Black Coke

by James Grenton

  ‘So?’ she said.

  Herbert was staring at her. She couldn’t figure out whether it was a look of fear, disgust or intense bafflement on his ridiculously handsome face. She felt like smashing it to a raw pulp.

  ‘So?’ she repeated.

  ‘There’ve been a few small problems.’

  ‘Small problems? You too?’

  ‘But we’ve overcome them. It was the exon splicing. The DNA sequencing motif wasn’t accurately enhancing the hrRNA into mRNA. The protein wasn’t being expressed properly.’

  ‘Herbert, don’t screw me around.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘A subject died. After a period of paranoid schizophrenia.’

  ‘Meaning what, exactly?’

  ‘He went clinically insane.’

  ‘You idiot.’ Amonite slapped the table with her open palm, making Herbert jump. ‘We can’t afford mistakes like this.’

  ‘We’re resolving the difficulties. You have to believe me.’

  ‘El Patrón’ll go apeshit.’

  ‘Please don’t tell him.’

  ‘Give me one good reason why.’

  ‘A few more days.’ Herbert’s neck was flushed above his silk tie and tight collar. ‘That’s all I need. Our experiments show the subjects crave the Black Coke.’

  ‘Until they kick the bucket.’

  She studied Herbert as he trembled before her. He was a scientific genius, but such a coward at times. And she hated cowards. They made her want to crush them like those black beetles that were now infesting half the Colombian countryside and that Herbert had insisted inspire the logo for his drug.

  Herbert gestured towards the door. ‘Can I show you something?’

  ‘Go on.’

  Amonite followed him back through the lab and down a long corridor. They arrived in front of a door with two guards to either side. When they recognised Amonite and Herbert, they stepped aside. The door whirred open. Amonite put her hand to her mouth to stop herself gagging against the stench of rot and sweat. Herbert pulled a flashlight from his jacket pocket.

  Amonite recoiled.

  The room was full of skeletons of human beings, their wide, white eyes reflecting the light like small globes. They were covered in bruises and dirty rags and lay on mouldy mattresses. Their faces were gaunt, their limbs like twigs. Their jaws moved erratically, jabbering away. One of them reached out to grab Herbert’s leg. Herbert smacked him with the back of his hand. The poor wretch collapsed against the concrete wall.

  Herbert rested his light on a man who was huddled in a corner. Herbert grabbed him by the arm and dragged him along while he frantically tried to break free. Amonite followed them through the rows of mattresses to the far side of the room.

  ‘Patient number 13,’ Herbert said, as though he was describing a tin of baked beans he’d picked off a supermarket shelf. ‘He’s on the latest Black Coke. We’ve increased its psychoactive potential and its overdose threshold.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Ten times more addictive, but with a lower risk of death.’

  ‘Sounds more like it.’

  Herbert relaxed visibly. ‘That’s what I thought too.’ He turned to patient 13, who was crawling away. Herbert kicked him in the back. The man collapsed onto his face. Herbert pulled out a small case from his pocket and laid it on the floor. He gestured to Amonite to come over. The other prisoners had formed a shivering pile next to the exit and were staring at Herbert.

  ‘Here, take the torch.’ He opened the case to reveal a syringe and a small vial of black liquid, which he held up to the light.

  Amonite backed away as Herbert filled the syringe. She’d never liked needles, ever since ending up in hospital after a bomb blast in Juárez when she was tracking down a drug gang that had gone AWOL. They’d pumped her so full of painkillers she’d thought she was going to lose her mind.

  She forced herself to watch as Herbert dragged the man closer, turned him on his back and ripped his sleeve open. The man’s arm was a sea of scabs and needle tracks covered in puss. Herbert tutted as he tapped around for a vein.

  ‘Best to do it intravenously.’ He glanced up and noticed Amonite’s stare. ‘Quite a few users will be jacking up this stuff, not just snorting it.’

  ‘Right.’

  Amonite kept her gaze on patient 13 as the liquid entered his body. His eyes rolled backwards until only the whites were showing.

  ‘What’s those black spots on his eyeballs?’ she said, peering closer.

  ‘No idea.’

  Saliva dribbled out of the corners of patient 13’s mouth. His body jerked once, twice, three times. He let out a long moan like the start of an intense orgasm. Herbert glanced up again, a satisfied smile on his face.

  ‘Better than smack, from what I gather.’ He stood up. ‘Your customers will love this one.’ He headed for the other prisoners, who were squealing and squirming. ‘Let me show you what happens if we—’

  He tripped over, banging his shoulder against the wall. Patient 13 had grabbed his leg and was crawling towards him. Amonite moved to kick him away, then stopped and stepped backwards. Herbert was trying to twist free. Patient 13 was now on top of him, his fingernails clawing into Herbert’s flesh.

  ‘Help me!’ Herbert tried to shove patient 13 away. ‘Get this freak off me.’

  Amonite leaned against the wall, arms folded. She checked her watch. It was time for her radio call with El Patrón soon. How could she explain this to him? The first big shipment was already out there, maybe even with the Haitians by now, heading for the US market. It was too late to call it back. El Patrón wasn’t one for pathetic excuses.

  Herbert screamed and flailed his arms, unsuccessfully trying to rid himself of patient 13, who was all over him like a famished hyena.

  ‘Amonite, please!’

  Amonite gritted her teeth. Failure had to be punished. Let patient 13 disfigure Herbert’s gorgeous face. That would teach the arrogant bastard a lesson.

  She stepped towards the exit, vaguely aware that Herbert had kicked patient 13 away from him. The other prisoners scattered.

  Something gripped her leg. It was patient 13. She tried to shake him off, but the grip tightened. Herbert was leaning against the wall, nursing his wounds, glaring at Amonite.

  Amonite whipped out her gun. She grabbed patient 13’s hair and yanked him up so he was wriggling in front of her like a worm on a fisherman’s hook. She placed her gun against his forehead. He snarled and tried to claw at her face.

  Amonite fired once. Blood and brains splattered all over Herbert, who yelped in terror. The shot reverberated around the room. The patient’s body shuddered. She threw it at Herbert, who shrieked like a child and pushed it away.

  Herbert scrambled to his feet.

  ‘Why didn’t you help me?’ he said.

  ‘I just did.’

  Amonite picked up the torch. She shone it at Herbert. His suit was tattered and covered in blood. Behind him, the prisoners were cowering in a corner.

  ‘So much for the perfect drug,’ she said.

  ‘Next time, it will work.’

  ‘It better.’ Amonite turned towards the door. ‘Because there won’t be a next time after that.’

  She marched down the corridor, back towards the lab. El Patrón had invested millions into this programme. They needed a drug that would be so indescribably pleasurable that everyone would want it. Not one that turned people into deranged junkies overnight.

  She marched through the row of lab benches, ignoring the technicians as they gaped at her and then at Herbert, who stumbled in behind her. As she marched out of the underground complex back to her Lynx helicopter in the clearing on the mound, she stopped and looked at the clear blue sky through the jungle foliage.

  Maybe it wasn’t all bad news after all.

  She reached for the radio transmitter in the back of the chopper.

  A plan began to take shape in her mind.

  Chapter 34


  Turks and Caicos Islands

  12 April 2011

  Elijah tossed the remains of his jerk chicken overboard. The sea erupted into a bubbling frenzy as swarms of fish converged on the left-overs. A long beast with a strip of jagged fins on its back tore through the others like a torpedo.

  It was what nature was all about. Fighting, killing, survival.

  The world of men was no different. The Old Testament was full of lessons of how only the finest, most agile, most cunning survived.

  Elijah knew this only too well. He’d battled hard to get to where he was now, ruling Jamaica’s fastest growing drug smuggling network. Yet he considered himself a respectable man. A man of his word. Yes, he was stern, but he never made an empty threat and always kept composed, unless he was before a throng of believers roaring their approval as he led them through his carefully choreographed service of Pentecostal prayer and praise.

  There were fortunes to be made in the Pentecostal ministry, his strict Baptist father had once told him with a wisp of regret in a rare moment of openness. His father had seen his flock desert his church in droves twenty years ago as the Pentecostal wave swept Jamaica. But not as much money as Elijah had hoped. Jamaicans were too poor to give much to his Church of the End Times, which was why he’d branched out into the drugs trade.

  There were huge profits to be made there, particularly for an enterprising young church minister with links across Kingston’s criminal underworld. Developed through a childhood of living in Trenchtown, they ensured business was good.

  ‘Boss, we’re getting near the island.’ Patrice stepped reverently closer to Elijah. ‘We’ll be there in less than an hour.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Still no sign of them.’

  ‘You fuss like an old mama.’ Elijah waved his hand dismissively. ‘The Lord spoke to me in a dream last night. They will be there.’

  ‘They should have made contact by now.’

  ‘Do you question God’s holy message?’

  ‘No, boss. I was just—’

  ‘Then back to work.’ Elijah faced the sea again. Amonite would have given clear instructions to the Haitians. They would be there.

  Or would they?

  He called out to Patrice, who had descended into the cabin to speak to the rest of the gang.

  Patrice hurried up the steps, his eyebrows knitted into a frown. ‘Yes?’

  ‘What was the deal with the Haitians?’

  ‘To radio in. On the hour every hour.’

  ‘They haven’t?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Three hours ago,’ Patrice said.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘You were busy.’

  ‘In future, always interrupt me. Understood?’

  Patrice bowed his head, but not fast enough to hide the blaze of anger that shot across his young face.

  Elijah ignored it. ‘Tell the boys to kit up. We can’t take any chances. I will pray to the Lord for guidance.’

  Patrice stuck his head into the cabin and barked some orders. Metal clanged on metal. Elijah shoved past him, blinking against the acrid mist. His team of four gangsters, including his cousin Dan ‘Puff Puff Boy’ Wesley, was hauling Glock pistols, AK 47 assault rifles, Ingram Mach 10 ‘Street Sweeper’ submachine guns and clips of ammo out of hidden compartments in the floor of the boat. They had scummy dreadlocks and scarred faces. They yapped away in a rough patois, sounding like wild dogs in a kennel. Their eyes were bursting with blood vessels from smoking too much freebase Black Coke, which they said was ‘harder shit’ than crack.

  ‘Stay below deck,’ Elijah said. ‘Come out at my signal.’

  He yawned. He hadn’t slept well for days. His joints and back hurt too much, and he couldn’t stop worrying about this drug deal. He moved to the bow, where Patrice was now sitting with his legs dangling over the side. His curly black hair and the rippling muscles of his naked torso gleamed in the late afternoon sun.

  Elijah marvelled again at his own bountiful generosity: a few months ago, he’d saved Patrice from the horror of Kingston’s slums. Patrice’s parents hadn’t seemed too bothered about giving their fifteen-year old son away in exchange for a hefty sum. Patrice had since tried running away several times. Elijah shook his head in disbelief as he sat down next to Patrice. Kids never knew what was good for them.

  Patrice shuffled away. Elijah grabbed his arm and yanked him close. He kissed him. He tasted so soft and good, it made his groin stir. Patrice tried to pull away, but Elijah tightened his grip so hard Patrice grimaced in pain, his eyes moist with tears.

  Satisfied, Elijah let go.

  ‘Stay below when we get close to the island,’ he said as he stood up, patting Patrice on the head. ‘Don’t want you to get hurt.’

  Patrice hugged his knees to his chest.

  Elijah went back to the main deck. He put a pair of binoculars to his eyes. Everywhere around him was the same expanse of sea, broken by row on row of little waves, with the occasional flicker of a fish breaking the surface.

  Then he saw it. Just on the horizon.

  ‘Land,’ he shouted, arms raised. ‘Praise the Lord!’

  Patrice rushed over and grabbed the steering wheel. He revved the engine. The rocks drew closer, revealing nooks and crannies and white sandy beaches that stretched for hundreds of metres like a scene from a postcard.

  ‘Slow down,’ Elijah said, still peering through the binoculars.

  No sign of activity on the beach. That was to be expected. The Haitians wouldn’t make their presence too obvious in case the Drug Enforcement Administration was observing from a spy plane. He glanced upwards, suddenly nervous. He’d heard that the DEA’s equipment was so powerful it could recognise the make of a gun from thousands of feet in the air.

  Still, the island looked too quiet.

  ‘Where could they be?’ he thought out loud.

  Patrice was standing a bit too close. ‘There’s nowhere else to go apart from behind the rocks. I’m guessing that’s why Amonite chose this place.’

  ‘Something doesn’t feel right. Let’s go in real slow.’

  Patrice leaned towards Elijah. ‘Boss.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s about Wes,’ Patrice said quietly. ‘He’s wasted.’

  ‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Shut up. Tell the others to get up here. Hand me a gun.’

  Patrice shouted some orders to the others, who clambered out of the cabin and lay flat on the floor. Patrice handed a gun to Elijah. He held it in his right hand, while keeping the binoculars to his eyes with his left. The island drew closer. It was barely a kilometre across, yet the rocks jutted out far enough in all directions to offer protection against the prying eyes of passing ships and the elements if a storm arose.

  The yacht glided towards the beach. Elijah knelt down. He prayed to God for protection. He licked his fingers and dipped them into the small bag of Black Coke in his pocket. He rubbed the drug against his gums until he felt the rush kick in. The heaviness in his joints vanished. Everything became clearer, sharper. He stood up, energy surging through him as though someone had flicked a switch. He fingered his gun.

  ‘Let the Haitians come,’ he whispered. ‘The Lord is with me.’

  ‘Boss,’ Patrice said from behind him.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘It may be an ambush.’

  ‘Ephesians 6 verse 11. Put on the full armour of God, so that you will be able to stand firm against the schemes of the devil.’

  Patrice didn’t answer. The yacht stopped a dozen or so metres from the beach. Elijah ran his tongue over his fuzzy teeth.

  The Haitians are your rivals. Kill them.

  Elijah’s eyes narrowed. The voice was right. But first, he had to meet the Haitians, make them feel comfortable, then hit them hard. Suddenly emboldened by a rush of Black Coke, he kicked off his shoes and jumped into the sea fully dressed, ignori
ng Patrice’s shouts. He swam towards the shore, holding his gun above water. As soon as he touched the sea bed, he stood up and waded onto the beach.

  There was no sign of anyone.

  No footprints on the sand.

  Nothing.

  Chapter 35

  Bogotá, Colombia

  12 April 2011

  ‘Don’t turn round,’ Nathan said as he and Manuel strolled down Plaza de Lourdes, past street performers and hippies selling crafts laid out on blankets on the stone floor.