Hunters

by Matt Rogers

  Violetta couldn’t keep the worry at bay. She shook him by the shoulder. ‘Jason.’

  No answer.

  ‘Is he going into shock?’ Violetta asked Slater.

  Alexis sat silent beside King, clearly uncomfortable.

  Slater stared long and hard at King. Recognised all the symptoms.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  He turned to Antônia. ‘Those weren’t tens.’

  She already knew.

  Her face was drained of colour, her eyes wide. She still had one hand on the wheel, but the other rummaged through the pouch at the front of her belt. She dug her fingernails to the bottom, worked them around, and came out with another unmarked pill bottle. She stared at it for a beat, gulped hard, and fought the urge to lower her head to the top of the wheel.

  Slater said, ‘What?’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m so fucking sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.’

  ‘Just tell me.’

  Her face was aghast as she held up the new bottle. ‘These are tens. Those were sixties.’

  Alexis said, ‘Oh.’

  Violetta grimaced.

  Slater, despite everything, was relieved. It could have been a whole lot worse. If it was different medication that had been accidentally administered, the dose might have been fatal.

  He undid his seatbelt and shifted his weight onto the centre console so he could reach out and take King by the shoulders. He shook the man once, then waited for the inevitable delay until King focused on him.

  Slater cracked a smile. ‘Hey, buddy. You hear me?’

  King nodded. His smile back was beyond groggy. And it was real, enhanced by the giddiness of a hundred and twenty milligrams of OxyContin.

  Slater spoke loud, accentuating every syllable. ‘You’ve just got to ride this out, okay? You’ll be right as rain in a few hours.’

  King slowly raised a thumbs-up gesture, the stupid smile still spread across his face.

  Slater patted him on the shoulder, then slid back into the passenger seat.

  He lowered his voice and muttered, ‘Why the fuck do you have sixties?’

  Antônia’s face was a mixture of shame, guilt, and regret. She took a while to answer. ‘I, uh…’

  Slater raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I might have a problem,’ she finished.

  ‘You think?’

  ‘He’ll be okay, right?’

  ‘He’s been through worse. In fact I’d wager he’s having the time of his life right now. I’m a tad jealous. But we’d better hope no one comes for us until it wears off, because now he’s useless.’

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ Antônia mumbled, more to reassure herself. ‘We’ll be fine.’

  ‘Did you know?’

  The cocktail of shame evaporated, turning instantly to anger. ‘What do you mean, did I know?’

  ‘You might have thought he needed a little more.’

  He was deliberately probing, and he could tell from the visceral reaction she was telling the truth.

  ‘Fuck you,’ she spat.

  Raw frustration.

  ‘Cool it,’ he said. ‘Just checking.’

  ‘It’s been a long day.’

  ‘That it has.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.

  Slater shook his head. ‘We’ve made worse mistakes lately.’

  He thought of Alonzo, probably dragged from his office by muscled henchmen.

  They made it to the northern tip of Santa Ana only a few minutes later.

  Antônia parked outside a shabby grocery store.

  Slater glanced out the fogged-up windshield. ‘This is your place?’

  She let out a single, mocking, ‘Ha.’ Then, ‘You want me to park a pickup that’s already reported stolen out the front of the location we’re trying to keep a secret?’

  Slater said, ‘Sorry I opened my mouth.’

  They all got out.

  This time, when Violetta and Alexis took King’s weight, they had to support all of it.

  He was in another world.

  67

  Plenty of Salvadorans saw them hobbling down the sidewalks en route to Antônia’s walk-up building, but there was no way around that.

  They stood out amongst the residents of Santa Ana — a beaten, battered quintet, several of them white — but as much as they drew attention, no one who lived here would talk to nosy Americans asking questions. If the hunters came here, they’d be met by a wall of silence.

  In the aftermath of the storm the air was something physical, an invisible barrier that wormed its way into their lungs. Slater hadn’t experienced this level of humidity in some time. It was like a fist wrapped around his heart, making it beat harder and faster to compensate for the choking dampness.

  Now he had Antônia’s Kalashnikov, and she had the MEU(SOC) pistol. Most of the bulky rifle could fit under his soaked jacket, whereas her tight-fitting clothing had no chance of concealing it. The barrel of the AK-47 still protruded from the hem of his jacket as he strode with it pressed to his side, but passersby were more focused on Violetta and Alexis helping King stumble down the sidewalk. Antônia had the MEU(SOC) concealed inside her tight windbreaker, one hand wrapped around its hilt and the other holding the jumper in place.

  They came to the building positioned on an unpaved street opposite a stretch of trees, and Antônia ushered them inside.

  Slater went first to clear it, and almost tripped on a body sprawled motionless just inside the entranceway.

  He ripped the Kalashnikov out of his jacket and locked his aim onto the corpse.

  From behind, Antônia laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

  It brought him down from fight-or-flight mode, and he realised the guy wasn’t dead.

  The unfortunate soul looked like he was in his sixties, which meant he was probably in his thirties. He was skin and bones, dressed in a tattered singlet and old shorts encrusted with mud. His feet were wrapped in cracked sandals, and most of his toenails were missing. His eyes lolled up into his head, exposing milky whites. He was half-curled in the foetal position, his posture designed to protect his most important possessions.

  A half-finished Tic Tack rum bottle.

  An opened plastic tube of glue.

  And finally, a spoon caked in brown crack cocaine beside a lighter.

  Slater grimaced and wrapped his jacket back over the AK-47 before anyone saw him with an automatic weapon.

  In a low voice Antônia said, ‘He lives down the hall.’

  Slater’s instinct was always to help, but some people were so far off the deep end it was hard to know where to start.

  And this wasn’t the time.

  He left the resident in his stupor and went to the stairwell, which was the only means of ascending. The shadowy space was damp. Water trickled down from far above. Each step was sodden and his boots squelched against the concrete.

  Antônia led them up to the second floor and down an empty hallway to a front door with practically no paint left on it. She unlocked it with a single key, and ushered them in.

  The apartment was tiny, claustrophobic, but to them it was a safe haven, its privacy near-angelic. The main space was a conjoined kitchen/living area, each section barely large enough to fit two people. A window faced the street outside and the trees beyond.

  Antônia said, ‘Welcome home.’

  Slater breathed out, took the AK-47 out of his jacket, and carried it to a cheap sitting chair in the cramped living room. He dropped into the chair, exhaustion flooding him. At the sight of relative safety, his brain switched off, transitioning to recovery. He barely had the energy to stand.

  Violetta and Alexis heaved King into the only bedroom and dumped him on the single bed. They didn’t ask Antônia for permission. It was obvious there was nowhere else to put him. Antônia stayed in the kitchen to give them space as they made him comfortable on the mattress, lying him on his side and easing a pillow under his head. Watching through the doorway, Slater knew the
y needn’t have bothered. For the next couple of hours, King would be comfortable in damn near any position. He was so far from reality that not even an imminent threat to his life would bring him back.

  Oxycodone was undefeated in its ability to render its subjects useless.

  They pulled the blinds, enclosing the bedroom in humid darkness, then stepped out and shut the door behind them.

  Slater, Antônia, Violetta, and Alexis all stared at each other.

  Slater said, ‘Now what?’

  68

  Antônia said, ‘There’s only two hunters left that we know of. I imagine they’ll go back to America and regroup.’

  Slater said, ‘Do you have any family the secret world know about?’

  Despite the fatigue of never-ending stress, there were still endless matters to handle. There wasn’t a moment’s reprieve.

  Antônia watched him without answering.

  Then she said, ‘Do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Exactly. You think we get into this life if we have families that love us, care for us, make us feel good? I have no one. I never have.’

  He thought as much, but he had to make sure. ‘At least there’s no way for them to coax you back.’

  She shrugged.

  It was too quiet in the apartment.

  He knew the signs.

  Despair was sinking in now the consequences were dawning on her.

  Slater said, ‘You should never have helped us.’

  ‘But I did,’ she said.

  It wasn’t exactly despair.

  She seemed impatient, frustrated, unwilling to have this conversation. Which he also understood. His pressing the issue would be akin to striking a raw nerve in her emotions.

  She said, ‘I need to apologise to King.’

  He paused. ‘You already did.’

  More frustration flickered in her eyes. ‘My addiction nearly killed him. What if I’d allowed him three pills instead of two? Ever think of that? That’d be in the region of a fatal dose.’

  ‘But you didn’t.’

  ‘I owe it to him,’ she said, brushing past Violetta and Alexis to head to her bedroom. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  She opened the door, stepped through, and closed it behind her.

  Slater stared pointedly at Violetta and Alexis.

  Alexis shrugged.

  Violetta muttered, ‘We just ruined her life. She probably wants to be with someone who’s oblivious to her presence. Give her space.’

  Slater nodded and settled into the chair. His head hammered. He was bone tired. He longed desperately for sleep, but the following hours were the most important in the fight to make sure they stayed undetected.

  When they had a grip on their situation, they could start working to pick up the pieces. Salvage what they could. Protect those who had risked it all to keep them safe.

  Hang in there, Alonzo, he thought as a migraine threatened to split his head apart. Hang in there.

  69

  There was nothing to do but wait, which only made it worse.

  Alonzo Romero assessed his living conditions. A windowless cell, with the reinforced door in a concrete wall being the only way in or out. He had a steel bed frame but no mattress, a hole in the ground the size of a tennis ball for a toilet, and monastic silence as his only companion. They hadn’t interrogated him yet. They hadn’t bothered to ask a single question. Not only had they refrained from moving him out of Manhattan, but for now they were keeping him in the very building he worked in.

  He’d always known there were reserved floors here, floors for detainees who couldn’t be logged in the official system. This was a level past military prison, more secretive than Leavenworth. It was for when the shadow world needed absolute discretion, a place they could store traitors without the irritation of a trial, because a trial would only bring information to light that could never reach the public eye.

  And traitors usually came from within.

  Hence its location.

  He knew he would soon go mad from the isolation, but that was the least of his concerns. They were heating him up in a pressure cooker, making him volatile, so when they finally did come for him he’d tell them whatever they wanted to know.

  The waiting game.

  He had one hope. One shot. One Hail Mary attempt at freedom. It’d mean leaving behind his career, his country, his life. But that was what King and Slater had already done, and they seemed to be doing okay.

  He’d pressed two keys when the iron-jawed man had led him out of his office what felt like years ago, but couldn’t have been more than twelve hours ago. Only one of the commands had actually powered down his monitor. The other had served another purpose.

  He sat on his bed frame with his knees curled up to his chest, wondering if over in El Salvador, Violetta was oblivious to his cry for help.

  Or if they were all already dead, in which case he might as well do everything in his power to kill himself.

  That was preferable to a lifetime of solitary imprisonment.

  70

  King sensed a breeze of movement in the room.

  He didn’t really care who it was. Even if it was the enemy, he wouldn’t mind. Nothing could faze him in this bliss…

  It’s the drugs talking, he thought. Pull yourself together.

  His internal dialogue was harsh enough to claw himself back to reality. It wasn’t true reality, more like a pleasant, dreamy replica of the world, but it was better than lolling his head back and accepting whatever came his way. That wasn’t his style.

  The shape floated over him. It was a gorgeous woman. A mirage.

  No, not a mirage.

  Antônia said, ‘I’m sorry, Jason.’

  ‘You shouldn’t … have given me those,’ he mumbled.

  It took indescribable effort to speak. Why was it so difficult?

  She didn’t respond. He tried to focus on her and realised she was sitting on the edge of the bed in the darkened room, hunched over him, watching his face like a hawk. That’s what her eyes reminded him of. The bird’s silent glare, wide and uncompromising. Had she always looked this way? He couldn’t remember her appearing so … harsh.

  She said, ‘I screwed up the dosages. I gave you two sixty-milligram pills. I thought they were tens. You had a heroic dose, I won’t lie. But you’ll be fine. You just need to recover.’

  He groaned out loud.

  Then he remembered what Slater had been through in Wyoming. In contrast, this wasn’t as bad. Bodhi had entranced Slater in a hallucinated fever dream, and he’d fought to maintain his sanity. This was merely bliss. It dulled the world, took the edges off, killed King’s racing thoughts. Why did anyone do anything else? Why couldn’t life be this good all the time?

  Antônia whispered, ‘You did so well today.’

  ‘Where are the others?’ he mumbled.

  She was like an angel, floating over him, her face swimming. Those eyes.

  Hawkish.

  She said, ‘Recuperating. Licking their wounds. Discussing what will come next.’

  ‘And … what will come next?’

  ‘I’ll do my job.’

  ‘Protecting us?’

  ‘No, no,’ she said, caressing his cheek. ‘My real job.’

  He couldn’t move.

  But he could think.

  And it came to him rather clearly. With the amount of oxycodone in his system, his thoughts became simple. There was no need to rationalise what was right in front of him. There were no blockades obstructing his path to the truth.

  He knew what she was in an instant.

  ‘It was too dangerous before,’ she said. ‘If it’s any consolation, you and Will are two unsolvable puzzles. Enigmas in the flesh, really. You never drop your guard. Not for a second.’

  ‘So you let your colleagues … wear us down.’

  A slight nod of her head.

  King said, ‘You … you felt no loyalty?’

  ‘They’d do the same if the roles were
reversed,’ she said. ‘And loyalty is overrated. I guess it’s good for the cowboy tales. That’s what you Americans love, right?’

  ‘You’re an American.’

  ‘I’m of no nationality,’ she said. ‘The only purpose of nationalism is to instil cultish devotion. So soldiers go overseas and die without thinking twice about it. No, I’m an individualist.’

  Her words were dreamlike through the opioid haze.

  King mustered his energy. ‘Who prostitutes herself ... to the Americans. To the dark side you pretended not to know about.’

  She smiled. ‘For my own gain.’

  ‘What happens now?’

  ‘Now I get rid of your friends. They’re out there, expecting nothing. And then I go back to being “Sapphire.”’

  ‘Did Alonzo know?’

  She continued stroking his cheek. ‘No. He really is a good man. I told him that, half a year ago, when we first met in the flesh. I meant it. That’s why I wished he never contacted me again. I said I would be with him … if I left with a soul. I didn’t mention I’d already lost it.’

  ‘He told us you worked for his division.’

  ‘I do. It’s a part-time gig. Someone needs to keep tabs on the beautiful innocent idiots who think they’re doing good work for a noble cause. That’s your side of the shadow world.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘My real employers have him. No one likes a traitor.’

  King was halfway to an out-of-body experience, so he could almost see his stomach sinking from a third-person view.

  She bent down and kissed his forehead. He tried to reach up and crush her throat with his hands, but he only managed a half-hearted gesture. She gripped his wrists with frightening strength and pinned them to the mattress. There was no pain in his torn forearm, only a distant throb. Coming from somewhere else, not his own body. The painkillers had worked their magic.

  She looked into his eyes. ‘You’re a good man too. I wasn’t expecting it. I thought Alonzo was a naïve idiot.’

  ‘He’s not.’