Black Coke

by James Grenton

  Bogotá, Colombia

  13 April 2011

  It was the sheer boldness of Amonite’s move that took Nathan by surprise.

  He’d bought a copy of El Tiempo from a street vendor and was leaning against a wall across the junction, pretending to read. He had a good view of the glass entrance to the office block as well as the streets leading up to it. Red bendy buses, yellow taxis and a mish-mash of cars were rumbling behind a row of mopeds poised at a red light like the cavalry about to charge. Pedestrians hurried across as engines revved and fumes spilled out.

  There was an article in El Tiempo about Colombian drug smugglers using submarines to bring drugs to Mexico, from where they’d go overland into the USA. They were semi-submersibles: vessels cruising just below the surface of the sea with only air and exhaust pipes sticking out. There was a photo of armed soldiers in combats standing on a captured sub in what looked like a swamp in the middle of the jungle. Was the Front also using subs? That was highly possible. Drug cartels often tried to diversify their supply chains. It was a way of reducing risk, just like any business would.

  Nathan glanced at his phone. No message from Manuel, who’d rung up when they were in the cab to say he was going to meet his campesino friends waiting to hear back from the Haitians acting as go-betweens for the Black Coke shipment. The Haitians were meant to ambush the Jamaicans and seize the Black Coke. Nathan had asked what was in it for the Haitians.

  ‘Control of the Caribbean,’ Manuel had answered. But he’d sounded worried.

  Nathan studied the crowd for any break in pattern that might betray a tail.

  A sudden change of direction.

  A lingering look cut short.

  A face seen once too many.

  His fingers clutched the newspaper so tight he nearly ripped it.

  There, to his left, on the other side, just about to cross the busy street, was Amonite. She had a dark blue bomber jacket, black trousers and black leather boots. With her short cropped hair, square face and beefy figure, she looked like one of those neo-Nazi thugs Nathan had once arrested in a drugs bust in Tower Hamlets in east London.

  Nathan stepped behind a tall metal railing. He glanced at the entrance lobby to El Tiempo. People were milling around or waiting on chairs. Why was Lucia taking so long? Had everything descended into a big argument again?

  Amonite was dodging some mopeds. She looked round. For a split second, Nathan thought she’d spotted him. Then she looked away. She reached the pavement that led to El Tiempo.

  Nathan dumped his newspaper in a bin. He pulled up his collar. He rushed across the street, weaving through cars and buses. Amonite was twenty metres away. She was stuck in a crowd on the sidewalk. She was elbowing people out of her way, sparking shouts of outrage. Nathan circled the crowd and waited behind a pillar. How the hell was he going to stop her? He peered round at the entrance to El Tiempo. People were lining up around the elevators. Still no sign of Lucia. He curled his fingers round the Glock in his jacket. He didn’t want a firefight in broad daylight, but it could turn out to be the only option.

  A large man had grabbed Amonite and was shoving her away. She was twisting herself free, but the man was persistent, shouting in her face, shaking her shoulders. There was a blur of movement. Suddenly, he crumpled to the floor, groaning. The crowd scattered, panicked. Nerves were even higher than usual in Bogotá following the recent spate of bombings. Amonite surged forward.

  An elevator door opened. Lucia stepped out, a frown on her face. She looked around and tossed her mane of hair back over her shoulders, but didn’t spot Nathan next to the pillar. She walked out of the entrance. She hadn’t yet seen Amonite, who was looking over her shoulder at the man on the ground.

  This was getting tricky. If Lucia wasn’t careful, she’d walk straight into Amonite’s arms.

  Nathan was about to run forward when Lucia spun round and hurried away in the other direction, just as Amonite rushed into the building.

  He sped after Lucia. He clamped a hand on her shoulder. She spun round, eyes wide.

  ‘Nathan!’

  ‘Did you speak to her?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Octavia.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  Lucia shook her head.

  Nathan felt like telling her ‘told you so’, but decided to save that conversation for later.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said, tugging her away.

  ‘I just saw Amonite.’

  ‘I know. Come on, let’s get out of here.’

  She shrugged him off. ‘We need to stop her.’

  ‘Too risky.’

  ‘We can’t abandon Octavia.’

  ‘She just turned you down.’

  Lucia turned round. ‘I’m going back in.’

  ‘No you’re not.’ Nathan grabbed her forearm. ‘You wouldn’t stand a chance in hell against her.’

  ‘You don’t know me.’

  ‘This isn’t the time to argue, Lucia.’

  ‘Amonite will kill her.’

  She had a determined, stubborn look in her eyes.

  ‘Okay, I’ll go in,’ he said. ‘What floor’s she on?’

  ‘Fifth floor, through the newsroom, in the corridor near the back.’ Lucia grasped Nathan’s hand as he pulled away. ‘Be careful.’

  ‘See you back at the hotel.’

  Chapter 43

  Bogotá, Colombia

  13 April 2011

  Nathan marched into El Tiempo, part of him thinking this was a big mistake. A pitched battle inside could turn into a massacre if staff got caught in the crossfire. He pushed through the crowd of people near the reception desk. The security guard looked straight at him, bulging arms folded over a barrel-shaped chest.

  ‘Papels de identificación, por favor.’

  Nathan pushed towards the barrier. The guard reached out with a fat paw. Nathan brushed him off.

  ‘No entra!’

  Nathan shoved him away. The guard stumbled, then lunged forwards. Nathan launched a side kick that sent the guard sprawling into the reception desk. People screamed and headed for the exit. The guard rushed Nathan again. Nathan looked around. A metal chair. He grabbed it and hurled it at the guard’s face. Then he jumped over the barrier and sprinted for the stairway sign. He burst through the door, breathing hard. He leapt up the stairs three at a time. This wasn’t the discrete insertion he’d been hoping for.

  Behind him, the guard’s voice was booming, ‘Terroriste, terroriste!’

  Nathan slowed as soon as he got to the fifth floor. He took a deep breath. He had to act fast, before everyone was alerted, but without attracting more attention. He eased open the door and stepped through. Rows of desks and computer terminals stretched out in front of him. Journalists typed away while speaking into phones clamped between their ear and shoulder. Secretaries in high heels strutted past, clutching files against generous chests. Large flat-screen TVs hung from the ceiling, showing all the major news channels. There was an atmosphere of controlled urgency, as though this was where the world’s events unfolded live.

  Nobody looked up as Nathan headed through the rows of desks towards the back and down a corridor. He glanced through glass doors into busy meeting rooms and offices.

  Which one was Octavia’s?

  A siren went off. Strident. Angry. Piercing.

  Behind him, the newsroom erupted into shouting.

  Nathan gritted his teeth. The guard must have sprung the alarm. He kept walking. A series of closed doors at the end of the corridor had tags on them. He found the one with Octavia’s name. He glanced around. No sign of Amonite.

  There was a crash as something hit the floor inside Octavia’s office.

  Nathan twisted the handle. Locked. He hurled himself at the door. It smashed straight off its hinges. He burst into the room, right hand whipping his Glock out.

  Octavia was kneeling on the floor, bloodshot eyes wide open. She was trying to grab Amonite, who was behind her, garrotting her with a w
ire. Blood was pouring down Octavia’s neck, all over her white blouse and onto the cream carpet. She was opening her mouth, but no sound was coming out.

  Nathan aimed at Amonite’s forehead. ‘Leave her.’

  Amonite looked up, a snarl on her face. ‘You fool.’

  ‘I said let go.’

  Amonite tightened the wire. Octavia’s eyes looked like they were about to explode. Nathan steadied the gun in his right hand with his left hand. He didn’t want to accidentally hit Octavia.

  Shouting. People running. Chairs falling.

  Amonite released her grip. Octavia collapsed forward into a heap on the floor.

  ‘What you waiting for?’ Amonite smirked. ‘Lost your nerve, like in Juárez?’

  Nathan was about to pull the trigger when something crashed into him from behind. He staggered forwards, smashing into a filing cabinet. It toppled over. He turned round. Someone had attacked him from behind. It was a young journalist, who was now struggling with Amonite, trying to overpower her. Nathan lifted his weapon and pointed it at Amonite, but she shoved the journalist between them and pulled a gun from her jacket. A gunshot resounded and the journalist staggered backwards, a huge exit wound in his back. He crumpled on top of Octavia’s immobile body.

  Nathan fired at Amonite. But she was already out of the door and sprinting down the corridor. He sped after her, into the newsroom. Journalists, secretaries and executives were charging for the exits, upturning chairs and piles of documents in their haste.

  Amonite fired twice. A woman screamed. Everyone threw themselves down. Amonite trampled people with their hands on their heads and reached the door to the stairway. She spun round, shooting three rounds at Nathan. He ducked under a desk. The bullets embedded themselves in the wall behind him, sending bits of plaster flying.

  Nathan assessed the situation for a split second. The place would be crawling with cops within minutes. Amonite could surely blag, bribe or threaten her way out using the Front’s influence, but there’d be no mercy for him if he was captured. He needed to get out, and quick.

  The door crashed open as Amonite charged through, then slammed shut behind her. Nathan rushed after her, jumping over prone bodies. Silence had descended, broken only by the occasional sob.

  Nathan got to the door. He was about to open it when someone shouted.

  ‘Gun down!’

  Nathan glanced over his shoulder. The security guard from downstairs was pointing an M-16 at him. His face was badly bruised.

  ‘No move!’ the guard shouted.

  Three other guards appeared behind him, M-16s raised.

  Nathan tensed his muscles, ready to lunge for the door.

  ‘Drop the gun or I shoot.’

  The guard had a steel edge to his voice. Nathan knew this meant he wouldn’t hesitate to kill him. He let his gun clang to the floor.

  ‘You’ve got it all wrong.’ Nathan lifted his hands and turned round, a deep sinking feeling inside him. ‘The killer’s escaping.’

  The security guard walked up to Nathan. He hit him on the jaw with the butt of his rifle. Nathan grunted in pain.

  ‘Shut up, terroriste.’

  ‘You’re making a huge mistake.’

  The guard pulled out a pair of black handcuffs from his back pocket. He twisted Nathan’s arms behind his back and locked them together. He shoved Nathan against the wall.

  Shouting came from Octavia’s office. Journalists were milling in the corridor.

  ‘Muerte, muerte,’ one of them screamed. ‘Eran muerte.’

  The guard growled. ‘Not good for you, mister. Colombian police no like sicarios.’

  He whacked Nathan in the side of the head with his rifle butt.

  Nathan slumped to the floor, unconscious.

  Chapter 44

  Turks and Caicos Islands

  13 April 2011

  Elijah woke up with a start.

  Where the hell was he?

  His eyesight shifted in and out of focus. He sat up and bashed his head on the ceiling. The sheets were ripped and soaked and stuck to his skin like the cellophane he used to wrap up blocks of coke. He clasped his hands together to stop them shaking. Every joint in his body ached. He tried to mutter a prayer, but his jaw was gurning so much it felt like it was about to pop out. He wiped the sweat gushing from his forehead with the back of his shirt sleeve.

  Why had Wes not waited on the boat? Had Amonite double-crossed them by telling the Haitians to attack? How long had he been unconscious?

  Hours?

  Days?

  Weeks?

  He lay back and breathed slowly, deeply. He fumbled in his pocket and found a pellet of Black Coke as large as one of those red kidney beans his mama used to make stew with. He sucked on it. Ah, he thought, as the acrid taste tingled through his tongue before turning it numb, this will clear my head.

  An exquisite feeling of calm descended. He burst out laughing and waved his arms, suddenly surging with energy. He rubbed the hair on his head, felt it buzz as his vision became clearer, his jumbled thoughts settling into a soothing lucidity, a joyfulness descending that was sweet, pure, holy.

  Patrice betrayed you.

  Elijah jumped. The voice had oozed from the light fixture. It was brooding, sinister. He decided to ignore it.

  You have to kill him.

  ‘No, go away,’ Elijah muttered, trying to cling onto the good feelings that were seeping from his body like dealers fleeing a drugs bust.

  The Haitians bribed him.

  ‘He loves me.’

  He led Wes into the ambush.

  ‘Get away from me, Satan!’

  There’s no other explanation.

  ‘In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ,’ Elijah yelled, jabbing a finger at the light fixture. ‘I banish you from here.’

  By betraying you, Patrice betrayed God.

  ‘Shut the fuck up!’

  Elijah ripped the light fixture from the ceiling and flung it across the room. He swung his legs off the top bunk-bed and dropped to the floor. He steadied himself against the table as he swayed, dizzily, anxiously, listening for the voice.

  His bladder felt bloated. He stumbled into the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind him. When he’d finished urinating, he stared down into the toilet. His urine was yellow-orange. He made a mental note to drink more water. He was about to flush the toilet when he glanced down again. The urine had gone as black as the Black Coke in his pocket.

  He shrugged. Probably his mind still playing tricks with him.

  He drank from the washbasin and glanced at himself in the mirror. His cheeks were pale and taunt and covered in a thin stubble. His eyes were streaked with blood vessels and had black spots in the whites.

  Black spots?

  He peered closer, until his nose was nearly touching the mirror.

  It’s your fault Wes died.

  Elijah spun round.

  ‘What was that?’

  Amonite will hunt you down.

  The voice had come from the bathroom door handle, which was glaring at him with unsuppressed hostility. He kicked the handle, again and again and again, until the door burst open and the handle snapped off with a crack and rolled around the floor.

  Elijah staggered into the cabin. He leaned against the table, his thumping heart making his body quiver like those cars in Kingston equipped with massive sound systems. He stared defiantly at the door handle, daring it to answer back. But it just lay there, inanimate, silent. Had he imagined this too?

  The waves lapped against the hull. Elijah let out a long sigh of relief.

  El Patrón will kill you.

  With a shriek of terror, Elijah scrambled up the metal steps onto the wooden deck. He shielded his eyes against the orange glow of the setting sun that had turned the sky into a twirling burst of angry colour. He took a deep breath, then another, and another, and another, feeling the salty smell of the sea prickle his nostrils, flow into his lungs, releasing the tension from his arms, his back, his neck. T
he water rippled in a gentle breeze, which tugged at his clothes as though inviting him for a swim. A seagull fluttered past, its cry echoing behind it like an afterthought. A blanket of warm calm wrapped around him again, soothing, soft, serene.

  ‘What was all that about, boss?’

  Elijah spun round. Patrice was standing there. His face had streams of colour coiling round it like a hippie’s tie-dye t-shirt.