A Wanted Woman Part 50

I let the spine fall from my shoulder, allowed it to crash to the ground.

He said, "You were outnumbered, injured, and you took out three of them?"

"You've seen me. Get your laugh, and report this to your boys."

"I just follow orders for the corporation. You know that."

"That was my downfall. I trusted RCSI. Lesson learned."

"Let me get you some antibiotics from a dispensary before an infection sets in."

"Leave. Return to the theater of war or go home, but leave me as you found me."

"MX-401, get an infection down here in the West Indies and you can lose a limb."

"f.u.c.kin' leave. Leave. Get the f.u.c.k out. Leave. f.u.c.kin' leave."

That was when he heard Petrichor in the shadows.

In a harsh Bahamian accent, Petrichor said, "Mister Conky Joe, don't argie. When a woman says go, a gentleman should leave. Walk away or join the stiff-toe gang. When I slap a man, he goin stay slap. If I kill a man, he goin stay dead. First you, then all your friends."

Unarmed, Dormeuil didn't turn toward the voice.

He kept his eyes on me.

His men were on Swan Street, other side of the windows, beyond hearing at the moment. He spat, the gobbet of phlegm falling on the dirty floor not too far from his feet, his sweat coming on like a fever, his stench musky and strong, a smell of smoke and gunpowder and cologne and sweat, mixing with the oil scents, the stench of three new deaths that had made three bowels release their stink, his breathing now in spurts, thinking this might be his last breath.

He said, "Reaper, I just follow orders."

"When they ordered you to shoot me, why didn't you?"

"I'm leaving."

"Why didn't you?"

"You're Reaper's kid. I wasn't going to shoot Reaper's kid."

He kept both hands high and backed away. He hurried back out into the storm. He went back to Zenga and the black pyromaniac. They talked, looked my way, debated something. Debated my life. Debated my death. Dormeuil told them about the ax, the dead men.

He told them I had removed a man's spine with a blade and my fingers. He told Zenga that he had gotten off easy. Told the black pyromaniac that I was hotter than fire.

They all took to the rain, followed the way the LKs had retreated under fire.

Zenga moved with a limp. A bandage covered his damaged ear. Band-Aids covered his broken nose. I had f.u.c.ked him up real good.

Petrichor looked out, saw they were gone, and when it was clear, she came to me.

She asked, "How many of the LKs a.s.saulted you and what did they do to you?"

I searched the shop, grabbed another backpack, picked out more things that could be used as weapons. Knives. Short axes. Rope. Natural hemp rope, hand-twisted. Fifty-foot bundles. I grabbed one of those as well. Packed like I was going to go hunt zombies.

She repeated what she had already said. "How many?"

"I'm going to need you to carry this bag for me."

She cursed, held back tears, then commanded, "Sit."

"I have my second wind. Let's get moving."

"Not naked. You will not walk the roads naked or go into QEH half-dead and naked."

"Not going to QEH."

"Then we go to Holetown to Sandy Crest Medical Centre."

"Petrichor. Listen. Listen well. No one is going to be allowed to examine me."

"Why not?"

"Because I said so."

She said, "Limp over here. Hide behind this case. Hold up this wall until I get back."

Seconds later, I heard her break out the window at a store called Abeds. Everything that hurt magnified with each breath. Seconds moved like days. She returned with an armful of clothing. A black sweatsuit that had two yellow stripes down its sides, and black trainers, all a size too large, but much needed. Light running shoes. Could barely raise my leg. She helped me get dressed.

Gunfire restarted. It came from the direction of Broad Street. Brief exchange. No sirens. No flashing lights. An a.s.sa.s.sin party.

I said, "The shootout has moved back to the main road."

"I'm in a stolen F-250. A quarter mile away. Circled around and ran from by the Treasury Building and tried to cut them off, but missed you guys when you went inside of a building."

"Was trying to get to the roof and find you. Knew you'd be up top."

"You can barely stand up. Can you walk?"

"I don't need your help. I can walk."

"They s.e.xually a.s.saulted you."

"Focus. I need you to focus."

A spotlight came from overhead. Then I heard the rhythmic thumping sound. A helicopter. A second spotlight penetrated the darkness. Soon a third spotlight sliced into the night.

I said, "Those are Robinson R44s."

"Four-seaters."

I knew pilots who worked for RCSI and they wouldn't fly in moderate winds between ten and twenty-five miles per hour. I'd never seen one flown in a storm, but that didn't mean that it couldn't be done. Because it was being done three times over.

I said, "The LKs broke the bank to get me."

"Let them take their drug money and go."

"They didn't let me go. They showed me no professional courtesy. They had no etiquette, none whatsoever. So I need to catch up with them and be equally as hospitable."

There was no Bajan Air Force or police with choppers to chase them down. They could take to the air and be gone, unchallenged. They could exit Bridgetown in the dark, be back in Trinidad before power was restored. They would have taken me on that short journey, would have abused me from one island until I arrived at the next, then taken me to some faraway place, to one of their torture sites, invited more guntas, and continued their heinous rendition.

I looked into her eyes. Petrichor was gone.

What had happened to me had crushed her.

I asked, "What happened to you?"

"This is about you, not about me."

Not until that moment had I seen the hardhearted a.s.sa.s.sin that lived inside of her. Old Man Reaper's Bahamian daughter clenched her teeth, struggled to control her seething anger.

We walked the shopping strip, fired at anything, at anyone that moved. As I pa.s.sed injured men, LKs that had been left behind, I put a bullet in their heads. I did the same for dead men. One to the cranium and hoped they felt that in h.e.l.l. When I came up on Appaloosa, I raised my gun to shoot his face but changed my mind, dragged my ax toward his body, kicked him over, raised the ax high, and brought it down on his neck. Made him a two-piece. I promised to return for him soon.

Helicopters remained in the sky, the tropical storm giving them problems-that or they hadn't decided where to land, or their original landing spot had been compromised.

I had dropped my backpack and the LKs had been too busy chasing me to notice. It had to be close to where I had fallen before I had run into the mall. Close to where they had caught me. It was there. In the middle of the road, a black backpack covered by debris.

I picked it up. Grenades and flash-bangs were inside. I had run with it in front of me, just in case a bullet had found me. I had run for my life hoping that I didn't end up exploding.

Sirens were in the distance, barely audible in this weather, but there.

We took the road that fed into KGs Bar and Lucky Seven Slots Arcade. The MMM I Like I Like restaurant was around the corner. People were in the road. Not many of the people who lived on Nelson Street and in the surrounding areas had come this far, but the curious and foolish had braved the weather. No more than a dozen people were out. All had backpacks, looked lawless, ready to get to Swan Street and loot what they could. We walked by them. They looked at us, but not a word was spoken. A homeless man was in a doorway, sh.e.l.l-shocked and injured, drowning in the storm. He called out for help, said he was hurt and bleeding, and we kept moving. We had come this route on my chase. Marhill Street also corrupted, painted like a war zone. We paused near the Treasury Building, stopped where we could see Bridge Street, Bridge House, the Careenage, where the LKs had abandoned their vehicles in sight.

I asked Petrichor about the landing sites. She rattled off six locations.

I asked, "What's closer? They're circling here, trying to get picked up near town."

Petrichor said a property near Carlisle House used to be leased by Bajan Helicopters.

I asked, "They're closed?"

"Government raised the rent six times over and ran them away."

"Any armed security there?"

"None whatsoever."

"Landing pad usable?"

"It's been neglected. Might have trash and debris, but it would be inconsequential."

"That's where they might go."

"Can't agree. Four helicopters and one landing pad."

"Did you see a fourth?"

"They'd want to get up high. One of the car parks would be better."

"How many are there in this area?"

"Just the two. City Centre parking is five levels. BTI high-rise car park is right across from the landing pad and has three, maybe four levels. Both are tall and have wide-open roofs."

"City Centre is one of the tallest buildings in Bridgetown?"

"'Suicide Building,' the highest in the area."

"Is it easily accessible?"

"The fifth floor has been locked down since the last big splat."

"What type of lock?"

"A two-dollar chain."

"Guards?"

"They had posted guards on every floor and parking lot, but the top. No one allowed. A night like this, n.o.body will be there. All the shops are closed. Top level would be perfect for the choppers."

We followed the trail of destruction, ran over debris, sheets of metal, rebar, street poles. My battered hand held on as we rumbled. Courts was on fire, KFC on fire, confirming they had come in this direction. The fire at KFC erupted; a gas line had broken. The eatery spat out flames, puked and shattered the windows at Chefette, made its enemy erupt in fire. Shattered masonry, wreckage, security guard wounded or dead in the road. Helicopters above glowed like alien s.p.a.ceships, drew people in this direction like the Bat Signal attracted both Batman and villains. Huge holes were in the side of the building. Any car that was out had been gunned down, any driver who had come to this sector, killed. Vagrants were dead in the road.

This was more than the LKs tearing up Barbados; it was more than them being angry at this limestone and punishing her, more than them trying to sink the island.

This was desperation.

Barbarians were fighting the LKs, chasing the LKs, trying to kill them while comms were down and the rest of the LKs knew that RCSI was the b.i.t.c.h to blame for World War III. Pain hit me every time the truck hit a pothole or a b.u.mp or turned. A sharp pain came and went and came and stayed, a suffering one that came from the many kicks I had taken to my back and kidneys, and I tensed up, shuddered, held my breath, rode the wave of agony, panted, growled, tried to bite the back of my hand to keep myself quiet, but surrendered and set free a hard groan of agony.

Petrichor whispered, "They gang-raped you like they did the girl in New Delhi."

In a pained, sharp tone, I snapped, "Don't say that. I beg you."

"I smell the LKs on you. I can smell what those motherf.u.c.kers did to you."

The other helicopters moved our way. Winds had to be back up to fifty miles an hour, the gusts stronger, wicked enough to give them pause, maybe enough to give us much-needed time.

If I saw them, then in this darkness they could see our headlights as well.

She hit a rough patch of asphalt and I grunted, teeth clenched with the spasms, the waves of pain, the monster agony that refused to diminish. I throbbed. Vicious thrusts had loosened my bowels, had damaged me, gave cramps to my stomach. I shifted in my own filth, in my goo. I bled. More pain.

I shifted, unable to get comfortable, trembled and burned like fire.

We came to City Centre, the entrance next to a flaming w.a.n.g Qiu Li vegetarian restaurant. The serpentine car park entryway curved to the left, a sharp curve that ended on a slope at the next level. A metal roll-down security door that covered both the entrance and exit lanes had been rammed over and over until part of it folded and collapsed, but it didn't leave enough s.p.a.ce for a vehicle to pa.s.s. A handful of black SUVs had been left behind, and behind those SUVs were two trucks. One was a large pickup. The other was a refrigerated Chefette truck. I had seen both earlier in the day when I visited the Rastafarians. They were on foot. Gunshots echoed inside the parking structure. The battle continued. The Barbarians were desperate and the LKs were angry and improvising, had been forced to give up the hunt for now. This wasn't their island. As far as I was concerned, this was my island. I wasn't running away from them. Until my last breath, I would f.u.c.king run at them. The tropical storm intruded on them the way severe thunderstorms had once sp.a.w.ned a tornado in Washington and messed up the plan by British soldiers and caused significant damage to the city. The LKs were trying to destroy Bridgetown the way the Brits had burned Washington. Heavy rain had helped extinguish the fires that burned throughout Washington; heavy rains and floods would do the same here.