A Wanted Woman Part 43

He snapped, "Reaper."

Now a wild animal, I snarled at the men, regarded the others. They stood watching like we were Romans battling in an arena. I had downed their Spartacus. David ruled Goliath.

Dormeuil said, "Enough."

"Hope you brought an extra-large body bag."

"Stand down or get shot down. Company orders are to stand down or get shot down."

"Anyone who pulls a gun is next. I'm a cla.s.s M with a f.u.c.kin' X. You know what we have to do to earn a forty, and I did it at G.o.dd.a.m.n level one. You motherf.u.c.kers will respect me."

"Stand down, stand down, stand down."

"You didn't tell this f.u.c.ker to stand down when he fired on me."

"They are ordering me to shoot you if you don't comply in the next five seconds."

"He fired on me. It would be a fair kill."

"He didn't attack you. He fired at your feet. The rest was a fair fight."

"Who is nonpareil?"

"Let the man go."

"Who is nonpareil?"

"You are, Reaper. You are nonpareil."

"Tell this stupid sonofab.i.t.c.h what that means."

"It means you have no equal, Reaper."

"Say that again and say it louder."

"You won, Reaper. You are nonpareil. Now stand down."

"Tell whoever told you to shoot me to man up, get on a plane, get on a boat, ride a pelican, swim, I don't give a f.u.c.k, tell them to come down here to Barbados and meet me face-to-face to do their own dirty work. Tell them I said that. Tell them that I dare them to even f.u.c.kin' try."

"Reaper. Stand down."

Filthy from head to toe, I stood up over Zenga. While my attention was on the other men, Zenga kicked me backward, tried to kick me down, almost kicked the wind out of me. His blow had landed in my stomach, dead center. He kicked me like he wanted to destroy my ovaries. It hurt, but I didn't grab where I felt that mountain of pain. It hurt so bad I wanted to p.i.s.s my pants. I ran to him and kicked him three times, once to his gut, then twice to his back when he doubled over. I raised my foot to stomp his head, to try to stomp his brains into the earth, but the pyromaniac grabbed me and pulled me off Zenga. He pulled me and within a half second I had flipped him and put his a.s.s on the ground. He was terrified. I raised my foot to stomp on him, but he rolled away as fast as he could. I let him go. He knew that. I took a few steps back, doubled my fist, and shook it off. Zenga stood up, winded face bloodied, coughing, humiliated, no longer the ultimate Billy Bada.s.s.

I said, "How does it feel to have your a.s.s handed to you by a girl?"

"Don't flatter yourself, you f.u.c.king lesbian."

"You can't believe a straight woman handed you your a.s.s?"

"I'm not done with you. When this is done, we will meet again, Reaper."

He moved like he was coming after me, but the pyromaniac jumped in the way.

I turned to Dormeuil and said, "Tell your boy the next time he sneaks down to my safe house and tries to hit on me or tries to follow me or tries to do whatever foulness he intended to do, he will end up disarticulated and buried in a cane field in the Scotland area of the island."

Zenga barked, "White n.i.g.g.a b.i.t.c.h."

I opened fire, unloaded the fresh clip at his feet, made that b.i.t.c.h dance in the dirt, and when the clip was empty I tossed his gun back to him, made it land at his filthy feet.

Zenga went Hulk again and tried his best to get to me. The pyromaniac had a hard time holding him back, so Dormeuil jumped in. Dormeuil yelled for him to stand down.

Zenga showed his strength and determination and dragged both of them toward me.

I didn't move an inch. No surrender. No retreat. Too much Reaper in my blood.

Panting like a man gone mad, eventually Zenga stopped fighting them.

Dormeuil panted, "Reaper, Trinidad still isn't resolved. Not even close."

"Man up. You b.i.t.c.hes need to man up. Blaming the girl, leaving her out to dry, sticking her in a cell, pretending she's not on your team, treating her like c.r.a.p, that's a punk move."

"You killed two of their men."

"For the Barbarians."

"That wasn't what you were instructed to do."

"No matter what the f.u.c.k I did, they should've had my back."

"You had a specific target."

"If the Barbarians don't like the way I work, tell them to either get me backup or send in a f.u.c.kin' drone. I did it by myself, completed the task, and that still wasn't good enough."

"Walk away and I have to put you down. You know the rules. One way out."

"Then f.u.c.kin' put me down. All along you've had three choices. Have my back. Leave me out here on my own. Or put a bullet in my head. No one at RCSI has had my back. They did leave me the f.u.c.k out here on my own. So as I walk away, after you kiss my black a.s.s, do your thing, all of you f.u.c.kin' cowards, do your thing and shoot me in the back of my f.u.c.kin' head."

No hands raised. Another order came. I couldn't hear what was said.

They drew their weapons. Zenga pulled his the fastest. Dormeuil was last, reluctant.

I spat out blood, wiped my mouth.

I said, "Guns and bullets and a.s.sholes, oh my. You b.i.t.c.hes don't scare me."

"MX-401."

"I'm not MX-401 anymore. I'm Reaper. I'm Goldilocks Reaper, motherf.u.c.ker."

"You no longer work for the Barbarians?"

"I'm done. I no longer work for the Barbarians."

"You quit?"

"Draw your own conclusion. Record this convo, shove it up your a.s.s, and push Play."

"Anything else you want to say?"

"Blond is my natural hair color. I prefer the country to the city. I hate the Caribbean. And as of this moment, I am no longer MX-401. I am no longer a Barbarian. f.u.c.k the Barbarians. You think I'm stupid. I'm not. The drug bust here, the dozen I put down, then the drug runner I de-spined and de-d.i.c.ked the next day, all of that is tied to the LKs. That was LK property being moved by people who worked for that organization. The shipments you dumb f.u.c.ks stopped in Miami and New York, all of that had to do with the LKs. They will be after you next. Just a matter of time. Let's see who the Barbarians send to back you up. We're deep in some s.h.i.t and n.o.body wants to tell the f.u.c.kin' truth. I want to know why I had to do a hit in a bank, why the alarm didn't sound when I walked in with a gun, why a sniper couldn't have done that job. I want to know why the f.u.c.k the company is broke and I've been stuck here for eternity. I want to know who the f.u.c.k do you think I am, Boo Boo the Motherf.u.c.king Fool?"

I stood before them, calm. Waiting. Unblinking. Not backing down. Wishing that Petrichor was here, in the woods, her sniper's rifle ready.

Or her bow and arrow ready.

I wished she was here so we could have a shootout, a showdown made for the front page.

I said, "Look at the smoke signals. You'd better get to work before Rasta man burns all the money. The company needs it. Look up in the sky. Guess that was another wasted investment."

Then I turned around and walked away in agony, did my best to walk like a champion.

I felt it. Guns remained drawn for execution. Fat fingers were on slim triggers.

With each step, I antic.i.p.ated being shot in the back of the head.

Antic.i.p.ated pink mist.

My eyes looked at the Caribbean sky; each footstep felt like it would be my last.

By the time I made it back to the colorful LIME truck that I had stolen for this journey, I was sweating profusely. Zenga had sucker-kicked me like I was nothing. Before that, each blow was brick. I sat in the stolen van with the air conditioner on high, but it didn't do any good.

A large truck was parked next to mine. Sixteen-foot Chefette truck. Refrigerated. Tandem axle, dual reefer, cold plate. The Barbarians were desperate. If they did like the Germans did during their Hitler days and stacked the dead like cordwood, it could hold one hundred bodies. I had been the last to know. The Barbarians had already hatched their evil plot, had machinated to rid themselves of their Rastafarian problem. This had been planned a long time ago. At least forty days ago.

I drove away, took to the lean roads, again the pathway in the area so rugged it felt like I was off-road, and every time the vehicle was tossed, it reignited the pain that I felt.

The men here were just mindless employees. They probably had no idea that money was in the package they had brought me, had been told to give it to me and they didn't ask questions.

They knew they would deal with squatters, people with brown skin they'd never see as their brothers and sisters, people who had no real weapons. They knew they had arrived to initiate genocide. The Barbarians had kept us separated for a reason. Had given them reasons to dislike and disrespect me before they arrived, so that bit of psychology was in play before our first meet at Six Roads Library. That was why they felt free to disrespect me. They were told that I hadn't earned any respect, regardless of whether I had earned an M and an X. No one knew where all the land mines were buried. Workers were given a task, did their job, got paid, never met anyone else unless they were forced to collaborate, so there was no chance of conspiracy, and no chance of knowing when your number was up. Your reputation was your job security.

They would come for me. Like the LKs, the Barbarians would come for me.

I was imprisoned on Alcatraz and sitting on death row.

I asked myself what I wanted to do before I died, what I wanted as a last meal.

FIFTY.

Parish of St. James, the island's Platinum Coast He took me from behind, and when I pushed back up on my elbows, when I pushed up on the palms of my hands, when I arched my back and turned to look at him, the blindfolded man reached for me, the silhouette of his right hand finding my neck, dominating, squeezing.

He had me. I was weak. Closed my eyes. He found my hair, pulled my head back, and that pushed me over the edge. o.r.g.a.s.m. Felt like I was going to black out.

In the nighttime, smoke continued to billow and float up into starlit skies.

Each stroke was impressive. An o.r.g.a.s.m had come and gone, then ten strokes later I was close to another o.r.g.a.s.m, made intense sounds, said the fifteenth letter of the alphabet in many octaves. His heavy hand found my lips, covered my mouth, m.u.f.fled me, and I chewed his fingers, panted, put my nails in his skin. He didn't ease up. We battled. Grunted. I felt weak. Felt submissive. Then I took a breath and again was fierce and strong.

His stroke lightened; he gave me room to breathe, to recuperate.

He said, "You okay?"

"c.u.n.n.i.l.i.n.g.u.s included in my duty-free package?"

"All-inclusive. You want it now?"

"Yes, please. Lick me. Eat me. Put your tongue inside me. I need that."

He was good. Deliberate. I gripped his head. Held on. He sucked that part of me like he was trying to give me a hickey. Soon, again, I was loud. Shuddered. Didn't think it was possible to feel the utmost again. That was my first time coming on a man's tongue, putting o.r.g.a.s.m inside of a man's mouth. I pulled his face back up to me, pushed him back on the bed, mounted him. Rode him hard. Took deep breaths and rode him, my groove sinuous and intense.

Soon we turned over and I pulled him back between my legs.

I said, "Hard. Deep. Fast. Harder. Deeper. Faster. Harder. Faster. Harder."

Exhausted, suffocating, I coughed, wheezed, and loosened my grip on my rented lover, loosened my legs, legs that felt heavier than osmium. Chest heaving, he ran his hands over my body, groaned as he tried to move, then caught his breath and grinned. The sensation faded and an unwanted reality came back in degrees. With the encouragement from the palms of my hand, he rolled away from me, sweaty, just as winded. The air conditioner hummed. Cool air blew across my heated body like an Arctic breeze.

He whispered, "s.h.i.te."

"Yeah. s.h.i.te."

I fixed my eyes on the guns I had left on the dresser, then looked at the bruises on my arm, on my shoulder, on my thighs. I took a gun and went to the front door, made sure it was still locked, turned all lights on, saw nothing, only a naked man blindfolded. Then turned the lights off, double-checked the doors again, and eventually went back to the man I owned for a while.

I removed the condom from his John Thomas, flushed it, limped back, took a wipe, cleaned him, flushed that too, then I sat down on the carpet and took a few deep breaths as I ma.s.saged my temples. Stress remained. I did push-ups, then sat back and wiped away sweat.

A moment pa.s.sed. He said, "You're toned. You feel athletic."

"Skydive, mountain climb, horseback ride, kayak, snow ski, motorcycle race, Jet Ski, martial arts, salsa, tango, hip-hop, soca, country line dancing, have done it all."

"I can tell. You have marks on your skin. Felt them when I held you."

"Noticed you have a few marks too. There is a thick scar near your spine. Saw another on your leg and another one on your left arm, behind the right shoulder."

I handed him a fresh condom, impatiently watched him roll it on. Then I made sure that it was on the way it should be on. I stroked him and I squatted over my rented lover.

He sucked my breast as I rode him. He bit my nipple, sucked it hard.