by Rob Sinclair
‘I’ve got to go,’ he said.
Caroline looked at Ashford suspiciously, and he couldn't help but wonder what she knew.
Nothing. She knew nothing. How could she?
‘I’ll call you,’ he said as he moved out of the bedroom and toward the front door.
When he was out in the corridor, he headed to the stairs and then out through the fire escape to the narrow alley that lay at the back of the building. Ashford owned a half dozen of the apartments, all but one of which he rented out. The other he used for his meetings with Caroline – a far better location than seedy motels. He’d had a big hand in the building’s development, making a tidy sum having initially greased the right hands to buy the land cheaply and push through planning approval.
Near to the historic French quarter of the city, the area was popular with both youngsters and tourists. Ashford enjoyed the atmosphere and the history of the famous enclave as much as anyone else, but the building itself – the design of which he’d had a big say in – was nondescript and bland despite its quite prestigious location. More profit that way, was Ashford’s belief. People would pay for the location; it didn't matter about the lobby’s size and décor, nor for the gimmicky galleries and wood panelling.
Mitchell knew about the apartment, and that Ashford used it for his secret dates with Caroline, but how had Mitchell known that Ashford was there that morning? No one else knew, not even Ashford’s personal assistant, Ed Carter.
Ashford would have asked his questions straight off but Mitchell didn’t give him the chance, and Ashford’s mind was soon on more important matters.
‘We’ve got problems,’ Mitchell said. He was leaning against an overspilling dumpster, a glowing cigarette stuck between his thick fingers. He sucked in and blew a long stream of smoke into the moist air.
‘The woman?’ Ashford asked. ‘You’ve found her?’
‘No. Not yet. This is bigger.’
‘Bigger how?’
‘Come with me,’ Mitchell said, turning. He threw down the cigarette, sparks flitting into the air when it hit the ground. ‘I’ll explain on the way, but let’s just say this; Comisario Vasquez is one unhappy man right now.’
10
Mexico City, Mexico
Ryker’s first night in Santa Martha prison passed by without event. Despite his grim surroundings – and possibly aided by the beating he’d taken – Ryker had no problem in shutting his eyes and getting some sleep. He didn’t see Benito as a threat and he trusted himself to wake if there was even the faintest hint of trouble within the cell.
At sunrise, numerous thin beams of deep orange light came crashing through the barred windows and across the corridor, creating a network of spindly shadows. Ryker was already stirring, and for a while he just lay on the hard bunk, staring up at the grimy ceiling above. Six hours of solid rest had done little to make him feel revitalised – his head was still pounding from the blows he’d taken from the Beast, and his torso was aching from the guards’ batons.
Ryker sat up on the bunk and lifted his t-shirt to inspect the damage. He was covered in purple and red welts. The skin around each was hard and swollen, but it was nothing more than bruising. Certainly nothing to be worried about. What did worry Ryker was not knowing what was left to come. He had to expect the worst: that whatever the reason for his incarceration, he was stuck inside a grimy Mexican prison and as both the new boy and an obvious outsider, he was a target. There would be further attacks, further humiliations to come.
Ryker saw Benito was awake. The old man was staring over at him curiously.
‘You okay?’
‘Never better.’ Ryker said.
‘You’re a tough man.’
Ryker said nothing. He looked away from Benito and over to the corner of the room where Benito’s craftwork sat in a heap.
‘The tattoo on the men,’ Ryker said, thinking back to the fight in the yard.
‘Yes?’
‘I saw three men yesterday with the same tattoo on their backs. A wasp, I think. Or a hornet.’
‘The black hornet.’
‘What is it?’
Benito shrugged.
‘A person?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Then what?’
‘Do you know of the black hornet? The insect, I mean.’
‘No.’
‘They’re not like most other hornets or wasps – not as outwardly aggressive, much more social. Their collective aim is simple: protect the colony. Protect the queen. They protect the nest with their lives.’
‘So it’s a gang?’
Benito shrugged again.
‘Who’s the queen hornet then? El Jefe?’
Benito raised an eyebrow. He didn’t get a chance to answer. Two uniformed guards appeared at the cell door. The first action Ryker had expected that morning was for the kitchen staff to appear along the corridor with their escort of guards, and pass plates of unidentifiable slop into the cells, as had taken place the previous evening. (There was no such luxury as a canteen here. Not that Ryker thought that was a bad thing. Being in a large but enclosed area with the other inmates wouldn’t be his choice of a way to pass time.)
‘You, gringo,’ one of the guards said. ‘Visitor.’
The guard unlocked and opened the door, then stood back to clear the doorway. Ryker got to his feet and noticed both of the guards take stock of him, each of them squirming back a half step, readying their batons. They needn’t have worried. He wasn’t going to provoke a fight, neither with the guards nor the inmates. He wouldn’t win either battle.
‘Hands out!’ one of the guards shouted.
Ryker duly co-operated and the guard stepped forward and slung cuffs over Ryker’s wrists and then tugged on the chain to get Ryker moving. Ryker stepped out of the cell into the shabby corridor and was escorted along to a half-hearted rendition of the heckling he’d received the day before. No piss this time, just the one spitter, and a few shouts and calls. Most of the inmates were either asleep still or just not as excited by seeing Ryker again as they had been on his arrival.
No sign of Lozano, Ryker noted. Maybe he was stuck in the back of his cell out of sight, but nevertheless Ryker felt anticipation building. If Lozano had the running of the guards in the jail, then it wasn’t unthinkable that the guards would be part of any attack that Lozano had planned for Ryker.
But then why would El Jefe want to attack Ryker? Other than for the sake of satisfying some sadistic side to his personality, that is. Ryker couldn’t rule that out, but a Lozano-ordered ambush didn’t seem the most likely scenario that was unfolding. Unless he had a connection to why Ryker had been thrown into the jail in the first place? Again, Ryker couldn’t rule that out. For now though he was in the dark as to what was happening to him.
The guards led Ryker along dingy and dank corridors that hadn’t seen natural light for decades and that were lit by strip lights that cast a yellow haze over the dirty white walls. Or maybe the yellow was the true colour of the walls now.
Eventually they came to a thick-looking metal door with a small service flap in the centre. A cell? It didn’t look like the cells in the regular block, which had open bars for frontages, but Ryker had seen cell doors like this plenty of times too. Solitary confinement maybe?
With Ryker’s suspicion growing further, one of the guards stepped forward and used the tip of his baton to bang on the door before he proceeded to unlock it. There was a clunking sound as locks were released and the door swung open. A swathe of sunlight from the room beyond broke loose into the corridor.
Ryker peered in, eyes squinting. The room was a small square with two windows to the outside world that were cloaked in thick metal bars, the rising sun directly behind. Inside the room were two more uniformed guards, standing either side of a small table with two basic metal chairs. On one of the chairs sat a woman. She was young – mid to late twenties – and pretty. Her smooth-looking freckled skin was bronzed, her mousy-brown hair had subtle blonde
streaks. She looked up and smiled kindly at Ryker.
‘Please, come in,’ she said. English. Not just the language, but the accent too.
Ryker said nothing as he stepped through the doorway, his eyes passing from the woman and over the two guards as he surveilled the space. Two steps into the room, the door was banged shut and locked behind him. Ryker stopped and stared at the woman.
‘You can sit down,’ she said.
Ryker didn’t. He continued to look around the room. Other than the windows and the door, the walls were solid. No large one-way mirror like you’d get in an interview room, or any doorways to connecting rooms. Up in the corner, Ryker spotted a small CCTV camera, its red flickering light suggesting it was recording.
‘And you are?’ Ryker asked.
‘Eleanor Willoughby,’ the woman said, getting to her feet. ‘I’m from the British Foreign and Commonwealth Office. Please, come and sit down.’
She indicated to the seat in front of Ryker but didn’t make her introduction any more formal than that, no offer of a handshake. She appeared wary of the prisoner standing before her, despite her friendly manner.
Willoughby’s voice was smooth, her tone formal and just slightly authoritative. Her accent suggested she came from money or at least, she had gone to a posh school and a posh university. In many ways, she was a cardboard cut-out of the type of British Government worker that Ryker had seen the world over during his many years working for the JIA, which was jointly controlled by both the British and US governments. Willoughby and the like were the face the British Empire wanted the world to see – their manner was in control, reserved, but powerful.
Or at least that was how they wanted to appear.
To Ryker, the attitude and appearance often came across smug, superior, uptight, like someone had rammed a long stick up their arses all the way through to their throats.
Just a generation or two earlier, children in many British schools were given lessons in what was considered to be etiquette, not to mention elocution so that everyone could talk just like the King and Queen. The girls were taught how to walk tall with a straight neck and back – shoulders back, chin up. He could well imagine Willoughby excelling in such studies. That society, so concerned with appearance and with dividing its people into different classes, was long gone as far as the majority of the population of the British Isles was concerned, but it seemed the message hadn’t yet made it through to the many elements of the British ruling elite.
No doubt about it, Willoughby represented the Britain that the government wanted people around the world to see. She was the pristine oyster pearl clock-face, while Ryker had been one of the many dirty but well-oiled cogs that did all the real legwork but was never seen.
Willoughby sat back down and Ryker took the other seat. He clunked his handcuffed wrists onto the table, then looked again at the two guards who were now staring into space.
‘So?’ Ryker turned back to Willoughby.
‘What happened to you?’ Willoughby asked, as she inspected Ryker’s swollen features.
‘A little too much fun at playtime.’
Willoughby frowned and looked like she was about to say something else about that, but didn’t.
‘I’m here to help you,’ she said eventually. ‘If you want my help, that is.’
‘I’m not exactly overjoyed at being locked up in here, so yeah, go on then.’
‘You were arrested for the murder of a Mexican national. One Luis Jiménez.’
Ryker didn’t react outwardly. The news wasn’t a knockout surprise. It was clear the raid on him and Jiménez was a set-up of sorts. Why Ryker was being set up for Jiménez’s murder, and by whom, were the big questions he needed answering.
‘Don’t believe everything you hear,’ Ryker said.
‘You’re telling me you didn’t do it?’
Ryker shrugged.
‘There are a lot of witnesses, including prominent members of the Mexican Federal Police, who claim they saw you shoot Jiménez in the street in Ciudad Neza.’
‘You’re a lawyer now?’
‘No,’ Willoughby said.
‘You sound like one.’
‘I told you, I’m here to help.’
‘Can you get me out of here?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘So how can you help?’
‘I... we can provide consular assistance. A translator for any interviews, a lawyer if you need one. And we’ll work closely with the authorities here to get you repatriated to Britain as soon as possible.’
‘So what are you waiting for?’
Willoughby looked flustered. ‘It’s not quite that easy. We need to wait for the prosecutor to come back with their plan. At the moment we’re still waiting for the official charge.’
‘I’ve not even been charged? And how long will that take?’
Willoughby rubbed the side of her neck. ‘That’s a good question. The system here is a bit different to back home, to say the least.’
‘I’d never have imagined.’
‘But, for starters, there’s something more pressing.’
‘Which is?’
‘We believe you’re British. That’s according to the information we’ve been given about your arrest, the communication we’ve had with the Mexican police and prosecution service, and… your accent speaking with me today.’
‘I’m sensing a but.’
‘We don’t know who you are. We don’t know your name even. Nobody does. Your fingerprints don’t match any records we have in our databases. You had no driving licence on you, no passport or any other identification. We need to know your identity, otherwise we can’t really help you.’
Ryker held his tongue when Willoughby went silent. She was fishing. Why, he didn’t know. Did she really want to help? Maybe. But what could Ryker say? He’d travelled light to Mexico and hadn’t entered through any official border crossing. He had a passport in the name of James Ryker – a fake – but he’d not taken it with him for the meeting with Jiménez, instead stashing it in a secret location not long after purchasing the Chevy. So there was no record of a James Ryker entering the country.
But more than that, James Ryker didn’t really exist. Carl Logan, that was Ryker’s true identity. At least it had been. Long before, he’d made a deal with the JIA. He’d become their asset. After that there’d been no Carl Logan in the real world, just a nameless man who worked for the JIA. That life was gone over though. Carl Logan was, officially, dead.
Ryker saw no point in giving this woman either of his aliases. All she’d find were the spurious – or, depending on her security clearance, highly redacted – records of a dead man for Logan, and a dead end for Ryker.
Plus, telling her anything could make his situation even worse. The JIA was highly secret for a reason. If Ryker claimed he’d previously worked for a government-sponsored hit squad, it didn’t take a genius to figure how that might end.
The only hope Ryker had was that somehow his arrest had alerted his one ally within the JIA: Peter Winter, his former boss. The man who’d allowed Ryker to escape that life in the first place. Who’d helped both Ryker and Lisa. In fact, perhaps Winter already knew what had happened, alerted when the Embassy ran Ryker’s fingerprints as they tried to identify him.
A thought struck Ryker. Perhaps Winter had sent Willoughby? But then wouldn’t she have just said?
Ryker needed more time to think this through. Peter Winter was probably the only person Ryker knew who could get him out of this mess. The JIA Commander would have the power, and know which strings to pull, to have Ryker released. But how the hell was Ryker supposed to get the message out to Winter in the first place? Certainly he couldn’t risk doing it through Willoughby. Not yet at least.
‘So?’ Willoughby asked, snapping Ryker from his swirling thoughts. ‘It’s not that hard, is it? Are you going to tell me your name?’
‘No,’ Ryker said.
‘No?’
‘I think we’re done he
re,’ Ryker said. He turned to face the guards and, speaking in Spanish said, ‘you can take me back to my cell.’
11
Ryker was escorted back through the decaying labyrinth by the same two guards. When he stepped into the cell block, all was surprisingly quiet. At first, Ryker wondered whether the inmates had been shipped out to the yard without him – no big loss – but as he looked over to the cells he realised the prisoners were all still inside when he saw the sea of faces pressed up against the bars. No heckling this time though. In fact there was barely a murmur as Ryker walked along, though many of the men looked faintly amused. Ryker felt the adrenaline flow as his body prepared him for what was to come.
They reached the last cell, and Ryker saw the door was already ajar. He glanced inside. Benito was sat on a bunk, looking down to the floor, his head in his hands. He wasn’t alone in the cell. Lozano was there, standing tall, arms crossed over his chest. He was flanked either side by two musclemen – one of them was the Beast, the other may as well have been the Beast’s twin brother – two big lumps of meat.
Before Ryker got a chance to question Lozano’s presence he was shoved in the back by a guard and he stumbled forward into the cell. The door was promptly slammed shut, the key turned in the lock. Ryker spun round. The two guards had already turned their back on him and positioned themselves in front of the door. Exactly what or who they were guarding against now Ryker wasn’t sure.
Ryker turned back to face Lozano and the grunts. He readied himself for action. If Lozano wanted a confrontation, Ryker would give him one. Ryker had played their game once already. He saw no reason to take another beating in the confines of his own cell. Plus at three against one in the confined space, Ryker fancied his chances far more than he did out in the open yard against a couple of hundred men.
Lozano had a smirk on his face. Or was it a grimace? Benito was still looking down at his feet.
‘You killed Luis Jiménez,’ Lozano said in Spanish.