Extremities

by C A Devine

  She nodded quick sharp bobs of the head and gulped down a breath.

  ‘There’s no expectation here.’

  The satellite phone rang, saving us both from any protracted awkwardness. It was Joe, ‘The ordinance from the second bomb was US Army and the build of the device was US military too.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ I asked. ‘You think the US military kidnapped Max? What about The Baron?’

  ‘At this stage, we don’t know. But it ties up with the American accent Max heard. And explains how Ariana was able to get her onto the base. The question is why?’

  *

  I was lying on the cockpit cushions a half-hour later when Max appeared up through the hatch, a stack of papers in one hand and a whisky in the other. ‘Do you want to read it?’ I didn’t know, didn’t know if I could. ‘It’s okay if you don’t. It’s just, I want you to understand.’ But I knew that I had to.

  ‘I want to,’ I nodded, my voice hoarse. She left the pages on the table and disappeared back through the hatch. A gust of wind threatened to spirit them away. I reached out and grabbed them.

  The writing was erratic this time. Not clear succinct passages, but more a stream of consciousness.

  24

  Moderate Physical Pressure (The Lie VII)

  I can sense him. How did he find me? He’s not here. I’m imagining it.

  Mac tells me he loves me, but he can’t. He doesn’t know me. No past, no future, just now.

  He’s not here, the Fiesta is here. We run through the fireworks, listen to the drums. I see him, he is here. I don’t want Mac to see him, to face him. A man who thinks he loves you will try something foolish to save you. He can’t save me. No-one can.

  I run, but he finds me and grabs me by the hair. He drags me down the alley, away from the fireworks, away from the smoke, and it all becomes clear, crystal. Revellers see, but they do nothing. Do they think this is part of the show?

  The smell of stale sweat invades my nostrils as they bundle me into a van. I gag as they strap tape over my mouth. I can’t breathe. I struggle, but there are three of them. I am helpless. They tie my hands and pull a hood over my head. I am crying, but tears are useless – I know they are, but they keep coming.

  When the van stops, I have no more tears. They drag me out, I trip and something stabs my leg. I try to get my feet on the ground, but they are going too fast and I can’t call out because I am gagged. I can’t see to help myself because I am blindfolded.

  They stop and I stumble forward onto my knees, they pull off the hood. I am staring at crumbling concrete with him and three others. A bare light bulb sends a glare over army uniforms and balaclavas. I use my arm to cover my eyes. Whose army?

  He rips the tape from my mouth and I suck in air; a thick stench of urine chokes my nose. He drags me up by the hair. Now I am screaming, trying to pull away from him. He lifts his pistol, jams it against my temple and tells me to stop. I think I still whimper. ‘Do you want me to order them to shoot you?’ he says gesturing to the soldiers. They are leaning against the wall in front of me. One pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights up. The smell is a welcome relief.

  Angelo drops his pistol and pulls a knife from his belt. ‘I loved you,’ he screams, ‘and now you are whoring yourself to a child killer.’ He starts hacking at my hair and I let him. It’s so sore when he digs into my scalp and I stand there whimpering and let him, so afraid that the others will kill me with their rifles. I want to resist; I want to get away. ‘He won’t want you now, will he whore?’ I barely flinch.

  *

  They come all the time, three of them, or maybe four. All dressed in fatigues and balaclavas. The first time they come struggling with water, lots of water. Two of them grab me and bare white teeth in cruel smiles. They push me to my knees in front of it. I fear what is coming; I start to hyperventilate.

  ‘Did you tell them about the boat?’ Angelo’s tone is civilised, reasonable.

  ‘What boat?’ I said. They slam my head towards the water; I start to scream and try not to move, but two of them press down – they are too strong. They drive my head under. Why did I say that? I struggle back up with all my strength, but they do not let go. I am out of air. In my mind I am panicking. I need to breathe, I need to breathe, I need to breathe. I am going to breathe water. Terror sears through every inch of me. The world fades; it’s over.

  Then I have air. I suck it in, but it chokes me and I cough. My chest burns; I want to lie down and just breathe. But I feel the pressure on the back of my head and I am underwater again. The panic comes again. I can’t breathe. I need to breathe. Please let me breathe. I am dying. I don’t want to die. Then I have air and the air is like the sweetest smoothest whisky.

  ‘Did you tell them about the boat?’

  They push my head down. ‘Yes, yes,’ I scream.

  *

  They come again and this time they hold me down on my front; at first the pain is sharp, but slight, like a paper cut. Then it grows to a burning, piercing throb, then another sharp prick, then another and another. I scream, cry. I think I pass out.

  I am awake. The pain is sharp, but slight, like a paper cut. Then it grows to a burning, piercing throb. I scream and they laugh.

  ‘What else did you tell them about?’

  ‘I told them about the bags,’ I gasped. ‘I told them about Wall Street.’

  I feel the sharp pain again and then a smooth silky drawl, ‘Stop what you are doing and step away from the prisoner. Now.’

  *

  Next time he comes alone. He touches me, gropes me; I try to squirm away, but his attack gets more frenzied. He doesn’t talk. He pushes me to the ground, my head rattles off the concrete and I scream. Pain rips down my spine. I am screaming. I am scratching and fighting, but he doesn’t stop. I scream in terror as I realise he is going to rape me, OhmyGod. I wish he had killed me.

  *

  They come again; he says if I tell them what I know they will give me food and turn out the lights, turn off the music. I am so hungry and so tired. I’ve told them everything I know. I never knew very much.

  ‘Do you know why we torture you?’ I shake my head. ‘Because your people say this is the best way to get information. And maybe, just maybe, it will absolve you from your crimes.’

  I try to blank it out. I try to convince myself that my body does not belong to me, that no matter what they do they cannot invade my mind. I think about the wind and the ocean and the ultimate peace you find there. They come and tie my arms behind my back up high. ‘I thought you loved me,’ I whisper to Angelo.

  ‘How can I love you after what you have done to me?’ He replies.

  They haven’t come in a while; the lights are out now. Finally I can sleep. I am no longer hungry. I cannot breathe.

  Breathe, Ryan, breathe. I lay the papers aside and hugged my arms around my body. Bile played in my throat. My head swirled with emotions, anger winning the battle. She climbed up to the cockpit and lifted the sheets from my hand. She let the gust sweep them out into the ocean. ‘They’re gone now,’ she said. I looked up at her. ‘They thought they could humiliate me by taking my clothes away,’ she was gazing after them, ‘but I’ve never liked wearing clothes,’ she shrugged, ‘and the hair will grow back.’

  ‘Big talk.’

  She lifted her shoulders again, ‘What am I supposed to do? I can’t turn the clock back and my mind won’t let me pretend it didn’t happen. Although your pills and the whisky do that pretty well.’ She smirked and looked down at me.

  She knelt beside me and I lifted a hand to her cheek. She didn’t flinch away. ‘We’ll get through this,’ I said.

  ‘Will we?’ she leaned forward and laid her cheek against mine. She ran a soothing hand through my hair. I breathed her in.

  ‘Why did you do it? Why did you decide to work for them? You weren’t trained.’

  ‘I wanted to make Angelo pay for using me to get to my dad.’

  ‘Why did you come to Spain?’r />
  ‘He posted a diatribe on his Facebook page, calling for your destruction. The thumbnail SD card, the one that popped out from his secret stash of cash, held details of how to find you. I wanted to see you for myself.’

  ‘You slept with me to get back at him?’ She had the right to know why.

  25

  The Big Bust

  I slept with my gun, waking every two hours, thinking someone was in the room. I had no life. I had spent two years undercover on the biggest drugs case of my career. My nerves were frayed, but it was coming to an end. I could feel it.

  I had spent two years proving to everyone that I was the Mac Ryan they expected me to be. My mother was one of the youngest female captains in the NYPD and now ran their high-profile intel unit, and my father the commissioner. They were the golden couple of the NYPD. I was born a cop. The department expected the best from me. I expected it from myself. And it was all going to be worth it when we caught him.

  It was a joint operation with the DEA and I went at it with all I had. The NYPD wanted to clean up the streets of the city; the DEA were more interested in the overseas connection. South American heroin had always been the market leader in New York. But despite or because of all that was going on over there, increasing amounts of pure grade Afghan heroin were making it onto the street. No-one thought it would last more than a few months, but here I was two years later about to meet the supplier, The Baron.

  ‘Marc Van Hughs,’ I stuck out my hand.

  The Shakermaker covered it with his shovel and pumped up and down, nothing complicated, nothing gang related, just a straightforward powerful handshake. He let go and I pulled the cuffs of my silk shirt out from under my made-to-measure Ralf Lauren suit. I straightened my 24-carat cufflinks so the diamond sat on the bottom corner. There were few upsides to undercover work, but the clothes were one of them.

  ‘South African right?’ I nodded. I had a passport to prove it. He turned to my partner and offered his massive mitt.

  A black hand reached out to meet it. ‘Livingston,’ aka Detective Charles Worrell, my partner.

  ‘Livingston what?’

  ‘Just Livingston, I don’t have no white-man surname.’ He was doing Jamaica. I had also seen him do upper west side in the lobby of the Metropolitan Opera House. He was a man of many talents.

  ‘He is a man of principle,’ I said. ‘I find they are more trustworthy.’ We were standing in a large empty warehouse, loading doors open, back and front. ‘I thought we were here to meet the man.’ The sound bounced off the concrete floors, echoing up around the vast emptiness.

  ‘We are, he likes to arrive last. His time is important.’ And this way he was dealing with no surprises. He knew what he was walking into. I wished I did. The weight of two Glocks, under my arms, was giving small comfort. I had little doubt that if this man wanted us wiped out, he could make that happen.

  I heard the noise of an engine approach, then a limousine turned in through the huge rear roller door behind me. I spun, grabbing my weapons. ‘That wasn’t the deal,’ I snapped, ‘you come in from the front.’ I stuck my left Glock in the face of the Shakermaker.

  ‘The Baron makes his own decisions.’

  ‘Not good enough,’ I cocked the safety.

  ‘Calm down, Mr Van Hughs. No-one is here to spoil the deal. It is in all our interests.’ The limo spun around 180 degrees and pulled up alongside the Lincoln Towncar and Mercedes of the Shakermaker’s people, across from my impounded BMW. That, at least, was the deal. I lowered the guns, but kept them in my hands.

  A driver, in full uniform, stepped out and fitted his black peaked cap before stepping to the rear. How delightfully formal. He pulled the door wide, standing with one hand on the handle and the other behind his back. Everyone looked over, me included. And nothing happened. I felt a tremor in my hand. This man liked the dramatic. We all stood stalk still, watching nothing for two full minutes before a head appeared from the door.

  He was a short man, five eight, with shaggy black hair. His eyes were covered with expensive shades, his body swimming in a luminous green tracksuit. He was younger than I thought he’d be, early to mid-thirties at the most. We had been instructed to call him The Baron. Punk would have been more appropriate. These guys were never content to be the head of some large scale criminal gang, just counting the pennies. They always needed the drama, the show. He strutted towards us, a la Huggy Bear circa 1977. He took his time, giving a precious few seconds to each of his five minions. All offered their hands submissively, like pack animals.

  ‘I ain’t kissing this boy’s ass,’ Charlie whispered to me. But that was exactly what we were going to do, if that was what it took to smash the supply route. I hadn’t thrown away over two years of my life to lose it all because Charlie couldn’t stomach a bit of ass kissing.

  He finally arrived at Charlie and me. I holstered my guns. There was no offer of a hand to us. He didn’t remove the glasses. Oh yeah, he was tough. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I believe we have been forming a mutually beneficial working relationship of late.’ He looked Afghan, but spoke perfect English, a native speaker, with an accent I couldn’t place.’

  ‘It would seem so, Mr?’

  ‘Just call me The Baron, Mr Van Hughs.’ I had to fight back a snigger. ‘I, like your friend here, don’t feel the need to submit to the white-man’s tyranny.’ So he had been listening. I looked to Charlie, then to The Baron and back to Charlie, lifting my arms, ‘Is all this white-man shit because I’m South African?’

  Charlie laughed and patted me on the back, ‘Calm down my friend, it’s not personal.’

  I turned back to The Baron, fixing my eyes on him, ‘I’m not here to discuss politics with you. I’m a businessman and I’m here to do business. If you are not interested in business then I suggest we shut down these negotiations, now.’

  We had one of those dramatic pauses that are always necessary when you deal with wise-guys.

  He nodded. I continued, ‘You are looking for distributors, due to a little setback you had a couple of weeks ago.’ Read into that a complete shutdown of his distribution network by Charlie, yours truly and two years of filthy street work. The Baron and co had gone to ground, but it didn’t take them long to surface – they liked the money too much – and when they did I was ready. Charlie and I had managed to maintain our cover – not easy. I did things I’m not proud of to make it happen. Suffice to say Charlie and I had come out top of the local food chain. And for the first time since this whole sordid thing started, I was face to face with the supplier, the Afghan connection.

  ‘A setback so you say. It’s interesting,’ he raised his eyebrows and steepled his fingers, ‘that you survived Mr Van Hughs.’

  ‘I did what I had to. And I will not apologise for it. You have to make unsavoury decisions sometimes, if you wish to be successful in business. And loyalty has caused the demise of the strongest of empires.’ Okay, so I’m not above a bit of posturing myself.

  He stared me down, a good minute or so, but I’d become an expert at this in the last couple of years. I can tremble with fear on the inside and pass a steady hand out for a shake.

  ‘I fink I may be able to work with you.’ The scumbag had no choice, but to work with me in this city.

  ‘I have distributors waiting for my call so if you have some product to show me,’ I gestured a let’s get on with it.

  ‘You have seen my product before,’ he was still tapping the fingers, an odd pose with the tracksuit.

  ‘This is a new business venture; we start from the beginning.’ This was the tough part. Be too eager and they will hand you baby powder wrapped up in plastic bags. But be too much of a smartass and they will shoot you down where you stand – it’s a difficult balancing act. If you are not prepared for the consequences, you don’t walk in there. I was quaking in my highly polished 3000-dollar boots.

  The Baron snapped his fingers. The trunk of his limousine popped open and one of the minions scuffled over and pulle
d out a black leather briefcase. He brought it to us and laid it in the Shakermaker’s outstretched arms. The Baron snapped the catches and it popped up. A one key bag sat inside. He pulled a pocketknife from his pants, flicked it with a grandiose wave of his arm and made a tiny slit in the bag.

  Charlie lifted my metal case and laid it flat on his arms facing me. I did the dramatic snapping thing. The lid sprung open. I eased my test-tube from its spongy cocoon and popped the rubber stopper. I picked up the platinum spatula – real platinum indeed – extricated from a South American dealer six month previous. It made for a perfect prop. I could see The Baron looking with I gotta get me one of those eyes. I leaned over, scooped up a few grains and slid it into my vile. I replaced the rubber stopper, held it out in front of me between my thumb and forefinger, so everyone could see, and gave it a little shake. It glowed purple.

  I let a smile creep up on my face and Charlie nodded. ‘I think we can do business,’ I said. ‘How much can you supply?’

  ‘How much do you want?’ Arrogant little bastard.

  ‘I can accommodate what you were supplying to Hugo, plus another twenty keys a month for another outlet. If you have that, of course. But I have another supplier at the moment for my other venture so it will only be at the right price. The South Americans don’t look favourably on being sidelined.’

  ‘I fink we are all on the same wave lengf here,’ The Baron nodded. ‘We can do business.’ He extended his hand out through his oversized sleeve. His palm was cool and dry. I’d hoped I’d made him at least a little bit nervous, but no, he was used to this. We talked money and shook again. Delivery was to be to a different warehouse, in seven days’ time.

  ‘He’s English,’ Charlie said to me, when we were in the car driving away.

  ‘What?’ I loosened my tie and sucked in some much-needed air.

  ‘That accent is English.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Damn straight, I have cousins who sound like that.’ I looked over at him. ‘It’s true, my dad came here in the sixties from Barbados. His brother went to some place in England. His kids, my cousins, they sound like that. You know like that soccer star that was on the news this morning because his brother was killed in active duty in Afghanistan.’