A Wanted Woman Part 47

The Kiwi fought her way through the torrent, headed for the bridge and Independence Arch. Boats and catamarans were in the Careenage, but the storm made those of no use. Her only option would be to vanish into the shops and bars in that section, maybe race to the BIDC car park and commandeer another vehicle and try to escape again, but gusts of wind shoved the Kiwi in the opposite direction, toward the inlet, forced her to stay in the open and accept the punishment from the storm. Abrupt gusts that left her holding on to anything that she could use to keep from being blown down, or swept away and tossed into the violent sea.

Weighed down by their weapons of choice and carrying artillery, War Machine and the Laventille Killers battled the same forces of nature. Sweat blended with the rain, with the salty sprays from the sea that were mixing with the downpour. Weapon in each hand, War Machine stood between Appaloosa and Kandinsky. Guerrero, anxious, was reloading his guns. They all gave chase, ran against the winds, fired at will. The Kiwi fled, ran like a track star, at times pausing long enough to return fire. The wind was in her favor and she ran like she was the b.a.s.t.a.r.d child of the G.o.d of Thunder and an African wind rider.

War Machine growled and suppressed his never-ending rage.

Appaloosa motioned behind them, called out to the rest of the LKs.

Red and blue lights flashed in the darkness, brightened the downpour, their arrival announced by the scream of sirens. They had company. Five police cars pulled up, each blue and white, arriving on the heels of the one before, arriving with unbridled fear and determination.

War Machine motioned like he was a G.o.d that controlled all that surrounded him. His team spread out, opened fire on the officers. They created a dozen widows and countless fatherless children without hesitation. That done, they turned back to their elusive prey.

She fled across a narrow bridge that led to all the shopping areas.

On that side of the main street was a maze of narrow streets, a spider's web of escape routes built in the same style that those across the pond in the UK had used for theirs.

The side of a two-level fast food eatery called Chefette exploded, sending a roar into the storm and purple and golden debris flying into the center of the main road.

War Machine motioned to lower the launcher. His team member did as commanded.

Anger swallowed thoughts as they sweated, grunted, and chased.

The Kiwi had changed her course, cut to her left, moved from Broad Street to Swan Street, ran by stores that sold fabric, household items, jewelry, and clothes. The stores were bi-level, upstairs formerly used as residences, but now being used as warehouses. She sprinted down the pedestrian walkway past a line of shops and malls toward White Park Road. Guns. Flash-bangs. Grenades. She was more resourceful than antic.i.p.ated.

War Machine ordered, "Do not lose visual."

"What if she drops another explosive?"

"If the Kiwi had any left she would have used it by now."

"Where is her team?"

"She has no team."

"How do you know for sure, War Machine?"

"She has no team."

The second-level windows at KFC were blown out.

Da Costas Mall was on fire.

Explosion followed explosion followed explosion.

As they chased, men fell back and guarded their rear, made smoke and flames rise, turned Bridgetown into a disaster area, buildings that had been there for decades now damaged or destroyed.

Town crumbled.

Flames became enormous, ravaged the area the way a fire had ravaged 20 Swan Street in the distant past, the way a beautiful and exotic fire had destroyed homes and acres of Lower Bridgetown, when the area had been cleansed by h.e.l.lfire and nicknamed the Burnt District.

By sunrise, it would be called the Burnt District again.

FIFTY-SEVEN.

Drowning in rain, I sprinted, feet slapping my b.u.t.t with each stride. They ran just as hard. Fear gave me wings but determination gave them the power of flight. Bridgetown remained a blur, a maze of death. I cut right at a sign that read START DE TOWN, signage that exploded as I went down the promenade toward marketplaces. Another S.Y. Adam & Son caught bullets, then caught a projectile and exploded. Another explosion made the earth shake under my feet, made me stumble, and I dropped my backpack. Needed it, but couldn't go back for it, ran into the wind, made hard turns into deeper darkness. Heard them. Each block they were closer. Bolton Lane. Mandela Plaza went by. Another close call. Night lit up and debris flew. Sewing World would need sutures. Ran toward High Street Mall and Market. Guntas had fanned out, had run me in circles. Now they were coming from the left, the direction of the National Council on Substance Abuse, so I was forced to go right, again toward Moon Diamond Mall. The front of the mall had been destroyed. I ran inside. Bullets danced across cinder blocks and broke gla.s.s that had already been shattered, that shrapnel attacking my flesh.

I tried to get to the top of a three-level beige stucco building, needed to get to the rooftop, had to get to the roof, or die. It was connected to a block of businesses the same height and shoulder to shoulder and I could flee across the rooftops, run to the end and drop down to the main road. Pain made me slow on the second level. Too hurt to move at this pace for long. Looked down. Yellow walls, white tile, stairs with sharp edges. Moved upstairs. Saw Beautiful Tresses Hair Studio. Broke open the doors and fell to the floor. Turned on my flashlight. Pink walls. TV anch.o.r.ed up high. There was no exit. There was no back door. No windows. A cave inside of a cave. Heard them charging up the stairs. When they were outside the shop, War Machine called out. I fired until my clip was dry. They returned fire, firecrackers lighting up the dark, destroying everything in the shop. Ruffians and hooligans never backed off, were too savage and feral. They came into the small room gun by gun, one by one, so close they were one huge shadow, the business ends of guns on me, red dots dancing on my flesh. Eight guntas. Three carried swords. Flashlights on wrists illuminated my new jail and danced on the blades of their toys, barbaric tools that were a tribute to the olden days. They wore grotesque masks like it was Halloween. Masks to conceal their ident.i.ties. Monstrous masks that were meant to give me horror showed me what they were made of inside. Now they wanted me to give to Caesar what was Caesar's. Couldn't let fear seize my limbs. I had killed a handful of them, and I wanted to take at least one more with me to see Jesus's daddy, maybe play dominoes with me while we sat in the waiting room in the sky. Light reflected in the mirrors over the workstations. They had brought their ugliness and were going to turn this cage into their slaughterhouse, would butcher me and give me their ugliness inside of a beauty shop, would kill me or leave me dying here. Outnumbered. Outgunned. No bullets left. Still I stood in front of them and raised my fists.

FIFTY-EIGHT.

The Kiwi.

They had her trapped inside of a beauty shop, a brick jail cell that had no exits.

They had the Kiwi. Wide-eyed. Wild expression. Rabid. Panting for air. She fought. A spinning kick to the gut of one man. A head b.u.t.t to another. She fought like a demon, boxing, kickboxing, Muay Thai, mixed martial arts, grappling, and karate all wrapped into one, but she was wounded and slow. She was a woman and there were mechanical advantages to being a man, the testosterone, the muscle ma.s.s, the size of the hands, the power from the shoulders. She fought like she didn't care about the advantages that men had, didn't care about weight cla.s.s, fought like she was Changpuek Kiatsongrit.

War Machine watched, Appaloosa, Guerrero, and Kandinsky at his side, winded.

She threw another kick, this one not as fast, not as powerful, her body ragged, exhausted, and her foot was trapped. A second gunta attacked her, then a third, then a fourth, and all struck her fast with a hard fist, beat her until she could no longer defend herself, sent her to the ground. She fought to get back up. The guntas kicked her around the floor until one of them raised her up and hit her with his fist, a powerful blow to the head. She went limp, hit the concrete floor, disoriented, unmoving for ten seconds of their laughter, unable to rise again. They kicked her like she was an animal. All she could do was cover her head, pull into fetal position. Her face was bloodied, as was her body. She had been hit by three shots, at least three, plus her shoulder and side, telling of her rising pain.

She had run for her life, had run injured.

War Machine was impressed.

Appaloosa stepped forward, pushed War Machine to the side; then they lorded over her.

The gigantic gunta ordered, "Cut away her clothing."

Guntas flipped her over on the wet, muddy, and dusty tiled floor, four thugs, dripping of rain and sweat, holding her down, weighing down each limb as Appaloosa came up behind her. He undid his pants, walked to the front of her, showed her his d.i.c.k, cursed her, threatened her, circled her, and dropped to his knees. He viciously slapped her struggling a.s.s and told her he was about to have her from the rear. She cursed them, continued to fight. Four men couldn't hold her still.

War Machine said, "Get to business and be done with it."

Appaloosa said, "She's done fighting. She's given up. She finally understands. Let her go. I have her now."

Guerrero said, "You don't have her. She's bucked you away."

War Machine commanded, "Flip her back over. Do it rough. Kick her a.s.s. Entertain me."

Guntas picked her up, held her up high, and let her drop to the concrete floor.

Then they stepped back, sea water and sweat stench in the air, all ready for the show.

Appaloosa said, "Golden p.u.s.s.y. King Killer had the golden p.u.s.s.y of a pretend Kiwi."

She was down, in pain, and as the men surrounded her in the cramped shop, as it sounded like thunder and lightning had joined the tropical storm, Appaloosa went after her, the hunter of killers went after the wounded a.s.sa.s.sin, dropped to his knees, took the general rape position, man on top, pushing his c.o.c.k close to her c.u.n.t, between her legs, but was surprised when she didn't submit, when she exploded, surged, knew how to move, had her arms out straight against his chest, water raining from his immense frame as she grunted and strained and pushed his weight up. Stronger than she looked, her adrenaline giving her power. He grunted and strained and tried to give her all of his weight and strength and tire her out, that wrestle going on as men cheered for him, as she spat and looked like Atlas about to be crushed by the world, as he tried to get better positioned and push down, his weight at least 150 pounds greater than hers, his muscle ma.s.s greater, but she shifted, found s.p.a.ce, found an inch of breathing room during this endurance test and moved like his size gave her no fear, moved like she knew how to shrimp away, not like the other women, not like the women who had submitted right away, not like the women who saw the LKs coming, saw them, knew how it would end, and submitted. He was forced to regroup. When he pulled his weight back for a moment so he could readjust his position, she moved and struck him, hit him with a fist to the eye, tried to get the heel of her hand to shove his nose back into his brain, fought like a well-seasoned fighter would fight, not with claws, not like a girl, but her nails did still manage to mark his skin, gave him pain, and that pain made him scream in agony. His men cheered. They kicked her as she fought, but she didn't collapse. Appaloosa yelled for his men to back off, angrier now because his men saw him almost bested by the Kiwi, and that motivated him, enraged and aroused him, and in that moment, she managed to get her feet up to his thighs, got him out of the rapist position, one that had been practiced and perfected, and she kicked him hard and strong, kicked him like she was in a cage fight, grabbed his hands, his wrists, reversed the situation and made him the victim, kicked his face, legs bicycled, and she kicked up to his nose, bloodied his nose, kicked his stomach, kicked his chin, kicked him and the big man fell back, fell over, stunned, embarra.s.sed.

Appaloosa said, "I'm going to f.u.c.king kill you."

She lay there, on the floor, wounded, growling, each sound threatening.

Guntas raised their guns.

War Machine said, "Spread her legs from Jamaica to Trinidad."

The men attacked her again, flipped her again, Appaloosa outraged, but not wanting to take any more chances. When the men held her facedown, the giant sat on her, then raised up again when she bucked, stood tall and dropped his weight on her lower back, knocked the wind out of her, did that twice. That pain, that level of agony paused the fight in her, and as the Kiwi lay winded, Appaloosa grabbed her neck, pulled her hair, slapped her head, struck her face, then strangled her. He yanked her a.s.s up to him, forced himself inside of an orifice, not caring which, not caring how much she tensed, not caring if she were already occupied or filled with blood, leaving it up to her how she took what he was giving.

She tensed, inhaled and exhaled like a demon, but refused to scream.

He roared, "Oh, I have the Kiwi b.i.t.c.h now. My c.o.c.k is deep in the Kiwi b.i.t.c.h."

War Machine said, "She's not giving up."

"Oh, I'm loving this. Let her keep fighting. Take this d.i.c.k, b.i.t.c.h. Take it all."

She fought without stopping, fought and forced him out of her grotto. Guntas watched. War Machine watched. Guerrero watched. Kandinsky watched. Appaloosa beat her in her back, struck her kidneys until she couldn't fight anymore, found an opening, found a place that widened for his erection, and with a grunt he shoved hard. He had her better that time. With all of his power, he grunted and shoved all of himself inside of her, into her slit, widened her gap, breached her, forced his d.i.c.k inside of her hole. He pulled out and pushed inside again, pushed deep, pushed hard. Most women had broken by then, had cried and uttered loud, harsh cries, become infantile, squawked and bawled, prayed to G.o.d or Buddha or Jehovah. He wanted her to yawp to G.o.d. He wanted her barbaric yawp to sound over the roofs of the world. Then he did it a third time. A fourth time. A fifth. A sixth. He wanted to break her. Seventh. Eighth. Ninth. Tenth. Not until then did the b.i.t.c.h's eyes open, then they widened as if she could see the other side of the universe, not until then did her back arch, not until then did she stop fighting, stopped moving and tensed like she had gone into shock, then her mouth opened and there was no sound, her mouth wide open, her face in pain, severe pain, and there was no sound, not until she managed to catch her breath, not until her lungs filled with humid air. He pulled out and pushed inside of her again. Then he went for the second orifice. Pushed hard. Not until then did the monster who had come to their land and killed two of their brethren open her mouth and make a sound. Finally, she howled. To the guntas, that cry, her excruciating pain, was like the punch line to the joke of all jokes. She howled that she would kill every man in the room.

War Machine nodded. Retelling this vile moment would please his angered and discontented wife. It would please the vexed and depressed and inconsolable wives of the guntas.

War Machine said, "Barbarians. This b.i.t.c.h is a b.l.o.o.d.y Barbarian?"

Kandinsky held his gun and his sword and said, "Where are the others?"

Guerrero said, "I hope there are others. I hope there are more for us to kill."

War Machine told Appaloosa, "Be done with it. A queue has formed."

One of the guntas pulled away his shirt, used it to cover her head, to make her blind, but that didn't m.u.f.fle her curses, her arrogance, her threats that ended upon penetration.

War Machine thought about his wife, his kids, especially his daughter.

He thought about his dead cousin, the childhood friend he had killed because of this woman. As Appaloosa took the infiltrator of their group, War Machine went to her, outraged, and he punched her, punched her and she went limp, arms and legs spread out.

That was for his cousin. That was for the pain he felt to his bone marrow.

The men pulled War Machine away, but he raised his hands, back in control.

War Machine said, "f.u.c.k her back to this side of the world. f.u.c.k her back awake so I can knock her back out and then you can f.u.c.k her back and I can knock the Kiwi b.i.t.c.h out again."

A handful of thrusts, Appaloosa's back arched, and he cried out in pleasure.

After his strong finish, he collapsed on top of Reaper, slapped her thighs over and over.

He rested on the unmoving woman, then pushed up on his palms, drenched, in a room that was a damp oven, all the men that circled him drinking, fanning themselves in the dim light rays of flashlights, sweat dripping. Appaloosa reeled in his c.o.c.k, his tool of terror, stood, reached for a Shandy, drank it all in one long gulp, belched, and asked who would take the b.l.o.o.d.y Kiwi b.i.t.c.h next.

The Kiwi lay there like she was dying, breathing hard like she was on the way to heart attack and organ failure. She pushed up on the palms of her hands and roared.

Boiling in anger, she kicked at them from the floor, but she was done.

In a livid, pain-filled voice she said, "You call yourselves men?"

"Don't you ever shut up? What kind of woman are you?"

"f.u.c.king me won't put fear in my heart. And raping. Me. It won't silence. Me."

"This will be the kindest thing my men will do to you. This will be kinder than what will happen before you leave for Trinidad, much kinder than what will happen when you arrive."

They were not done. This was intermission. One of the guntas reached into his bag, not for a weapon, not for condoms, but for Carib Ginger Shandy, Sorrel Shandy, Lime Shandy, Stag and Banks beers, and pa.s.sed them to his men. They popped the tops and they drank.

They p.i.s.sed on her the way US Marines had made urine rain on dead Taliban terrorists.

When they were done, she snapped, "That's the best you can do, you disgusting f.u.c.ks?"

"Just pray you're not lying about being a Barbarian."

"f.u.c.k the Barbarians. You're two sides of the same coin."

"If you're not a liar, many Barbarians will suffer the same way. We know all about RCSI. We have kept our distance, have respected their business, their a.s.sociations, and not once have we encroached on their territory. We respected the silent arrangement. A silent agreement has been violated. You came onto my island and killed two of my men in the light of day."

"It was an a.s.sa.s.sination. Your men were collateral damage."

"They had families. They were my brothers. They were off-limits."

"They were off-limits? What does that mean, War Machine?"

"You took a big risk."

"They knew the risks, just like I knew the risks. Why were they off- limits?"

War Machine asked, "Anyone want to f.u.c.k this b.i.t.c.h again before we leave?"

Guerrero said, "Not after we've p.i.s.sed on her. But we should f.u.c.k her big mouth."

Kandinsky said, "Make her suck our d.i.c.ks and shut up, until the storm eases."

Reaper laughed. "Line up. All of you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, and all of you are b.a.s.t.a.r.ds abandoned by their fathers and some by their mothers. Come on. See who gets their c.o.c.k bitten off first."

Guntas grabbed Reaper, held her wrists and dragged her from the devastated beauty shop. She fought them. They shoved her down the concrete stairs, and as she lay motionless, dirty, filthy, muddied, they pulled her out of the building, across the flooded streets. They dragged Reaper across new rivers of filth, pulled her recklessly across debris and concrete.