A Wanted Woman Part 52

I was Reaper, equal parts strong, vicious, driven, dark, unfair, and f.u.c.ked-up.

Petrichor lowered her LIME kerchief for a moment.

She lowered it so she could spit out her disappointment, then put it back in place.

She was Nemesis. Petrichor wasn't there, only Nemesis Adrasteia.

In that instant, she looked like the ultimate warrior woman.

With her face cast in bottomless anger, her face was mine, resembled mine.

That was the first time I realized how much she looked like me.

Dressed in black, our frames looked identical to the men.

Which was as irrelevant now as it had always been.

Again I defied my agony, commanded my body to stop aching, to quit bleeding.

I did my best. I failed. Pain exploded. The weapon fell from my hand.

I collapsed, fell hard, fell as if life had been sucked out of me.

Water splashed into my face and I smelled guntas on me.

Someone lifted me up. Lifted me up and carried me. Zenga. I didn't want his help, but I didn't have a choice. I had a feeling I was about to end up in the back of the Chefette truck as well.

SIXTY-TWO.

"Don't come back without her. Don't you f.u.c.king come back here without the Kiwi. Turn that f.u.c.king helicopter around and go back. I don't care. Go back and get the b.i.t.c.h. Go back now."

Diamond Dust cursed War Machine and threw the phone against the wall.

Anger lines grew in her face, made her look thrice her age.

She screamed. Heart-wrenching sobs.

Pain tore through her like knives.

Her children ran to her, saw Mommy's rage, started crying.

She turned her rage, changed from being a brick to a feather.

She held them, smiled a mommy smile, gave them kisses and hugs, told them that everything was fine.

All because of the dead politician needing to become a superstar.

If only the politician hadn't panicked and had done what he was supposed to do.

If he had only killed the Kiwi inside of the bank and elevated his status.

If only her husband's insane idea had worked.

SIXTY-THREE.

Zenga carried me down the ramp. By the time we made it to the vehicles stacked up at the crashed security gate, I groaned, told him to put me down. Our journey had been in the darkness. I opened my eyes. Petrichor was there, marching in time, but I didn't see Dormeuil.

Zenga said, "We're not done. Going with us?"

"After this fiasco, you're outnumbered and chasing them on behalf of the Barbarians?"

"We don't know where they are. In a chopper, they could be anywhere."

"They'll be in Trinidad. Might be some stragglers, but they'll go home."

"You told them you were with RCSI?"

I nodded. "I told them that I used to be a Barbarian, that I wasn't anymore."

"Still feel that way?"

"They f.u.c.ked me over. That will never change. Feel free to record this conversation."

I felt Petrichor's energy. It was strong. She would shoot them if I nodded.

Zenga paused. "You were not expendable."

"Expendable?"

"What?"

"You said expendable."

"You're one of the best I've seen in this business."

Dormeuil came out. He dragged the body of the pyromaniac to where we were, put him down gently. Zenga walked by him. I a.s.sumed he was going to collect the other dead men.

Dormeuil extended his hand. I extended mine and we shook.

Gun in hand, Petrichor at my side, I hobbled into the rain, toward the truck.

Three men ran toward us.

We both raised guns and prepared to shoot.

The men ran by us. All carried flat-screen TVs wrapped in plastic over their heads.

Two women ran by struggling to carry a leather sofa.

We lowered our guns, crossed the flooded road.

Petrichor asked me, "Hospital or medical center?"

"Not yet."

"You're bleeding. You sound like you're dying."

"Not yet."

Parts of St. Michael were under two feet of water, well-paved road turned into lakes. Along Ronald Mapp Highway, cars were stuck in water. The car park at the Hilton Barbados was flooded.

That was broadcast over station 98.1 as Petrichor drove the flooded road.

We returned to Swan Street, drove over destruction and temporary rivers and found Appaloosa. Blood dripped as I wiped rain from my face and frowned down on his corpse.

When I left the ruined road, flames danced, and parts of Appaloosa traveled with me.

The hair of his bowling-ball-heavy head was slick in my hand as I limped away.

My mind remained filled with riled-up scorpions, stinging, stinging, stinging.

I felt no satisfaction. Rage returned, doubled, made me seethe.

I looked back at Appaloosa's muscular body. Felt what he had done to my insides.

I looked at the body of two other guntas dead in the road.

We heard someone call out. We found three injured guntas, men gunned down by the Barbarians. They saw it was me. They had broken limbs, were unable to hold weapons, were no threat. I studied them. I ached. I bled. I looked at the flames in the buildings.

We took the identification from all the men, living and dead.

Wedding rings were in their pockets. We took those as well.

One of the men had a cellular phone. That was confiscated.

The natural hemp rope, hand-twisted in Romania. Fifty-foot bundle. I tied their legs together, then secured their hands behind their backs. Tethered a rope from the tailgate of the truck to their ankles, tied a stopper knot at the end of the backhand hitch to prevent it from untying by accident. Then redid the knots, did a double sheet bend, a knot that could be used to tow a boat. I told Petrichor to get into the pa.s.senger seat, told her she had no choice, and I climbed in, started the engine. Put the vehicle in gear and drove away, the men behind the truck were shouting for a while, for a short while, and the faster I drove across road and pavement, the lighter the load, the less I dragged. A mile of rugged asphalt later, I stopped and crawled out in pain, limped to the back, saw nothing but frayed rope on the back of the truck.

I cut away the last of the b.l.o.o.d.y rope, pulled myself back into the truck, drove toward the docks, toward where the helicopter carrying Guerrero and Kandinsky had crashed. One of the choppers had cleared the Carlisle Building, but had hit the Jolly Roger. The boat was on fire, sinking like the t.i.tanic. The Buccaneer was on fire as well.

I drove the streets. I found Kandinsky. I found Guerrero.

They were both dead in the road. Either they had been thrown out of the chopper or they had jumped, my mind thinking the former because only a fool would do the latter.

What I had done to Appaloosa, I gifted those men the same way.

Any that I could find I would gift the same way.

Everything I collected was stuffed into industrial-strength black garbage bags.

Petrichor said, "That's enough. Hospital. Now."

"After."

"After what?"

I handed her the heavy bag. "After we get him."

A phone pinged. Pinged. Pinged.

A cellular rang. Not hers. It was the Samsung I had taken from the gunta.

I answered.

It was his wife.

I told her that it was the Kiwi. The one who had killed men in the streets of Port of Spain.

I said, "Killer Kiwi, the one they drew with big t.i.ts, small waist, and rotund a.s.s."

I told her that her husband wouldn't be home for Christmas, that he was in line to have a conversation with Jesus's daddy. I told her to tell Diamond Dust that most of the husbands were queued in the same waiting room. I told her to have a nice night, kiss the kids. Then I hung up.

Upper Collymore Rock, Parish of St. Michael We pa.s.sed young people carrying old people, pa.s.sed the old carrying the young, pa.s.sed the injured, many injured in the rain, saw many transporting the wounded on the bars of worn bicycles, pa.s.sed secondhand cars filled with people in pain, some of the people crushed, some burned, all heading toward QEH. The flames at the Sh.e.l.l gas station still danced in the wind and rain.

I asked, "What should we expect? The island's version of the National Guard?"

Petrichor answered, "When there is a big disaster, they're slow, but they mobilize. Ambulances from the Barbados Fire Department are also called out. The least injured are sent to polyclinics while the more serious go to the hospitals. QEH might be flooded on the ground level. Was flooded last time it rained like this. Doctors might be on the way to some of the people, maybe starting up by the explosions in Upper Collymore Rock. Sometimes private doctors go to the scene to help in cases like this. Not much they can do, but they will go. People will be on the road driving other people to QEH. Some people will walk five miles to get there. Much people are going to be on the road. Sandy and Cherie Pitt will be busy. Nation. Advocate. CBC News. Photographers. Military. If they're not here, they are en route. Dead people will be on the front page of every paper tomorrow and the next day and the next day and the next."

Pain had numbed me and I only heard the first three words she had said.

We were at the plaza where Big Guy had his office.

Gun at my side, Petrichor leading the way, I climbed the stairs to Big Guy's office.

The injured and dead guntas who had been left here were already gone.

LKs had collected some of their men right after the melee started.