Black Coke

by James Grenton

  Elijah slammed Jones against the railing, trying to push him overboard. Jones reached for his gun. Elijah headbutted him hard, then thrust him backwards until half Jones’s body was balanced precariously over the side of the boat. Jones tried to wrap his legs around Elijah. Elijah pushed them away. Jones grasped at the railing, slipped, grasped again, clutched it, tried to pull himself back onto the boat. Elijah whacked Jones’s fingers repeatedly with his fist.

  ‘Hey, Al! Help me!’

  Jones was dangling over the side of the boat, hanging on by his knees, which were wrapped over the railing. Elijah peered over. Jones was grasping at his gun holster. Elijah lifted one of Jones’s legs.

  ‘No! No! Hey, please!’

  Elijah lifted the other leg. Jones splashed into the sea, where he spluttered and shouted and thrashed around.

  Al burst out of the cabin. Elijah shot forward. Before Al could undo his gun from his holster, Elijah propelled him backwards. Al steadied himself, twisted, pushed Elijah, tripped him up. Elijah clutched onto him. They both collapsed to the floor, Al’s beefy body on top of Elijah, punching him repeatedly in the face. Al reached for his gun.

  ‘You punk,’ Al said. ‘I’m gonna—’

  Elijah grabbed Al’s shoulders and tugged them viciously. He threw Al off balance and pushed him sideways. Al toppled slowly over like a big sack of grain. He lay on his back, fumbling with his holster. Elijah climbed onto him, clawed at Al’s eyes, bit him in the neck, heard him howl with pain. He punched Al again and again in the face, shattering his jaw, feeling the shockwave of the blow travel through his hands and arms and chest like a swell of power.

  ‘Thought you could stop the great Elijah Evans?’

  He headbutted Al on the bridge of the nose. Blood poured out.

  ‘Who’s the punk now?’ Elijah shouted.

  Al was moaning. His head lolled from side to side. Elijah got up and kicked Al in the temple. Al’s head snapped sideways.

  ‘You hear me?’

  Elijah kept kicking, again and again and again, until Al’s head was just a mush of flesh. Then he knelt down and plucked the gun from Al’s holster. He aimed carefully, aware that his arms were shaking, and fired twice at Al’s head.

  Elijah went back to the railing. He leaned over. Jones was trying to swim round to the ladder that went into the water at the back of the boat. Elijah fired until the clip was empty. He watched Jones’s body sink beneath the waves.

  The cops had made him lose valuable time. They’d reaped God’s judgement for their sins.

  He tossed the gun overboard and turned back to Al’s body. He tugged him over, feeling the pain in his joints return now that the adrenaline of the fight was wearing off. He picked up the corpse and hauled it over the side, into the sea. He untied the ropes, then jumped onto his yacht. He went into his cabin. He downed a large glass of rum and nibbled his cube of Black Coke. Then he clambered back onto the deck.

  Al’s body was sinking into the sea. Elijah muttered a prayer of committal.

  He looked through his binoculars. Miami was shimmering on the coastline in the distance.

  He chuckled to himself and started the engine.

  Miami had no idea what was about to hit it.

  Chapter 68

  Bogotá, Colombia

  15 April 2011

  ‘So who is this Rudolph?’ Nathan said as they sat in the back of a taxi, which was honking its way through Bogotá’s crowded streets.

  ‘I met him the other day. At a party.’

  They were entering Bogotá’s financial district, with its scattering of glass buildings, harried businessmen, and rock-encrusted hills looming in the background. Cops in reflective visors with M-16s skulked at street corners next to turret-mounted riot trucks that looked like huge grey bugs with their meshed grills over their windows.

  ‘What do you know about him?’ Nathan said.

  ‘Ex German army. Now into private security.’

  Lucia was staring out of the window. Her hair was uncombed and she was wearing the same denim blouse she’d worn the previous evening. He’d found her that morning asleep on the sofa, fully dressed, beautiful and perfect despite the smudged trails of black liner on her cheeks. They hadn’t spoken about last night, had hardly spoken about anything at all. Nathan preferred it that way. Some things were best left unsaid.

  ‘Reliable?’

  ‘As far as I know.’ Lucia shot Nathan an embarrassed glance. ‘Introduced through a contact at the British embassy.’

  ‘The embassy?’

  ‘It’s the best I can do. Unless you want to go ask the narcos for all your fancy gear.’

  Nathan fell silent. He’d slept nearly 12 hours and felt better than he had for days, despite the injury on his arm and the bruising everywhere. He forced his thoughts to focus on the mission. He needed firepower and kit, lots of it, then he needed to find a pilot, one who was discreet, trustworthy and skilled for low night-flights over the jungle.

  Half an hour later, they were weaving through the southern outskirts of Bogotá. Shanty towns stretched out like a sea of corrugated iron misery. Women leaned out of shacks made of scrap plywood, metal and sheets of plastic. They argued with each other, waved their arms at their men smoking on street corners, yelled at their grimy kids playing in overturned dustbins next to piles of rotting food. Stray dogs dodged the flow of traffic and barked petulantly as drivers hit their horns.

  The taxi driver was glancing frequently at the side mirrors.

  Nathan leaned forwards. ‘All okay?’

  ‘They kidnapped two men here last week in broad daylight.’

  ‘Don’t you worry.’ Nathan patted the driver on the shoulder. ‘Just take us to the address she gave you.’

  Nathan scanned the area around, trying to brush off a gnawing anxiety. Spotting tails in unfamiliar surroundings was difficult at the best of times. Here, though, it was next to impossible in the chaos of the slums. Yet the last thing he needed was for a street gang to target them for ransom money.

  The driver turned down a side street. He stopped, looked around.

  ‘Everything alright?’ Nathan said.

  ‘It’s somewhere around here.’

  ‘You lost?’

  ‘Well…’ The driver peered ahead. ‘Ah, there it is.’ He pointed and drove up to a small shack painted in bright blue with a red Coca Cola sign above it. It was made of brick, with a wooden roof and small holes for the windows. Nathan climbed out of the car, pulling his empty rucksack with him. The street was quieter than the main road they’d been on. Lucia appeared next to him.

  ‘This the place?’ he said to the driver, who was still in the car, nervously smoking a cigarette out of the window.

  The driver nodded, puffing out plumes of smoke that swirled in the humid air.

  ‘Wait here,’ Nathan said.

  Nathan peered into the shack. A kerosene lamp was burning on a rickety wooden table in a corner, filling the room with the acrid smell and smoke of burning petrol. A short Colombian woman in loose robes with hips as wide as her bulging breasts emerged from a dark doorway. She cast a suspicious eye on them.

  ‘Sí?’ she said.

  Lucia spoke fast in Spanish, too fast for Nathan. The woman was answering in monosyllables, until Lucia pulled some cash from her pocket. The woman grabbed it and led them through the shack into a small yard. A dog lay asleep in a corner next to a pile of smashed chairs. The woman led them to another shack in the back, surprising Nathan at how deceptively extensive these homes could be.

  A man was lying in a hammock in the corner, his features hidden by the obscurity, the glow of a cigarette in his hand.

  ‘Lucia!’ he said, stubbing out the cigarette on the dirt floor and jumping to his feet. ‘Glad you could make it.’

  He was strikingly handsome, with sharp features, a firm jaw and a well-built body that he clearly worked hard at. He wore a carefully pressed white shirt and black trousers. He had a strong scent of aftershave about him that mixed o
ddly with the general stench of the area.

  ‘Rudolph, this is Nathan, the guy I mentioned to you.’ Lucia gestured to each of them. They shook hands, Rudolph stooping so as not to bump his head on the ceiling.

  ‘I hear you can help,’ Nathan said.

  ‘Is that so?’ Rudolph smiled broadly. Too broadly. ‘This way.’

  He led them into another room, moving with the ease of a fighter. He tugged a handle that was embedded in the floor, lifting a battered wooden trapdoor. He grabbed a kerosene lamp hanging from the ceiling and led the way down creaky wooden stairs into a cellar.

  Rudolph switched on the light. Nathan let out a low whistle. The place was stacked with every weapon you’d need on a mission, neatly ordered and well maintained. MP5 submachine guns and a range of assault rifles hung in rows on the wall in front. An assortment of handguns was displayed on a table, next to boxes of grenades, packs of brick-orange Semtex plastic explosives, magazines of ammo and other kit. To Nathan’s left, on another wooden table, were two RPG launchers and a tripod mounted M2HB Browning .50 calibre machine gun.

  ‘Not bad.’ Nathan picked up a Glock and checked the firing mechanism. ‘Just what I need.’

  He turned back to Rudolph, who was studying Lucia appreciatively out of the corner of his eye.

  ‘How should we do this?’ Nathan said.

  ‘Simple.’ Rudolph turned to face Nathan. ‘Pick what you want. Pay cash. US dollars. No questions asked.’

  Nathan moved towards the row of assault rifles. He picked up a Heckler & Koch G3A3, then put it back down. A greased and unused AK 47 had caught his eye. The AK was a trusted weapon, built to work in the most hostile conditions. Even a child could use and maintain one, which was why it was so popular in war-torn countries around the world.

  He checked a box of 30 round mags. They had none of the blue-green colour on the casings that would indicate dampness. He dropped them into his rucksack. Then he turned back to the pistols. The Glock 17 was his favourite. Reliable and solid. He dropped two into his bag with ten boxes of 12-round mags. He added a pair of 10x50 military binoculars, night vision goggles, a handful of cable ties, a machete, a hunting knife, a torch, a GPS system, a compass, a large stack of Semtex and a remote detonator.

  He turned back to Rudolph and found him speaking in hushed tones to Lucia in a corner of the room. Rudolph was holding her arm, but she twisted away.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Nathan said.

  A flash of hostility crossed Rudolph’s face. He let go of Lucia’s arm.

  ‘Got what you need?’ Rudolph said, the smile easing its way back.

  ‘Everything okay, Lucia?’ Nathan said.

  Lucia nodded. She made her way back up the steps, Nathan right behind her. They emerged into the shack. Rudolph slammed the trap door shut.

  They haggled briefly over the price, then Nathan counted out the cash and handed it to Rudolph. He made for the exit, past the short woman who was glaring at him with her arms folded across her chest. He heard Rudolph speaking to Lucia and turned round. Lucia was shaking her head and trying to break free from Rudolph’s grip again.

  ‘Leave her alone, mate.’

  Rudolph glared at Nathan. ‘Mind your own business.’

  Nathan stepped forward, but Lucia shook free.

  ‘Come on, Nathan,’ she said. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  Nathan threw his bag into the boot of the taxi. He glanced back as they drove off. Rudolph was standing outside, amid a cloud of dirt. He was speaking on his mobile, his dark eyes glaring at the receding car.

  ‘What did he want?’ Nathan said.

  Lucia stared outside.

  ‘What was he hassling you about, Lucia?’

  ‘What do you think? What all men want.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry about—’

  ‘Forget it.’ Lucia hunched her shoulders. ‘I don’t want to talk about it either.’

  Chapter 69

  Bogotá, Colombia

  15 April 2011

  As soon as they got through the door, Nathan plonked his bag on the sofa in the apartment hotel’s lounge. The weapons inside it clinked. He unzipped the bag and pulled out its contents, laying them on the sofa and checking them carefully one after the other. They seemed to be in excellent working order. Nathan hadn’t liked Rudolph, but he had to admit that the German mercenary was a top quality arms merchant.

  Lucia was staring sullenly out of the window at the traffic below. Nathan ignored her. He had no time for such emotional complications. He had to focus on tracking down Amonite and the Front and avenging Caitlin’s death. Nothing else mattered.

  Not for the first time in the past few days, he delved back to his army training. He needed that mindset again. That focus on the mission. The clear headedness that would allow him to make the correct split second decisions. Most of all, he needed to learn to kill again, without hesitation nor remorse. It was the only way he could succeed against Amonite.

  Once he’d finished checking the weapons, he pulled out the map he’d printed in the embassy house. Manuel had photocopied it in a local internet cafe, then gone off to meet his campesino friends to see if they could help identify the exact location for the delivery of Lynx helicopters.

  It was marked on the map with an x deep in Putumayo. Nathan traced with his index finger the outlines of the region, with the Caquetá River on the northeast, Ecuador on the south, Peru on the southeast, and the Andes mountains to the west. The Putumayo river formed most of the border between Colombia and Ecuador and Colombia and Peru. Manuel had explained to him once what Putumayo meant in the local Quechua language. The verb putuy meant ‘to spring forth’ or ‘to burst out’. The word mayo was a variant of mayu, meaning river. So Putumayo meant ‘gushing river’.

  ‘Gushing river of blood,’ Manuel had added with a dark frown.

  Lucia moved away from the window, bringing Nathan back to reality.

  ‘Manuel’s here,’ she said, heading for the door. ‘Just saw him outside.’

  She opened the door a crack and waited for Manuel to arrive. He walked in and opened his good eye wide when he noticed the weapons on the sofa, but said nothing. He pulled a map out of his pocket, unfolded it and spread it on the table. Nathan moved close. It was a detailed military map of Putumayo, much better than the one he had.

  Manuel pointed to a spot east of the town of Puerto Asis, in the middle of the jungle. It was the same place that was marked on Nathan’s map.

  ‘My campesino contacts have confirmed the location,’ Manuel said. ‘There’s been lots of activity in this area in the past few days. Helicopters. Troops. Trucks. Nobody can say for sure whether the Front base is there, but we believe it probably is.’

  ‘Could be just movement through the area,’ Nathan said.

  ‘I doubt it. The paramilitaries had a large underground base deep in the forest there years ago. None of our people have been into it for ages. It’s too isolated, and too many bad memories. But it’s possible the Front took it over.’

  ‘How are they delivering the hardware?’

  ‘The Lynx are being brought in by cargo ship from the UK into Baranquilla. They’re then flown down to Putumayo. Looks like none of this could happen without Sir George’s influence.’

  ‘How’s he managed to get away with it for so long?’ Nathan said. ‘I can’t believe that nobody within the British government knows about this.’

  Lucia grunted. Nathan glanced round. She was right next to him.

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ she said. ‘This is Colombia. The whole country’s corrupt.’

  ‘But how did he get away with it in the UK? How come Cedric never knew about it?’

  ‘Maybe he did,’ she said. ‘Or maybe George was very careful all these years, until now. You’d be surprised at how devious some people can be.’

  Nathan turned back to the map. He stared at it hard, trying to capture all the details in his mind. ‘You know someone who can fly us in?’

  Manuel nodded.
‘A trusted pilot.’

  ‘And your campesinos are willing to back us up?’

  ‘I’m working on it. It’s not easy to organise farmers, however determined they might be.’ Manuel folded up the map and put it in his pocket. ‘Nathan, you need to meet them. I want you to come to Ciudad Bolivar.’

  ‘Is that where they’re based?’

  ‘One of our many bases.’

  ‘What about me?’ Lucia said.

  ‘You’d better stay here for the moment,’ Manuel said. ‘Campesinos are distrustful by nature. And you have a bit of a reputation.’