“Very funny, Fred,” responded Colonel Burke dryly but nonetheless nodded acceptance of Fred’s position.
He looked over at Joe. “You’re also back on the job?”
“Yes sir, I surely am. Can’t keep me away,” was her prompt reply.
Colonel Burke knew what that meant! He accepted that BIB’s best operatives were here to help out. Come to think of it, he wondered why he hadn’t seen them sooner!
Up to this point, there was still no word on the whereabouts of the CBOB’s Deputy Governor.
***
Lewis had enjoyed a smooth flight from Miami to Barbados. Sitting in seat 15C (thankfully it had extra leg room) on what was a full AA flight on one of its newest A321 jets, was very comfortable. No turbulence was felt during the three-hours and forty-minute flight. He therefore slept like a baby most of the way.
After clearing Immigration, Lewis exited the Customs hall from the Arrivals hall of Grantley Adams International Airport (GAIA). He caught the first available airport taxi assigned by the dispatcher. He gave the driver his parents’ address before settling back into the taxi’s back seat as it rolled out of the airport. Once on the ABC highway, it headed off into the countryside.
Twenty minutes later, the taxi pulled up at the address he had been given. Lewis paid the driver before walking up the six steps to the house’s front door to ring the bell.
Mrs Lewis quickly opened the door, holding out both of her hands before hugging her son closely. Without speaking, she pulled away to look him over. Satisfied, she hugged him again, this time standing on tiptoe to kiss him on both cheeks.
Once their embrace had finally ended, Lewis simply said, “Hello, Mum, it’s good to be home.”
“Good to have you home, my son.”
Lewis picked up his backpack and overnight carry-on bag before entering the house behind her. He would call Caroline in half-an-hour or so to let her know that he had arrived safely. He knew she’d also want to speak to their mum as well.
***
Wharton closed-up SBB&G just after midnight. He would make his way back to the east coast early in the morning to see what Power had gotten up to overnight. Wharton’s son would open the shop in the morning around 9:00 a.m. as usual.
Wharton hoped Power had made some progress on securing the funds he understood were being demanded from him by The Organisation. Failure to do that would mean real trouble for Power, not Wharton. Some serious shit might then come down the tubes and tomorrow might not end well for Power if he was not able to deliver, he thought. He felt that would not be good news for anyone, given Castille’s unfriendly disposition at his first meeting with Power. Wharton did not want to get himself or any of his Pressure Group members caught up in any of that business.
Before he fell asleep, he said his prayers. He hoped all of the RBPF and BPS officers who had been shot at from their getaway car during Power’s escape were okay. Media reports had indicated that none of them had been shot which was good news. He had only instructed his Pressure Group colleague to fire off a few shots to prevent the undamaged law enforcement vehicle that was also at the scene from chasing them. Thankfully, no chase had ensued.
Wharton ended his prayers by hoping for a better tomorrow and stating his usual ‘be jolly now’.
A few minutes later, he fell into a deep sleep.
***
Chapter Twelve
All Hands-on Deck
THURSDAY, 19 APRIL
It took Power longer than he thought to reach the individual’s house. The dogs had been put up. Only the house’s security system was on.
The individual watched Power’s careful approach up the driveway to the house from a darkened upstairs bedroom window. As he neared the front door, the individual started down the stairs as the doorbell rang and opened the door.
The reception Power received was a cold one. He was not surprised, as it was what he’d expected following their earlier phone conversation. But given his circumstances, Power knew that only this individual could help him out of the predicament he was in.
“Hi there,” said Power.
“Hello, Jasper. I see it didn’t take you long to get out,” the individual responded.
“That’s right! Most people I know would prefer to see me still on the inside for a long, long time to come, if not with a rope around my neck. I’m absolutely sure that you don’t fall into either category.”
“Try me,” responded the individual.
“My, how you’ve changed since our last encounter. Anyway, what ’cha got here to drink? I’m thirsty after my long walk. Can I have a large one and I’ll explain my situation, after which I’m sure you’ll want to help me out,” Power stated.
The individual turned away, frowning. “You may have come to the wrong place.”
Power’s response was irritating. “I don’t think so.”
There and then, the individual regretted not having had Power ‘dealt with’ early last year after he’d botched one of their newest fund-raising ventures. His failure had embarrassed the individual and cost them some money. Power’s death would not have been mourned by many as punishment. The individual, in a moment of weakness, recalled that Power had previously done them a big favour, so had decided not to deal harshly with him as in the right circumstances, he might be of some use to them in the future.
The individual was wrong. Look how times had changed.
Power was now standing in the individual’s house after midnight with a smug look, demanding a drink and seeking a favour. This was not what Power or the individual had anticipated when both awoke yesterday morning. The prospect of Power spending a long period of time in a prison cell had been a strong possibility, though it had been tempered by the improbability of his escape. With the latter now being an unfortunate reality, the individual was paying for their compassion.
“Damn!” the individual said softly.
“What’s that you say?” asked Power.
“Help yourself, the bar’s solid,” said the individual pointing to its location.
“Cheers. Much appreciated. I’ll tell you the two things I’d like you to consider helping me out with.”
So, despite the individual’s disdain for Power, tonight was going to be one of reckoning for both of them.
Power disappeared down a corridor and through the kitchen before entering a small entertainment room where a large counter with a wide array of alcoholic drinks were displayed.
The individual followed him.
“What if I can’t help you with either thing?”
“That’s not going to work. Got any ice?”
“Try the fridge.”
A few minutes later, Power spoke again after a long pull of the drink he had mixed. He did not ask the individual if they wanted one.
“As I was saying. I need some cash.”
“How much and for what reason?”
“Let me also tell you what might be a cheaper and preferred alternative,” said Power playfully.
“Go on, but I’m still waiting on the answers to my first question. Then I’ll compare that to your other ask,” said the bored individual.
Power stated the figure he wanted and why.
“That’s not going to happen, even if I had it here,” responded the individual.
“Why am I not surprised? Okay. Can you quietly get me out of Barbados by late tomorrow afternoon? Then I swear, we’ll be clear with each other.”
“Gosh, I can see why you’re in a real pickle, desperate even.”
“Guess I am.”
The individual thought for a few seconds before deciding to help Power with the second option. The individual grabbed a pad and wrote a west coast address on it.
“I’ll make the arrangements to get you out, but you must be there no later than 5:00 p.m. tomorrow –” the individual looked at their phone before continuing, “…no, I mean later today. Miss the rendezvous and you’re on your own, right? They are no second chances on this deal. Remembe
r, you’re very much a wanted item.”
“Tell me about it. Thanks. I’m be going then.”
With the individual nodding in the affirmative, Power downed the last of his drink and headed for the exit. The individual followed him to the door. That was meant to be their last exchange. Neither intended to say goodbye.
However, once the door was opened, they saw that it had started to rain. That simple observation caused them to re-engage about what happened next.
***
Colonel Burke, JJ, Mohammed, Jayne, Fred and Joe again reviewed everything that had happened on the previous day, from the Gold team’s arrival at BIB HQ until when Colonel Burke had left them around 7:00 p.m. the evening before.
Colonel Burke telephoned Jeremie from BIB HQ around 1:00 a.m., just in case there were any updates on the Deputy Governor’s disappearance. There were none so around 1:15 a.m. Colonel Burke and his BIB operatives decided to call it a night and go home to get some rest. They agreed to re-assemble at 8:00 a.m.
***
Jeremie wondered why his good friend Colonel Burke could not have waited until morning to call him. After all, Jeremie had advised everyone relevant that he had placed one of his sharpest men on the missing Deputy Governor’s case. He knew Colonel Burke and his team were also working hard on that case, probably throughout the night, and to get to the bottom of the prisoners escape case. This did not surprise him. If one team could find any potential connection between these two incidents, hopefully before the Test Match element of the ECC security project fully got underway, it would be Colonel Burke’s BIB boys and girls. Jeremie felt certain that he would speak with Colonel Burke again before he left his home for RBPF HQ in the morning, perhaps before he even got out of bed.
Jeremie turned off his bedside light for the third time that night. Colonel Burke was the latest person to call him since he’d climbed in around 11:30 p.m. The calls had come from Vickers, Motby and now Colonel Burke.
“No more calls tonight please,” Jeremie said softly to himself ahead of drifting off to sleep for the fourth time that night. He was glad that his wife Sandra was not a light sleeper. Once the overhead fan was on, she was out for the count – in fact, she would sleep through most things until morning.
***
The last four English patrons to enter P’s Disco that night had eaten their meals. Three of them had also had a couple of gin and tonics each. Rhonda Ziegler had taken a large coke with her meal. It was time for them to join the majority of the other fifty or so English and local patrons now bumping and grinding, some were even ‘wuckin up’ on P’s Disco dancefloor to the latest Calypso and Soca songs being pumped out by DJ Price.
Sarah McPiers, Glyn Aitken and Timothy Rickson were having their own ‘after-party’ in St Lawrence Gap. Ziegler, stomach full, now wished that she had been dropped off at her hotel after all, as sleep was starting to get the better of her.
***
It was just before 2:00 a.m. when Power returned to Wharton’s house on Barbados’ east coast. He was happy to unlock the door and get inside.
He’d been lucky. As he was about to leave the individual’s house to start what was probably a forty-minute walk back to Wharton’s house, the rain had started to fall, gently initially but them more heavily. He’d requested a ride back from the individual, but there was resistance, with the individual fearing that someone might spot them dropping off a much sought-after escaped prisoner from their vehicle.
After ten minutes of non-stop rain, the individual gave in and consented to provide the requested drop. Power’s ride was to the end of the road, not exactly to Wharton’s house. That meant that he still had to walk the best part of fifty yards to Wharton’s back door in the now driving rain. He did not bother to look back at the vehicle driven by the individual whose help he had just secured as it disappeared into the distance up the winding road.
Once inside Wharton’s house, Power took a hot shower. Thereafter, he made himself a ham sandwich, and mixed himself another stiff drink before heading to the back bedroom that had earlier been allocated to him by Wharton. There, he quickly fell asleep on the bed.
***
It happened shortly after the NBCC’s group of three, plus Ziegler had left P’s Disco in search of a taxi. They found one not far away. The driver seemed half-asleep, so Rickson tapped on the front passenger’s half-opened window.
“Want a job, mate?”
Instantly alert and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, the taxi driver replied, “Always. Where to, skipper?”
“The hotel before you get to the Hilton, then back to Hastings Main Road, you know the all-inclusive hotel opposite Jeepers Restaurant,” responded Rickson.
“I know the hotel you mean. Hop in,” said the taxi driver, starting the vehicle.
Now fully awake, he introduced himself to his perspective passengers. “My name’s Francis, by the way.”
The four passengers got into the taxi.
Rickson had learnt from his previous overseas travels to do two things before the start of any taxi or mini-cab journey. Secure a price up front from the driver, and keep his wits about him throughout the journey.
“How much?”
As Francis was about to reply, two men suddenly appeared on either side of the taxi with what looked, in the semi-darkness, to be handguns which were being pointed at the vehicle. McPiers, Aitken and Ziegler were in the back seats.
Rickson, up front with the taxi driver, was the only one in the vehicle switched on to what was happening. He shouted to Francis, “Drive.” Francis immediately put the vehicle into gear, thinking, This guy is in one hell of a hurry to get to his bed, just as the window next to Rickson was shattered.
Francis did comprehend what was happening, but Rickson did not although he was unsure at first whether the broken glass had been the result of the butt of a gun coming through the window on his side of the vehicle or a gunshot fired by the assailant closest to him on the left side of the vehicle.
Francis picked up the imminent danger to his passengers and pressed the vehicle’s accelerator hard to try and make their escape. By now McPiers and Ziegler were screaming, but Aitken noticed that Rickson had slumped forward in his seat holding his left arm, moaning and swearing in-between.
Pow. Pow. McPiers, Ziegler and Aitken heard two further gunshots. Assuming that these were being fired upon, they ducked for cover in the back of the vehicle in case further gunfire was to follow.
In Francis’ frantic efforts to move off, he only managed to broadside the taxi that had been parked in front of him. It was also in the process of pulling away from the kerb with a couple of young Barbadians who were P’s Disco regulars. Following a noisy bang, both vehicles came to a standstill. Terrified screams from inside both vehicles, shouts and cussing from onlookers started to reverberate in the immediate area.
The two assailants, as if by magic, quickly disappeared from the vicinity of the shooting and resulting accident. A RBPF officer, accompanied by a BDF soldier, came running towards the confused scene in St Lawrence Gap. The officer’s weapon was drawn, suggesting that he had also heard the fired shots. On reaching the scene, he made a quick assessment before listening to descriptions of what had just taken place from the assembled onlookers. He then recounted their recollections to RBPF control on his radio requesting back-up and that an ambulance be dispatched to the scene to cater to the hurt persons.
“On the way, be there in two,” said a voice over his radio. Obviously his RBPF backup was close-by in the Gap.
Within five minutes, St Lawrence Gap was awash with security and law enforcement personnel.
McPiers, Aitken, Ziegler and Francis stood outside of the latter’s damaged taxi but close to the front seat where Rickson sat. The BDF soldier accompanying the RBPF officer announced that he was a trained first aider and quickly went to work on examining Rickson. The soldier confirmed that Rickson had received a gunshot to his upper left arm. He was bleeding. The soldier pulled what looked like a la
rge but clean personal washcloth from one of his uniform pockets and applied it as a tourniquet to help stop the bleeding.
Meanwhile, the taxi that had been hit by Francis had not moved. The young couple in it still sat in it, dazed and unsure of what exactly had happened, not knowing what they should do next. They and their driver were in shock.
“This is clean, so don’t worry. You’ll be fine, man,” said the soldier to Rickson. Turning to Rickson’s English companions and the gathered bunch of onlookers, he added, “He’ll live.”
“An ambulance is on its way, sir. Hold on,” said the RBPF officer.
Rickson, ever the funny man, spoke. “What else do you want me to do? God, this hurts in a sort of sweet way! Man am I glad I’ve had a few drinks this evening to help with this situation. Some after-party!”
McPiers and Aitken were concerned. As Rickson’s close friends, they felt his pain and so urged him to keep quiet. This was not how their – no, not the way any after-party was meant to end.
The journalist in Ziegler was alert and thinking differently to McPiers and Aitken. Story, was her only thought. She mumbled to herself, “Christ, I think I might have myself an exclusive of sorts here.”
With that, Ziegler withdrew her phone from her clutch bag and started taking pictures before video recording the scene around her. Boy did she have a story to tell, with pictures and video to boot. If she played this right, her on-the-spot report, pictures and video of the attempted robbery and shooting at a main tourist spot in Barbados would be newsworthy back home, perhaps across the world. Ziegler saw a big promotion coming if she did this just right. When opportunity knocks, take it. Social media would send her coverage to another level if she got things right, but she had to start now. She had truly been in the wrong place, but at the right time. A couple of comments from eye-witnesses would not hurt either.
Ziegler later gave descriptions as best she could recall of the two robbers/shooters to RBPF interviewers when they subsequently visited the scene. What a night! What a story she could tell.
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