A Wanted Woman Part 7

"So what?"

"Haven't said her name."

"She never liked me either. That's why she gave me this stupid name."

"You never miss her?"

"No need worrying about someone who didn't like me."

"She was angry at me, not you."

"Whatever. What-the-f.u.c.k-ever."

I went toward the wall, stared at the Rorschach.

He asked, "What are you doing?"

"Relaxing."

"By looking at that mess?"

"It's like art."

"What?"

"It's like art."

"What are you talking about?"

I said, "Dora the Explorer smoking a joint with Jesus."

He stood next to me, tilted his head, and stared at the art he had created.

He said, "John Lennon riding a Jet Ski in the snow."

"Who rides a Jet Ski in the snow?"

The other guy groaned. He was the bodyguard. Old Man Reaper had sent me in first and I had gone toe-to-toe with that guy, had done a spinning back kick that hit him in the gut and before he could recover I had beaten him into dreamland with my knuckledusters. The guy tried to crawl to the door so he could escape. Old Man Reaper handed me his gun. I shot the man in the back of the head.

A Rorschach appeared on the beige carpet.

I said, "Now, that looks like John Lennon riding a Jet Ski in the snow."

He shook his head. "Dora the Explorer smoking a joint with Jesus."

I asked, "Are we done here in Dallas?"

"We're done here in Dallas."

"Any more jobs?"

"Nothing pending."

"I think it's time for us to part ways."

A long moment went by before he said, "Sure about that?"

"I'm sure. I still feel a raw anger. I should leave. I could turn on you one day."

"Hate you feel that way."

"I can work for the Barbarians and feed myself, get my own place, buy my own clothes."

"Okay. You're an adult."

"Maybe this time I'll be the one who vanishes for twelve years."

"If that's what you want."

"You can go on with your life."

"Before you take that call from RCSI, just be sure."

"I want to be a Barbarian."

"Why?"

"Because I've never been anything but picked on, ridiculed, and bullied."

"You could go to Hollywood and do voiceovers, be an actress, become a doctor."

"People have been mean to me all of my f.u.c.kin' life. I've never belonged to anything."

"Why become a Barbarian?"

"To make money. To get away. To find where I belong in the world."

He asked, "Are you okay?"

I didn't answer.

He said, "You really want to hurt my feelings."

"No more than you wanted to hurt my mother's feelings."

"Don't do this, Goldie."

"You hurt mine first. You hurt mine first."

"Before we part ways, I need to train you for another sixty days."

"What have we been doing?"

"Compared to what you will need to know to work for the Barbarians, that was bulls.h.i.t."

FIVE.

Memphis, California, and Dallas fell away from my mind, as did Old Man Reaper.

Had to focus. Air conditioner hummed in the bedroom of the safe house. Rain had just stopped falling in the north of Trinidad, but the streets were clear down in the Port of Spain and in Cascade.

It was getting close to show time. Like a fighter, I slipped into my ritual. I stretched for forty minutes. Did push-ups. Threw a hundred kicks. Then for the umpteenth time I went over the plans for the Carlton Savannah. I drove from the southern part of the island, from the safe house that was past the lighthouse, went back into Port of Spain, rode the world's largest traffic circle, exited that roundabout and found my way to the Carlton, to the small car park next to the pool, left my ride staged one wall away from where the late-night party would be. I left a wig, a change of clothing. Since I had no driver I left the doors unlocked, keys in the ignition. I staged weapons as well. Then I saw it was after eight p.m. Rain was falling. I walked back up the road that led to the Hilton, checked in as Samantha Greymouth, went to the room, showered, changed, checked myself in the mirror, then I turned the AC up and waited.

Minutes before eleven the phone in my room rang. King Killer was in the lobby. When I exited the elevator I saw that he had arrived in a limo, a murderous Prince Charming to collect his deadly Cinderella.

King Killer set the pace for the night, kissed me on my neck right away.

Penetration would be required to pull off this job.

I'd take one for the team, let them know I was committed to the cause. The target was a good-looking man. I could think of worse ch.o.r.es. Maybe I'd finally take one for me too, take one and be able to forget about Johnny Parker. Take one from a handsome gunta and be able to put Florida behind me.

King Killer put his soft lips on my neck and a chill ran up and down and up and down my spine and settled between my thighs. I trembled, then pulled his face to mine, gave him my tongue, played cat and mouse with our tongues, heated up the lobby. Not since Johnny Parker had I felt a tingle like that.

King Killer admired my lips, hair, cleavage, said, "Had no idea you would look so stunning."

We French kissed. We kissed again. Then we tongue-kissed a third time.

I said, "We better leave before the growler gets too moist."

His driver drove us around the world's largest roundabout. King Killer rubbed my thighs as he pointed out the notable "Magnificent Seven" landmarks set around Queen's Park Savannah, ran his finger across my v.a.g.i.n.a as we pa.s.sed Queen's Royal College, leaned over and kissed me as we pa.s.sed a fairy-tale-looking Stollmeyer's Castle. He moved my dress from my shoulder, pointed out German Renaissance architecture as he rolled my nipple between his finger and thumb, pointed out French architecture and leaned in, licked my nipple, the president's house, White Hall, Roman Catholic archbishop's house just words he mumbled as he sucked my nipple like a baby. He stopped feeding long enough to tell his driver to make another trip around the Savannah, and drive slower.

He put his face between my legs. I closed my eyes and my fingers dug into the seat.

He ate my p.u.s.s.y. He ate my p.u.s.s.y well.

Like Johnny Parker had done thirty nights in a row.

Then King Killer sat back, drank wine, and smiled.

I adjusted my dress, grinned, returned the same wicked expression.

Minutes later the limo driver was letting us out in the tight driveway at the posh and contemporary Carlton Savannah, a hotel like the W in the States. Town Cars were in a line to let their pa.s.sengers out. The Laventille Killers had booked every room. Drug money gave many the opportunities of a lifetime, something going to college for four years rarely did. The LKs owned Trinidad. They had so much control that the newspapers and television stations never mentioned them for fear of them doing a blackout, killing them and all the members of their family. I looked up in the air, my attention drawn by the bright lights and the hard beat from soca at the top of the chic five-star hotel. The main party was on the roof. From where I stood I could tell no one was downstairs at Waterbaby Bar by the pool. No one was at the two bars or the two restaurants, Relish and Casa. f.u.c.k. The self-important men had shut down everything except for the top level of the hotel, had everything locked down like they were the Secret Service guarding the president. That had not been in the intel. They had flowcharts on the walls of the safe house, had delivered me a doorstopper, and this was not the plan. The instant we entered the hotel, security was searching every man who wasn't an LK, and they searched all the women, first with a metal detector, then a pat-down that felt like molestation, more foreplay than I'd had in the last month.

We made it to the elevator and I was searched again.

My intel had said that the party was going to be on the main level, poolside. I had staged my exit based on that information. I could have done the hit and if anything went south, could've been over the wall in two blinks of an eye. My escape vehicle was still there, tinted windows, keys in ignition, had seen it as we pulled up in our limo. Evidently someone had changed the plans and the gathering wasn't right off the lobby. It was too late to turn back. When we got on the elevator, the attendant pushed the b.u.t.ton for the top. With no workable plan, I'd have to effect a hit twelve stories high. I cursed.

King Killer asked, "Are you okay?"

"Lifts make this Kiwi a wee bit nervous. Bit claustrophobic."

When the elevator door opened on the 2,400-square-foot rooftop, soca ruled the air and I stepped into the party of all parties. It looked like people who were Roman Catholic, Anglican, Seventh-day Adventists, Presbyterians, Methodists, Jehovah's Witnesses, Spiritual Baptists, and Orisha by day all had the heart of l.u.s.t and wanted to wine at night. It was as colorful and extravagant as Carnival in Rio. Most of the women had on s.e.xy, easy-to-take-off dresses, but walking in the crowd were dozens of women in high heels, feathers, beads, and Carnival costumes, only most of the women were topless. Beautiful women were dancing with suited men, smoking ganja, drinking hard liquor and wine, partying, wining to soca.

Some women were giving men oral in the open, but no one seemed to notice.

I said, "Wow. Looks like I've stepped into real-life Internet p.o.r.n."

"You wanted to have a night in Trinidad that you will never forget."

The moment I exited the elevator I was stopped, then I was searched again. A shapely woman searched me. She was more percipient than she appeared to be. She held her hands over my v.a.g.i.n.a and a.n.u.s and asked me to cough. She was serious. I thought that this humiliation was the end, but she wasn't done. It took a woman to notice my hair sticks, Swarovski and rhinestone chopsticks, plum flower in an antique bra.s.s finish. With a kind smile she asked me to remove both. I did and let my long mane fall.

She looked the hair sticks over. If she had found the release b.u.t.tons she would have been surprised. One had a removable tip that would expose two inches of steel sharp as a scalpel.

The second had its tip dipped in the deadliest of poisons.

She said, "I have to keep them."

"Those are priceless family heirlooms from my long-dead nana in New Zealand."

The b.i.t.c.h ignored me, handed me a claim check number in her next breath.

King Killer touched my shoulder. "She is only following procedure."

"Those are priceless."

"They will be returned."

Behind the rude girl with the f.u.c.k-you-foreign-tall-and-elitist-b.i.t.c.h att.i.tude were dozens of French combs and hair chopsticks. She pointed to items taken from other women, none as extravagant as mine. Again she inspected my hair pins but never found the release b.u.t.ton, was ber-fascinated by the detail, their beauty. She regarded me with envy and disdain. The outsider in her West Indian world.

I let that go, focused, walked like a model, slow steps, hips moving in a tick-tock motion, b.r.e.a.s.t.s firm yet with a subtle bounce, and took in the fete. "This is wild. I thought this was a Christian island."

"Old Testament tonight. My organization, we prefer to follow the Old Testament."

"An eye for an eye."

"We do what needs to be done. Turning a cheek has never helped a man advance in this world."

"So, you rich and handsome blokes are fans of the vicious G.o.d who had fits and destroyed all. A G.o.d who didn't hesitate to destroy every man, woman, and infant, cattle, sheep, camels, and donkeys."

He asked, "Are you against revenge?"

"I am a pacifist. I don't hold the bleak belief that vengeance offers the only recourse in a mad, violent world. Revenge turns people into the shadow of the enemies they despise."