Hazard Zone. Don Pendleton

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      “What was the security situation when you were hired?” Bolan asked.

      “Pretty standard,” he said. “The cameras were all operational and recording, but there was no monitoring security staff. After midnight, the resort was running only a single security officer for the entire property, and he spent most of his nights rousting drunk rich kids instead of looking for real trouble.”

      “What have you changed since you came on board?”

      Kowal gestured to the man seated at the monitors. “As you can see, I’ve got a man assigned just to watch the camera feeds—rotating staff there every three hours to keep their eyes fresh. I also added the gate guard, and we have four officers on foot patrol during the day–it bumps to six between 6:00 p.m. and midnight, and then drops to three between midnight and 4:00 a.m.”

      “Sounds about right,” Bolan said. “Any trouble so far?”

      The security manager shook his head in disgust. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Drunk rich kids carrying on, for the most part. A couple of minor scuffles out on the patio, and once on the beach—all easily handled and nothing out of the ordinary.”

      “Have you talked to the staff on duty that night?” he asked. “Reviewed the video footage?”

      “Both,” Kowal said. He turned to the officer seated at the monitors. “Dave, can you bring up the footage from the night of Amber Carson’s murder, please? Just from the patio.” He moved to a blank monitor, turned it on and gestured for Bolan to sit down.

      Both men watched as Amber and her friends drank shots out on the patio, then saw her move to get something to eat. There wasn’t an audio feed. “Who’s the guy hitting on her?” Bolan asked.

      “Actually, a member of the staff. He was off duty, and so long as things didn’t get out of line, the management had allowed it. I’ve since changed that policy.”

      “Wise,” he said. “Has this employee been questioned?”

      “By the local police, myself, Mr. Kroger and two federal law-enforcement officers who came in yesterday evening,” Kowal said.

      Bolan thought that was curious. He asked which agency the federal officers were with, and Kowal snorted. “They showed FBI credentials, but I don’t think so. Maybe military or NSA, but not FBI.”

      “What makes you say that?”

      “Educated guess,” Kowal said. “They didn’t talk like FBI.”

      “You seem to know your way around law enforcement,” Bolan said. “Better than most resort security officers I’ve ever heard of. What’s your background?”

      Kowal smiled. “Secret Service until four years ago. I quit to launch my own company.”

      “Doing resort security? Kind of a step down, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

      This time Kowal actually laughed. “No, my company is a security consulting agency. Once they’re set up here and I’ve got a good man in place to run things, I’ll be on my way to wherever the next job takes me. It may not sound as cool as Secret Service, but it’s about ten times the money.”

      “Makes sense,” Bolan said. “So, what’s your take on this situation?”

      “Jamaica is a gilt-covered cesspit,” he said. “But generally speaking, the real bad guys, the posse crews, leave the tourists alone. Too much trouble—high risk, low reward. I think Amber Carson was targeted, if what I’ve heard is true.”

      “What have you heard?” he asked.

      “She was raped, ritualistically murdered, and then somehow her body was rigged with a light explosive that was attached to weaponized anthrax. When it went off, it killed Senator Carson, some folks in the examination room where they were conducting the autopsy, and turned Bethesda Naval Hospital into a quarantine zone.”

      Bolan leaned back in his chair and reassessed the man sitting before him. Not only was his information dead-on accurate, but it was only known to a handful of people in the world right now. “I thought you were out of the Secret Service,” he finally said.

      “I am,” Kowal said. “But I still have friends there, and I like to keep in the loop about what’s going on in that end of things. You know how it is. You’re never really out of service.”

      “You’re well-informed,” he admitted. “Most of that hasn’t been made public yet. Kroger still thinks her father is alive. Have you heard anything from the staff that makes you think they might know more than they ought to?”

      “No, but I’m the new guy and not a local, so that makes me persona non grata with the islanders. It’s a closed community in general and really hard to break into, but I’m not here to make best friends. I’m here to get a job done.”

      “Kroger’s going to find out, probably sooner than later. They won’t be able to keep that under wraps for long,” Bolan said.

      “I know,” he said. “But he won’t find out from me. Right now, I’m just doing the job I was hired to do—make the resort as secure as possible. Though that horse 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 СКАЧАТЬ