A Wanted Woman Part 16

He'd had words with her about that before.

He would have to have words with her again.

War Machine kissed his wife, hugged his children, left the rooftop festivities, took the guarded elevator down to a floor reserved for his men, and entered.

He paused long enough to switch SIM cards and make a phone call.

War Machine snapped, "That was the third incident in a month."

"You double-crossed me. There was no payment."

"No, your end of the bargain fell through."

"Your end failed."

"The terms were not satisfied."

"Then we have nothing else to talk about."

"Tread lightly."

"You do the same."

He hung up and destroyed the SIM card.

War Machine entered the private suite and found Appaloosa waiting, cognac in hand.

Appaloosa asked, "How much did we lose on the shipment?"

"Not enough to stop our momentum." He poured himself a drink. "Nothing will stop us."

"Jamaicans? Sounds like it was the Seven Jamaicans, but I doubt it. Money was taken, but no drugs were stolen. Jamaicans would not leave the drug shipment. They wouldn't take the money then leave a million-dollar shipment. They would have taken it all."

War Machine nodded. "I know how they work."

"In the last month we have been hit in Miami. In New York. In Barbados."

"Unprecedented. We'd become comfortable with our operations."

"What is lost is lost, until we find who robbed us, then recover what was taken."

"Appaloosa, what's the concern? Are you here on behalf of the rest of the men?"

"First the Kiwi, and now someone has declared war on that aspect of our organization. Now the deaths here. The men are concerned, want to be rea.s.sured our other investments remain solid."

"The company remains solid, but the wives are restless, a stirred hornet's nest."

"Should we continue to search for the Kiwi while so much is going on?"

"The wives care less about the other issues than the deaths of their spouses."

Appaloosa nodded. "Then let's find the Kiwi b.i.t.c.h so we can get to the real war. Let's hunt her."

Guerrero and Kandinsky entered the suite, both in Italian suits, sovereigns of their hamlet.

Kandinsky said, "Our intel thinks the Kiwi is still hiding in the West Indies."

"What intel?"

"Diamond Dust hired a new firm to track the Kiwi."

"Who authorized a new firm to be hired?"

"She did."

War Machine nodded. His wife had gone behind his back.

He said, "My cousin was fooled by the Kiwi. If not for him, this would not have happened."

Guerrero said, "The Kiwi was good. I had been fooled as well."

Kandinsky said, "I had stood close enough to f.u.c.k her and had no clue that her perfume had stink like death. Bamboozled. Brothers, King Killer brought her here, allowed us to be bamboozled."

They looked across the room at War Machine's low-born cousin. They stared at King Killer. He stood with other men, drinking, smoking a Cuban cigar.

War Machine stared at his cousin the longest.

They had played together as boys, had committed the best of sins together.

Kandinsky said, "This calls for disciplinary actions, War Machine."

"It will be done."

Guerrero said, "It should have been done immediately."

"Are you questioning my leadership? My judgment?"

"Of course not. Just recognizing the unfortunate position we are all in."

Kandinsky said, "At some point it will be done. Our men were ambushed. The only way the Kiwi could have known where the minister was going to be, she had inside information. Our men had no idea where they were driving the minister until early that morning."

War Machine glowered at his cousin, nodded in agreement. "Someone did."

Guerrero said, "Diamond Dust is right. We have to find that Kiwi b.i.t.c.h."

War Machine said, "We will find the Kiwi, kill the Kiwi, then kill whoever sent the Kiwi and punish their wives and daughters. We will take their children and make them our bed wenches and manservants. For now, while I wait on this other set of information, let my cousin enjoy himself."

Like Diamond Dust, under pressure, a.s.serting leadership, he made hard promises.

For War Machine, this situation was his Syria.

Diamond Dust entered the suite, came and stood at his side.

She said, "Motherf.u.c.kers are driving me insane."

She ranted, vented. Each day, she received dozens of calls, hundreds of texts, and just as many e-mails from all the other wives.

No one knew what was going on, only that no one wanted to be the next widow.

No one wanted to lose her standing in the organization, because a widow would be treated like an ex-footballer's wife, would no longer be on the guest list, would no longer be a celebrity by marriage. Widows would have to be moved from their million-dollar condos, downsized and sent away, treated like outgoing presidents were treated, sent to again be normal citizens, knowing that if one secret was shared, they wouldn't live to see the next sunrise. The other wives had protested that policy, this being a different situation. These weren't natural deaths. They happened while the men were working.

Diamond Dust would find a way to handle the internal politics gone awry.

Diamond Dust stood tall.

Kandinsky said, "This will not be tolerated."

"No matter the cost. We will find the Kiwi. Bring her back. Burn her on the Savannah." She nodded. "We have to do what needs to be done."

That said, she looked at King Killer, looked at her twin brother, looked at him in disgust, as if she wanted to cross the room and stab him in the throat with a poniard.

Then she again looked at her husband, smiled, and softly said, "We have rules."

She walked away, a soft-legged sovereign who ruled the hardhearted monarch.

SEVENTEEN.

Parish of Christ Church, Barbados The Corvette jammed a hit by Chris Brown as it turned left and entered St. Lawrence Gap and pa.s.sed Cafe Sol. I signaled, made the same left turn. The Gap was the Sunset Strip of Barbados.

I rumbled through the din, a shadow on a black motorcycle heading toward the stretch of million-dollar condos that looked like they had been regurgitated by Crayola, overpriced condos that stood next to a rainbow of low-budget hotels that had been regurgitated by the same company. I paused in front of the dullness of an Anglican church, sacred ground in a cove of sinners. As a soul train of cars pa.s.sed by, each set of headlights revealing my position, I killed my engine. Waited. Patience was not one of my strong points.

After the Corvette parked in the ten-dollar pay lot, its driver emerged. Six-foot-three. White shirt, short-sleeved with trendy st.i.tching. Black pants, slim legs, sag to complement his swag. He pa.s.sed by smoking a joint, talking on his cellular, shouting, angry as h.e.l.l about a deal gone bad, but it was all rapid and in dialect. He ended his call, and finished his smoke, spat, then paused to flirt with a European woman in a translucent skirt. The way she stood when the lights. .h.i.t her, every man could see Buff Bay.

He lost the dialect and I was able to read his lips: "I'm a famous cricketer."

"What's your name?"

"Scott Pinkerton."

"Never heard of you."

"Let me show you photos of my new house and my new car."

After he showed her the photos, she grinned, they exchanged numbers, and she left, impressed.

He wore matte and shiny sterling silver bracelets; around his neck was a gray t.i.tanium cross pendant on a black cable. His watch was worth at least four grand. West Indian baller. Well-manicured. Metros.e.xual. There were at least thirty restaurants, bars, and clubs for him to choose from. He pa.s.sed up Reggae Lounge, paused at Hal's Car Park Bar, took in the loud music and horrible karaoke that could be heard from two miles away, but he only paused long enough to buy a Red Stripe beer and flirt with a few British women, then moved on, walked into the next car park, the one for Sugar Ultra Lounge.

I should have chatted him up then, but I needed double verification.

Anyone seeing a biker chick with him, that would have been too easy to remember.

I stood out. I needed to create a wa.s.sy walk and blend in with the rest of the midnight hoochies.

I was on the other side of the road, helmet on, trailing him, stopping in front of a plethora of roadside vendors selling baked chicken, fish, and macaroni pie. Again my belly growled to distraction. I waited and made sure that he went inside the club, then checked my watch.

My body felt heavy. I removed my matte-black helmet but left the black stocking cap on my head, and then I reached into my backpack and pulled out a Red Bull. Drank it. Pulled out a second one. Drank it.

I took out a disposable Samsung phone and did what I shouldn't have done. I put in one of the many SIM cards I had purchased around the globe, gritted my teeth, and dialed a number in Florida.

On the third ring, as I was about to hang up, he answered. "h.e.l.lo?"

I didn't say anything. The call was international, his voice clear.

He asked, "Jennifer, is this you again? Area code 672? What area code is this?"

In a soft Brooklyn accent I whispered, "Johnny."

"Jennifer."

"Hey, Johnny. How have you been?"

In a frustrated, sad, and angry voice he said, "You broke my kid's heart."

"Johnny Parker. I miss you."

"For the last time, don't call again. Don't keep stalking me."

"I'm the victim here, Johnny."

"My child is in therapy. Did you hear what I said? My child is in therapy."

I listened to him inhale and exhale, counted to five, and killed the call.

Then I became MX-401 again and went to one of the Cable & Wireless pay phones across from Hal's Car Park Bar. Bad karaoke, misogynistic soca, super-loud old-school reggae, and R&B from two decades ago had numbed my senses while I used my cellular to make a call.

"MX-401. Calling for double verification."

"The project for tonight has been sanctioned."

"I did a job yesterday and you're throwing me back out here to work again tonight? Once a-f.u.c.kin'-gain, I am a Reaper and you need to show respect. You put me at risk over and over."

"Grow up, kid. Grow the f.u.c.k up and manage your personality disorder."