A Wanted Woman Part 42

"How does taking your blood money benefit me?"

"You don't work. You live off the land, someone else's land. You have a large family and no income. You cut wood and make sculptures that sell down in the chattel businesses on River Road, but that's chump change. You live in makeshift houses that don't have windows and look like they could fall down during the next hard rain, let alone if a hurricane came here."

"We no complain. Hurricane don't come to Barbados, only pa.s.s by. G.o.d protect us."

"They say it's a legal contract. You benefit from the deal. You benefit more than people who work twelve hours a day. People are out there picking cotton for a few dollars a day and they are offering to make you a millionaire. Someone else owns this land. They have paid for this land. You're an illegal tenant. Your father brought you here as an illegal tenant. He knew that he was doing wrong when he did that forty years ago. You're just lucky it took them forty years to find out. Your family has had forty years of not having to pay for use of the land, forty years of no rent, has lived here illegally, and they are paying you to move. If anything, you are extorting them."

"Is that what they tell you to tell me?"

"Word for word. They have their hands up my a.s.s and I'm just the puppet."

"We have a legal right to this land."

"They want to know what it will take for you and the bank to work this out. How much?"

"It's not about the money."

"With that in mind, what will it take?"

"What you offer, I want twenty-four acres and five times the money."

"Twenty acres and five times."

"An acre for each of my children, plus a little more for me and my wife."

"They want to build up here. Twenty acres is about ninety-six thousand square yards, about fourteen football fields' worth of land, and that's substantial. That's a small town."

"They can build around me. Build a big wall around my land and build around me."

"I will tell them that."

"The money you bring to bribe me, you can leave that while they think it over."

"Sorry, I can't do that."

"Call the boss man and tell him what I say."

"He can hear you now."

"He can hear me?"

"Every word. He says if you sign, the money stays. Otherwise it goes."

"Then there will be no deal."

"You don't think this is extortion?"

"I am showing you what I think of bribery."

I inspected his shantytown, an ocean view in the distance, a great place for homes, condos, a park for kids, a mall that rivaled Limegrove. Another place for the rich to play, eat, shop, and s.h.i.t. That was what this was about.

He said, "Tell them again that my family been here forty years."

"The CEO wants to call you and talk. Do you have a cellular?"

"Yeah."

"Really?"

"We call people too."

"You're way back in the hills. No landline. No water. No electricity."

"I have money on my phone. Reception gone."

"How do you communicate with the rest of the island if there is an emergency? How would you know what was going on in the rest of the world or know if one of those fires was coming this way? How would you call for an ambulance or the police if you had an emergency?"

"Don't need to. We family. Family is more than money, more than numbers on a check. Your boss man is big corporation. He make billions and talks to me about a million like I idiot. This land is worth fifteen million. That was in the newspaper. I read that myself. That money he offer us is nothing to him. He think he G.o.d. I show him. We not squatters. We been here forty years. The man in Fort George not going to leave. We not going to leave either."

In the distance, sitting in the shade from trees, outside the front doors of their shantytown, were a dozen young adults, his children, and the children of his children. Each structure had been built using castaway materials, particleboard, stolen bricks, whatever could be found on the side of the road or on a construction site in the thick of the night.

He said, "I go get attorney real soon. I go to the Nation and tell them my story too. I get Sandy Pitt and Cherie Pitt to come here and take photos and put on front of the paper."

"If they give you what you asked for, will you consider relocating then?"

"Leave the money and I will consider it then."

"For you to even consider considering the deal I need to leave consideration?"

He nodded.

I said, "And in your eyes, that's not extortion?"

"You just pay me for the time it will take for me to think about it, that's all."

"A half million dollars to think about a deal that's already close to three million."

"I am a deep thinker."

"Which are you, an anarchist, autonomist, or socialist?"

"I am Rasta, not a stupid man. Squatting is the oldest way of life in the world. We are all squatters. Everyone on this island is a squatter. The white man is the Great Squatter. He was a squatter that had no pa.s.sport or papers and didn't go through customs, just got off of a boat and made this his land, then he brings his laws and his definition and changes it so the people here can't have a little land. Every time they change the law, the man born here gets less. Less money. Less job. Less land. The government make it so the man from England can get land and the man from Barbados lives on the side of the road. He wants his land and everybody else's land so he can build more hotels and buildings that only white people like him can afford."

"Too bad you couldn't go on Judge Judy and resolve this in thirty minutes."

"I don't care about no judge. I don't care about no law that come from England."

"They have instructed me to leave the consideration and hope you reconsider."

I put the briefcase down. He didn't hesitate to pick it up.

Maybe in his mind touching it implied ownership, same as placing his feet on this land.

I said, "Two days. Is that enough time to think?"

"Four days."

"You've taken the money and now you have changed the rules."

"We don't want to fight. We want peace. I bother n.o.body, but when I walk the streets down there, they treat me like I sell drugs, like I armed robber, like I hijacker and home invader, like I murderer since I don't look and act like them. We poor; we have nothing, but we not walking the streets begging. We not on the road hoping somebody will feel sorry for us and come feed we."

"They said to tell you that I'll be back in ninety-six hours."

"Leave. Get off of my land."

"Okay."

I hiked a few steps before I looked off to my left, just beyond one of the structures. I saw it all. Saw what the Rasta thought he had hidden. It was all congregated in neat piles. Windows. Doors. I saw a stockpile of construction materials that had been stolen and brought up here so that they could continue building illegally. I guess that they had found those, too, had found it all behind a locked door on the construction site of the big man from the Pines who was in business with the Barbarians.

The leader walked to one of the open pits. He opened the briefcase and fed a handful of the money to the flames. He looked at me to make sure I saw, then he fed the flames more money. I refused to be his audience. I refused to give him the reaction he yearned for.

I hiked down the slope, stepped over vines and rocks, moved around banana and mango trees, tamarind, the Atlantic Ocean so close, but the red-white-and-blue civilization I wanted so far away. A moment later, I looked back, looked beyond the self-constructed housing up into the trees. Made of rusted galvanized sheets and old wood on underdeveloped land. No sewage system. A soft breeze confirmed that I was near s.h.i.tting grounds. Beautiful section of earth rising up into the hills. Dried gra.s.s and brittle trees surrounded the family's dwellings, a close-knit family living off of the land, food and herbs. Had figured out the issue. Because of having lived on the land, having been in the woods for four decades, they had certain legal ent.i.tlements. They were dealing with the Barbarians, not the gentlemen at Sagicor.

When I made it to the bottom, the team had arrived, was waiting.

I walked across land toward them and said, "Did you hear all of that?"

Dormeuil said, "We heard all of that. The transmission was clear from start to end and the organization heard every word. They gave him one last chance. They gave him the deal of a lifetime and he spat in our faces, spat in the faces of the Barbarians."

"I want my money. If they can drop that much money on that guy, I want mine. Pay the big man but keep the little man begging for food stamps. What, am I working for Walmart? f.u.c.k that s.h.i.t. I want my money and I want it now."

"You haven't been paid, none of us have been paid, because of this. A hold has been put on everything going out, on every paycheck, until this is cleared up. RCSI is in the red."

"The Barbarians are looking at bankruptcy because of this?"

"Money had been invested and was being laundered through this legitimate enterprise and now it's a dead project. The Rasta is holding our G.o.dd.a.m.n money hostage."

"They made a bad investment, and I have to suffer for that s.h.i.t? Now what?"

"He took the money, grabbed the motza that you offered him to vacate the premises."

"Yes, he took it. You heard the transaction. I get it. You kept me out of the loop on this project, maybe to be sure that I was not in contact with the Rasta until this moment, left me in the dark until the curtain went up so you know that I wasn't in cahoots with him and I couldn't double-cross you."

"I'm like you, Reaper. I need to be paid, but I am a team player. I'm p.i.s.sed too. We're down here hurting and the arrogant f.u.c.k just walked away with a half million in cash for doing nothing."

"He's burning the money. Throwing it on the open flames as a sign of protest."

"He must be mentally ill."

"Just a man with deep values."

"Better values than his have been sold for much less than the Barbarians are offering him."

"Now what?"

"Operation Blackout."

"Operation Blackout?"

"Or until we're Winchester, which, with the equipment RCSI sent, is very unlikely."

Winchester was military-speak for out of ammunition.

I said, "There are at least forty people up there."

"So, get your guns. Get your ammo. Get your knives. Grab a flame thrower. Climb into the all-terrain. We have been ordered to go into the bush and handle this now. All communication has been cut off. He can't make a call. No one will be able to hear them scream. They want this over with."

"I want no part of it. I've been kept in the dark. I'm walking."

"You'll do what we say and go where we say. Now, get geared up."

I removed my earpiece and threw it at their feet.

Zenga fired his gun, made the dirt and gravel around my feet dance. He fired until his clip was empty, and before the last bullet had hit the ground, he had put in a fresh clip.

I didn't jump. Didn't run. As dust rose around my feet, I turned and stared at him.

He said, "White n.i.g.g.a b.i.t.c.h, you have something to say?"

I lowered my head, took two steps like I was leaving. Zenga laughed.

I turned on my heels and ran at him, charged at him like I was a raging bull.

FORTY-NINE.

I was on him, hungry, starving for a knockout punch, but had to settle for a hard blow to his nose. His nose shattered. Blood spattered. I drew first blood.

When he tried to swing at me, I was no longer there, but my left leg's roundhouse kick hit his bloodied nose two rapid times. The ground was gravelly and uneven, lost my balance. He charged swinging, dirt kicking from underneath his boot, a charging bull throwing haymakers. Two blows landed. One hit the side of my head, the other my arm. The head blow dazed me. If he had been a real fighter, he would have had me then. He grabbed me, pulled me chest to chest, and I gave him a head-b.u.t.t that shocked him, did it again and made sure his nose was broken. He gripped me tighter. A brawler who fought like a bear. He expected me to try to push away, but I did the opposite, moved in, grabbed his hair, pulled his head to my mouth and bit his f.u.c.king ear; bit down, gripped the meat, wiggled my head, chewed until I had a corner of his ear in my b.l.o.o.d.y mouth. The pain jarred him. Then I struggled, got my arms free. Could hardly breathe. Was near pa.s.sing out. I opened my arms wide and came in hard, slapped both of his ears as hard as I f.u.c.kin' could. He dropped me. But I still couldn't breathe. He grabbed my neck and choked me. He tried to come in closer, wanted to head-b.u.t.t me in return, but I held my knee between us, and when he lost his balance in the gravel I opened my arms wide, came in fast and hard, slapped his ears again, then tried to dig my fingers into his eyeb.a.l.l.s. He let me go and danced away in pain. Mouth bloodied, I spat his ear meat to the ground. I was panting. I was in pain. I was p.i.s.sed off. I took a deep breath and ran after his a.s.s, went after him while my lungs burned. He tried to throw dirt into my eyes, tried to blind me, but I turned my head away, closed my eyes, let my hair catch the debris. I ran and jumped, threw another kick that connected, then threw a second kick that missed. I feigned like I had lost my balance. That drew him in and when he was right where I wanted him, my leg shot out and my hook kick snapped, connected with the side of his head, hit his jaw with force, but missed his temple, what I had been aiming for. He backed away. I spat again, stepped toward him. He backed away again. I laughed. That enraged him. I had my wind now. I was ready for the death match. He threw punches and I blocked them all MMA-style, no bobbing and weaving, just stood straight and blocked, or slipped away, and each time I blocked, I threw a counterpunch or a kick that landed in his gut, hit his face, his busted nose. I did misdirection; faked like I was coming at him with my knee and when he moved to block, I went in for a punch, took a big leap and hit him across his face so hard it staggered him. Then I looked him in the eyes, grunted, and let him see that I was about to throw a left hook. When he raised his arms to block, he left his body exposed and I took that hook on a new path, managed a left hook to his right side, hit him in his liver, hit him hard and did my best to dig in behind his muscles; wanted him p.i.s.sing blood. Hitting him was like hitting a brick wall, but I didn't stop banging on him as hard, fast, and deep as I could. I beat his right side but did my best to make my fist come out his left side. My opponent was right-handed, but when it came to fighting I was ambidextrous. He faltered, was coming apart. I had figured him out. He could only hit with one hand. My weak side was just as powerful as my strong side, kicks with my left leg just as fast and just as powerful and accurate as the kicks with my right. Roundhouse kicks smacked his face like jabs. Hard kicks to his thigh slowed his charge. I kicked his thigh and tried to cripple him. Then a spinning back kick made him double over. Zenga wanted to go for a gun. He wanted to pull his blade from his boot. That would be like admitting I had bested him. He came at me as I went after him. He grabbed my leg on my next kick, another spinning back kick, grabbed my leg and I knew that he was going to try to use his brute strength to spin me and throw me like I was a Frisbee, but I pushed off of the opposite leg before he had his grip, pushed and made my body spin in the air, and I caught him in the temple with the opposite heel. He let go of me and went down into the dirt, scrambled in the gravel, dazed. Then someone was behind me and they caught my spinning back fist. It was the black guy from Texas. He was trying to stop the fight, and that wasn't going to happen. His boy was getting his a.s.s kicked and he wanted to stop the fight. Dormeuil told him to back off. Zenga was getting up. I ran to him and gave his face my right knee, gave it to his chin, hit him hard enough to make him need dental work. Then I grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it into his face, left him blinded and spitting away muck and blood. He went for his blade then. I kicked him in his ribs and he abandoned that course of action. He took another swing, found my leg, and yanked me off of my feet. I landed hard on my back. While I was down he then went for his blade again. As soon as he found the handle of his blade, before he had a good grip, I kicked his blade away from his hand. He came after me and I swept his feet from underneath him, made the big man fly, and when he crash-landed on his back, I was right there, relentless. I jumped up and came down on his gut with my knees, dropped all of my weight on him. He swung and caught my shoulder, knocked me back. I screamed and threw a hard blow into his groin, tried to hit his nuts so hard they would have ended up planted six feet under. He screamed. We fought. We wrestled and he pushed me on my back, was ready to beat my face to a pulp, but I caught him in a Brazilian jiu-jitsu chokehold, had him locked as he used his strength to turn us over and over. I never let him go. I couldn't let him go. My life depended on it. My foot was at ninety degrees. Had him where my thigh obscured his right shoulder and he couldn't use his arm to strike. My body was at an angle and I held his head tight with both of my hands, made his other arm immobile at the same time. He tried to use his strength to stand up, but I knew if he stood up, he would lift me and slam me to the ground, so I used my right arm and under-hooked his leg. He was stronger up top than he was below the waist. I had him in the perfect triangle, my right instep underneath my left knee. I squeezed my thighs tight. I yelled and squeezed tighter. I had his a.s.s. The sonofab.i.t.c.h wanted to tap out. He'd had enough. I let him go and he collapsed, unable to breathe. While he suffered, I grabbed the fallen gun, pushed the business end underneath his chin, pushed it deep into his flesh. Face dirtied, nose destroyed, part of his ear missing, he grabbed where his ear chunk used to be and stared up at me, stared at my dirtied face, my angry flesh, my scarred flesh, my bloodied and wounded flesh, tried to get a grip on my disheveled clothing, but it was too late. He panted and spat and felt the cold steel underneath his jawbone and knew that I could create pink mist. He scowled at my hardcore face, at the face of a Reaper.

Dormeuil called out in his Brooklyn accent, "MX-401."

I was in the zone, the hurting zone, the killing zone.