The Girl Who Had No Fear

by Marnie Riches

  She helped herself to a plate of refried beans, salsa, guacamole and a couple of small tortillas from a buffet table at the end that was manned by a bored-looking old woman who wore a traditional embroidered dress, covered in food stains around the belly. Took a seat next to the European man and his guard, who was now miming shooting at his charge’s head.

  ‘Come over here,’ Paola said, patting a seat at another table.

  ‘No. I’m good thanks. I’ve got a headache. I’ll just sit tight for a while.’

  The European balked at the sight of her. He pulled his plate to the left; shuffled over, putting space between them, and, for the first time, George became aware of how she might appear to others – covered in fearsome tattoos and sharing her lunch with an AK-47.

  ‘Hurry up,’ the guard said to him. ‘You gotta get back in the lab and finish up, or el cocodrilo will wanna know why you screwed up his shipment.’ His English was spoken with a heavy Mexican accent. ‘You fancy being croc food? Cos I ain’t gonna clean your fucking teeth and that weird gringo hair of yours up off the floor when they’ve finished with you.’

  ‘I’m coming, man,’ the chemist said, staring down at his plate which seemed to contain only scraps. He started to shovel what was there into his mouth at speed, speaking with a cheek stuffed with food. ‘Give me a break, for Christ’s sake. El mecánico was snoring all night.’ His speech had a Texan twang to it. Or perhaps a flavour of New Mexico.

  ‘He’s been ordered to rest. He’s sailing to the Dominican tonight with Jorge.’

  Locking eyes with George, the guard suddenly leaned over and punched the chemist in the side of the head.

  ‘Ow! What the hell was that for?’

  Still searching for some acknowledgement in George’s face, the guard waved his pistol at his charge. ‘I don’t give a fuck about el mecánico, hombre. You gotta job to do. Time to go.’ He winked at George as he rose from the table. Kicked the heels of the shuffling chemist.

  But George wasn’t in the slightest bit interested in this show of machismo. She was interested in the mention of a mechanic – or had it been a euphemism for an engineer?

  If the chemist shared accommodation with el mecánico, it was likely they slept in one of the huts that was positioned around the fringes of the clearing.

  ‘I’m going to stretch my legs,’ George shouted over to Paola, who was sitting with the other women. She grabbed her bag and her rifle and headed outside before anybody could object, least of all the steely-eyed Maritza who seemed to miss nothing.

  Donning her shades, George stalked around the compound as if she owned that place, despite the incessant flutter in her chest. There was no sign of the Silencer thankfully, but gang members were everywhere, idling away their afternoon, sitting on upturned beer crates, smoking marijuana or meth pipes.

  ‘Hey, chica,’ one of the men said, amid wolf whistles from the others.

  Adrenalin coursed through George’s body, heightening her senses. Lewd comments being shouted at her. She could feel sexual threat coming from every direction. These were men who were used to taking women by force or being rewarded for their violent services-rendered by their boss with trafficked girls who had been drafted against their will into sexual slavery. Under normal circumstances, they would surely think nothing of dragging her into a shack and sating themselves. But a transportista? Would they really pick a fight with her in this guise?

  Turning around, she marched back to the wolf-whistling pack of lustful henchmen. Held her rifle to her shoulder and peered at them down the sights. ‘You want to tell me how much you love me, boys? Write me a love note on a bullet. How’s about that?’

  The men balked visibly. The wolf-whistling stopped. George lowered her weapon and started to walk away towards the shacks.

  ‘Dyke,’ one of them said.

  Keep going or respond? Keep going. You haven’t come here to pick fights. You’ve come here to find Papa. But George didn’t like disrespectful men. She turned back and marched up to the man who had called out. Rifle aimed at his forehead.

  ‘Call me that again,’ she said, breathing heavily through her mouth to keep up with her frenzied heartbeat.

  The man leaned into the rifle, grinning maniacally at her. High – that much was obvious. His brown eyes shone with malevolence. ‘Dyke. I called you a pussy-munching dyke.’ He grabbed his crotch. ‘You need to be shown how it feels to be fucked by a real man.’ He threw his head back and laughed raucously.

  George assessed the situation as coolly as her red mist would allow. The others weren’t joining in. She lowered the rifle swiftly and shot at the man’s feet. He yelped. Then, switched her grip on the AK-47, bringing the butt up in one slick move to make contact with his jaw. It struck him with a nauseating crack. The man fell back off his crate, howling. A well-aimed kick to the balls was all she needed to add a full stop to this particular conversation.

  ‘Jesus!’ he said, clasping at his crotch. ‘You crazy bitch! I can’t believe what you just did.’

  Placing a boot on his ribcage, George pointed the rifle anew at his head. Rested the sights on his nose, squashing the cartilage to the side. ‘Apologise,’ she said.

  The man’s face had crumpled with obvious shame. Not because he had been disrespectful towards her, but because he had been embarrassed by a woman in full view of his friends. George realised this much.

  ‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’ he shouted. ‘Okay? Leave me alone.’

  The other men started to laugh, sensing the shift in power.

  As George realised how foolish she had been, she took a step back. Spat at the ground, trying to maintain her hard edge. Turned and walked away quickly. Passing the dining shack, she saw Maritza standing in the doorway, arms folded, smiling wryly at her. The head of the transportistas winked and nodded. A show of respect. Good.

  Perhaps there was just enough of Letitia in George, after all.

  Before matters could take a turn for the deadly, she stalked over to the smallest of the shacks, reasoning that prisoners would hardly be afforded spacious accommodation, no matter how important their work was. The first shack was empty, but for two filthy mattresses and a scattering of pornographic photographs on the floor. The second shack contained a man who sitting on a wooden chair, cleaning the components of a gun. But the third was home to two filthy mattresses. One was empty with dishevelled bedding. A pair of handcuffs hung level with where feet might ordinarily lie, soldered to the corrugated iron walls. The other contained a man who was curled up into a foetal ball. No sheet covered him. His stick-thin arms and legs were tanned almost to the deep mahogany of the local men. His shoulder blades stuck out in sharp triangles that perched like wings above his emaciated torso.

  Without warning, the sleeping man rolled over onto his back, snoring loudly. Stretching out with his arms above his head, revealing a rack of prominent ribs beneath a hairy chest. His only clothing was a pair of ragged, washed-out shorts.

  Feeling emotions start to engulf her like tsunami moving shoreward from the open sea, George took a step inside to get a better look at the sleeping man’s face. But she already knew what he would look like, though given the full slops bucket in the far corner of the shack, it was impossible to ascertain whether or not he still smelled the same as he had smelled when she had been a small child, sitting on his shoulders, clutching at his head.

  ‘Papa,’ she whispered, wiping a tear from her eye as she took in the detail of her father’s face. He had aged. He was perhaps only half his normal body weight. His black hair was greying and had receded sharply. But she recognised that same nose that she had inherited from him. Ran a finger along her own and smiled wistfully. Those thick eyebrows that she had remembered during childhood as being reminiscent of eagle’s wings were unchanged.

  ‘What are you doing in here?’ a voice said behind her. A woman’s voice.

  George spun around to see Maritza standing in the threshold to the shack, hand on the hilt of her machete.

&
nbsp; ‘I wanted to see if this guy is the arsehole who owes me money,’ she said, thankful for the sunglasses that concealed a film of tears that threatened to fall and betray her emotional investment in this sleeping man.

  ‘Oh really?’ Maritza said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve been watching you. You’re not one of us.’

  Stifling the urge to swallow hard and give away her trepidation, George said, ‘What do you mean?’

  Maritza gestured with her chin toward the clearing. ‘Come with me. I want to speak to you.’

  CHAPTER 43

  Mexico, Cancun airport, 1 June

  ‘Welcome on board, sir!’ the air hostess said, smiling at him – all pearly-white teeth and perfect red lips that would look great, wrapped around his cock at an altitude of 50,000 feet. Checking his boarding card with perfectly manicured hands. ‘Dr Ackerman.’ She sparkled with health and enthusiasm for her job. She was like a well-bred young mare with good long legs and a glossy coat. ‘Upper class cabin is this way.’ She waved her arm gracefully towards the superior seats.

  As he stepped across the threshold into the 747 flight to Gatwick, Stijn Pietersen, or Dr Niels Ackerman, whom the passport he was currently using billed him as, felt optimistic about all he had achieved during his sojourn in Mexico. He smiled at this attractive blonde. These air hostesses were always improved by a week spent in Cancun, sleeping off the jet lag from their outward journey. He wondered if she wore nice red underwear underneath that red uniform. It had been a while since he had fucked anything but trafficked Russian whores. Maybe he could get to grips with this one in the toilets before lunch was served.

  Buckling into his seat in the privacy of his own spacious, dedicated area, he checked through his diary engagements on his phone. The shipment of meth wouldn’t leave the Dominican for four days and would arrive in Rotterdam weeks later. He knew there was a problem with the chemical composition, but that was down to the barrels of shit he’d bought from China via Chembedrijf. His sources had told him the DEA was aware of six deaths in NYC as a result of his defective product. Six in Amsterdam. The deaths didn’t bother him but the damage to his reputation and trade did. He read through the email from his man again.

  Dear S

  Van den Bergen has undercover cops working the clubs and he’s been asking questions about meth production as far afield as Prague. He’s out of town for now with McKenzie. Haven’t been able to find out where they’ve gone. We have neutralised old Sepp, like you asked, and sent a message to VdB. Problem is, the kids aren’t coming to buy the gear anymore. You need to sort your supply out. We can do damage limitation and repackaging this end.

  D

  Wanting to thump the window in frustration but realising the upper-class cabin was not the place for a show of raw aggression, he settled for sipping from a flute of perfectly chilled champagne. Proceeded to thumb out an email to Bram Borrink at Chembedrijf, confirming their meeting to discuss the dud chemicals that the Chinese manufacturer was palming off on them. The rendezvous was booked – a lunch at Paradijs, the following day.

  Closing his eyes, allowing the thrum of the aircraft’s engines to lull him into a semi-slumber, he thought about Ella Williams-May and how he might best proceed to the next stage of ruining her. When her father returned from the Dominican Republic – if he returned at all – he resolved to have him fed to the crocodiles. He’d served his purpose and the maras could always kidnap another engineer to build more subs, after all. There was hardly an easily exhaustible supply of pen-pushers in the world. And then, he would send Ella – or Georgina, as she now liked to call herself, thinking that a name change somehow made her untraceable – the photos. Perhaps he’d even send her Moreno’s stupid balding head in a box.

  There was also the small question of her mother.

  CHAPTER 44

  Mexico, Hotel Bahia Maya, Cancun, later

  ‘What do you mean, there’s no trace of him?’ Van den Bergen said. ‘Detectives don’t disappear without there being some trail left behind. Check the street CCTV footage around the time he went missing.’

  ‘Don’t you think I’m doing all that, boss?’ Marie stared sullenly back at him through the screen. Her face was redder than usual. Had she been crying? ‘I pulled all the city centre’s security footage but there’s hours and hours of it to watch and just me to watch it.’

  Grinding his molars together, Van den Bergen racked his overtaxed brain to suggest a means of finding Elvis, dead or alive.

  ‘I’ve asked Minks to put more resources at your disposal,’ he said. ‘Manpower. Budget. Whatever you need.’ He thumped the dressing table in his hotel room. ‘Jesus. This is so frustrating. I have no idea where George is. Elvis has been kidnapped. What a goddamn mess.’

  ‘You don’t know where George is?’ Puzzlement contorted Marie’s florid features.

  ‘I need to come back right now, but my flight doesn’t leave until this evening. You can’t just jump on a plane. Everything’s fully booked.’ Van den Bergen leaned forwards and grabbed chunks of his white hair. ‘This is a waking nightmare.’

  ‘Boss! What do you mean, you don’t know where George is? She borrowed money from me to cover her ticket to Honduras. A flying visit, she told me. Has she not showed up yet?’

  He glanced at the live Skype image of Marie. She had moved closer to the camera, like some grand inquisitor. He lowered his gaze to the bed. ‘Let’s focus on Elvis,’ he said. ‘What were his last movements? What did he have in the diary?’

  Marie clicked on her mouse. ‘I’ve got his schedule here. He had blocked out the morning to go and see his mother in hospital. She’s on her last legs, apparently. He was due back in in the afternoon but never showed.’ She picked at a spot on her chin, frowning. ‘He has been behaving oddly of late.’

  ‘Oddly?’

  ‘I think he’s got a girlfriend. He’s been very secretive. But we know who’s taken him, so that’s irrelevant. The question is where.’

  ‘Any informants he’s been working with lately?’

  ‘Yes. Some old biker. But I don’t know the guy’s name. Dirk doesn’t keep any records on his grasses. But I do remember that he said this guy was one of several who approached him about Pietersen.’

  ‘Do some digging and get back to me. There should be a nationwide manhunt on for a bloody kidnapped cop. This is an appalling lack of commitment from Minks. The sooner I’m back, the better.’

  Marie nodded. ‘I’m doing what I can this end. I’ll keep you posted.’ She severed the connection.

  His bags were packed. His documentation was in order. But Van den Bergen only had a matter of hours left to help Gonzales catch the bad guys and reunite with George.

  He reread the latest text from her.

  Ad will help. He says InterChem GmbH is on Chembedrijf’s roster as a client. His big boss has a lunch meeting with the Silencer coming up in Amsterdam but he wouldn’t say when or where. Just ‘leave it to me’. Out of my hands now. You must have worked out that I passed the co-ordinates for the jungle camp onto Gonzales. Couldn’t risk him knowing it was from me, in case of bent Mexican cops. I’m deep undercover. Things are tricky. My dad is alive!! I’ve slipped him a note. I’ve got one shot at getting him out, so I’m going after him alone. Get Gonzales to raid the jungle camp at 6 p.m. I’ll meet you at the airport. Bring my case, something to dissolve stick-on tattoos and permanent marker, wet wipes and anti-bac hand gel.

  Love you. I won’t get killed if you don’t.

  George. Xxx

  6 p.m. Van den Bergen slammed the laptop shut and growled. ‘Jesus, Georgina! The bloody flight leaves at 7.15 p.m.! It’s not enough time.’

  She had still been alive at the time of sending the text. But would she make it onto the plane in one piece?

  CHAPTER 45

  The middle of the Caribbean Sea, later

  Floating on his back in the hull of the sub, with perhaps no more than six inches between his face and the fibreglass ceili
ng, Michael realised he was going to drown. After all he had tried to save the vessel, death was still inevitable. His biggest regret was that he would never get to look upon and embrace his fully grown daughter, despite her only being a few nautical miles away on this godforsaken, lawless continent. He would never get to tell her how much he still loved her and how he had thought about her every single day since he had left their unhappy family home in Southeast London. Those were dreams of a reunion that would remain unfulfilled, now, as he allowed his watery grave to embrace him. There was no point struggling any longer. He had all but bled out anyway.

  The bullet from Jorge’s gun had ripped through Michael’s shoulder and into the fabric of the hull. The pain had been intense. He had screamed, clasping at the wound, feeling his blood ooze thickly through his fingers. Then, as if the shock had taken a few seconds to register, Michael had frozen, whimpering with pain and staring in disbelief at the monster that straddled him. There had no longer been any sign of reasoned thought behind his guard’s eyes, so high and so feverish with bloodlust had he been because of the meth. But even amid the panic, some calm and analytical part of Michael’s brain had noted that Jorge’s colour had drained, giving him a sickly pallor.

  With nobody at the helm, the sub had lurched downwards abruptly, throwing Jorge off him.

  ‘You stupid, ignorant bastard!’ Michael had shouted, scrambling to his knees. His ears had been ringing with the deafening sound of a shot having been fired from a gun in an enclosed space. Though his strength had been no match for the well-nutritioned, drug-fuelled Jorge and though his shoulder had been bleeding freely, he had thrown himself on top of the guard, clasping his gun hand to seize control of the weapon. For the first time in decades, Michael had rediscovered the fire that Letitia had snuffed out of him. ‘Drop it! Drop the fucking gun, Jorge! You’ll compromise the sub’s stability. We’ll sink, you prick.’