A Wanted Woman Part 1

A Wanted Woman.

Eric Jerome d.i.c.key.

To Frannie.

"History is written by the victor because the loser is dead."

-Fightville.

"Humans don't change that much in fifty years. Or a hundred. Or a thousand. It's the laws that change, the rules, the civilization. We just repeat ourselves."

-Rectify, Season One, "Modern Times"

"The other part of me wanted to get out and stay out, but this was the part I never listened to."

-The Long Goodbye.

REAPER.

Prelude.

Gunfire. Screams.

Four people dead within seconds.

Dozen wounded.

Dead bodyguards.

Dead bank guard.

Dead politician.

Collateral damage.

Blood flowed in two directions, the Nile reaching for the Mississippi.

The living became the dead, waiting to chat with Jesus's daddy.

Dora the Explorer many times over.

The Trinidad contract was f.u.c.ked from the start.

That was the feeling I had as my Liat flight rocked through the storm and touched down on a West Indian island that I knew nothing about, only that I was dispatched there to make a living man become a dead man. Rain flooded parts of the island. Mudslides in areas named Woodbrook. Diego Martin. Glencoe. Cars were drowning in water as muddy and murky as the Mississippi River. After I landed and cleared customs, the right-hand-drive rental van was in the lot, the key hidden under the front tire. A map was in the glove compartment. No GPS, so I had to figure out the spaghetti roads on my own, everything in reverse to what I was used to in the States. Looked like the roads were designed by the British. It had taken me hours to make it northeast to the safe house, half the roads up this way changed into streams of mud as well.

I should've recognized that as an omen of how messy, how f.u.c.ked-up this job would be.

Three hours of driving later, I pulled the rental van from the rocky Toco Main Road and entered a safe house in Rampanagas Village. The map said that I was in the county of St. David, the northeastern section of the island, the area also known as Rampanagas Ravine. About a thousand people lived on this section of the island, but the safe house was up a rocky road and set off to itself. It had privacy, and many fruit trees, the grounds filled with orange, Portugal, grapefruit, breadfruit, five fingers, avocado, golden apple, soursop. By then the rain had stopped and the Caribbean bugs had come out to play.

With as much as I knew about Trinidad, I might as well have been on a tropical moon. Salybia Beach, Missions Bay, Big Bay . . . many beaches were on this route, many where the leatherback turtles came to lay their eggs. I had been sent down from the United States on a death contract, not to surf and swim.

My first thought was I wished Johnny Parker were here to enjoy this paradise.

We could have done some serious f.u.c.king. It had been almost a month since Florida.

I frowned, thought about that last day in Florida, that last frantic night. I cursed.

Cellular up to my ear, I shook off that memory, focused, called the Barbarians: "I'm here."

"Should be a green wall somewhere in the house."

"Okay. I see the green wall. Great paint job. Who did it, a three-year-old?"

"Turn the purple light switch off and on five times."

I did. The wall opened up and revealed an armory. Thirty guns. Grenades.

I pulled down a.38, a.380, and a.22, took out a wealth of ammo.

Three two-gallon canisters of clear liquid were with the hardware, hazard symbols on each.

I asked, "How much poison is in these containers?"

"Enough to kill everyone at Madison Square Garden. Don't touch it. Top-grade."

"Okay."

"The fancy chopsticks are yours. They should be above the guns."

"I see them. Two sets."

I took one set down, turned the light switch off and on five times.

The wall closed.

I asked, "Who is the target here in Trinidad?"

"A minister who grew up in some areas called c.u.mana and Saline Bay."

"Minister as in clergy?"

"Minister as in government official. That kind of minister. A people pimper."

"All the same to me."

"Look at the intel and let me walk you through your a.s.signment."

"Why haven't I been paid for the contracts I completed the last month?"

"Let's focus on this one at the moment. Was the information set up in the safe house?"

"Everything is taped to the wall. Different, but nice. The way the Barbarians have the charts set up makes it look like a CIA or FBI operation, only organized. Makes this easier for me to read."

"More photos of the target and notes are there in a notebook as well."

"Looking at the package now. The Barbarians said this was a simple job, but it looks intense."

"Page six. Info on the target starts on page six, most of it pointless."

"All that matters is when and where to put a bullet in his heart so I can exit, stage left."

The target was being protected by the organization that was labeled the Laventille Killers. The target was a charismatic man, but was noted as the symbol of bigotry, an extreme racist.

"They want him killed before he gives a speech at the Indian Arrival Day Dinner, a speech that will highlight the Muslim-Arab involvement in the slave trade. Loved by many, but people want him dead for too many reasons to count, including calling for people of East Indian descent to boycott Tobago."

I asked, "Where will he be? The charts are nice, but I need the specifics so I can create a plan."

"Only the Trinidadian organization we call the LKs has that information."

"LKs?"

"Laventille Killers. We call them the LKs. Saves ink on paper. They know the movements of the target, are acting as his security, and have managed to keep his location close to their chests."

"Sounds like they're in the same business we're in."

"Compet.i.tor. We're into legal holdings. Drug trade helps them maintain unbelievable capital."

"Drug and alcohol trade made the Kennedys and Rockefellers become Kennedys and Rockefellers. All wealth comes from some level of corruption. Old Man Reaper taught me that. Anyway. If that is the case, the LKs having the GPS on the target, how will I get that information to do the job?"

My orders were to infiltrate the Laventille Killers. While I talked to my designated rep with the Barbarians, I glanced over page after page, went to the wall and did the same, read the pages of intel.

"This is vague. How am I supposed to infiltrate this hardcore West Indian group?"

"They're men. You're a woman. Meet one of the men and use what G.o.d gave you."

"Give me a f.u.c.kin' break. That does me no good."

"We need you to do a short version of the long game."

"A rush job. What should take days, maybe weeks, you want done in a couple of days."

He said, "One of the members, a twentysomething who grew up in Morvant, a man a.s.signed the handle King Killer, he always goes for coffee at a place called Rituals. Seven out of seven days a week."

"King Killer. What did he do to earn that handle?"

"Five years ago he killed the top man in Laventille. A man they called the king of Laventille."

"How?"

"High noon, Port of Spain, center of town, on some strip called Frederick Street. He killed the baddest of the bad, so that made him the baddest of the bad, and some say that one act made it possible for the LKs to all but take over the slums, to take over the drug trade, and now they are a legit business, turning dirty money clean, buying police and politicians, taking over the entire island."

"Okay. I see several names highlighted here. Who's important?"

"Outside of King Killer, the name to remember is War Machine."

"War Machine? He's four years older than me, twenty-five. King Killer is two years older."

"Intel says that King Killer picks up s.e.xy girls at coffee shops. That's his thing."

"I see it. But if one of the boys from the LKs is not the target, why am I dealing with them at all? Why not just let me get close to the minister or politico and figure out a way to do what I do best."

"Follow the plan. Always follow the plan that has been put in front of you, MX-401."

"Again, why can't I just break out a sniper's rifle and go for the target?"

"The political target is off-island and we have no idea where he's been sequestered."

"Thank you. That was all you f.u.c.kin' had to say."

"Less questions."

"More answers. My life is on the line, not yours. You're a f.u.c.kin' paper pusher."

"You're not winning any friends behind the red doors. You have a hard time following orders."

"Not when they make sense. I can only do what makes sense. I'm out here by myself, with no backup, so I have to look at these bulls.h.i.+t plans and see what works best for me."

"Follow orders. They make sense to the man behind the double red doors."

"No idea when the private plane is coming back to Trinidad with the package?"

"LKs know when the target's coming back. He'll be back the night before the event in question. Party in his honor. They need the target dead before he gives that speech. That's the contract."

"Why not after the speech?"

"Before. After will be no good. Kill him at the Carlton Savannah the night before."