Spray-painted graffiti, rusted or burned-out cars and garbage in the streets made for a stunning contrast to where he’d just come from.

      As the Jeep got closer to the Tivoli Gardens district, Bolan began to wish he was in an armored truck, instead of a four-door rental car that wouldn’t hold off a determined attack by a Chihuahua, let alone a gang of Jamaican thugs.

      The fighting in the Tivoli Gardens area was practically legend, and the area had been highlighted in his mission briefing materials as extremely dangerous to outsiders. He knew that already. One large graffiti sign said Shoes of Jamaica and had an arrow pointing to a bloody shoe on the ground.

      Bolan maneuvered his car through large stacks of pallets, and vehicles that were parked partly in the road. He was making another turn when the Jeep stopped and cars swarmed from different directions to pin his vehicle between them. Two cars were behind him, the Jeep in front and another blocked the exit to his right as several Jamaicans got out of their cars and began to move in on his rental. Two men were holding crowbars, while a third held a bat with massive nails through the end.

      “Here we go,” Bolan muttered, watching in his mirror as the closer of them reached the back of his car. He slammed the stick into Reverse and gunned the engine. The tires screeched and the man tried to get out of the way, but he wasn’t fast enough. The rear bumper crunched into his legs, and he let out a scream of agony even as he smashed the crowbar he was carrying into the back windshield. The glass spidered but somehow held.

      Bolan shifted into First and floored the gas pedal, ramming into the back end of the Jeep and narrowly missing the man he’d been following, who’d gotten out and was approaching his car with the others. The Jeep shuddered with the impact and rolled forward slightly, offering a narrow exit. The sudden burst of gunfire from behind made it more than clear to Bolan that it was time to go. But first it seemed as if making a point was necessary.

      The Executioner drew his Desert Eagle, aimed through the passenger window and fired. The .50-caliber round shattered the safety glass with ease and made a mess of the nearest posse member. The entrance wound was bad, but the exit wound was worse, and the velocity knocked the man backward into the vehicle he’d been driving, a bloody, dying heap.

      Another burst of gunfire blew out Bolan’s back window, and he ducked lower, shoved the car into gear and