A Wanted Woman Part 53

I would've tied all of them to the back of the truck and driven them to town.

Big Guy was on the floor in his office, everything turned over and on top of him.

He could only see out of one eye. His right arm was broken. His left leg fractured.

I moved in the darkness and said, "Came to cut your neck."

"Reaper? That you?"

"It's me."

"You got it bad."

"I know. You're about to get it worse."

"s.h.i.+te." Each breath a deep pant, like it might be his last, each word a groan that trembled in fear, like it might be his last. "They got you and you got mad and came back for me?"

"I came to take your fingers, cut your throat, then rip your spine out."

"You mad at me? You came back to kill me? What was I supposed to do?"

"Not this time. I was joking. I came to get you to the hospital."

"For real?"

"For true."

He huffed and puffed, crying. "Thought I was dead. The bombs, the explosions."

"Thought you were dead until I heard you scream when the first one hit."

"They made me call you."

"You screamed like a white woman getting her gold s.n.a.t.c.hed at Limegrove."

"You would've screamed too. Scared the s.h.i.+t out of me. Men in wars scream, d.a.m.n it. I was caught off guard when they came. They were going to kill you, then kill me."

"You snitched."

"They came in here with guns and scared the s.h.i.+t out of me. They knew about the pa.s.sports. I called you and lied about the eight pa.s.sports, hoped you'd figure it out, then hoped they didn't."

"Relax. I know."

"I only have three."

"What?"

"I know you wanted twice that, but I only have three pa.s.sports."

"You have three?"

"Just three."

"Three? You had three pa.s.sports?"

"They took them. They stormed into my office and took them off my desk."

"s.h.i.+te."

"They dropped them when the first bomb when off."

"Where are they?"

"On the floor."

"They're in this office?"

"Guy was by the door when the first bomb exploded. He dropped them."

Petrichor used her flashlight, scanned the floor, then said, "I see them."

Big Guy asked, "Who are you?"

"I'm not here."

I used the wall to hold myself up, said, "I have three pa.s.sports."

He said, "I know you wanted more. Broken or not, I really want to keep my fingers."

"n.o.body is going to take your fingers, toes, or nose, not tonight."

"Can you help me get to my car, then put it in neutral and b.u.mp me toward the hospital?"

"Your car was destroyed when the gas station blew up."

"s.h.i.+te. I was behind on my insurance. G.o.dd.a.m.n squatters. You still have to pay me for the pa.s.sports. Don't forget that. They gave them to me on credit, and I need the money."

We helped him into the truck. It was like stuffing a wet elephant into a birdcage. Along the way, we picked up wounded people, young and elderly, let them climb in back and hold on. Winds had died down by the time we trampled into a packed ER, spoke over groans and moans, said we were victims from a melee in Collymore Rock. Petrichor was there the whole time, my backpack at her side, a few grenades in case they were needed, guns in case they were needed, knives and a hatchet in case they were needed. She scouted the hospital hunting for LKs, in case any had been brought here.

Doctors saw me suffering, bleeding, sitting in my own mess, skin ashen, unable to open a swollen eyelid, and either pity or the absurdity of white privilege evoked itself. They rushed to examine me, a Swiss tourist here on holiday, my wealth of injuries the type if broadcast could cause a travel advisory and crush the already weak economy. I told them to tend to Big Guy first, but he told them to take me. Once in the care of a nurse, I said I had been trapped by the bad men, beaten and thrown in the road. Three bullet fragments were in my body. The pain was unbearable. I had to tell them that I had been raped in both orifices. I had to tell them as Petrichor heard denial give way to my vile confession, as she clenched her teeth, cried, and cursed in Bahamian. It hurt her more than it hurt me. She almost broke down. As I lay suffering, they examined me and told me that I had expelled a fetus. Petrichor broke down.

SIXTY-FOUR.

Trinidad, Piarco International Airport The sun was rising, its glow spiritual, the winds calm, the Caribbean Sea beautiful.

Her mood was the opposite of the astounding beauty, opposite of G.o.dly.

Thirty minutes after takeoff, Diamond Dust's private plane, an Embraer SA Legacy 650 jet designed to be relaxing and transport up to fourteen people, approached the runway in Barbados. Twelve traveled with her. Four wives. Eight of her council, well-armed men dressed in suits, shades of gray. Her smokeless powder, copper-jacket security. Brutal. Smart. Vicious. They were on red alert. RCSI. The Barbarians. Everyone in her group knew it had been the Barbarians.

The Kiwi had spoken to one of the wives, and the wife had panicked, called other wives.

Wives had the phones of the wives ringing before anyone had called Diamond Dust.

Action had to be taken. More dead husbands. More angry wives.

A second private plane, the twin to the one she was on, was dispatched to America and should have landed three hours ago, hours before dawn. Diamond Dust had entered the plane wearing a beige suit and Blahniks, but when she exited, she wore jeggings, Converse trainers, and a Radical Designs tee.

War Machine and six men waited for her and her entourage outside of customs.

Not many were out. She had come in between the large flights from Miami, New York, and London. With their credentials, her party breezed through customs.

On the soil of Little England, few recognized them; none approached them.

Another cyberattack had originated from here at UWI Cave Hill.

They would access the videos in the library and locate this second hacker.

Her first words to War Machine were, "The Kiwi."

"Let's ride."

"Did you find her again?"

"Area is called Six Roads."

"Where?"

"Five minutes from here in St. Philip, next parish over."

"Two SUVs go with us. One goes to UWI. The others go to meet the Barbarians."

When they were in the SUV, he showed her a roll of money.

She asked, "What's that?"

"Was at her safe house. It's the same money we paid our contact here with."

"The blood?"

"Has to be from when she killed him."

"She killed Scott Pinkerton and robbed him."

Ten minutes later they were at Six Roads, walking through what War Machine had been told was the Kiwi's safe house. Worn mattresses had been flung from the cheap beds, every ragged cabinet emptied, the box-size dwelling in shambles. It was a house that was part of a sh.e.l.l corporation. One of RSCI's well-hidden sh.e.l.l companies. Some clothing had been left behind, plenty of makeup.

War Machine's men had been there, waiting for the Kiwi to return for the last two days.

Diamond Dust inhaled heat, staleness, working-cla.s.s poverty, and asked, "Fingerprints?"

"None. Nothing. Not on a surface, not on a cup, not on the toilet."

"Anyone talk to the neighbors?"

"One of the men pretended he was her boyfriend, went door to door, said he hadn't heard from her since the tropical depression. No one knows her. She came and went on a motorcycle."

"When did the power come back on?"

"Six hours ago."

"With the damage that had been ordered, faster than I had antic.i.p.ated."

"Only half the island has power. The resorts along the West Coast. The landlocked are still living in the dark. With the windows open, you can smell spoiled food rotting in the trash cans. That's what's attracting flies to plant eggs, create maggots, and make more flies."

"What did you and the men do to the Kiwi when you had her in your custody?"

"Standard procedure."

"Standard procedure. Appaloosa went first?"

"It didn't break her. She was as strong-willed as you."

"Did you have her?"

"Stay on point. When we left, she was last seen in a firefight on a rooftop. We had to go, the weather was against us, and the law was bound to arrive soon. She should've been gunned down while we were in the air. She was f.u.c.ked-up and should've been dead on the roof."

She pulled her lips in. "No remains were found."

"Not yet. None that would be her. We greased palms, walked the morgue."

"I meant the bodies of my . . . our men."

"Missing. That, or unidentifiable."

"The wives are in a severe state of unrest and feel unsafe."

"Within an hour, a team followed our tracks and found nothing identifiable."

"Two helicopters crashed. That was all over the Internet."

"Each had explosives that destroyed anyone onboard and its contents. Nothing pertinent was recovered from either."

"The choppers?"