‘How dare they—’
He tightened his grip, trying to ignore the delightful sensation of feeling her resistance melt. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the car door open and one of the men climb out.
‘The scar.’
‘Don’t look back,’ Nathan whispered. ‘Keep going.’
The road was deserted, with just a few bins lining the pavement. They dodged a black cat that appeared out of nowhere. A car door slammed shut behind them. Nathan’s heartbeat accelerated.
‘Next junction, we take a right,’ he said.
Lucia clenched her arm round Nathan’s waist and quickened her pace.
‘Slow down,’ he said. ‘Wait for my signal.’
Another car door slammed shut. Nathan resisted the urge to twist round. The patter of footsteps behind them got closer. The junction was fifty metres ahead. The lights were red and a lone pedestrian walked across to the other side. Torrential rain began to fall, soon wetting Nathan’s long hair.
He heard movement close behind. Lucia started to turn round, but she stumbled as Nathan shoved her forward.
‘Run!’ he shouted.
Lucia ran towards the junction, nearly slipping in a puddle. Nathan twisted round and collided with Scarface, who pummelled him with a series of blows. Nathan ducked to one side. He landed a side kick that sent Scarface stumbling into the second man, with a face like a pig, who’d been running towards them, gun in hand.
A shot went off.
A window shattered.
A car alarm shrieked.
Scarface hurled himself at Nathan, who side stepped and hit him with a hook to the face. Scarface grunted, staggered back, lifted a Glock. Nathan kicked him in the stomach, sending him sprawling into the road. Pigface was picking himself off the ground. He fired two shots, missed, tried to take aim. Nathan jumped at him, shoved him to the floor and stamped on his hand repeatedly until the bones cracked. Pigface screamed and the gun slipped out of his fingers.
Nathan grabbed the gun. For a second, he thought of killing them. Pigface was squirming on the ground, clutching his damaged hand. Scarface was staggering to his feet. But Nathan sprinted off and rushed round the corner, where Lucia was waiting. He grabbed her hand. They ran thirty metres, then Nathan pulled them into a red-brick apartment block, pushing through the front door, across the lobby and through a metal door in the back into a deserted side street.
They sprinted down the road, sidestepping piles of rubbish. They kept walking into the poorer part of Chapinero, past homeless beggars huddled on the sidewalks and punk rockers and metal heads crowding into bars. The rain had stopped.
Nathan slowed them to a walking pace. He led them into a run-down hotel with a half-lit yellow neon sign above it. A sleepy receptionist looked up at them, his tie underdone and his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Nathan paid for a twin room for one night.
He led Lucia up the wooden stairs into a bedroom on the third floor. The two beds were covered in dark brown blankets. A sink was in one corner, a rickety wooden table and chair in another. The walls were navy blue with paint bubbling in places. A single light bulb glimmered from the ceiling. Nathan locked the door and went straight to the window, parting the yellowish curtains to check the road outside. As the adrenaline seeped away, a deep sense of unease crept through him. The Front was closing in.
‘Feels like a prison cell,’ Lucia said as she sat on the edge of one of the beds, still out of breath. Her phone rang. Nathan nodded at her to take the call. She put it on speaker phone.
‘You just made a big mistake,’ said the rough voice with the American accent.
‘What do you want?’
‘We will find you.’
‘Oh yeah? And then what, mister tough guy?’
There was a long pause, as though the speaker had forgotten what he was about to say. But then he spoke, surely and calmly.
‘Then we kill you.’
Chapter 38
Turks and Caicos Islands
12 April 2011
‘You sure this is the right island?’ Elijah shouted back to Patrice, who nodded nervously.
Elijah clambered onto the wall of rocks on the right side of the beach. They were jagged and sharp. Blood trickled over his toes, mixing with the sand. He felt no pain.
He glanced back at Patrice. ‘You sure we got the day right?’
‘Absolutely,’ Patrice yelled back.
‘So where the hell are these damn Haitians?’
‘Come back. Let the others go in.’
Elijah scaled more rocks. He slipped on some seaweed, gashing his forearm. He tumbled, cursing. He was in another small bay with a beach, again deserted, out of sight of the yacht. The sand gleamed with a heavenly glow in the ginger rays of the setting sun. He lay down and studied the sky. It surged in all directions, streaks of light streaming through it. Patterns emerged, forming faces of people he knew: his father and mother, his estranged brother. They were glaring at him, accusing him, snarling at him. He reached out, swiped his hands at them. The images burst like bubbles, scattering a rain of colour.
His eyesight blurred. He sat up and rubbed his forehead. What was he doing here? He remembered and picked up his gun, which was lying next to him. He staggered down the bay towards another set of rocks. He pulled himself over them and landed on yet another white beach.
This one had footprints on it.
They were fresh, with sharp edges in the wet sand. They led from the sea towards the centre of the island. There were at least ten sets, forming a scattered pattern that twirled before his eyes. Or was it one person who’d run around everywhere?
A gunshot resounded.
Elijah froze.
Silence, broken only by the cry of a seabird.
More shots. The rat-a-tat of automatic gunfire. Chilling screams. He glanced around. The sky was turning black and heavy. The sand was rustling and shifting, as though inhabited by millions of tiny insects.
Go!
The voice boomed through his mind, echoed in his body. Elijah rushed back to the previous bay, raced across the beach to the first set of rocks. His feet were a bloodied, painless mess. He lifted his gun, a scowl twisting his face.
Kill them. Kill them. Kill them.
He lay flat on the rocks. They dug into his skin through his clothes. The firing and the screams had stopped. The air was still. The voice had gone. Only the foam fizzing on the sand disturbed the silence.
The yacht was bobbing in the water, its deck deserted.
Elijah muttered a prayer. He’d heard once that child soldiers in some forgotten African country became invincible because of their faith.
He picked his way to the beach, his vision blurring. He put his hand into his pocket. The powder was wet and stuck together. He scratched off a large lump and put it in his mouth, anaesthetising his tongue, lips and throat. He stepped into the sea, waded until he was waist-high and then swam to the boat, hauling himself up the ladder onto the deck.
‘Anyone here?’
No reply.
Elijah went below deck. He switched the light on.
‘Hello?’ he said.
A thump came from the bathroom. Elijah pointed his gun at the closed door. He turned the handle slowly, cautiously. He yanked it open.
‘Don’t shoot!’ Patrice screamed, raising his hands and dropping to his knees.
Elijah stepped back. ‘You fool.’ He steadied his shaking hands by clutching the table behind him. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘They couldn’t sit still.’
‘So where’ve they gone?’
‘The island,’ Patrice said, stumbling out of the bathroom. ‘Wes went crazy. He thought you’d got lost.’
‘On such a small island?’
Patrice leaned against a wall. Elijah fell into the sofa to his left. He was dizzy. Patrice was frowning at him out of the corner of his eye.
‘What is it?’ Elijah said.
‘You don’t look well.’
‘What was a
ll the shooting?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Let’s get back to shore.’
Patrice’s jaw clenched. ‘Can’t we just go?’
‘And leave the others to their fate?’
‘They’re probably dead.’
‘We don’t know for sure.’ Elijah staggered to his feet. He grabbed Patrice’s arm. ‘Come on.’
Patrice resisted. Elijah slapped him on the cheeks, pushed him until he fell backwards onto the bed, then jumped astride him. He put his gun to Patrice’s temple.
‘I’m the boss here,’ Elijah whispered, stroking Patrice’s hair with his other hand. ‘Don’t forget that.’
Patrice’s nostrils flared, but he said nothing. Elijah got up and gestured with the gun towards the stairs. Patrice stomped onto the deck, Elijah right behind him.
The drug was wearing off again, leaving Elijah with a thrashing headache. He picked up the binoculars and scanned the island. Further along, sand dunes undulated into a burst of bright green long grass, swaying palm trees and swathes of wild bushes. Grey-winged seabirds with yellow beaks circled overhead. The turquoise sea lapped at the pure white sand.
He saw movement: to the left, on the opposite side from where he’d gone exploring. A blur of dark green. It erupted onto the rocks, collapsing forward, crawling towards the beach. Elijah zoomed in, his eyesight suddenly sharp.
A man was dragging himself along. His combats were in tatters, his shredded shirt hanging from his shoulders. An assault rifle dangled round his neck, catching onto branches and rocks and hindering his agonising progress. The man looked up, revealing a scarred face. Eyes riven with blood and fear gazed straight at the binoculars.
‘It’s Wes!’ Elijah swung round to Patrice. He waved the binoculars in the direction of the crawling man. ‘Let’s help him.’
‘Boss!’
‘Chuck the buoy.’
‘But boss—’ Patrice was pointing towards the beach.
‘What did I just say?’ Elijah said. Patrice could be so damn annoying. ‘Get the damn buoy.’
‘It’s too late!’ Patrice shouted. ‘We need to get out of here.’
Elijah spun round. A rush of Black Coke made his eyes wobble for a second. Murky shapes flowed out of the undergrowth towards Wes like demons released from hell’s darkest abyss. The sky was dark and twirling again. His ears roared.
A sudden flash of clarity.
They’d been ambushed.
Five Haitians in ripped camouflage outfits were climbing down the rocks after Wes, who was stumbling across the beach towards the water, waving his arms. Two of the Haitians slung assault rifles from their shoulders. They knelt, took aim and fired. Bits of sand flew around Wes, who yelled. He twisted round and sprayed the Haitians with his assault rifle. One of them dropped to the ground.
‘Start the engine,’ Elijah shouted.
Wes was at the edge of the sea. Bullets were splashing into the water around him. The yacht’s engine growled. The boat trembled to life.
Elijah heard a crack then a thump. The Haitians were shooting at the boat. He ducked down, fumbled for his handgun and fired. The bullets missed. He was too far.
Wes was wading up to his knees. His eyes were so wide they looked like they’d pop out.
‘Elijah,’ he screamed. ‘Come here, you son of a bitch.’
The boat slid backwards.
Elijah turned to Patrice. ‘Wait for him!’
‘No,’ Patrice said.
‘I’m ordering you.’ Elijah jumped up.
‘It’s too late.’
‘Coward.’ Elijah struck Patrice in the face with the back of his hand.
‘Too late,’ Patrice repeated, glaring at Elijah.
More gunshots. Elijah turned round just in time to see Wes’s chest exploding as high-velocity rounds tore through him. He twirled on himself as though he was carrying out a macabre reggae dance, his dreadlocks flailing, his arms waving around him, the rifle spinning out. Then he collapsed forwards, head first, into the sea.
The boat accelerated backwards. Bullets continued to fly, embedding themselves in the hull and ricocheting off the railings. Elijah knelt on the deck, shooting back at the Haitians, who were now at the edge of the water.
‘I’ll kill you, you bastards,’ he yelled.
One of the Haitians raised something high. Elijah grabbed the binoculars. His heart nearly stopped. It was the severed head of one of his men. The Haitian swung it round and round and round then let it fly high into the air, where it tumbled and whirled and spun, before landing with a dull splash in the water.
Kill them. Kill them. Kill them.
Blood pulsed through Elijah’s temples. He crumpled to the floor, breathing heavily, tears streaming down his cheeks. He crawled to the edge of the boat. Wes’s body was bobbing up and down in the sea. The Haitians were backing away, all except for one, who was kneeling down, a large black tube with a green tip balanced on his shoulder.
‘RPG!’ shrieked Patrice.
A rocket-propelled grenade. Elijah closed his eyes, his mind scrambling around for the right bible verse.
Everything was spinning.
Only God could save them now.
Chapter 39
Bogotá, Colombia
13 April 2011
‘It’s corruption on a scale I’ve never seen before,’ Lucia said, leaning forward so close across the wooden table that Nathan was surprised to catch a hint of perfume. ‘Even by Colombian standards.’
Nathan sipped from his steaming cup of coffee. He’d woken up that morning nearly as exhausted as when he’d gone to sleep. He glanced at the other tables in the Parisian-style cafe. Three fat American tourists huddled over a creased map. A young couple argued over the remains of a slice of chocolate cake. A grey-haired businessman hammered away on his laptop then barked into his phone.
‘Something wrong?’ Lucia said.
‘All fine.’
‘I come here all the time.’
‘Right.’
‘Hey, look at this headline.’ Lucia grabbed a newspaper that was hanging on a wooden rail attached to the wall. ‘Mexican president calls for debate on drug legalisation.’
Nathan shifted in his seat to get a better view of the entrance.
‘It’s all changing. Just you wait.’ She skimmed the article. ‘Everyone’s realising the war on drugs is a big mistake. Don’t you agree?’
‘How long’s it been going?’
‘What?’
‘The operation. Amonite Victor. How long?’
‘Six months. A year. Maybe more. Nobody can tell me. I didn’t even realise who she was until a few days ago.’
‘You sure she’s in charge?’
‘It’s a guess.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Tons of drugs into the US and Europe, right under the noses of the FBI, the DEA, Interpol and everyone else. Just think about it.’
Nathan sipped his coffee again. Lucia was as passionate in the flesh as on TV.
‘What?’ Lucia said.
‘Amonite doesn’t have the brains.’
‘That’s not what I hear.’
‘I know the Americans have a lot of influence here, but—’
‘She’s not American.’
‘Right.’ Nathan’s eyes wandered to the entrance. A short man with long hair and a short beard was standing there, scanning the crowd. Nathan’s muscles tensed.
‘Well, not only American,’ Lucia continued. ‘She’s Colombian too. Born in America of Colombian parents.’
The man’s gaze settled on their table. He moved to the bar and spoke to the waitress, who giggled and blushed.
‘Hey, you listening?’ Lucia said.
Nathan looked into her eyes: hazel with speckles of green, blazing with rage. He remembered how she’d lain into George.
He made a rolling motion with his hand. ‘Keep going.’
‘Amonite’s building a network that’ll make the Medellín cartel look like it was a school gang.’ She counted off her fingers. ‘
The Crips and Bloods in LA, the Mexicans from La Eme, the Jamaicans, the Haitians, the Russian mafia, the Italian mafia, even the Yakuzas.’
The businessman glanced round.
Lucia dropped to a whisper again. ‘A global network.’
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