by Gar Wilson
"Three guys showed up here about an hour ago and set some sort of firebombs in the place," Cabot declared. "Must have used napalm or something because the flames just won't go out. See for yourself. The fire department might as well order their men to try to piss on that building."
"Professional arson?" Katz raised an eyebrow. "Someone must have hired the saboteurs. I wonder what was in that plant that made it necessary to have it destroyed."
"You're suggesting I ordered this fire?" the manager snapped. "You OSHA guys are a pain in the ass. You're nit-picking lice who specialize in making mountains from mole hills. You're only good at checking toilets to see if they flush or maybe measuring the width of snow shovels to make certain they meet federal standards for sidewalk clearing. You clowns try to accuse me of conspiracy to commit arson, and you'll find yourself with a lawsuit on your hands."
"No one is accusing you of anything," Katz assured him. "But what sort of insurance policy does this plant have?"
The manager snarled a string of profanities at Katz. Lieutenant Cabot tried to calm him. James strolled toward the plant employees to get a better look at four young men standing apart from the others.
They had caught James's attention because they seemed oddly nervous. They shuffled their feet as if trying to scrape gum off the soles of their shoes. They wiped their runny noses and chain-smoked. One guy scratched his left arm, which was covered by a long sleeve.
"Gentlemen," James began crisply. "I'm from OSHA. What's your opinion about what happened here today?"
"Uh, I don't know, man," one of the quartet replied. "Just some crazies burned down the place."
"Crazies?" James glared at the man, staring into his eyes. "Pretty clever for crazies. What do you really think?"
"I told you, I don't know."
"You don't think this was done by international terrorists, do you?"
"Look, man," another youth snapped. "We don't wanna talk about it."
"Why not?" James locked his gaze on the second man's face. "Has management threatened you?"
"Hey, Kincaid!" Cabot snapped. "You and your buddy are interfering with our investigation. I don't give a fiddler's damn if you're Feds or not. You can still wait until we're finished asking questions before you start poking around."
"No need to get hostile," James replied. "Mr. Silverman? Do you agree that we can check on this later?"
"I believe so, Mr. Kincaid," Katz answered.
The pair marched to the Pinto and climbed in. James started the engine while Katz took a pack of Camels from his pocket.
"Find anything of interest?" the Israeli asked, lighting a cigarette.
"Maybe," James said. "Those four dudes over there. They've got runny noses, dilated pupils and itchy feet."
"What?"
"Most junkies shoot up in their feet these days. Needle tracks are less obvious that way. One fella looked like he still likes to pump dope directly into the arm. I've seen a lot of strung-out heroin freaks, and I'd be willing to bet I just saw four more over there."
"Well, we know the Black Alchemists were using junkies in Chicago," Katz commented, drawing on his cigarette. "I'll contact Keio and tell him to bring the van."
"Those guys might leave in separate cars," James warned. "We'll need more than one tail."
"The others should be ready by now," Katz replied. "They've had time to ditch the truck, change their clothes and join Keio. McCarter has another rental on hand. We'll have an extra tail."
"I just hope these nerds lead us to some Black Alchemist big shots," James remarked.
"That would be nice," the Israeli agreed.
15
Colonel Guerre was proud of his Zombie Warriors. The Haitian military commander watched his elite fighting unit train in a dojo at the Black Alchemists' stronghold. The gymnasium was equipped with barbells, weight machines, heavy body bags and assorted karate training gear.
Like the Ton Ton Macout, the Zombies had received a title associated with voodoo folklore. Zombies are the walking dead, corpses animated by the evil magic of a bocor, sorcerer.
True believers fear the Zombie. Haitian peasants often sewed shut the lips of a deceased loved one to prevent the corpse from uttering its name if a bocor tried to summon it from the grave.
The Zombie Warriors had been Guerre's idea. Cercueil had immediately agreed. They'd selected the members of the bizarre new fighting unit with care. The Zombies consisted of former Ton Ton Macout and Haitian military veterans. Each man had to have good reflexes and physical strength. But the most important qualification was that they believed in voodoo and Cercueil's magical powers.
The Zombies feared Cercueil. If they disobeyed him, the bocor might inflict the tandritanitani — the juju curse that causes men to waste away and die. Cercueil had made effigies of every Zombie Warrior, using nail parings and bits of hair from each. The subjects believed Cercueil could thrust needles into the figures and transmit injury to them and that they are powerless to defend themselves against such sorcery since they did not have a houngon, a practitioner of benevolent magic, to combat the bocor.
To the Zombies this fear was very real. They had all heard of the tandritanitani striking down healthy men. Some had actually seen this occur in their native Haiti. None of them considered the fact that the success of the curse was psychological. If the mind believes, the body will die.
Their very name reminded the Zombie Warriors of the fate that disobedience would bring. Cercueil could strike them dead and summon their corpses to serve as genuine Zombies if the bocor so desired. Thus they trained hard, obeyed every order and felt grateful that Cercueil allowed them to be Zombies in name only.
Although Cercueil was the force that motivated the Zombies, Guerre was their commander. He supervised their training, enforced discipline, delivered orders. They were his men, his special combat team.
Guerre watched the Zombies lift weights and slam fists and feet into the heavy bags and makiwara, striking posts. One martial-arts expert skillfully executed a drill with his nunchaku, an Okinawan weapon consisting of two oak sticks joined together by a short chain. The nunchaku flashed like a propeller, cut rapid figure-eight patterns, and whirled around him with lightning speed.
Another warrior displayed equal skill with another Okinawan karate weapon: the sai, a short swordlike device featuring an eighteen-inch center blade and two curved prongs on the quillon or crossguard.
The weapons spun like batons in his hands, as yet another Zombie attacked with a machete. He parried the machete with a quick sai stroke, then snared the attacker's wrist with a prong hook. Before the man could attempt to free his trapped arm, he executed a fast stroke with the other sai. The blade sliced air next to the aggressor's temple. Had the blow actually struck, it would have cracked the skull.
Guerre had concentrated on training the Zombies in hand-to-hand combat. It was the best way to build confidence and physical endurance. Besides, the stronghold was not equipped for training with rifles, explosives or land-assault maneuvers.
Later Guerre planned to complete their training. Then they would get firsthand experience when they would return to Haiti and conquer the island nation. And that would be only the beginning. Cercueil wanted to rule over only the superstitious peasants in Haiti, but Guerre planned to conquer an entire network of islands throughout the Caribbean.
Cercueil would not approve, of course. This did not worry Guerre. He would simply have to dispose of Cercueil and claim the gods had called his soul to the spirit world.
Guerre realized that seizing control of Caribbean islands could be dangerous. The Falkland Islands and Grenada proved that. He thought Guadeloupe might be safer since it is a French protectorate. The British and the Americans would not be apt to retaliate if he invaded Guadeloupe.
Would the French think one little island worth protecting? Guerre doubted that, although he was aware that the French bombed terrorist camps in Syria to retaliate for the slaughter of their peacekeeping troops in Lebanon.
Maybe Guadeloupe was not such a good target after all.
Don't get greedy too quickly, Guerre thought. Worry about one conquest at a time.
* * *
"Colonel," Cercueil called out as he entered the dojo. "Come here, s'il vous plaît."
Guerre nodded. He followed the leader of the Black Alchemists into the corridor. Cercueil tapped the silver skull handle of his walking stick against his open palm. Guerre recognized the nervous habit. Cercueil was troubled, perhaps even afraid.
"Our attack force in Springfield was wiped out," Cercueil declared. "Worse, a successful raid was then conducted against Tigershark's headquarters in Chicago."
"Merde!" the colonel gasped. "Was there any record that could link Tigershark's operation to our base?"
"None of his people knew about us," Cercueil replied. "Tigershark took orders directly from Manta at Cancer Ward."
"What if they locate Cancer Ward?" Guerre asked fearfully.
"That's impossible," Cercueil assured him. "Tigershark didn't even know where Cancer Ward is. Nothing can connect the two..."
"Cercueil!" Farley Cole shouted.
Rigid with anger, the chemist approached the two startled Haitians. He thrust an accusing finger at the Black Alchemist boss. His hands were trembling.
"You sons of bitches have been lying to me!"
"About what?" Cercueil seemed calm.
"You told me everything was going as smooth as owl shit," Cole declared. "But I just heard a radio message from one of your flunkies at a base called Cancer Ward. For once the transmission was in English instead of that Creole gibberish."
"Really?" Cercueil toyed with the silver handle of his cane. "What was this message?"
"That their local operation had been terminated," Cole answered. "They said the business was burned out."
"The tobacco company," Guerre whispered tensely.
"That's why you wanted me to come up with something to poison cigarettes," Cole remarked. "Guess that's where all that nicotine sulfate wound up. Well, looks like things went sour again. Another failure."
"You're getting too emotional, Cole," Cercueil said.
"I want out," the chemist insisted. "I brewed up your alchemy potions. I did my job, right? Just pay me now, and you guys can have the blackmail money all to yourselves — if you ever see a cent of it."
"So you want your reward now?" Cercueil asked gently, turning the death head of his cane.
"I'll settle for $300,000," Cole declared. "That'll be enough for me to get out of the country and set myself up with a new identity somewhere else. You guys can afford that much, right?"
"Of course," Cercueil said, nodding. "And you'll get what you deserve..."
Without warning he yanked the skull handle and pulled a twenty-four-inch steel blade from the hollow cane. Cole's eyes widened in terror. His mouth fell open in mute fear.
Cercueil lunged. The sword pierced Cole's chest, lanced his heart. Cole convulsed at the end of the blade. Cercueil pulled the sword from the deep wound, and Cole dropped lifeless to the floor.
"I wondered when you'd decide this American cochon had outlived his usefulness," Guerre commented as he kicked Cole's corpse.
"He was a fool." Cercueil shrugged, then wiped the blade of his sword with a handkerchief before returning it to the cane scabbard.
"What will we do about Cancer Ward?" Guerre asked.
"We can't afford to take any chances," Cercueil replied. "I'll order Manta to pull out immediately."
16
The Black Alchemist base called Cancer Ward was located at a small Virginia farmhouse a few miles south of Richmond. The house served as headquarters and the barn as sleeping quarters for the base security personnel. A grain silo contained an assortment of insidious chemicals waiting to be distributed by terrorist saboteurs.
Between the house and the barn, two tractor trailer rigs were parked. Several men were loading weapons and crates into the trucks when the four junkies from the Hi-Quality Tobacco Corporation arrived. The visitors hastily parked their battered old Ford Galaxy and hurried from the car.
Two black men emerged from the house. They resembled a sinister version of Laurel and Hardy, but there was nothing amusing about the obese Haitian commander and his short wiry partner.
The fat man was a former Ton Ton Macout storm trooper known as Manta. Like other ex-members of the Haitian secret police, he still wore dark glasses and a short-sleeved blue shirt. Manta also carried a .357 Magnum on his hip and a bone-handled bowie knife in a belt sheath.
His diminutive companion, however, was far more vicious and deadly. Known only as Barracuda, the waspish killer was a cold-blooded psychopath. He carried a 9mm Star automatic in a shoulder holster, a .25 auto in an ankle holster and a straight razor in a neck pouch. A French MAT submachine gun hung from a shoulder strap.
Barracuda's greatest joy in life was killing. He looked forward to it the way a normal man anticipates going to bed with a beautiful woman.
"What are you idiots doing here?" Manta snapped at the four addicts.
"Somebody burned down the plant, Mr. Manta," one of the junkies replied in a trembling voice.
"We already know about that." Manta clucked his tongue with disgust. "We monitor police radio messages. I repeat: What are you doing here?"
"Well, we figured we ought to come here and hide out for a while," another junkie answered.
"Really?" Manta sneered. "Don't you think that will make you appear a bit suspicious? Did you consider the fact someone might have followed you here?"
"Uh, we didn't think..."
"I'm aware of that," Manta sighed. "That would be asking too much of you. I don't intend to waste time listening to you whine. We've received orders to abandon this site immediately. The men are currently taking care of that, and I'm going to destroy any records we won't need at the new site. Never mind where that is. It doesn't concern you."
"What about us? What's gonna happen to us?"
"Barracuda will take care of you," Manta replied as he patted his companion on the shoulder and walked away.
The scrawny killer immediately raised his MAT subgun, cocked it and opened fire. He giggled as 9mm slugs slammed into the four heroin freaks. Their bodies executed an uncoordinated dance of death, propelled backward by the impact of the deadly spray of bullets.
The French chatterbox was still blazing in Barracuda's fist when a scarlet spider appeared in the center of his forehead. The stringy "legs" were trickles of blood surrounding a bullet hole.
The shot that killed Barracuda had blended with the noise of the MAT. Manta did not realize his chief enforcer had stopped a bullet until Barracuda fell. Manta cried out in alarm and stumbled backward across the threshold of the farmhouse. Another shot erupted and a 7.62mm slug splintered wood from the doorway inches from his head.
"Missed," Gary Manning muttered as he removed his eye from the Bushnell scope and lowered his H&K G-3SG-1 assault rifle.
"You got the dude with the machine gun," Calvin James remarked by his side as he watched half a dozen armed thugs rush from the barn.
"And we'll all have ample opportunities to get some more,'' David McCarter said cheerfully.
The three Phoenix Force commandos advanced from a grassy knoll two hundred yards from the farmhouse. Typical of his daring nature, McCarter plunged forward, eager to close in and use his shortbarreled Ingram machine-pistol. Manning and James supplied cover fire with their longer-range H&K and M-16 rifles.
Several terrorists fell as bullets thwacked into flesh. The others ducked behind whatever cover they could find and returned fire. Several Black Alchemists used the trucks for shelter, their attention centered on McCarter, Manning and James. They did not realize that three other members of Phoenix Force had chosen to hit the Cancer Ward base from a different direction.
A shadow suddenly fell across three terrorists crouched behind a trailer. Two of them pivoted with a start. A tall dark figure with a fierce Oriental face glared at them.
The sword kept moving in a single lightning-quick diagonal stroke. Another terrorist tried to swing his .380 Beretta toward Ohara. The Japanese warrior was much faster. His samurai blade sliced through the man's wrist as if it was made of brittle bamboo. A geyser of blood shot from the stump as the severed hand fell to the ground, the Beretta still clenched in its fist.
Ohara executed a rapid cross-body sword stroke. The wakazashi struck his opponent in the right rib cage. The ichi-no-do cut sliced through bone and innards to split the terrorist's torso in half. The hideous corpse tumbled to the ground, spilling yards of intestines and quarts of bloodied gore.
The third terrorist retreated from the deadly swordsman. Terrified, he worked the slide of a 1911A1 Colt to chamber a round. Rafael Encizo, whose walking stick was already trained on the terrorist, aimed the cane like a rifle and pressed the trigger.
The harpoon bolted from the cane and slammed into the center of the gunman's chest, blasting through sternum bone to pump deadly curare into the heart. Paralyzed by the South American poison, the terrorist stood motionless for a full second before he toppled to the ground, to slowly die.
Encizo joined Ohara at the rear of the trailer. A Ton Ton Macout goon suddenly appeared at the edge of the rig. Since his comrades had been killed noiselessly, the Haitian did not expect trouble. Startled by discovering the two Phoenix Force commandos, the terrorist quickly raised his 'shorty' CAR-15.
Rafael Encizo reacted with the speed and ferocity of a cornered puma. He slashed his walking stick at the Haitian. Wood struck metal forcibly. The cane snapped and splintered on impact. The force of the blow sent the CAR hurtling from the Haitian's grasp.
