Red Angel

Martinez pointed toward the house. It was little more than a shack built on pilings. Narrow stairs led to a porch that ran along the entire front. Two Abakua stood at the bottom of the stairs, two above on the porch. All were dressed in white, all easy targets for the rifles and shotguns carried by Martinez’s men.

Devlin estimated the distance to the house at thirty yards, and he knew Martinez’s men would be even closer.

“They have to know we’re here,” Devlin said. “If they’re going to resist, they should have at least taken cover by now. I can see two more at the windows. They haven’t even killed the lights behind them.”

“Senor Rossi may be counting on Cabrera to protect him if he is taken.”

“What about the rear of the house? Any chance of a boat coming in to pick Rossi up?”

“It is low tide, and it is shallow near the beach. He would have to wade out at least fifty meters. Such a plan would be suicidal.”

Martinez brought his handheld radio to his lips and whispered orders to his men.

“I am sending three men to the rear of the house, and the others will begin closing in on the front from both flanks. Let us go forward, slowly.” He began to move down the road again, staying low and close to the heavy foliage. Devlin and Pitts followed.

Argudin slipped out the rear door and flattened himself against the sand. He crawled the ten meters to the overturned skiff, keeping the rifle parallel to his body, then rolled into the thick brush at the edge of the sandy strip. He waited, listening for movement, then crawled again to the heavy foliage at the base of the hill. Just as he reached it, two men came out of the thick growth ten meters ahead and ran low to the ground to the rear of the house. Both carried automatic assault rifles.

Argudin let out a relieved breath. He touched the red-and-white beaded necklace at his throat and thanked Chango for watching over him. Had he left ten seconds later, he would have been trapped on the sand with no chance of escape.

He waited and watched as the two men were joined by a third, who had come from the other side of the house. When they took up positions outside the rear door, he began to inch his way up the hill. He wanted a shooting position that provided a clear field of fire at the front door, and close enough to his waiting car to provide a quick escape.

Rossi looked out the window and smiled. Twenty yards out he could make out three figures moving at the edge of the road. They were staying close to cover, but sooner or later, he knew, they would have to enter the house. With the lights from the windows and the open door, the Abakua on the hillside should have a clear shot at that son of a bitch Devlin.

He turned back to Mattie. “Tell the woman I want the Abakua to get rid of the weapons. Then I want them outside. Tell her they should have the others ditch their weapons, too. No resistance, tell her. Our friends will get us out of this later.”

“What about Devlin?” Mattie asked.

“I think he’s gonna have an accident,” Rossi said. “But we’ll be in here with our hands up. We won’t be part of it, capisce?”

Martinez lowered his radio. “My men say the Abakua have thrown their weapons into the brush.”

“Don’t trust it,” Devlin warned.

“Yeah,” Pitts added. “Where that old bastard’s concerned, don’t trust anything.”

Devlin studied the house, now only twenty yards distant. The front door was open, and together with the windows to each side, it threw a heavy beam of light on the front porch and stairs. Too much light.

“I suggest we keep to the side of the road, then get inside as fast as we can when your men hit the door.”

“The light,” Martinez said. “Yes, I have noticed it, too.”

They moved up until they were only ten yards from the stairs. Martinez’s men had herded the Abakua to one side, searched them, and forced them to the ground with their fingers locked behind their heads. A second team had moved through the front door, weapons ready, and Devlin was certain those at the rear of the house had also closed in.

At Martinez’s order they moved quickly, low to the ground, up the stairs and in, pistols held low against their legs. High up on the hillside Argudin scrambled to a position just below his car. He saw the Americans follow the Cubans into the house too late to line up a shot. He touched the beads about his neck. When they came out, with the help of Chango, he would be ready.

Rossi sat in a chair in the center of the room, his eyes fixed on Devlin. His shirt was still unbuttoned, and beneath it the marks of the ritual were still visible. Mattie Ippolito stood slightly behind him, and to his left the palero knelt before the nganga.

“Bathrobe,” Pitts said. “What are you doin’ here? They got good cannoli in Cuba?”

Devlin walked across the room and looked down into the nganga.

“He must be makin’ minestrone,” Pitts said. “Maybe a little pasta fagioli.” He moved next to Devlin and looked inside. Blood and white powder were splattered across the wood and herbs. “Don’t look too appetizin’.” He used the barrel of his pistol to spread open Rossi’s shirt, revealing the ritual paste of blood and powder that marked his skinny, old man’s chest. “Not too nice, Bathrobe. I see you missed your Saturday bath again.”

The palero began babbling in Spanish, and Pitts reached into his open-necked shirt and removed the pouch containing the dirt from the cemetery, topped by the red feather. He waved it at the palero and saw the man shrink back.

“Ooga booga,” he said, grinning.

“You still have that thing. And you’re wearing it.” Devlin couldn’t hide his surprise.

Pitts seemed momentarily embarrassed, then recovered his bravado. “Hey, after I saw old Plante Firme in action this afternoon, I figured what the hell.”

Devlin looked down at Rossi. Throughout it all, the old man had remained silent. Devlin bent down and stared into his hate-filled eyes. “What’s the matter, Bathrobe? Nganga got your tongue?”

Rossi gave him a cold smile. “Nice to see you, Devlin. What more could an old man ask than to see an old friend one last time?”

“You going somewhere, Bathrobe?”

Rossi let out a cold laugh. “Me? Sure. I’m goin’ back to New York. You plan on goin’ somewhere, Devlin?”

“I’m on vacation,” Devlin said.

“Hey, it’s always nice to take one last vacation.”

Devlin returned the laugh. It was as biting and as cold as Rossi’s had been. He nodded toward the nganga. “You take the cure, Bathrobe?”

“Hey, it’s wonderful. You should try it. I feel a hundred percent. I may live another fifty years.” He laughed again. “Now, wouldn’t that piss some people off?”

“Don’t count on it,” Devlin said. He held Rossi’s eyes. “Dr. Mendez might not have worked her powers for somebody who tried to ice her niece.”

Momentary concern-maybe even fear, Devlin thought-flickered across Rossi’s face, then disappeared. The old bastard really believes in this stuff, he thought. Martinez had come up beside him, and Devlin held out an arm, keeping him back. He turned to Pitts. “Kick that fucking thing over,” he snapped.

Pitts placed his foot against the lip and pushed. The nganga tipped over, spilling its contents across the floor. The palero screamed, and Pitts grabbed the pouch around his neck and waved it again.

“Ooga fucking booga.”

“Ah, my friend. It is sacrilege,” Martinez moaned.

“Tough shit,” Devlin snapped. He pointed down at the human skull, the bones of two hands and a foot, all the digits still held together by bits of cartilage. He turned back to Rossi. “You’re screwed, Bathrobe. DNA is gonna put your skinny guinea ass in a Cuban jail.”