Black Coke

by James Grenton

  I’m among friends here. This isn’t a board meeting. Just tell it like it is.

  He took a deep breath and spoke slowly and precisely so everyone could understand.

  ‘Manuel and I have a map of the Front base here in Colombia. Do you have access to weapons?’

  A ripple of laughter.

  ‘Hey, this is Colombia.’ Manuel smiled wryly. ‘What d’you expect?’

  ‘Okay.’ Nathan smiled back. ‘This is the plan.’

  Chapter 79

  Bogotá, Colombia

  16 April 2011

  Amonite didn’t like waiting, particularly when it was for a double-crossing Jamaican drug smuggler who’d disappeared with her shipment of Black Coke and then reappeared out of nowhere begging to meet her. She leaned against the side of the warehouse. It was part of an industrial estate that had been abandoned in the mid nineties. Rain dribbled through holes in the corrugated iron roof. Obscene graffiti splattered the walls. Scrap metal was stacked to the ceiling. In a corner were three burnt-out hulks of abandoned trucks. The place stank of oil and waste.

  ‘Any sign of them?’ Amonite said into the mike under her collar.

  ‘None yet, boss,’ Dex replied in his curt voice.

  ‘No punctuality. No wonder their country’s such a damn mess.’

  She went back to ruminating about how much she now hated Elijah Evans. He’d made a fool out of her. El Patrón wasn’t happy. And that was unforgiveable.

  The sound of vehicles rumbled through the air.

  ‘Wait for my signal,’ Amonite said.

  She put her earpiece in her pocket and stepped into the entrance to the warehouse. A convoy of four black SUVs skidded to a halt in the parking area just outside. Four Jamaicans with Ingram Mach 10s jumped out of the first, second and fourth vehicles. Elijah hobbled out of the third one, an AK 47 hanging from his stooped shoulders.

  ‘Amonite, good to see you,’ he muttered, his eyes scrunched up, his gnarled right hand outstretched.

  ‘Likewise.’

  Amonite showed her widest, friendliest grin, but ignored his hand. She put her palm on his shoulder, which tensed, and walked him into the warehouse.

  Elijah glanced sideways at her. ‘We’ve had a few problems.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘The Haitians were late.’

  ‘How unprofessional.’

  Elijah glanced over his shoulder at his men standing in the doorway.

  ‘They attacked us,’ he said.

  ‘I hope nobody was hurt.’

  ‘Mainly the Haitians.’

  ‘Did any escape?’ Amonite put slightly more steel into her voice and relished how it made Elijah squirm.

  ‘We don’t know.’ Elijah wiped the sweat off his forehead. ‘Amonite, as I said on the phone, we’ve sold out the Black Coke. I’ve got thirty million bucks in the back of my car.’

  ‘In yours?’

  ‘Uhuh. I sold it in Miami. Through my network. The punters keep asking for more.’

  ‘Oh, really? But I hear your network got hit by the DEA.’

  ‘I’ve got new dealers and I’ve bribed some DEA officers. Give me all the Black Coke you’ve got. I can shift it before anyone figures out what’s going on. Millions of dollars. Billions. Just think of it.’

  Amonite studied Elijah. He looked so pathetic, with that hungry look in his eyes she’d seen in so many drug smugglers ensnared by the promise of vast wealth.

  ‘Come with me.’ She tugged Elijah towards the far side of the warehouse, behind the burnt-out trucks. ‘I will hunt down the Haitians. D’you understand that?’

  Elijah nodded rapidly.

  Amonite patted his shoulder and left her hand there.

  ‘What’s wrong with those spots in your eyes?’ she said.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Doesn’t look good. You should get them checked.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Okay, now listen here.’ Amonite lowered her voice so much that Elijah had to bend closer to hear her. ‘The Front doesn’t take kindly to being double crossed, you two-faced Jamaican punk.’

  ‘Please, Amonite, you have to understand.’

  ‘Understand what? That you can disappear with all my drugs and then come crawling back for more?’

  ‘That’s not what—’.

  Before he could finish his sentence, Amonite slid her hand round Elijah’s neck. He tried to pull away, but she yanked him forward and headbutted him with such force that she felt and heard his skull crack. He crumpled to the floor.

  ‘Go for it, guys,’ she said into her mike.

  Gunfire erupted from Amonite’s men. She peered round the side of the truck. The Jamaicans were shooting wildly, sending bullets ricocheting off the metal walls. Two of them were already face down in rapidly expanding pools of blood.

  Amonite kicked Elijah in the temple, just to make sure he stayed unconscious. She picked up his assault rifle and shot one of the Jamaicans, leaving a punched-out hole where his face should have been. The remaining Jamaicans were charging back towards their vehicles.

  Amonite put her earpiece back in. ‘Hold your fire.’

  The Jamaicans looked around and fired a few rounds as they yanked open the doors to their vehicles and climbed in.

  ‘Get ready,’ Amonite said.

  ‘All set,’ Dex said.

  ‘Keep the reverend’s car intact. It’s got the cash.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  The doors to the vehicles were closing.

  ‘Wait for it,’ Amonite said.

  The first vehicle started its engine.

  ‘Now!’

  There was a rush of air. The first two vehicles erupted into balls of flame. They jumped up, shards of metal flying in all directions. Then they crashed back to the ground. A burning man climbed out of the front vehicle. He stumbled before collapsing to the floor, screaming. The other two SUVs began reversing. The fourth one blew up, hit by more rocket-propelled grenades that instantly killed its occupants. The third one, Elijah’s SUV, was stuck between the burning wreckages. Dozens of Front men jumped out of their hiding places and charged towards it. They yanked the doors open, pulled out the three occupants and threw them to the floor, whacking them unconscious with their rifle butts. Amonite picked up Elijah and dragged him to the middle of the warehouse, ignoring the raging fires of the burning vehicles in the parking lot.

  ‘What do we do with these guys?’ Dex said, pointing to the three on the floor.

  ‘Dispose of them. Then get everyone else out of here. Make sure no cops come wandering over.’

  She looked away, ignoring the series of gunshots that indicated the summary execution of the three Jamaicans. They were expendable, foot soldiers in this brutal war.

  Their job done, the Front hitmen wandered off, weapons on their shoulders and joking to each other as though coming back from a normal day’s work. Amonite pointed to a rusty metal chair leaning against the wall.

  ‘Dex, bring that here. Tie Elijah to it.’

  Dex lashed Elijah’s wrists and ankles to the chair with cable ties. Amonite glanced around, just to make sure all the Front men had gone.

  ‘Let’s deal with this dumb fuck.’

  She slapped Elijah on the cheeks until his skin went red. His eyes fluttered open. He screamed and thrashed around.

  ‘No point struggling,’ Amonite said, taking a step back.

  Elijah was staring with wide eyes, taking in the burning wreckages behind Amonite, the dead bodies on the floor.

  ‘I never double crossed you,’ he said. ‘I swear it on my mother’s grave.’

  ‘What happened on that island?’

  ‘They attacked.’

  ‘Let’s be reasonable.’ Amonite put her face so close to Elijah’s she could feel his hurried breath. ‘We’re both reasonable people, aren’t we?’

  Elijah nodded fervently.

  ‘Purely business,’ Amonite said. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Just business.’

 
; ‘Good.’ Amonite straightened up. ‘In business, the losers pay.’

  Elijah’s Adam’s apple bounced up and down.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ she said.

  A look of relief flooded Elijah’s face as she walked away towards the side of the warehouse. She rummaged around behind a pile of rusty metal. There it was, just where she’d left it. A long, solid axe: the type used by woodcutters to fell large trees. She patted it in her hand and strolled back, laughing out loud when she saw the fear on Elijah’s face.

  ‘Amonite, don’t do it.’ Elijah’s voice was trembling.

  Amonite stood in front of Elijah, legs a shoulder width apart, the axe resting on her shoulder.

  ‘So, my dear reverend, what really happened?’

  ‘It was us!’ he shouted. ‘My cousin, Wes, he lost it. He wanted the Black Coke. I couldn’t—’

  ‘Why did you lie?’ She lifted the axe high over her head. ‘Don’t you know the Front’s punishment?’

  ‘Trust me,’ Elijah screamed. ‘Please!’

  ‘I can’t hear you,’ Amonite yelled.

  The axe came down, slicing into the concrete floor right next to Elijah’s feet. He shrieked and jumped around as though he’d been electrocuted.

  ‘What else you done?’ Amonite shouted, raising the axe again.

  ‘Belville! Belville!’

  Amonite was about to swing the axe again when Dex lifted an arm to block it.

  ‘I think he’s saying someone’s name, boss.’

  Amonite lowered the axe. ‘Speak clearly, you Jamaican fuck.’

  ‘Cedric. Belville. English cop. Wants to meet me. Tomorrow.’

  ‘You bastard.’ Amonite lifted the axe again. ‘After all I’ve done for you, you were going to betray me.’

  Elijah yelled in terror, which made Amonite even angrier. But then she lowered the axe. She’d brought him here to teach him a lesson, not to kill him. She wiped her forehead. Elijah had passed out, his head lolling forward.

  Amonite went to her vehicle, which was hidden behind the warehouse. She pulled out a jerry can of water and marched back to Elijah. She poured the water onto him. He spluttered and shook his head, sending drops spinning out.

  ‘Amonite, please!’

  He looked so pitiful, with his hunched and skinny shoulders, his ripped clothes, gaunt cheeks, bony arms and legs and black marks all over his knuckles. But he was smart. He’d got the Black Coke through the Caribbean, to Miami, and shifted it within hours, even if half his gang in Miami had been caught in the process. Amonite didn’t have time to find another smuggler, especially one as good as Elijah. The Haitians were useless. The Mexicans hated her since Don Camplones had died. And her Colombians had enough problems to deal with already.

  ‘What did Cedric Belville want?’

  ‘He offered immunity if I grassed up on you.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘No way, Amonite. I swear on my mother’s grave.’

  ‘I’m gonna give you a last chance,’ Amonite said.

  Elijah’s eyes lit up.

  ‘Listen up.’ Amonite leaned close. ‘This is what you’re gonna do.’

  Chapter 80

  Ciudad Bolivar, Colombia

  16 April 2011

  Nathan woke up feeling fresher than he had in days. He’d slept on a mouldy mattress in a dirty shack in the middle of one of the worst shanty towns in South America, but the night had been restful, without any of the nightmares of previous ones. Lucia was alive and okay, Cedric was on his way with what sounded like promising news, Manuel and the campesinos were building a strong movement against the Front. Things were looking better than they had in a long time.

  Nathan went to the wash basin in the corner of the room and threw some water onto his face. He wondered what Lucia was doing at the moment. Why had they lost contact with her until Cedric got in touch? Had something happened? He went back over their conversation about the drugs war. Maybe she was right. Maybe legalisation was the right way of sorting this out. He smirked as he imagined how Cedric would react when he’d meet Lucia for the first time later today. Her fiery personality was the opposite of Cedric’s calm demeanour.

  He dried his face with a towel hanging from a rusty rail. There were voices in the neighbouring room. He pushed open the creaky wooden door and entered the small dining room. Manuel and another man were sitting at the table, tucking into a breakfast of eggs and bread.

  ‘Good sleep?’ Manuel said.

  ‘Very good, thanks.’ Nathan pulled a chair up and sat down. ‘So, all set?’

  ‘Cedric’s sent through his arrival details. Here, have something to eat. Then we’ll go pick him up.’

  Chapter 81

  Bogotá airport, Colombia

  16 April 2011

  Amonite picked up the sniper rifle and checked the telescopic sight. She’d bought it when she was working in Mexico. She hadn’t used it for ages, but it felt good in her hands again. She stroked the smooth barrel then checked the firing mechanism. She’d given it a good clean.

  She took the rifle apart and put it in its guitar case. She looked at her watch: twenty minutes to go. She opened her bag, which was on the bed in the middle of the hotel room. She pulled out a grey wig and placed it on her head. She went into the bathroom and studied herself in the mirror, noticing again with annoyance her stubby nose and gaunt cheeks. She made a mental note to book an appointment with a plastic surgeon.

  She took a small vial from her pocket and popped two pills into her hand. She put her mouth under the tap to swallow them with water. She grimaced. She had to cut down on the steroids. They were messing with her mind and stopping her from sleeping properly. She splashed her face with cold water. She looked at herself in the mirror again. Bloodshot eyes stared back.

  Her thoughts went back to her phone call with El Patrón earlier on. He was getting increasingly rude with her, bossing her around and treating her like a small child. Was he really such a hero? Was he the real El Patrón or just an imposter? She’d tried digging around a few months ago, but hadn’t found anything more about him, until a few days later a scribbled note had appeared in a brown envelope on her doorstep telling her not to sniff around ever again. She’d heeded the message. El Patrón only ever warned you once.

  She put on her dark glasses and grey overcoat. El Patrón had seemed worried, but hadn’t said why. Probably those problems with the Colombian president.

  She picked up her case and bag. She had too much admiration for rich and powerful criminals. That was the problem. It’d been the same with Don Camplones. Whatever he ordered her to do, she’d done it willingly. Maybe it was time soon to go her own way, to set up her own organisation.

  She shook her head. Too much thinking.

  A text came through on her mobile. It was her contact at airport security.

  He’s just landed.

  She checked the hotel room one last time to make sure she hadn’t left anything incriminating. Then she walked out of the airport hotel and down the street towards the main terminal. A row of cops in uniforms stood outside, smoking, looking bored and alert, if such a mix was possible.

  Amonite nipped into the entranceway to a side building and climbed to the third floor, three steps at a time. She knocked four times on a door and waited. She pulled a key from her pocket. She slowly unlocked and opened the door, peering in. The place was empty. No furniture. Just bare white walls and wooden floorboards. Her contact at airport security had assured her it would be available and secure.

  Amonite went to the window and looked through the blinds at the terminal across the road. She had a clear view of the entrance. She pulled the window up. She opened the case and put the rifle together. She poked the barrel of the rifle ever so slightly through a gap in the blinds. She opened another gap in the blinds so that she could see through it when she looked into the telescopic sight. She adjusted it to get the right focus, then looked through the cross hairs at the people exiting the terminal. One of them was a young man with sh
ort cropped hair and a black suit. He was babbling into his cell phone. Amonite could see the hairs in his ears.

  She stroked the trigger. Just one small press and the bullet would shoot out of the barrel and into the man’s head. A shiver of excitement crept down her spine. She loved the feeling of power at having someone else’s life between her fingers. She put the rifle down and lifted the window, keeping it open on the latch and making sure she kept out of sight. She waited for five minutes to be sure nobody had spotted the open window.