Red Angel

placed the shells in a mortar, then began grinding them with a pestle until they were transformed into a fine, white powder.

“You must place both hands over the nganga so you may receive the powder,” the woman whispered.

Rossi did as he was told, and the palero emptied the mortar into his cupped palms. Then he took Rossi’s hands and turned them over so the fine, white dust fell into the nganga.

He reached across the pot and opened Rossi’s shirt, revealing his pale, bony, old man’s chest. He dipped one finger into the pot and gathered some of the white powder, then rubbed the finger into the still-leaking wound on Rossi’s palm. Reaching out again, he used the mixture to draw three lines on Rossi’s chest.

Rossi felt a surge of warmth fill his chest, almost as if some power were forcing its way beneath his skin. The palero began to chant.

“Angel Roja, nfumbe. Opiapa. BabaluAye binkome.”

One of the Abakua, who had been standing in the shadows, moved forward now, leading a tethered black goat. The goat’s head had been covered with a hood, and the animal moved hesitantly, its hooves clicking erratically on the tiled floor.

When he reached the palero, the Abakua forced the animal down, pulled the hood from its head, then grabbed its horns, and forced the head back so the neck was exposed.

The palero slashed quickly with his knife and the animal bucked violently. The goat’s mouth opened in a bleat of pain and surprise, but only a gurgling hiss of air escaped the gaping wound in its throat. Blood poured into a bowl beneath it.

The thrashing animal became still, and the palero picked up the bowl of blood and began to mumble an unintelligible prayer. Finished, he extended the bowl across the nganga.

“Now you must drink,” the woman whispered.

Rossi’s hands trembled slightly as he took the bowl. Behind him, he heard Mattie suck in a sharp breath as he brought the bowl to his lips.

“You must drink half, then what is left must be fed to the nganga,” the woman whispered.

Rossi held his breath and drank. The blood was warm and surpassingly sweet in his mouth, but he still felt his stomach wrench violently as he swallowed. He fought it off, then tipped the bowl, pouring what was left into the nganga.

The palero raised his arms above his head and began rotating his head. His eyes closed as a second Abakua began a rhythmic beat on a drum. The woman next to Rossi folded her arms across her chest, then lowered her upper body in a deep bow and began to sway back and forth.

Rossi wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his hand. He was certain he could feel strength returning to his body, strength he had not felt in years. He straightened his back and drew a long, deep breath.

Juan Domingo Argudin parked his car at the top of a hill that overlooked the house. It was nine-fifteen, but a half-moon cast enough light that he could see at least two men hidden in the brush below, their presence unknown to the four Abakua who guarded the front of the house.

The rear of the house faced the sea, a place from which there could be no escape. He calculated the odds of reaching the rear door unseen. There was an overturned skiff not far from the final bit of cover, then only ten meters or so of open sand to the corner of the house. He studied the rear of the house for other watchers, but saw none. One man might do it, he decided, providing his movement was very slow, using every bit of cover, every shadow that offered concealment. But only one. For more it would be impossible. He picked up a large rock and hurled it into the heavy foliage between the two police watchers he had spotted. He hoped the sound would draw the attention of the two Abakua guards and concentrate the police on any movements they made. From the height of the hill he could see the lights of three cars approaching along the road, about half a kilometer away, and he knew it was the caravan he had followed from Havana.

Argudin slipped into the heavy brush and began to make his way down the hill. There was little time now. Almost none at all.

“How do you feel, boss?”

Mattie Ippolito helped Rossi to his feet. The old man’s legs were cramped, and he held tightly to Mattie’s arm.

He stood and stretched. He shook one leg, then the other, forcing the flow of blood back into each limb.

“I feel good. Good, Mattie. It’s unbelievable how good I feel.”

“I thought I’d puke when I saw you drinking that goat’s blood,” Ippolito said.

Rossi chuckled. “I thought I would, too. But, you know, it didn’t taste bad at all. Like a warm, sweet wine.”

Mattie shuddered and shook his head. “Hey, I’ll stick to Chianti. You know what I mean?”

Rossi reached up and gave his cheek a sharp pat. “When those bastards in the other families see me like this, they’ll shit their pants,” he said. “They already had the stinking lilies ordered for my funeral.”

The rear door opened and Argudin slipped inside. He hissed a warning at the two Abakua inside, and they immediately went for the rifles that lay on the floor at their feet.

Argudin hurried across the room and began babbling at Rossi.

“What the fuck is he talkin’ about?” Rossi snapped. He grabbed the woman by the arm. “Tell me what the fuck he’s saying.”

“He says the police are outside. He says they will be here in minutes.” The woman’s eyes were wide with fear.

Rossi pushed her toward Argudin. “Ask him if Devlin is with them. The American. Ask if the American is with them.”

The woman did as she was told. Argudin nodded vigorously at Rossi, then used some of the few English words he knew.

“Outside. He come. Berry soon.”

Rossi moved across the room, more quickly than Mattie had seen him move in years. He grabbed a rifle from one of the Abakua and thrust it toward Argudin. He turned to the woman. “You tell him to get outside and kill the American. I want him dead. No matter what happens I want that son of a bitch dead.”

22

On Martinez’s orders, the drivers killed their lights and coasted to a stop fifty meters from the house. A bend in the road provided concealment, and Martinez dispersed his men in two teams, one along the rock-strewn beach, a second through the heavy foliage at the base of a small hill that rose above the sea. Two men remained behind with Adrianna. Their orders were to hold that position, even if the others came under heavy fire.

Devlin, Martinez, and Pitts moved down the road, keeping to the edge that offered the most cover. They would be the first to draw fire, Devlin realized, and while he admired Martinez’s chutzpah as a leader of men, he felt a sudden longing for an NYPD SWAT team.

Martinez raised a hand, stopping them near a banana tree. A cluster of the green fruit hung just above their heads, and Pitts reached up and picked one.

“You taking a meal break?” Devlin hissed.

Pitts ignored him, peeled and bit into the undersized banana, then spit it out. “Tastes like shit,” he whispered.

Martinez shook his head. “It is a plantain. It is better cooked.” He inched closer to Devlin. “Is he always like this?” he asked.

“Always,” Devlin said.