A Wanted Woman Part 58

Maybe he was right and was just praying to a G.o.d who had no time for him.

I said, "Talk, War Machine."

"I'm in pain."

"I still have two bottles of alcohol left."

"No more alcohol."

I shook the bottle, made it slosh. "Talk or I push the d.i.l.d.o back inside of you. Talk or I push the b.u.t.ton again. Talk or I will yank it out of you again. Talk or there will be more alcohol."

"Let me catch my breath so I can be clear."

"Talk now or don't talk at all. Take me back to the Caligula party at the Carlton Savannah."

"The minister was expecting you at the Carlton. If he hadn't been unexpectedly delayed, it would have happened that night. If not for Appaloosa and all that came after, it would have been done there, on the roof, in front of many who would spin the story as we saw fit."

"Your misogynistic men didn't know what was going on."

"No. It had to look authentic, and even if the politician had struck the first blow and my men had then drawn and helped gun you down, it would have still been sold as the victory of the minister, an a.s.sa.s.sination attempt gone bad. Again the press. Again the coverage. Again the elevation of status."

"I'm not convinced."

"At this point, all I own is the truth."

"The woman who was raped for sport, that rape applauded by other women . . ."

"The one woman who refused Appaloosa many times, came with his rival. Came with an old man who brought her to spite him, to rub it in his face, to look down his nose at Appaloosa."

"Appaloosa was a spoiled brat with a gun, corrupted by power."

"He was a smart man, but not much on critical thinking, not when drunk."

"None of you were. At your Caligula party, all of you became typical frat boys."

"I'm hurting."

I said, "Keep going."

"The pain is distracting me."

"You want the pain to stop?"

"Yes, please."

"You want the pain to stop and I want the truth to start."

"You're insane."

More alcohol. Pain sharp and searing. Deafening screams.

Then deep breathing.

I whispered, "Talk. King Killer. He was in on this. He expected me at Rituals."

"He had no idea. If you're wondering if you seduced him, kudos. You did."

"Who sent the drinks?"

"What?"

"Who drugged me?"

"I have to confess. I did. I wanted to a.s.sure a victory on the rooftop."

"You drugged me so that when the target arrived, I would be an easy shot. It was you."

"I sent the drink. Yes. It was me. To give him an advantage."

"You had me searched, weapons taken away."

"Had all chopsticks removed. I knew yours would be filled with poison."

"Then pretended you didn't want me on the roof."

"I played my part. I monitored you, told the politician you had arrived, drugged you."

"You played your part well."

"You should've died on the roof of the Carlton. You should have been thrown from the roof."

"Why did you sacrifice your cousin?"

"There was no other option."

"You led your team into a mission with bad blood."

"It had gone public. Photos of my slaughtered men were on the front page of the f.u.c.king newspaper. There was an internal problem. We were seen as weak. Someone had to take the fall."

"He was your Colin Powell, forced to take the blame for what you allowed."

"Colin Powell?"

"Your scapegoat. You blamed your wrongdoings on him, tattooed him with your mistake, did what was convenient, even though it was wrong, not to mention it was an immorality among the immoral, and straight-up cold-blooded. You couldn't have had a meeting with the group and sorted it out?"

"Never felt pain like this before, but it does not compare to killing my cousin."

"The Barbarians sacrificed me, is that what you're selling me? You threw King Killer under a train, and they threw me under a Sherman tank. Connect the final dots for me. One more time. You had a secret partnership of some sorts, is that what, now that the tables are turned, I should believe?"

"At the start, it was for the greater good of two organizations."

"Playing this in my mind. Be patient with me. It went bad; they were about to order me back to the safe house after the bank fiasco, send me there so I could be caught by your crew, but you refused to pay. Your men were dead; you were outraged. The politico had blown it. He was dead. I was alive. No money. So they kept me away, pulled me off the island when you refused to pay, sent me to other islands, had me on hold while you argued, dropped me in Barbados, where I would be close, easy to get to if the money part worked out. When you held strong, refused to close the deal, they attacked you in New York and Miami. I was already in Barbados, so they used me there. They used me to shut down one leg of your business. I was sent to attack you because you didn't pay for not being able to kill me."

"Minor setbacks. Yes, done out of spite when I refused to pay after my men were killed."

"The dots are connecting. The guy I handled at the Gap, he was yours."

"An a.s.sociate, so to speak."

"He was in charge of your drug shipments there."

"We have contacts on many islands, intermediaries. Go-betweens we used to do things so our hands never get dirty, so our faces are never seen. They work the way the US does its dirty work."

"New York. Miami. Barbados. I have no idea what else they did, but it was all done to get back at you for not paying for the chance to kill me, then not paying after not being able to kill me. Laughable."

"Yes. Laughable. When you say it the way you say it, I do see the humor in the tragedy."

"How much did they charge for allowing a racist politician the chance to kill me?"

"The money we were due to pay them, it is here."

"Here? In this mansion by the Caribbean Sea?"

"It has been here the whole time. My wife discovered it."

"My employer was cash-strapped and willing to sell me to make ends meet."

"Your death would have bought them money and time. They had dealings in Barbados as well. The island has been chopped up and sold off and many companies have businesses there. Those unwise businessmen had a major real estate venture that had gone very bad. They allowed homeless men to put them in a bind. In the end, they were cash-strapped and desperate."

"They sold me to stay in business. You would've used my death to expand yours."

"I had read your credentials. You were perfect. No fingerprints. We could've said you were from anywhere. No blowback for the Barbarians. We could've killed you, shown photos of the Woman of a Thousand Faces on the news, online, all over the Internet and created whatever narrative we saw fit, could've made you out to be whoever we wanted you to be. We would have risen even higher."

I glanced at my hands, at my fingers. He was right. No fingerprints. They could've said I was from anywhere, from any country. I would have been Jane Doe used to further their cause.

I said, "If that's true, you're right, there would have been no blowback."

"Your designation of MX-401 would have been erased from Barbarian records with a keystroke."

"MX-401. You know who I am."

"Kiwi, I know who you are. You're MX-401."

"You could've gotten that off of a license plate."

"You're MX-401. That was all I needed to know. That was what they sold me."

I shook the bottle of alcohol. "You have anything to substantiate your claims?"

"Haven't I said enough? What more can I f.u.c.king say?"

"I wish I had killed all of you motherf.u.c.kers in Barbados."

He murmured a string of nonsensical sentences, winced, coughed, and ended his diatribe by shouting, "You were not supposed to kill my men."

"I sure as f.u.c.k wasn't going to let your men kill me, ya ra.s.shole."

I picked up the golf ball, shoved it back inside of his face, taped his bloodied mouth, wrapped duct tape around his neck. I went to my tools, my tools of torture.

I placed photos of his wife and children so he could see them.

Those would be the last images he saw.

I snapped on surgical gloves, covered my mouth with a surgeon's mask and welding face shield, and said, "Get used to the pain. For Black Jack, for the girl that you thought was Hacker, for the Barbarians you left rotting at the sanctuary, for the baby that was inside of me that you beat until it died and was expelled from my body, this lasts for four hours."

Blade in my hand. Tupperware at my side. Alcohol. Torch to cauterize wounds.

I said, "This is how you earn both an M and an X. This is how, War Machine."

I told him what few knew, what the M stood for, then the significance of the X.

I said, "Business is a bullet to the head, that or a knife to the heart."

I held up War Machine's hand, looked at his wedding ring. His prized Wellendorff.

I took it. Would add it to the collection of souvenirs from Swan Street.

I said, "This is personal."

Two hours later, I made it to the hand he had used to strike me. I dropped it into a bucket of used parts. He wished for death. With fire I cauterized his wound to stop the bleeding, the same as I had done with his other extremities. The flaccidity that had once been the stiffness he had used to intrude my orifices without invitation, I dropped it into the bucket as well. I cauterized where it had been.

SEVENTY.

I boarded War Machine and Diamond Dust's personal speedboat, a forty-foot Advantage Poker Run named The Corsair. Unsettled, I took off into the evening with the rear of the c.o.c.kpit open. It was like driving a very roomy luxury car on water. I slowed down, stopped, and sent a text, let anxious thumbs open Facebook and guide me to Black Jack's page, then posted a message.

You were right.

I paused, waiting for a reply, knowing one wouldn't come.

I sent a message to Big Guy. Told him I would need him to do some laundry for me.

I sent a message to Hacker, told her she'd get a brand-new car tomorrow.