A Wanted Woman Part 35

Fifteen minutes later, Bob Jones was with Jesus's old man. I had climbed on his Jet Ski, sat behind him like I was about to do a reach around, then hit him across the head with a sap. Compared to what I gave Bob Jones, Big Guy had received a love tap. I made it look like the target had had one drink too many and run into a boardwalk's concrete support, then his body had floated out to sea. The dreadlocks wig was left floating in the waters near his corpse, bobbing and riding the currents.

Within minutes I was back on my motorcycle, heart racing, helmet on, face shield up, riding in a drizzle while wearing biker boots and a bikini, my a.s.s causing traffic jams on every sinewy road. Was in a hurry. Took to the stairs, pa.s.sed by Mag's Barbershop, and carried the Chefette bag to Big Guy. I changed clothes in his office. He counted the money. It wasn't enough to pay that debt, but it was enough to keep his people working on my pa.s.sports. He needed more money. I needed more jobs.

A swarm of police cars were at Ridgeview Estates. No guns were drawn. Neighbors were standing around, some in tears. Outraged. Afraid. Neighbors who had never met introduced themselves, talked about putting up burglar bars on every unit. Mothers held their children close. Husbands held their pregnant wives. Murders had happened in an area where an unnatural death never should occur. Black Jack's body was found by the gardeners when they had gone to the back for lawn maintenance. He was nude, had been decapitated. The black Toyota belonged to a student at UWI. Akilah Clower. The teenager was nude, decapitated as well. Heads were found in the living room, in a b.l.o.o.d.y living room, on the counter facing the front door. Both naked, headless bodies had been dragged across the tile, out past the patio, and dropped into the plunge pool, the jets in the plunge pool on high, water bubbling like beet-colored soup.

A garbage truck entered the area, had come to begin trash pickup. I had pa.s.sed a garbage truck right here at four in the morning. No one collected garbage at four in the morning, and never twice in one day, not on this island. Might have been different in this sw.a.n.k community, but down at Six Roads people were lucky to get their trash picked up once a week. I had pa.s.sed by their a.s.sa.s.sins at four in the morning. If I had been here at least an hour earlier, either Black Jack and Hacker would be alive, or I would've been inside and three would have been found dead. I preferred to believe the former but couldn't rule out the latter.

THIRTY-NINE.

Highway 5 I sped down the two-lane highway, screaming as I drove at double the posted limit, screamed all the way back to my prison. Screaming did me no good, but I screamed. Black Jack had used Hacker to tap into the LKs' system and within a few hours both were dead. Black Jack was with Jesus's daddy and I had to keep moving. Hated that I had to depend on Petrichor. I needed Big Guy to come through.

I was beyond exhausted, both physically and mentally, my brain sluggish and on fire, and I had to get off my feet. I showered, put on jeans and a tee, tried to sleep a dreamless sleep, but I had twenty-seven dreams, and in all of them I saw the LKs, in all of them I was attacked, in all of them I was near death.

Gasping, sweating inside of my prison, I jerked awake, drowning in darkness. Guns in hand I sat up, disoriented. I heard a sound. I sprang to my feet, both guns trained on the noise. A m.u.f.fled cry. Echo of a struggle in total darkness. I pulled a corner of the curtain back and spied outside my window. A strange car was parked in the bend of the road. The neighbors might have had company, but that would be out of character. The safe house might be surrounded. The m.u.f.fled noise, the cry, came again. I spied through the dirty screen and out of the grimy bedroom window. The couple in the home beyond my driveway were on their bed. She was on top, her expression saying she had to o.r.g.a.s.m or die from the heat.

My attention went to the strange car. Whoever was in the parked car watched them too.

The car door opened. Someone got out and walked toward my Alcatraz.

It was Zenga, the Barbarian who was big like a linebacker, the arrogant one with a neck that rivaled my thigh. Black Jack had been slaughtered. Now Zenga, the a.s.sholes of all a.s.sholes, was at my door. I held on to my two guns, the .357 in my right hand and the .380 in my left. When he was a few feet away I turned on a light. He stopped where he was. He grinned and raised both hands, his palms facing me to show that he wasn't carrying, but that didn't mean s.h.i.t. That didn't mean he was alone. The field in front of the safe house, that patch of land that led to another set of homes in the next gap, that was another perfect spot for a sniper to build a nest.

The doors opened outward, the opposite direction of doors for homes in the States. I used my left hand to crack open the metal door, went down on my haunches to keep my head out of pink-mist range, positioned myself with the big gun displayed in my right hand, business end pointed toward Zenga.

I said, "Why are you on my side of the island?"

"Mind lowering your weapon?"

"How's this?"

"Move it from the family jewels. Put the gun down."

"The gun is at home. You're the one visiting."

"Look, I just came to get to know you."

"Get to know me?"

"Maybe you could get dressed and we could go for a ride and take in the cool night air."

"With you and the boys?"

"No. Just you and me."

"You're confusing me. Why would I do that?"

"I want to kick it with you."

"Kick it with me?"

"Hook up with you."

"Are you f.u.c.kin' serious?"

I closed the door so hard the windows shook like I was in a California earthquake.

Zenga walked backward and returned to the car. He flashed his headlights off and on. I didn't reply. I had no idea what the madness and come-on was about. There was no reason for him to be down at Six Roads. Not alone. We had no dealings authorized by the powers that be.

Zenga flashed his headlights over a dozen more times. Neighbors' lights came on. Faces appeared in windows. They watched. Like people in a small town, they watched and they gossiped. I didn't like what was transpiring. I didn't like feeling the heat from a spotlight on my face.

My cellular buzzed and I cursed. It was an urgent message from the Barbarians.

Didn't know if it was connected to Zenga appearing outside my window at this moment.

OPEN THE PACKAGE NOW.

I looked at the briefcase. It still hadn't exploded.

A second message came: TRAVEL HEAVY. WE RESOLVE PROBLEM TONIGHT.

Something had transpired and now they were sounding the alarms.

Travel heavy meant that I was to take my weapons, and they would be used.

I took it to the living room, spied out of the window at Zenga. He was on his cellular. They had called him. He jumped in the car and came down the narrow road, had to pull into the open field and bush in front of my safe house to turn around, his headlights raking across the window. They had yanked his chain. Him being here hadn't had anything to do with the mission. A third message came: OPEN THE PACKAGE MX-401. They knew that it wasn't opened, knew that I hadn't compromised the package. That meant that it was equipped with sensors. I'd swept my prison countless times, but as far as I knew cameras could be all over this dungeon. They could have watched me shower. Sleep. Cry. Talk to myself. Pace. Scream. Touch myself and moan Johnny Parker's name. OPEN THE f.u.c.kING PACKAGE.

Then I realized that Zenga had sped away, was beyond the range of a bomb going off.

He had been sent here to verify I was in the safe house, then report I was eliminated.

I clicked open the left lock. Took a dozen breaths. Palms sweated like I was in the rain.

I clicked open the right lock. Still no explosion.

I opened the package.

FORTY.

The Barbarians' coveted briefcase was opened, its contents revealed.

Money. More money than I had ever seen at one time.

Guns in my hands, I ran back to the front room, spied out the front window.

Zenga was gone.

Another message came. PLANS HAVE CHANGED. DO NOT HEAD TO LOCATION. CLOSE THE PACKAGE UNTIL FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS. MX-401 CONFIRM. CONFIRM. CONFIRM.

I confirmed, closed the briefcase, then asked what to do with the package.

I sent a message. WHAT WAS THAT UNNECESSARY DRAMA ALL ABOUT?

CONFIRM.

MESSAGE TO SIT AND WAIT RECEIVED, a.s.sHOLES. NOW WHAT THE h.e.l.l WAS THAT ALL ABOUT? WHY DID YOU GIVE ME A CASE OF CASH AND NOT TELL ME WHAT THE f.u.c.k I HAD?.

STFU UNTIL WE CONTACT YOU AGAIN. NEW COURSE OF ACTION. SIT ON PACKAGE.

I NEED MORE THAN THAT. AFTER BEING HERE OVER A MONTH, I NEED MORE THAN THAT.

They didn't reply.

Headlights flashed across my window again.

Zenga had come back. He parked where he had been parked before.

I looked at the money. By my calculations, it was a half million, enough to change a poor person's life for the rest of his life, enough to give a rich person so that he could have fun for a week in an exotic land. I had used Black Jack to hack into the LKs' system; maybe I should have had him get into the system for the Barbarians. Made no sense owing me and trusting me with cash.

I should take the money and run away, become a fugitive from both sides of the law.

The amount of money in the briefcase had made my heart race. I could pay for a pa.s.sport, could buy a boat or lease a small plane, could get to South America and learn to speak pa.s.sable Spanish.

Closed my eyes. Saw two decapitated heads on a counter, two bodies in a plunge pool, bubbles from jets making it look like soup, red soup. Could've been me. Could've been.

I had to think about Old Man Reaper; the choice I made could put him in danger.

So much money. It was hard to stare at the cash and not want it for myself.

Not for greed, but for freedom.

Each note had made my heart beat with the sound of betrayal.

They sent me another message. STAY WITH PACKAGE 24/7, NO EXCURSIONS.

I replied. I'M NEITHER CONCIERGE NOR BABYSITTER NOR ADMINISTRATIVE a.s.sISTANT.

Zenga was out there. Stalking. His eyes were fixed on the safe house.

I sent another message. WHY IS ONE OF YOUR BOYS PARKED OUT IN FRONT OF THIS SAFE HOUSE STALKING ME? B-159 IS OUTSIDE. IS THIS AUTHORIZED? IS THIS HIS a.s.sIGNMENT? ANSWER ME RIGHT AWAY OR I'M ABOUT TO START PEELING CAPS.

Five minutes pa.s.sed and no reply from the men in charge.

I said, YOU WANT ME TO STFU, THEN I WILL STFU. NOT AVAILABLE UNTIL I AM AVAILABLE AGAIN.

I turned the phone off and threw it on the bed.

I left the front room, but left the light on, a warning that I was awake, and returned to the darkened bedroom, locked and loaded, and spied out the next window. The neighbors were still copulating. Up and down and round and round. Zenga waited inside the darkened car.

I turned the lights off and waited for him, for someone, to make a move.

Then I wasn't sure that he was alone. He would have been a fool to come here solo.

This safe house was a two-bedroom coffin; each day it felt like strong men had come and pushed the walls in another half-inch. I put the briefcase on top of the built-in closet, pushed it to the back.

Then I put a new SIM card in my Samsung and made a call.

I showered again, showered with both guns near me, ears listening for any sound. Ten minutes later I had dressed and left the safe house from the back window, walked to the Ducati.

I started the Italian iron horse and cut across the next-door neighbor's yard. Zenga saw my headlight before I appeared. It was impossible to start a motorcycle without the headlight coming on. It was impossible to start an iron horse without being heard. He revved his engine and burned rubber trailing me, followed me across the same yard, was on my b.u.mper when I pa.s.sed the congregation of neighborhood drug dealers at their favorite Banks Beersponsored rum shop and paused at the roundabout. I looked back, showed him a middle finger. I cursed. The EMPTY light was on so I had to make a detour to the Sh.e.l.l station. The next gas station was miles away. They didn't have four gas stations at an intersection like they did back home. Gas stations on the island were still full-service, so I had to get off the bike, speak to a worker, and allow her to pump the gas.

Zenga pulled into the crowded lot, stopped in front of the cages where they stored bottle gas, then stepped out of his vehicle. Arrogant and ent.i.tled. Misinformed by whoever had sent him here. I marched toward him, hands in fists. I didn't see anyone else inside of his car.

He said, "You need to be careful, MX-401."

"I could tell you the same."

"You're not supposed to leave your post."

"Snitch. Report me."

"You already have a reputation as a goldbrick. I could call it in."

"Call the man behind the double red doors. Do what you have to do."

"We could always work it out in a way that benefits us both."

"What does that mean, exactly?"

"You look like a woman with a p.u.s.s.y made of iron, but I bet that it's as soft as a pillow."

"You've been drinking stupid juice."

"Had a few Banks. Enough beer to make me think about you from a new perspective."

"What new perspective?"

"Want to know what it's like to f.u.c.k a black woman and a white woman at the same time."