Nathan took Steve’s pulse. Nothing. He stared at Steve’s face, studying the wrinkles, the pale skin, the thin lips. A chilled anger flowed through him. He’d grown to like Steve: good natured, yet professional and ready for action. On the way back from the last crack house, he’d told Nathan about his plans to marry his long-time girlfriend and buy a two-bedroom house with a garden just off Holloway Road, where he hoped to raise a family.
Nathan gently placed Steve’s head on the floor. Then he grabbed the gun tucked into Steve’s belt, stood up and walked towards Tony.
Chapter 17
East London, UK
9 April 2011
Nathan kicked Tony in the side until he moved. Tony half opened his eyes, then immediately tried to shuffle away, his bad arm hanging loosely.
Nathan pointed the gun at him. ‘You bastard.’
Tony gave a low wail of fear. Nathan sat on his chest, pinning him to the floor. He grabbed Tony’s head with his left hand and shoved his gun into Tony’s mouth with his right. All the anger and desperation of the past few weeks welled up inside him, making his head spin. He wanted to shoot a hole right through Tony’s skull.
‘Where’s Amonite Victor?’
Tony grunted something. Nathan pulled the gun but kept it pointed right between his eyes.
‘They’re going to kill me,’ Tony said.
‘That should be the least of your worries right now.’
‘Amonite’s a big dealer.’
Nathan pressed the tip of the gun against Tony’s forehead. Tony squealed.
‘Tell me something new,’ Nathan said.
‘She’s American. Imports from Colombia. Got a big contact in Jamaica who ships it all over.’
Nathan blinked. So Jamaica was the mid-point.
‘Why is she here?’ he said.
Tony hesitated. Nathan prodded him with the gun again. ‘Answer the fucking question.’
‘To build her gang.’
‘Front 154?’
Tony nodded.
‘Are you with the Front?’
‘Kind of.’
‘Is Amonite the boss?’ Nathan said.
‘Nobody knows the big boss.’
‘What does Amonite sell?’
‘This new stuff. Black Coke.’
‘What is it?’ Nathan said.
‘Fucking strong. That’s what.’
‘Is that what the cash in the suitcase was for?’
Tony nodded again.
Nathan’s mind was racing. He’d been right all along about the Front. He’d personally report this back to George and enjoy watching the arrogant bastard squirm with embarrassment. Lost in thought, Nathan relaxed his grip on his gun for a split second. With a surge of strength, Tony shifted his body to the side, throwing Nathan off balance. Tony lashed out with his good arm, smashing his fist into Nathan’s jaw. His broken arm rammed Nathan’s gun sideways.
The gun went flying. Nathan dived after it. Tony sprung to his feet. He kicked Nathan in the back of the head. Nathan fell forward onto his face. He rolled and grabbed the gun just as Tony was heading for the door. Nathan used his left hand to steady his right hand. He fired twice. The shots echoed throughout the house.
One bullet hit Tony in the side of his head. The other went into his back. He collapsed against the wall and slid to the floor. He lay motionless, having left a trail of blood on the wallpaper.
Nathan staggered to his feet. He tripped down the stairs and crashed into the wall at the bottom. He exited the house and stumbled down the road, feeling concussed. He leaned against a brick wall. He felt sick. He flicked open his mobile and dialled a number.
‘Islington police station,’ said a woman’s curt voice.
‘Nathan Kershner. Soca.’
‘How can I help?’
‘Send back-up. Steve’s dead.’
‘Who?’
‘Steve Willinston.’
‘Where are you?’
Nathan gave the details.
‘We’re on our way.’
Chapter 18
Central London, UK
9 April 2011
Amonite stormed up the pavement and straight past the Houses of Parliament without even glancing at them. She was furious. Some interfering cop called Steve Willinston and some other guy—her source at Islington police station couldn’t remember his name—had been causing havoc with her distribution network. Tony was dead. The samples had gone missing. The police were all over the North London crack houses. Worse still, George had failed to warn her about Willinston. What a pretentious piece of crap. How was she meant to set up the Front’s distribution channels in the UK if he didn’t tell her what the British cops were up to? And why was he always so difficult to contact?
She pushed past a group of tourists, sending them staggering into the wall. She headed straight for the Queen Elizabeth II Conference Centre on the other side of Parliament Square. She flashed her fake Soca badge at the phalanx of security guards and dumped her bag and coat on the x-ray machine’s conveyor belt. She waited while they printed a name tag, then strode through the metal detector.
She marched across the lobby past the hordes of drug enforcement agents who had gathered from around the world, invited by the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime for its annual conference. A colourful banner on the far wall announced this year’s theme in large bold letters: ‘A Drug Free World: It Is Possible’. Underneath it was the slogan: ‘50 years since the Single Convention on Narcotic Drugs: 50 years of success’.
Amonite snorted.
She rode the escalator to the third floor. A breakfast was taking place in a large conference room. Hundreds of delegates sat around tables, sipping fine Colombian coffee and slurping sausages, eggs and toast. On stage, lit by bright lights like a rock star, was General Juano Zathanaís, the dog-faced director of Colombia’s Agency for Security and Intelligence. His bushy eyebrows bobbed like caterpillars as he lumbered up and down, rambling on in a cavernous monotone. Behind him was a large screen with the words: ‘Colombia: winning the fight against narcotraffickers’.
Amonite waited near the back, where the world’s media had congregated with their television cameras brimming with wires. Small groups of men in dark suits milled around in corners, heads bent together in hushed but heated conversations.
The general was waffling on about ‘the successes’ of the past year: a ‘high impact’ coca fumigation programme, the destruction of a ‘record number’ of jungle labs, the ‘high quality’ training of ASI agents by British and American ‘special advisors’, the ‘hugely successful’ initiative to promote alternative crops such as coffee. All to a backdrop of vivid pictures showing smiling farmers dipping their hands into sacks of coffee beans and ASI agents posing next to stacks of confiscated cocaine.
‘What bullshit,’ said a female voice with a heavy South American accent.
Amonite turned. A young, slim woman with dark, lustrous hair was glancing up at her. She was in a loose shirt, jeans and trainers, looking like a student.
‘What was that?’
‘The Colombian government said it set up the ASI to make a clean break from the excesses of the previous secret services.’ Hazel eyes bored through Amonite. ‘Yet Zathanaís is as corrupt as they come. Whoever made him the head of the ASI was either mad or a genius.’
‘And who are you?’
‘Lucia Carlisla.’ The woman thrust out a hand. ‘CEO of Colombians Against the Front.’
Amonite ignored the hand. ‘Against the Front?’
Lucia nodded curtly. Her eyes twinkled. She dropped the hand.
Amonite opened her mouth, then closed it. She’d never heard of Colombians Against the Front. Was it a new campaign? She looked back at the stage. The general was shaking his fist and snarling about something.
‘And you are?’ Lucia said, peering forward to read Amonite’s name tag.
‘Nobody.’ Amonite covered it with her hand. ‘How d’you get in?’
‘I applied for a pass.’ Lucia
flashed a row of white teeth. ‘So they gave me one.’
‘What does your organisation do exactly?’
‘We campaign against paramilitary groups and cartels in Colombia, particularly Front 154. Have you heard of them?’
Amonite shook her head.
‘They’re this new gang of thugs,’ Lucia said. ‘Ruthless scum. Murder, kidnappings, drug trafficking, extortion. You name it. They do it.’ The hazel eyes fixed Amonite again. ‘Have we met before?’
‘I’m… new. Just here to learn.’ Amonite stared straight ahead. The general was pointing to the large screen behind him. A graph had materialised, a fat arrow indicating a surge in cocaine seizures.
‘Ha!’ Lucia said, pointing. ‘That’s all rubbish. Last year, the White House’s drug czar claimed they’d seized more cocaine than was actually produced. That’s because none of them have a single clue what everyone else is up to.’
A few people on the closest tables shot Lucia disapproving glances. Amonite stepped away, her anger replaced by suddenly feeling very self-conscious.
But Lucia shuffled over. ‘Are you sure we haven’t met before? Your face looks familiar.’
Amonite turned away. It was unlikely Lucia knew about her. Even during her time with Don Camplones and the Mexican mafia, Amonite had kept her identity hidden, known only as the secretive and ruthless Butcher of Juárez. She was the one who’d done the dirty work behind the scenes, unlike Don Camplones who’d been flamboyant and media-crazed.
A thought crossed her mind. She turned back to Lucia, but she’d gone. She looked around and caught sight of Lucia’s slender figure leaving the room via a set of double doors. Amonite flashed her badge at a security guard who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
‘That lady, over there.’ She pointed at Lucia. ‘She shouldn’t be here.’
The guard frowned.
‘Check her out,’ Amonite said. ‘You’ll see.’
The guard hesitated.
‘Quick, you dumb-ass.’
The guard scurried off.
Amonite sent a text message to Sir George. Then she grabbed an espresso from the table at the back. She downed it and dumped the cup on the tray of a waiter who was walking by, nearly knocking him over.
George was winding his way through the tables towards her. With his carefully combed silver hair, high cheek bones and designer suit with bright red tie, he looked more like a rich aristocratic playboy than an ageing government bureaucrat.
‘What the hell are you doing here,’ he hissed, leading her to the adjoining lounge area where floor to ceiling windows gave a sweeping view of London. ‘Someone might recognise you.’
‘Nobody will. My cover’s watertight.’
‘When I send my boys to meet you, I expect you to go with them.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘City airport.’
‘I work best alone.’
‘You do as I say. That’s the deal. Anyway, I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.’
‘I got a tip-off they were onto Tony.’
George’s eyes narrowed.
‘He’s dead,’ Amonite said, her palms sweaty. Why did George always make her feel so inferior? ‘Some cop shot him.’
‘A cop? You sure it wasn’t Nathan Kershner?’
‘What? I thought you said there was no way Kershner would get anywhere near this case.’
George didn’t seem to hear her. He just rubbed his chin. ‘That chap’s getting far too big for his boots.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s just been to Putumayo. Found one of the labs and a stock of Black Coke.’
‘How?’
‘Cedric sent him there. The two-faced bastard. Without telling me.’
‘I wonder if—’
‘If what?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘If he knows about you?’ George patted Amonite’s shoulder. ‘I doubt it. Unless you’ve been careless, my dear.’
Amonite had heard rumours of a white NGO man investigating human rights abuses in Putumayo. She’d even caught a glimpse of a white man in the forest, when she was hunting down survivors of the assault on the village. She’d tried to shoot him. Could it have been Nathan Kershner?
‘What happened exactly?’ George said.
Amonite summarised what her source at Islington police station had whispered to her during a quick phone call earlier on.
‘Tony knifed the cop?’ George said. ‘That’ll be useful.’ He leaned closer. ‘I’m sure it was Nathan Kershner who was with him. He’s always been a loose cannon. If you speak to El Patrón, tell him not to worry. I’m going to shake things up a tad on my end. In the meantime, I want you to take action.’
‘Against Kershner?’
‘No, that would be far too bleedingly obvious. Use your brain, my dear. I could never bury that one. Even Cedric would go ballistic.’
‘Someone close to Kershner?’
‘Precisely. Ruffle them up. Give our friend a jolly good fright.’
George patted her on the shoulder again. Amonite went rigid. How dare he treat her so condescendingly. She felt like smashing his pointy nose into a flat pulp.
‘How was Jamaica?’ George said. ‘How’s the reverend?’
‘Fine.’
‘He can’t afford to mess this up. You know that?’
‘The reverend’s one hundred per cent trustworthy. He’s always delivered.’
‘Jamaicans, trustworthy…’ George checked his watch. Amonite knew the conversation was coming to an end.
‘Just another thing,’ she said.
‘Hmm?’
‘When do you go to Bogotá?’
‘Tonight.’
‘I need more hardware. Some Lynx. A couple more Apaches. Trucks.’
‘Consider it done.’ George’s phone buzzed. Without another word to Amonite, he flicked it to his ear and sauntered away. He sat at a table near the front, right next to Zathanaís, who had finished his speech.
Amonite downed another espresso. It tasted as bitter as she felt. She glanced back at the conference. George and Zathanaís were deep in conversation, heads so close they looked like lovers at a romantic dinner. Were they on speaking terms after their public spat a few weeks ago over Plan Colombia?
Amonite brushed a speck of dust from her black shirt. The world of politics didn’t make sense to her. She rode the escalator down to the lobby. She crossed Lucia, who was arguing with the security guard. He was holding her pass out of reach and pushing her towards the exit. Lucia was gesticulating.
Amonite found a quiet corner. She rang Dex.
‘Hey, boss,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’
‘Find out everything you can about Nathan Kershner. Where he lives, who he hangs out with, who he screws. Then ping it over.’
‘Okay, gotcha, by when?’
She glanced at her watch. ‘Sixteen hundred.’
Chapter 19
North London, UK
9 April 2011
It was past 1pm when Nathan stumbled through the door of his apartment. Caitlin was sitting in the kitchen, her fingers curled round a mug of coffee, her eyes staring into the distance. She was still in her dressing gown and her hair was unkempt. Nathan mumbled a hello and went straight into his bedroom. He kicked off his shoes, flung his jacket over the back of his chair, and threw himself onto his bed.
Steve wasn’t dead. When the medics came, they detected a tiny pulse, nearly imperceptible, which was why Nathan had missed it. But he was in a critical condition: an abdominal puncture with profuse internal bleeding and a chest wound that had just missed the heart. The medics said he was lucky to be alive.
Nathan had called Steve’s girlfriend and waited by his side at University College London Hospital until she turned up. She’d burst into tears at the sight of Steve, all pale, unconscious, and breathing with difficulty on the ventilator. Nathan had held back tears himself, the exhaustion washing over him. He’d jumped into a black cab and gone
home. On the way, he’d thought about contacting Cedric, but decided against it. He needed time to think, rest, and plan his next steps.
He drifted off to sleep within seconds of lying down. He vaguely heard the front door slamming. Probably Caitlin leaving for the afternoon. He dreamt he was back in Mexico. He was trekking through the back streets of Juárez in an unmarked beaten-up van. The sun was blazing and the tyres crunched the dirt. In the back were four special forces operatives in civilian gear, all kitted up with Minimi 5.56mm light machine guns, Sig 230 pistols and fragmentation grenades. One of them was Steve, grinning and joking and slapping the others on the back. What was he doing in Mexico? He hadn’t been part of the team. Wasn’t he meant to be in hospital somewhere?
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