Читать книгу Grave Mercy - Don Pendleton - Страница 7

Three couples were entwined in each other’s arms on the bobbing yacht that was anchored at sea. They were watching the Caribbean sunset, yet seemed more interested in their partner’s curves and supple warmth.

It was an idyllic interlude, the soundtrack provided by an MP3 file pumping out tropic island tunes over the yacht’s sound system.

Pierre Fortescue felt a pang of regret for ruining such a perfect romantic vacation, but it was quickly subsumed as he remembered that these were Americans, the people who had withdrawn their approval and allowed the Duvaliers’ ceaseless control of Haiti to disappear. Since the end of Papa Doc’s and Baby Doc’s reign, Fortescue’s home nation had fallen into a sewer pit. The worst insult was when the earthquake that he and the rest of his cult had prayed for was misread as the punishment of God against the nation that had bartered their freedom to the Devil.

Fortescue snorted. The gods that he and the Black Avengers spoke with predated the quaint humanist concepts of a supreme being weak enough to let his son be nailed to a tree. The loa were no sniveling pacifists, no way in heaven or hell. When the Fortescue family’s first Haitian ancestors called them down, their vengeance against France was a total emasculation that had allowed the British, an insane emperor, the Nazis and now the Muslims to overrun them and bring them ruin. The loa didn’t caress their enemies, they scourged the fools until they were hollow echoes of their former selves.

France was but one crippled victim of the dark lords of voodoo. And now, America and Haiti would feel the harsh caresses of voodoo magic.

The motion of the yacht wasn’t sufficient to make it hard for the tall, dark-skinned Fortescue to hop up, grab the rail and haul himself over. There were two young people on the deck, a swarthy young man with black hair, nuzzling into the neck of a young blond woman who looked emaciated except for a pair of swollen breasts too large for her bony torso.

Fortescue, crouching out of sight behind the deckhouse, sneered as he realized that those were probably some of the best breasts that money could buy. Typical whites—so frightened of having an ounce of body fat on them, and yet they were envious of the voluptuous curves of healthy women.

One of his fellow Black Avenger raiders had slipped aboard as he observed the scene, then opened up a small duffel to retrieve the inoculator pistols. Fortescue loaded the first twin-dart cartridge into the breech of the inoculator. The tiny weapons were designed for dealing with animals, and had been stolen from a Florida wildlife ranger station.

Fortescue walked onto the bow, staying low so as not to betray his position, yet craning his neck to see if there was any semblance of alarm on the part of the two couples on the port deck. They, like the couple closest to him, were oblivious to the presence of dark raiders on their craft. Fortescue cleared his throat, and the man looked up in his direction.

Fortescue could see that the young man was a Hispanic, and the young Latino grunted as Fortescue’s first dart caught him under his pectoral muscle. The dart wasn’t actually an anaesthetic but a quick-acting paralytic. The dose froze the young man, rendering him inert, yet not strong enough to stop his lungs. The blonde woman was about to squeal when Fortescue punched his second dart into her, striking her in the stomach. He wasn’t certain that if the dart had struck one of those silicone-inflated bags on her chest that it would reach her bloodstream.

The blonde stiffened in paralysis, the paralytic effects of the tubocurarine hitting her like a ton of bricks. The toxin was one of the main chemicals from the primitive jungle poison curare. The young woman’s eyes widened with horror as she was unable to move. She was too small, too light, for the dose of toxin that Fortescue had put into her, but as long as her diaphragm was paralyzed, she couldn’t make noise. It was better to let her die here, on the yacht.

The young man beside her was strong enough that his chest still rose and fell, lungs working despite the complete loss of strength in his arms and legs. He’d likely survive the dosing with tetrodotoxin, leaving him mentally malleable. It wasn’t as if a scrawny, ninety-pound girl would have provided as much of a threat as a 180-pound man, not with the plan proposed by Morrot, the Black Avengers’ leader.

Blue eyes looked up pleadingly at Fortescue. The young woman looked as if she wanted to move her lips, minor twitches, but the power of the tubocurarine was just too much for her. It would take upward of a minute or two more for her to suffocate. The young man twitched, able to influence his own body that much, staying alive. He could sense his lover’s distress, or at least see that she had stopped breathing.

Fortescue rested his hand on the paralyzed young man’s chest, checking for a heartbeat. You’ll forget her quickly enough, he thought. It was a pointless gesture, the youth couldn’t hear his thought, and he really didn’t care about his torment, but that brief show of compassion was something he felt the urge to give.

As soon as the Haitian had his dart gun loaded, he nodded to his companion. A third of their number was waiting in reserve, ready to hit anyone who wasn’t put down by Fortescue and friend’s darts.

Four quiet puffs of CO₂ launched their pointed, toxin-laden missiles with stealthy quickness. The two young couples were rendered immobile with little fuss or muss. One of the young men struggled, his lungs failing due to an unforeseen bout of asthmatic response, but two losses abovedeck were little loss to Morrot’s operational plans. Fortescue waved his assistants on to scoop up the unconscious ones, ignoring the flopped corpses on the decks.

“How many belowdecks?” Fortescue asked.

“Register says three crew and another couple,” his ally, Cornelius, said, looking at the laminated paper. “Do we take the crew?”

“They’re strong and will be useful,” Fortescue said. “Besides, these men aren’t true believers. Just because they share the same skin color means nothing. They are pagans, adherents to heathen gods.”

“They think the same about us,” Cornelius answered. “So, it’s only fair.”

“It is unconscionable that they consider us savages, worshipping carcasses impaled to planks or a burning shrubbery,” Fortescue replied. “When we make our move, their world’s streets will run with their blood.”

Cornelius’s smile was broad and infectious. “Blood shed by their own hands.”

Fortescue nodded sagely. “Reload, and we’ll head belowdecks. Get Gallad.”

The three Black Avengers headed below the deck.

THE STRAPS CUT into Guillermo Rojas’s wrists as consciousness returned to him, his arms twitching futilely in response to his feeling of restraint. Rojas wanted to turn his head, but a leather thong across his forehead and gripping his chin kept him still.

All he could remember was Stephanie, her gorgeous blue eyes alit with horror, foam streaming over her lips. Then there was the black shadow, wielding a strange, sci-fi-looking handgun, that reached out to touch his chest, as if to soothe his worries over the gurgling, drowning girl who trembled beside him. Rage and grief spun in his strap-bound chest, his fury an impotent storm as he didn’t know where the midnight-skinned marauder was, and grief over the sweet, blue-eyed creature he’d fallen for. Stephanie Coulton, tiny and privileged, had found him as beautiful as he’d found her, and had brought him down for a spring getaway despite her father’s disgust that she was consorting with someone that the man felt was destined to be a pool boy or a gardener, not her social equal.

She’d loved him, she’d defied her father, and now he knew what her face looked like when her lungs shut down, jammed with histamine. He knew the symptoms of bronchoconstriction well—Rojas was a medical student, only a year away from his first internship. His mind reeled as he searched for a reason why he’d just lain there, helpless as she died, suffocating.

His mouth was dry, and he wasn’t able to speak. His pharmaceutical knowledge simply wasn’t enough to determine what had happened, but he was certain that it wasn’t any form of anaesthetic. No “knockout drug” acted so quickly against a person, but he knew that there were toxins out there that were used for rapid incapacitation. He’d been present at emergency intubations, and knew anaesthesiologists utilized drugs that caused instant paralysis—which was why intubation teams acted instantly when the patients were given their injections. As soon as the subject went limp, the intubation tube was put down the windpipe and into the main bronchial tube.

Such a drug acted instantly, and was capable of stopping someone’s breathing, indeed it was counted on to prevent reflexive movement during surgery. Handled right, it could render a big man like him immobile, easily captured, but a dose that would leave him helpless was far too much for a girl who was half his weight. Muscles frozen, Stephanie was doomed the minute the toxin hit her bloodstream.

A fingertip caressed his cheek, and Rojas grimaced as his effort to turn was again stymied by the rig that held his head in place. Tendons cracked as they tried to move a completely immobilized head.

“The first one awake, good.”

Rojas tried to open his mouth, but he finally figured out the dryness in his mouth—a leather “tongue” was stuffed into it, and it was part of the multistrap system that held him immobile. All he could do was murmur past the gag.

“Yes, so sorry about not allowing you to speak, but unlike my favorite visionary, I do not care to listen to the wails and laments of my experiments,” the voice said, a lilting French accent weighing heavily on his words. His timber was deep, its resonant echo making Rojas imagine that it came not from a throat, but a bottomless gullet that would be more at home on a shark.

Rojas snorted, trying to trumpet out some form of sound. His eyes craned to see the shadowy man flitting in the darkness at the edges of his peripheral vision. His chewed on the leather pad that gagged him until his teeth started to hurt.

“Such fire. I appreciate it,” the French-accented shadow man said. “It gives me a challenge.”

Rojas’s blood chilled at the ominous sound of that statement. Dark brown eyes swiveled in their sockets, grasping for more than a blurred glimpse of the smear of motion that possessed the doom-laden French accent that taunted him. Fingernails scratched along his jawline, and the young man caught a glimpse of the man’s digits, callused and long, bearing the color of straight, strong coffee.

“Oh, you want to see me?” his tormentor asked.

Rojas managed an affirmative sound.

A face loomed into the light over Rojas’s left shoulder. The shadowy figure bore a distinguished face that was handsome with middle age’s wisdom and grace, his broad, flat nose the only sign of any imperfection as the bridge had an odd kink in the middle of it. Rojas almost felt relief that it was a fairly normal-looking man, not some chimeric predator, when dread snuck into his heart, a frightened tingle that zipped through his chest and rolled down his arms to his fingertips. Something on the other side was wrong, horribly wrong.

The man stepped out from behind Rojas’s chair and turned toward him. The oversize, milky-white eye glared out of the fused mass of flesh that was the remnants of what used to be human features. The eye, three concentric rings of varying hues of white, glared at him, and Rojas would have kicked and screamed had he retained any ability to move. Instead, a high-pitched whine blared through his nostrils, the closest approximation of a scream of horror that he could manage with a mouth stuffed with leather.

“My name is Dr. Morrot,” the man said.

Rojas had initially thought he’d awakened to a nightmare, a fever-dream where Stephanie had died slowly and horribly and where he had been kidnapped by monsters. He realized that the first of his waking moments were a respite of peace compared to the wave of insanity washing over him. Bound helpless in front of a deformed madman with a nausea-inducing orb where an eye should have been, tormented by a voice that belonged to a devil, not a human, Rojas’s arms, laden with lean, strong muscle, flexed against his restraints, but they didn’t budge. His legs tried to kick, to twist, but they, too, were thwarted by the trap that Morrot had placed him in.

Rojas could hear that others in the room had begun to awaken. Their nostrils blared and bleated as they made an effort to speak, alarm filling those nasal sounds as they realized that they, too, were immobilized.

Morrot leaned in, licking Rojas’s shoulder. “Mmm. The salty taste of fear, accompanied by the buttery scent of panic. Of course, the smell is really a byproduct of the body’s elimination of potassium, but as a medical student, you already knew that, right, Mr. Rojas?”

Rojas wanted to bellow, to throw that trivia back into Morrot’s ugly, misshapen face. He’d wondered if he were free, if he’d have the courage to punch this spindly figure standing in front of him. However, the baleful eye glaring unblinkingly at him, sagging in its socket, was as paralyzing as the dart that had taken him on the yacht.

“Good morning, children!” Morrot boomed, his slender arms spread wide. Now that the disfigured doctor had stepped back, Rojas could see the man in full. He wore a short-sleeved, olive-colored T-shirt that was covered by a maroon-and-purple-stained butcher’s apron. The slender limbs were deceptive in their thinness, as Morrot was a tall man, easily six foot six, and those arms were corded with muscle that flexed with every movement. The horrible damage to the left side of the man’s face extended down his neck and to his upper left arm, stringy tendrils of skin spiderwebbed over a raw, red surface.

Around him, Rojas’s companions from the yacht let out their fright in any way they could, from guttural throat constrictions to piercing whines through nostrils. Morrot seemed to bathe in the captives’ fear, letting it wash over him like a refreshing drizzle breaking up a steamy, hot and ugly day.

Morrot took a deep breath, then lowered his gaze to the prisoners as a masked assistant, wearing a white coat and scrub pants approached him, carrying a tray laden with syringes. “It’s time to open your minds and say ‘ah.’”

Rojas and his companions tried to scream past their gags, but all that came out were panicked whines through their noses.

THE YOUNG PUNK rocker paused as she stood beside the idling Jeep, regarding a convalescing Mack Bolan as he swung in a hammock. He could still taste the hint of cherry on his lips, the silken softness of her pink-and-blond hair a fresh sensation on his fingers. Honey’s dark red lips pursed as she blew him a kiss.

Bolan casually caught it with his good hand, and he returned a salute to the tough woman. The driver of the Jeep leaned on the horn to get Honey’s attention, eliciting a middle finger for him. She gave one last lingering look to the soldier, then jumped into the back.

Tires ground at the dirt road, kicking up a cloud that did nothing to hamper the verdant slashes of color beneath a sky as crystal clear blue as a painting. This place was paradise, so close to the beach that he could smell the salt of the sea and gentle rush of waves. Children carried surfboards from a small hut, waving to the soldier as he reclined in the hammock.

Bolan waved back to the kids. Honey had arranged for him to stay with a friend of hers, Anton Spaulding, at the Jamaican surf camp he owned. Spaulding was an exceptional host, laid back and gentle, the epitome of the surfer lifestyle, having built his dream home in the pleasant, peaceful woods.

Spaulding walked toward the hammock, clad only in blue-and-white palm-frond-patterned surfer shorts. His skin was browned from constant exposure to the sun, his hair a dirty blend of sun-bleached blond and dark brunette that fell haphazardly over his forehead and ears. His blue eyes gleaming over a broken nose.

“Shame to see her go,” he said, leaning on one of the trees holding Bolan’s hammock.

“She has things to do. Better things than looking after me,” Bolan replied with a chuckle.

Spaulding smirked. “I don’t know. Looked like leaving was harder for her than pulling a tooth.”

“Wasn’t easy for me, either,” Bolan said. Glass clinked, and he turned to see Spaulding hold up a pair of beer bottles.

“I’m not sure if these will go well with your painkillers.”

Bolan smiled. “I try to limit the chemicals that go into me. Alcohol, too, but…”

“When it’s time to relax, you got the beer.”

The two men chuckled. A convulsive twitch of muscle over one of Bolan’s healing ribs sent a spark of pain rushing through him. Still, it was a worthwhile exchange. With a twist, Bolan rolled out of the hammock. The stitch in his side started to fade as he accepted the beer bottle.

“Finally moving now that Honey’s not around?”

Bolan shot a glance at Spaulding. “What, you’re going to be my nursemaid now?”

Spaulding shook his head. “No way, man. But she must have threatened you to keep you lying down.”

“Combination of threats and pain.”

“When do you think you’ll be out to join us in the butter?” Spaulding asked.

Bolan had to remember he was at a surf camp to decipher that the bronzed young man was inquiring about when Bolan would take a few spins on a surfboard. “Once I don’t feel like I’m being kicked in the chest when I laugh. And by then, I should be on my way out of here.”

“It’d be a shame.”

Bolan frowned. “Trouble finds me easily. It’d be a shame if it landed here.”

Spaulding began chuckling again. “This place is as far from trouble as you can get. That’s why Honey dropped you off here.”

“I hope so,” Bolan answered.