Hazard Zone. Don Pendleton
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seen it before down here.”
“It seems a little convenient to me,” Bolan replied. “So if the killings here are personal, why take out a senator’s daughter? Or is that coincidence?”
Anders shrugged and looked away. He looked back and Bolan knew that the next words out of his mouth were going to be a lie. He didn’t care about territorial people, but liars who were supposed to be on his team were bothersome. Anders started to speak and Bolan held up his hand.
“Look, Anders, I don’t know what crap you’re getting ready to spout, but just…don’t. If there is a link to the senator that you suspect, then you need to let me know. If not, you’re likely to have a bad day. I don’t care about political garbage, I care about getting the people who did this and seeing them brought to justice.”
Anders took a step back and looked up at Bolan.
“No bullshit.”
“No bullshit.”
“All right, there are drugs and guns coming out of Jamaica, and we can’t seem to stem the flow.”
“What does that have to do with the senator?”
“Someone is helping them and I intend to find the culprit,” Anders said.
“She was staying at the Goldshore Resort, according to what I’ve got on file.”
“That’s right,” he said. “Are you going to check it out?”
“Yes,” Bolan said. “There’s something about all this that sets my teeth on edge.”
“What aren’t you telling me?” Anders asked. “If I knew more, maybe I could help more. You said no bullshit.”
“Maybe so,” Bolan said, standing up. “But if I told you, I’d have to kill you.” He stared hard at the man. “We wouldn’t want that, now, would we?”
“Funny,” Anders said. “But you aren’t the first CIA badass to try that with me. If you get serious, let me know if you want my help. Jamaica isn’t like most playgrounds. The mix of serious thugs with tourists is a pressure cooker, and the locals have no problem sending a clear message that if they aren’t left alone to do as they wish, they will seriously damage the notion of an ideal tourist spot. Other than that, there’s nothing else I can offer you.”
“I don’t need anything else,” he said. “I’ll see myself out.”
“Good,” Anders said, not bothering to rise or offer to shake hands again. “And, Agent Cooper?”
Bolan stopped halfway to the door and turned back. “Yes?”
“Obeah may seem like superstitious nonsense, but it’s very real to the people who believe in it. I advise you to be careful. Lots of people just…disappear in Jamaica.”
“I’m always careful, Mr. Anders,” Bolan replied. “It’s why I’m still alive and so many of my enemies aren’t.” He turned his back on the man and walked out the door.
3
Bolan parked his rental car across the street from the Goldshore Villas Resort. He knew from reading the dossier on Amber Carson that she’d been staying there, in her father’s condominium, while in Jamaica. He’d taken the time to do some quick research, but the pictures he’d seen online hadn’t done the place justice. It was a monument to wealth and excess, brought to life in the form of a private resort for the rich and powerful.
High adobe walls were decorated with vines and flowers, providing beauty, privacy and a botanical scene before a person even entered the front door. The main building was the largest of three, reaching up ten stories, with two smaller towers of eight stories on either side. The walls were nothing but windows—obviously opaque—to provide a view of the ocean and the beaches, or the island itself. A gated entrance protected a circular drive, and beyond it Bolan could see the double doors trimmed in polished brass. A valet and a bellman waited at a small podium.
He crossed the street and stopped at the inconspicuous, though obviously new, guard shack. Inside, a uniformed security officer stared back at him through the glass. “Can I help you, sir?”
Bolan showed him his CIA credentials. “I’m Special Agent Matt Cooper, CIA. I’d like to see the manager.”
“Do you have an appointment, sir?”
“No, I don’t,” he replied. “Just call the desk and ask him if I can talk to him for a few minutes.”
“You and every other guy with a badge wanting access,” he said. “Hold on.” He let go of the button that allowed them to converse through the small speaker in the glass and picked up a house phone inside the booth. He spoke a few words into the receiver, then hung the phone up.
“You can go on in,” he said. “Sorry about making you wait.”
Bolan lightly tapped the glass. “Better safe than sorry, right?” he asked.
“That’s what they’re saying now, since that girl got killed,” the guard said. “Before, the gates were just for decoration. This booth is brand-new, and I was only hired a few days ago. They brought in a new security manager, too.”
“I imagine things will settle down soon,” Bolan said.
“I hope not,” the man replied with a grin. “Easiest guard job I ever had catering to the rich folk. Not too many people want to make a fuss with the richies around. They want them to spend their money and then bring their friends to spend their money. Even the posses leave the tourists alone in this area.”
Bolan walked over as the guard opened the pedestrian gate for him. He stepped through and followed the walk around the drive to the front door, where the bellman was waiting to open it. Bolan thanked him and moved forward into the lobby.
Plush carpeting in warm colors and leather furnishings greeted him, while indirect light kept the interior lit without being overly bright. The greenery from the outside continued throughout the lobby, creating a tropical paradise with hidden alcoves and paths that led out to the gardens. Quiet New Age music played on hidden speakers. The front desk was along the wall to his left and topped with a highly polished slab of driftwood large enough to serve as a raft should the need arise. An attractive young woman stood behind it, and she smiled when she saw him.
“Agent Cooper?” she asked. “Go right in. Mr. Kroger is waiting for you.” She gestured at a door positioned to one side of the front desk.
“Thanks,” he said, scanning the lobby for trouble even as he went to the door and opened it to see a large office dominated by a desk and multiple file cabinets. Behind the desk, a thin, tired-looking man waved him in.
“Please, Agent Cooper,” he said, gesturing at one of the chairs, “have a seat.” He rose and offered his hand. “John Kroger, by the way. I’m the general manager of the resort.”
“I appreciate your taking the time to see me without an appointment,” he said. “The guard out front made it clear that things have been hectic.”
Kroger laughed dispiritedly. “It’s been a trip through hell,” he admitted. “Ever since Amber Carson was…found.”
“She was raped and murdered,” Bolan said bluntly. “There’s no need to soft sell it with me.”
Kroger shuddered. “I find it all so horrible,” he said. “As I’ve told the other investigators, nothing like this has ever happened here.”
“In Jamaica?” he asked.
“No, no,” Kroger said. “I mean here at the resort. We’re not that kind of place. Even during spring break, most of our younger guests are well-behaved.” He stood up and paced back and forth behind his desk, waving his stick-figure arms. “I don’t understand it,” he continued. “Oh, they’ll come here and drink, maybe get high, but they don’t