The Darkest Day

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The Darkest Day Page 10

by Tom Wood


  At least one potential enemy had disarmed himself as a result. The gun may have been out and in hand, but it would be unloaded. He could not tell for certain about the others, but cooking shrimp or eating from a plate with cutlery or drinking from bottles of beer would restrict their ability to respond.

  When he reached the entranceway, he saw the problem. The inhabitants were spread between two rooms – a kitchen and dining room separated by a breakfast bar and half-wall. He could not take all of them by surprise at once nor keep watch on them all at the same time.

  He was considering his options when he heard a toilet flush upstairs. There had been no lit windows on the first floor a moment ago so either the bathroom had no window or the person had not been in there at the time.

  Victor moved past the entranceway and into the stairwell, standing in the gap beneath it with his chin near his chest so he did not have to squat down.

  After forty seconds he heard a door open upstairs and footsteps grow louder. The stairs creaked and groaned as the person descended – a heavy person, overweight or large with bone and muscle. The rhythm of their steps suggested they were drunk or had some disability affecting their movements.

  The person came into view. He was a giant, the dome of his head almost touching the low ceiling. Victor saw a brief profile of the man as he turned into the entranceway and then his back. He lifted weights or trained in some other physical activity that had strengthened his arms, shoulders and back. He appeared healthy, so Victor deduced he had been drinking.

  Four long steps brought Victor up behind the giant. He timed his footfalls with the man’s own, disguising the noise while the man’s great size hid Victor from those in the room beyond.

  ‘Aleo,’ shouted someone.

  The giant responded with a grunt, then a wail as Victor kicked him hard in the back of the knee, folding the leg and dropping the giant down low enough for Victor to wrap an arm around the man’s neck, pit of the elbow above the Adam’s apple, forearm and biceps applying simultaneous pressure to both carotid arteries.

  For a second everyone in the rooms was too stunned to react. In that instant, Victor took a snapshot of the layout and the inhabitants: two men sitting at a table in one corner, bottles of beer and playing cards and gambling chips on the table surface; another slumped in an armchair, smoking a cigarette. He could only see two in the kitchen: one at the breakfast bar eating, the second by the stove, but he knew there was at least one more out of his line of sight.

  Victor said, ‘Be cool or he dies.’

  It was hotter in the dining room, with the heat from the men adding to the heat coming from the stove. Ceiling fans pushed around a haze of cigarette smoke. The men wore T-shirts or vests, and shorts. Trainers or sandals covered their feet. He saw three handguns for three men – stripped on the table, lying on the floor by one’s feet and resting on the arm of an unoccupied sofa. A poor show, even by criminal standards.

  A glowing bare bulb hung from the ceiling. Insects buzzed around it and remains of others were fused to the surface. Next to the table, a tall shaded lamp added to the illumination. The floorboards were bare and in as poor condition as those in the hallway. Cracks and chips were scattered across the painted walls. A frame hung skewed on one wall, without a painting. A thin curtain shielded the only window and rippled in the flow of air.

  The two at the table looked related, sharing similar builds and facial features. One had a shaved head, the other an Afro. The man in the armchair was a lot older but a lot tougher too. He was a little under six feet tall with a slim, wiry frame. His head was shaved and a sparse beard covered his chin and jawline. He was in his late forties and well preserved, despite the smoking habit. He had the look about him of someone who had been through hardship but had triumphed despite great odds. He was the leader, Victor was sure. Men like that did not take orders well.

  The one at the breakfast bar was the youngest, in his early twenties but a grown man. Half a dozen empty bottles of beer stood in a parade line near to his plate.

  The giant’s strength was incredible. With one hand he almost pulled Victor’s arm away, but Victor increased the pressure of the choke by using his free hand to push the man’s head forward.

  In seconds he had weakened and Victor eased off the pressure to stop him losing consciousness. If he did, Victor would struggle to keep him on his feet and he couldn’t risk losing his combined human shield and bargaining chip. The others would not know if their friend had passed out or died.

  ‘We are cool,’ the one in the armchair said.

  ‘Hands where I can see them,’ Victor said. ‘Those in the kitchen, get in here now.’

  The three before him raised their hands. The others were slow to move despite the hostage because they were wary and unsure of Victor’s intentions and waiting instructions. The two he had seen came shuffling into the dining area, hands up and palms showing.

  ‘And the other one.’

  ‘Who?’ the one in the armchair said.

  Victor tripled the force on the giant’s neck. He gasped and his face contorted, eyes pinched shut, skin reddening.

  ‘He hasn’t got long,’ Victor said.

  ‘OKAY, OKAY. Lucian, get in here.’

  The man with the cigarette gestured with his head and a youth rushed into view from the kitchen. He was tall and thin; long arms without a hint of muscle definition hung from his T-shirt. The light shone off a face slick with adolescent oil.

  ‘Get out,’ Victor said. ‘You’re too young for this.’

  The kid stayed put. He squared himself, defiant. His eyes were wide and staring. His nostrils flared.

  Again, Victor increased the pressure on the giant’s carotids.

  ‘Tell him to go,’ Victor said to the man in the armchair.

  He did, but even ordered by an authority figure, the kid didn’t hurry. By the time Victor heard the back door open and then bang shut, the giant was almost out. He eased off to keep him conscious. The giant was no longer trying to fight, unable to free himself and too scared to keep trying and encourage Victor to increase the pressure. Pain compliance was a powerful tool.

  ‘What do you want?’ the smoking man asked.

  ‘Put out the cigarette.’

  The man shrugged and snubbed it out in a metal ashtray balanced on the armrest. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Where’s Marte?’

  ‘You’re looking at him. Or at least you’re looking at the man who uses that identity. The real Marte, the man you no doubt have been looking for, died a long time ago.’

  ‘Why the deception?’

  The man shrugged again. ‘No reason beyond insurance. People who ask for me usually do so because they seek to do me, or those close to me, harm.’

  Victor, choking the giant to near death, remained silent.

  Marte sat up. ‘Why don’t you release him?’

  Victor tried, and failed, to read anything more in Marte’s eyes. The giant tensed.

  Marte gestured at Victor. ‘There is no need to be concerned with reprisals. You’ll find my manners are a good deal better than your own.’

  Victor glanced at the other men in the room. They were as anxious as before, but he sensed a readiness too. Maybe they had heard Marte speak like this before and knew what would happen next. Or he could have slipped them some predetermined code.

  Victor knew a prelude to violence when he saw it.

  He saw it begin almost thirty seconds before anyone made an aggressive move. He recognised the slow preamble as an orchestrated routine.

  The guy on the sofa leaned forward, as if for comfort, but Victor understood the action. Whether it had been conscious or not, it was impossible to spring up fast when sitting slumped with head far out of line with the hips.

  The two at the corner table were already both looking his way, but subtle adjustments to their poses gave away their intentions. The one who had his back to him was twisted round as much as his spine would let him. One hand rested on the back of the
chair, the other on the table surface, while the one facing him had both palms on his knees, ready to explode up to his feet.

  ‘Well?’ Marte said.

  Victor nodded, because now he knew what his enemies were going to do, he knew what he would do in response. There was nothing to gain in waiting any longer.

  ‘Manners,’ Victor said.

  Marte smiled once more and his men attacked.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Victor wrenched the giant’s head into a neck crank, not killing him but taking him out of the fight with damaged ligaments, torn tendons, ripped muscle, and hyperextended vertebrae. He heaved him forward, into Marte, turning to go for the one on the sofa as he sprang out of the seat.

  Victor shot out a stomp kick at the guy’s leading knee. The leg folded backwards the wrong way. He collapsed on to the sofa, screaming.

  A spinning roundhouse kick knocked the gun out of the hand of the guy with the Afro as he grabbed it before standing.

  With his own gun lying useless in pieces, the second man at the table went for a takedown, but with no real technique, charging into Victor and going low, the top of his skull colliding with Victor’s abdomen, arms wrapping around his thighs.

  Victor shoved the head down and to one side as he was pushed back, then, wrapping his arm around the guy’s head and locked off with a gable grip, put the guy into a face bar, his wrist bone tight across the guy’s nose and cheek. When Victor squeezed the head against his sternum the man screamed louder than the guy with the broken knee because the skull was thick and strong and could resist the enormous pressure Victor applied with the blade of his forearm, but the nose and cheekbone could not. The cartilage in the nose flattened first before the weak bone splintered and crushed and the prominent cheekbone cracked.

  Victor threw the man to the floor and grabbed a seat cushion from the sofa to use as shield as the guy with the Afro attacked again, this time stabbing with a kitchen knife. The blade pierced straight through the foam cushion, and Victor folded and wrapped the cushion around the hand and wrist, trapping the knife and pulling the guy closer and into an elbow.

  His head snapped back and teeth pattered the ceiling.

  A sweep took him from his feet. He landed hard, semiconscious, face smeared in bright blood. Victor raised a foot to stamp his heel on to the guy’s temple, but instead lowered the foot back where it had been. Killing Marte’s men was not the plan, but resisting the instinct to finish him off tested Victor’s willpower. He’d been taught to always neutralise a threat on his terms if possible, and if not at the first available opportunity.

  Now though his priority was to secure Marte’s cooperation. Killing his entire crew might encourage that, but it had an equal chance of securing defiance. And while those crew members were still alive they could be used as leverage in a way a corpse could not.

  The Haitian appeared as unaffected by the violence as he seemed unafraid that no one stood between him and Victor. Which made him a good actor or insane. He was at Victor’s mercy.

  ‘How much money you want?’ Marte asked as he regarded Victor with an indifferent gaze.

  Victor held the gaze. ‘To do what?’

  Marte gestured at his five men, all alive but out of the fight and writhing in pain with crippling injuries. ‘How much do you want to go on my payroll instead of these useless fucks?’

  ‘You can’t afford me.’

  Marte sat back in the chair and said, ‘Then what do you want?’

  ‘You know why I’m here. I’m looking for information. That’s all. I want to know about a woman. She goes by the handle Raven.’

  ‘No you don’t. That kind of knowledge will get you killed.’

  ‘We all have to die sometime.’

  Marte said, ‘But why rush towards it?’

  ‘I prefer to meet death on my terms.’

  ‘Then you’re a fool if you believe you can decide your end.’

  Victor shook his head. ‘That’s not what I said. And you’re avoiding the question.’

  ‘You have yet to ask me a question.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  Marte smiled because he believed Victor had acquiesced too early, which made him feel in control of the conversation. Which was how Victor wanted him to feel.

  ‘Why would I even know? You think she trusts me? You think she trusts anyone?’

  Victor said nothing.

  Marte used a palm to wipe sweat from his face. Victor could feel the perspiration coating his own skin, unable to evaporate into the humid air.

  Marte swallowed. ‘And what do I get in return for this information you desire?’

  Victor said, ‘It’s more a case of what you don’t get.’

  He looked at the five men moaning on the floor. Marte did the same, but with contempt. He sucked on his lower lip.

  Victor said, ‘Do you still think I have no manners?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m two people,’ Victor answered. ‘I’m either no one or I’m the worst enemy you’ll ever have.’

  ‘The cartel runs this island. They protect me.’ He used a thumb to point at himself for emphasis.

  ‘Then where are they now?’

  ‘You can’t touch me,’ Marte said, defiant.

  ‘I can do whatever I choose.’

  ‘If you do, they’ll take your head,’ Marte sneered, drawing an index finger across his throat.

  ‘It’s right here,’ Victor said. ‘What are they waiting for?’

  Marte reached for his packet of cigarettes.

  ‘Don’t,’ Victor said.

  Marte looked up at Victor and then to the cigarettes. He kept his fingers on the packet for a moment in silent debate, but then withdrew the hand. Which meant Victor no longer needed to break it.

  He took two steps and stamped down on the right hand of the guy with the Afro, who had been reaching for the gun Victor had kicked across the floor. The man wailed through his smashed teeth. Victor picked up the pistol and tucked it into his waistband.

  ‘I only want information about Raven,’ he said. ‘This never had to get ugly. I would have paid you well. You might even have gained yourself an ally in the process, which would have been particularly useful to you as you’re going to end up losing one.’

  Marte considered this.

  ‘What’s to think about?’ Victor asked. ‘You don’t have a choice. Any delay, any withholding, is only going to end up being bad for you, not me. I have all the time in the world.’

  ‘She’ll kill me for betraying her.’

  ‘She won’t,’ Victor said.

  Marte sneered again. ‘And why wouldn’t she? She demands loyalty. She will not forgive this betrayal.’

  ‘She won’t kill you because I’m going to kill her first.’

  ‘But why? What has she done to warrant your wrath?’

  Victor said, ‘Does it really matter to you why?’

  Marte looked at the ceiling and shrugged. ‘I suppose not. I doubt the reasons of a man like you would make any sense to me. I always liked her, though.’

  ‘I’ll tell her you said so if that makes you feel better.’

  ‘A little.’ Marte sighed and examined his hands, as if looking for some answer only they could give. When he looked back to Victor he said, ‘I don’t know where she is. She would never tell me that. So I can’t help you.’

  ‘You’re a fixer. She’s a killer. So you got her documents, passports, things like that. Yes?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Marte said.

  ‘I want the names of those identities. Copies or any photographs, if possible.’

  The Haitian shook his head. ‘No copies. No photographs. She had me burn any evidence.’

  ‘And you kept nothing for insurance in case she turned on you?’

  ‘She would never turn on me.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘Because she has honour,’ Marte said. ‘Unlike you.’

  Victor remained silent.

  Mart
e studied him. ‘You’re really going to kill her?’

  ‘As sure as night follows day.’

  ‘And you believe you are capable of such a feat? People have tried before.’

  Victor said, ‘Everything made of flesh can, and will, die. Raven is no different.’

  ‘You make it sound so simple. You make it sound so very easy.’

  ‘She’s not bulletproof, is she?’

  Marte smirked, then nodded, to himself as much as Victor. ‘Okay, you win. I’ll write you a list. Every identity I’ve ever created or sourced for her. Will that do?’

  ‘If you miss out any names, or if any of that information proves false, or if you try and warn her —’

  ‘I know,’ Marte said with a heavy sigh. ‘I’m scared of her, yes. But now I’m scared of you more.’

  Victor said, ‘Then you’re smarter than you’ve acted so far.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  Before leaving the island, Victor called Halleck from his hotel room in San Domingo and read out the aliases Marte had supplied to Raven in the last twelve months.

  ‘I’ve got a hit,’ Halleck said when he called back. ‘Angelica Margolis flew into LAX three days ago on a flight from Paris.’

  ‘That doesn’t help me a whole lot,’ Victor replied. ‘The US is a big place. She could be anywhere by now.’

  ‘There’s more. A private landlord in New York ran a credit check on Miss Margolis three months ago.’

  Victor said, ‘Tell me the address.’

  It took two whole days to reach New York. Flying direct would have taken a little over five hours, from San Domingo to Miami, Miami to New York. But Victor didn’t travel in straight lines, least of all when entering the United States. He caught a flight from the Dominican Republic to Jamaica, and then to Nicaragua and then Mexico. He crossed the border into the US in a rental car. Then domestic flights bounced him across the country until he disembarked in Newark, New Jersey.

 

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