Red Angel

Rossi threw back his head and laughed, with genuine pleasure this time. “Hey, Devlin, how you gonna arrange that?” He inclined his head toward the bones. “Let them run their tests. It’s gonna show I was in New York when whoever that is croaked.”

Martinez motioned to one of his men, who began gathering the bones and placing them in a large plastic bag.

He turned to Rossi. “You are under arrest, senor.” Then to Mattie: “As are you. The American Interests Section will be notified at the end of ten days.”

“What the fuck you mean, ten days?” Mattie growled.

“Cuban law, senor.” He gave them his patented Cuban shrug. “Proper procedures must be followed.”

A rustle of activity came from behind them, and Devlin turned to see Adrianna coming through the front door, still guarded by the two Cuban cops.

Martinez growled at the men, and received a rapid and humble reply. He let out a long breath.

“It seems Senorita Adrianna would wait no longer.” He looked at Devlin. “Madre de Dios, senor.”

Devlin moved toward her, trying to block her view, but she quickly stepped to one side, her eyes riveted on the spilled nganga and the Cuban cop holding the clear plastic bag filled with bones.

“You know that bag of bones, lady?” Rossi called out. He let out another cold laugh. “My condolences.”

Pitts’s hand shot out and grabbed Rossi’s face between his thumb and fingers. He squeezed until the old man’s face was a mask of pain.

Mattie lunged forward, but Pitts struck out with his free hand, the fingers held rigid. The blow caught Ippolito at the base of the throat and he staggered back, then collapsed to one knee, gagging for breath.

“Let him go,” Devlin said. “But if he says another word, break his goddamn jaw.”

Devlin slipped his arm around Adrianna and walked her to the cop holding the bag.

“It’s over,” he said.

“Nothing’s over,” Rossi snapped.

Pitts sent the back of his hand smashing into the side of Rossi’s head. The blow knocked him from his chair.

“It’s over, babe,” Devlin said. “Now we can bury her the way she would have wanted. Then we’ll go home.”

Adrianna turned and pressed her head against his chest and began to cry.

23

Devlin took Adrianna out on the porch while Martinez’s men gathered evidence inside. Martinez followed with Pitts in tow.

“We must have no more violence on our prisoners,” he said.

Devlin glanced at him and saw his eyes were filled with a mischievous mirth. He looked at Adrianna. Her hands were folded across her chest, as if holding herself intact, but she was no longer crying.

“We have one more place we must go, when Senorita Adrianna is ready,” Martinez said.

“Where is that?” Devlin asked.

“To our Red Angel’s house in Guanabo, some twenty kilometers to the east of here.”

“You found the address,” Devlin said.

Martinez nodded. “It was as I thought. It was the weekend house of her father, the senorita’s grandfather. The records were old and difficult to find, as I feared they would be. But now we have the location, and we can go there and discover the meaning of her last message.”

“I don’t know,” Devlin said. “I think Adrianna may have had enough-”

“No. I want to go,” Adrianna said. “There may not be time later, and I want to see it. The house. What she wrote.”

Devlin moved to Adrianna and pulled her toward him.

Martinez stepped forward and placed a hand on Devlin’s shoulder. “It will be best, I think-”

Martinez’s words were cut off by the unmistakable crack of a rifle. Wood splintered off the wall of the house, and Devlin instinctively pushed Adrianna to the floor of the porch. Below, Martinez’s men guarding the captured Abakua turned toward the hillside and returned fire.

“Get her inside,” Devlin growled. He jumped over the porch rail and hit the dirt road running for the hillside.

Pitts followed, his pistol barking two covering shots up into the hill.

“Go left, Ollie,” Devlin shouted. “I’ll take the right.”

Devlin hit the thick foliage and started a slow, weaving pattern up the hill. Two shots cracked over his head, cutting into covering vegetation ten feet above him. His mind registered the position of the shots, and he realized the shooter wasn’t aiming low enough, was failing to compensate for the sharp, downhill angle. He cut right, and moved up again. To his left, Ollie fired two more rounds, trying to draw return fire. Behind them, Martinez shouted an order, and the guns of the Cuban cops fell silent. Devlin was certain Martinez would be moving up behind them, and he called out a warning to Pitts.

Devlin crawled the final ten yards, using the thick vegetation for cover, then stopped three feet short of the roadway at the top of the hill. He could see a car parked ten feet to his left, and decided to gamble that it belonged to the shooter, and that the man would be closer to the car rather than farther away.

He rolled out into the road, then crawled behind the car and circled it. From the other side, he looked down the hill and saw a man, set in shooter’s sitting position, four feet below. He caught movement to his right and saw Ollie climbing over a small hump in the terrain. The shooter saw him, too, and swung the rifle in that direction.

Devlin didn’t wait; he scrambled to his feet, let out a warning shout to Pitts, then launched himself over the edge of the hill. The shooter was spinning to the sound of his shout as Devlin’s body crashed into his side. The rifle flew off into the foliage as they both tumbled down the hill.

Devlin struggled to his feet, and found the man already up, about three feet below him. A long-bladed knife flashed in his hand.

Argudin feinted to his right, then lunged forward, the tip of his blade aimed at Devlin’s solar plexus in an upward killing thrust.

Devlin’s arm lashed out, knocking the blade aside, but not before it bit into his forearm, just above the wrist. He drove his knee into Argudin’s face, then grabbed his knife hand and spun him to the ground.

They snuggled to their knees, their bodies twisting for advantage. Argudin growled and grabbed for Devlin’s throat. Devlin butted his forehead into the man’s face, knocking the hand away.

Still holding fast to Argudin’s knife hand, Devlin brought his free hand down, then up, slapping his palm into the man’s groin. His fingers closed on his testicles and he yanked upward, bringing a long howl of pain. The knife fell to the ground, and Devlin released the man’s wrist and drove the now free hand into his throat, then squeezed with both hands, using the man’s throat and balls to pull him to his feet.

Argudin howled again as Devlin yanked up, lifting him still higher, then propelled his body out and away, and threw him down the hill.

“Oooh. I bet that smarts.”

Devlin turned and saw Pitts grinning at him.

“That dude’s girlfriend sure ain’t gonna be a happy lady tonight.” Pitts was still grinning as he stepped forward and bent to look at Devlin’s damaged arm. “Looks like he got in a lick, but not a very good one.” He took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and began wrapping the wound.

Devlin turned and looked downhill. Argudin lay writhing on the ground ten feet below him.

“Don’t worry,” Pitts said. “That boy is not about to run off. Not with his balls all squished up like mashed peas.” He let out a coarse laugh.

Below, Devlin saw Martinez and three of his men break through the foliage and reach the fallen shooter. Martinez placed his hands on his hips as he studied the man twisting in pain at his feet. Then he looked up at Devlin and gave him a nod of approval.