Hazard Zone. Don Pendleton

miss it.” She gestured with one well-manicured hand to the double-wide staircase that had once led to the mezzanine level of the hotel but now led to offices.

      Deciding to test his suspicions, Bolan leaned over the desk slightly, his size and direct gaze causing her to flinch again. “Thank you,” he said. “But I’m curious. Is there a problem I should be aware of? You seem…nervous.”

      She shook her head so rapidly that her hair came loose from its pins and formed a swirling cloud around her head. “No, sir,” she said rapidly. “I’m…I’m just new here and not used to everything yet. And we’ve been particularly busy with the death of Senator Carson’s daughter. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing.”

      He leaned back and glanced at the nameplate on the desk. “Then you should try to relax, Anna. CIA agents are government employees, just like you.”

      “Yes, sir,” she said. “But I don’t carry a gun or have…secrets.”

      “Everyone has secrets, Anna,” he replied, then turned away.

      Still thinking that her behavior was a bit strange, Bolan headed up the stairs, checking that the Desert Eagle was secure in its holster. Something was off with this place, he could feel it, and he wasn’t about to get taken by surprise. The stairs and hallway were carpeted in a deep red shag that went halfway up the walls, and the effect was somewhat disconcerting. It looked as if he was walking on a river of blood. He reached the end of the hallway and saw that Anders warranted a receptionist of his own, though unlike the blonde downstairs, this lady was in her late twenties or early thirties, with skin as dark as coffee, and thick, heavy braids in her hair.

      “Agent Cooper?” she asked as he approached. “Mr. Anders is expecting you. I’ll take you right in.”

      When she stood up, Bolan saw that even in heels, she barely reached his chin. She wore a floral sundress that clung to her body in all the right places, and the effect was obviously intentional. She moved to the closed door, opened it and gestured for him to enter. Bolan walked in and paused as the door clicked shut behind him.

      Conrad Anders stood up from his desk and crossed to the middle of the room. Bolan recognized the posture and the frown—a stance that said, “This is my sandbox.” Standing a good six foot two and built like a brick outhouse, Anders was a formidable enough figure to give most men pause. But Bolan wasn’t most men and had very little use for men who proclaimed their territory like a rooster. In his experience, most of them were as full of hot air as the Jamaican countryside.

      “Agent Cooper,” Anders said, offering his hand. “Welcome to Jamaica.”

      “Interesting,” he replied, shaking hands. “I’m not sure welcome is the right word.”

      Anders sighed and nodded. “Sorry about that. The truth is that I’m hoping you can explain to me some of the cloak-and-dagger crap I’ve been getting fed since this mess with Amber Carson started. To tell you the truth, the bullshit is starting to pile up, taste bad and stink to high heaven.”

      This guy might not like him playing in his sandbox, Bolan thought, but at least he wasn’t going to play the political game. Maybe his initial pose had been one he’d adopted due to the situation, rather than his normal way of acting.

      “You know the drill, then,” Bolan replied, “and you won’t be surprised when I tell you that explanations are not going to be forthcoming anytime soon. About all I can offer is what you already know—we’re looking into Amber Carson’s murder.”

      “You and everyone else, Agent Cooper,” Anders said. “But now I’ve heard that there was some kind of explosive planted in her body that killed her father.”

      “That was supposed to be a secret,” he said. “You must have good sources, because it’s true.”

      “I’m the intelligence officer for this embassy,” he said. “But my sources have less to do with it than the fact that we’re in Jamaica. Keeping secrets here is like telling a four-year-old not to tell Mommy or Daddy. It’s a guarantee they’ll talk. This place is rife with rumor and speculation.”

      “It must make separating the truth from the lies more difficult.”

      Anders shrugged. “That’s part of my job. The sad thing is that with so much trouble in the region, there’s almost always some shred of truth to the rumors. Leads are difficult to track down because the culture here makes deciphering meaning almost impossible. Just when you think you’ve pinned something or someone down, you find out you’ve been on a trail that leads to nowhere. And now with a senator dead, getting anything useful will be twice as hard.” He moved to look out the window.

      “Sounds frustrating,” Bolan said. “But what can you tell me that I need to know before I go looking for answers?”

      “What you really need to know about are the posses. Everything else is just window dressing.”

      “Posses?” he asked, playing dumb. “Like the Old West?”

      “No,” Anders said, chuckling. “The posses are Jamaican gangs, but unlike most of the inner-city thugs you see in the U.S., these guys are organized and revered. They control the neighborhoods with money, drugs, weapons, you name it. The police don’t have half their power or influence, and the posses actually wield political power because they control the people here.”

      “How likely is it that one of these posses was involved in Amber Carson’s death?”

      “Very likely,” Anders said. “Almost guaranteed.”

      He reached for a file on his desk. Flipping through the pages, he opened to a picture of a body in a morgue. Centered in the frame was a tattoo on the right arm of the deceased—a grim reaper cradling a skull. “Take a look at this,” he said. “The Undead Posse.”

      “They sound charming,” Bolan said. “Why are they called the Undead Posse?”

      “If you ask the locals,” Anders replied, “it’s because their leader is actually one of the living dead.”

      “Really,” Bolan said, handing the folder back to Anders. “The living dead?”

      “I’m not kidding,” he said. “You’ve heard of voodoo, yes?”

      Bolan nodded. In fact he was all too familiar.

      Anders tossed the folder back onto his desk. “The locals believe that this new posse, the Undead Posse, is being led by some kind of…” He shrugged. “I don’t even know what the hell to call it. Someone back from the dead, but not a zombie or a vampire. Or maybe it’s a zombie. Who the hell knows?”

      “Tell me about the posses in general,” Bolan replied.

      Anders returned to his desk and sat down, gesturing for Bolan to do the same. “Like I told you, they’re gangs, but better run than anything I’ve ever heard about in the U.S. They run drugs, mostly, here and in the U.S. Very big in Miami, New York and up into Canada. But they’re willing to fight with automatic weapons over turf—drive-bys are common—and they don’t fear law enforcement at all.”

      “Why are they tolerated?” Bolan asked, thinking of all the various forms of organized crime that he’d rooted out over the years.

      “Because they’re everywhere,” Anders replied simply. “They outnumber law enforcement, have more money and better guns. When arrests are attempted, the people riot in the streets because the posses supply them with drugs, food, money and protection.”

      “So why do you think this Undead Posse was involved in Amber Carson’s murder?” Bolan said.

      “The dead man in the picture,” he said. “That tattoo is their symbol. He was found near the resort where she was staying. His throat had been cut.”

      “Professional or personal?” Bolan asked.

      “Probably both,” Anders replied. “The posses hand out their own form