Black Coke (11 page)

‘We’re going to ask a few questions,’ Nathan said. ‘If you cooperate, maybe we’ll let you go. If you don’t…’

Tony crawled onto his chair. ‘Okay,’ he said as he cradled his arm.

‘Tell us about that dead guy we found.’

‘Which guy?’

Nathan sighed. ‘Tony, you’re not cooperating.’

‘I dunno what you’re talking about.’

Steve slapped Tony’s cheek. ‘That stiff in the basement.’

‘No idea, mate.’

‘What about Amonite Victor?’ Nathan said.

Tony eyed the knife in Steve’s hand.

‘I asked you a question,’ Nathan said.

‘Never heard of her.’ Tony tried to rise. ‘I need to get to hospital.’

Nathan pushed him back into his chair. This was getting frustrating.

Steve gestured at the pile of stash bags on the desk. ‘You could go down for years for this.’

‘You don’t have a warrant.’

Steve grinned. ‘Don’t you worry about that, mate.’

‘Why d’you need to find her?’

‘Not your problem.’

‘Sorry, can’t help. Let me go.’

Steve clenched his hand into a fist. Tony flinched.

Nathan put his hand on Steve’s shoulder. ‘Let’s just nick him.’

‘With pleasure.’ Steve pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket.

‘If I have seen Amonite,’ Tony said, ‘what then?’

‘That’s more like it,’ Nathan said, taking a step back.

Tony tried to stand up again. ‘I don’t feel well. I need the hospital.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Steve said. ‘You’re coming with us.’ He stepped forward to grab Tony by the shoulders. Tony leaned backwards and down.

‘Oi.’ Steve reached over. ‘Come here, you.’

Tony went for something in his sock with his good hand.

‘Knife!’ Nathan shouted.

Steve stepped back, but not far enough. Tony lunged forwards, stabbing Steve in the chest and stomach with a short knife. Steve tried to push Tony backwards, but Tony was strong and Steve was bleeding profusely. Nathan jumped onto Tony, twisting his good arm behind his back and pulling him off Steve, who stumbled sideways, the knife protruding from his stomach. Steve put his hands to the wound, trying to stem the flow of blood that was pouring out. He crumpled to his knees.

Nathan whacked Tony with a hook to the side of the head. Tony collapsed, unconscious. Nathan ran to where Steve was lying amid a growing pool of blood that was flowing onto the carpet. He pressed on the wounds, but the blood seeped through. Steve’s eyes were shifting in and out of focus. He grabbed Nathan’s shoulder.

‘I fucked up,’ he gasped, blood dribbling out of the side of his mouth. ‘Should’ve frisked him.’

‘It’s okay. We’ll get you out of here.’ Nathan tried to keep the panic from his voice. He fumbled in his pocket for his phone. But his hands were covered with blood and the phone slipped onto the floor. He reached out to pick it up while cradling Steve’s head with his other hand.

Steve was mumbling something.

‘What’s that?’ Nathan leaned close to him.

Steve clutched his neck, pulled him closer until Nathan was nearly touching his lips. He was trying to say something. His eyes were going red as though filling with blood. Nathan hooked the phone with his foot and dragged it closer. He flicked it open.

Steve’s eyes closed. His arms went limp. His head fell back.

Nathan took Steve’s pulse. Nothing. He stared at Steve’s face, studying the wrinkles, the pale skin, the thin lips. A chilled anger flowed through him. He’d grown to like Steve: good natured, yet professional and ready for action. On the way back from the last crack house, he’d told Nathan about his plans to marry his long-time girlfriend and buy a two-bedroom house with a garden just off Holloway Road, where he hoped to raise a family.

Nathan gently placed Steve’s head on the floor. Then he grabbed the gun tucked into Steve’s belt, stood up and walked towards Tony.

East London, UK
9 April 2011

N
athan kicked Tony in the side until he moved. Tony half opened his eyes, then immediately tried to shuffle away, his bad arm hanging loosely.

Nathan pointed the gun at him. ‘You bastard.’

Tony gave a low wail of fear. Nathan sat on his chest, pinning him to the floor. He grabbed Tony’s head with his left hand and shoved his gun into Tony’s mouth with his right. All the anger and desperation of the past few weeks welled up inside him, making his head spin. He wanted to shoot a hole right through Tony’s skull.

‘Where’s Amonite Victor?’

Tony grunted something. Nathan pulled the gun but kept it pointed right between his eyes.

‘They’re going to kill me,’ Tony said.

‘That should be the least of your worries right now.’

‘Amonite’s a big dealer.’

Nathan pressed the tip of the gun against Tony’s forehead. Tony squealed.

‘Tell me something new,’ Nathan said.

‘She’s American. Imports from Colombia. Got a big contact in Jamaica who ships it all over.’

Nathan blinked. So Jamaica was the mid-point.

‘Why is she here?’ he said.

Tony hesitated. Nathan prodded him with the gun again. ‘Answer the fucking question.’

‘To build her gang.’

‘Front 154?’

Tony nodded.

‘Are you with the Front?’

‘Kind of.’

‘Is Amonite the boss?’ Nathan said.

‘Nobody knows the big boss.’

‘What does Amonite sell?’

‘This new stuff. Black Coke.’

‘What is it?’ Nathan said.

‘Fucking strong. That’s what.’

‘Is that what the cash in the suitcase was for?’

Tony nodded again.

Nathan’s mind was racing. He’d been right all along about the Front. He’d personally report this back to George and enjoy watching the arrogant bastard squirm with embarrassment. Lost in thought, Nathan relaxed his grip on his gun for a split second. With a surge of strength, Tony shifted his body to the side, throwing Nathan off balance. Tony lashed out with his good arm, smashing his fist into Nathan’s jaw. His broken arm rammed Nathan’s gun sideways.

The gun went flying. Nathan dived after it. Tony sprung to his feet. He kicked Nathan in the back of the head. Nathan fell forward onto his face. He rolled and grabbed the gun just as Tony was heading for the door. Nathan used his left hand to steady his right hand. He fired twice. The shots echoed throughout the house.

One bullet hit Tony in the side of his head. The other went into his back. He collapsed against the wall and slid to the floor. He lay motionless, having left a trail of blood on the wallpaper.

Nathan staggered to his feet. He tripped down the stairs and crashed into the wall at the bottom. He exited the house and stumbled down the road, feeling concussed. He leaned against a brick wall. He felt sick. He flicked open his mobile and dialled a number.

‘Islington police station,’ said a woman’s curt voice.

‘Nathan Kershner. Soca.’

‘How can I help?’

‘Send back-up. Steve’s dead.’

‘Who?’

‘Steve Willinston.’

‘Where are you?’

Nathan gave the details.

‘We’re on our way.’

Central London, UK
9 April 2011

A
monite stormed up the pavement and straight past the Houses of Parliament without even glancing at them. She was furious. Some interfering cop called Steve Willinston and some other guy—her source at Islington police station couldn’t remember his name—had been causing havoc with her distribution network. Tony was dead. The samples had gone missing. The police were all over the North London crack houses. Worse still, George had failed to warn her about Willinston. What a pretentious piece of crap. How was she meant to set up the Front’s distribution channels in the UK if he didn’t tell her what the British cops were up to? And why was he always so difficult to contact?

She pushed past a group of tourists, sending them staggering into the wall. She headed straight for the Queen Elizabeth II Conference Centre on the other side of Parliament Square. She flashed her fake Soca badge at the phalanx of security guards and dumped her bag and coat on the x-ray machine’s conveyor belt. She waited while they printed a name tag, then strode through the metal detector.

She marched across the lobby past the hordes of drug enforcement agents who had gathered from around the world, invited by the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime for its annual conference. A colourful banner on the far wall announced this year’s theme in large bold letters: ‘A Drug Free World: It Is Possible’. Underneath it was the slogan: ‘50 years since the Single Convention on Narcotic Drugs: 50 years of success’.

Amonite snorted.

She rode the escalator to the third floor. A breakfast was taking place in a large conference room. Hundreds of delegates sat around tables, sipping fine Colombian coffee and slurping sausages, eggs and toast. On stage, lit by bright lights like a rock star, was General Juano Zathanaís, the dog-faced director of Colombia’s Agency for Security and Intelligence. His bushy eyebrows bobbed like caterpillars as he lumbered up and down, rambling on in a cavernous monotone. Behind him was a large screen with the words: ‘Colombia: winning the fight against narcotraffickers’.

Amonite waited near the back, where the world’s media had congregated with their television cameras brimming with wires. Small groups of men in dark suits milled around in corners, heads bent together in hushed but heated conversations.

The general was waffling on about ‘the successes’ of the past year: a ‘high impact’ coca fumigation programme, the destruction of a ‘record number’ of jungle labs, the ‘high quality’ training of ASI agents by British and American ‘special advisors’, the ‘hugely successful’ initiative to promote alternative crops such as coffee. All to a backdrop of vivid pictures showing smiling farmers dipping their hands into sacks of coffee beans and ASI agents posing next to stacks of confiscated cocaine.

‘What bullshit,’ said a female voice with a heavy South American accent.

Amonite turned. A young, slim woman with dark, lustrous hair was glancing up at her. She was in a loose shirt, jeans and trainers, looking like a student.

‘What was that?’

‘The Colombian government said it set up the ASI to make a clean break from the excesses of the previous secret services.’ Hazel eyes bored through Amonite. ‘Yet Zathanaís is as corrupt as they come. Whoever made him the head of the ASI was either mad or a genius.’

‘And who are you?’

‘Lucia Carlisla.’ The woman thrust out a hand. ‘CEO of Colombians Against the Front.’

Amonite ignored the hand. ‘Against the Front?’

Lucia nodded curtly. Her eyes twinkled. She dropped the hand.

Amonite opened her mouth, then closed it. She’d never heard of Colombians Against the Front. Was it a new campaign? She looked back at the stage. The general was shaking his fist and snarling about something.

‘And you are?’ Lucia said, peering forward to read Amonite’s name tag.

‘Nobody.’ Amonite covered it with her hand. ‘How d’you get in?’

‘I applied for a pass.’ Lucia flashed a row of white teeth. ‘So they gave me one.’

‘What does your organisation do exactly?’

‘We campaign against paramilitary groups and cartels in Colombia, particularly Front 154. Have you heard of them?’

Amonite shook her head.

‘They’re this new gang of thugs,’ Lucia said. ‘Ruthless scum. Murder, kidnappings, drug trafficking, extortion. You name it. They do it.’ The hazel eyes fixed Amonite again. ‘Have we met before?’

‘I’m… new. Just here to learn.’ Amonite stared straight ahead. The general was pointing to the large screen behind him. A graph had materialised, a fat arrow indicating a surge in cocaine seizures.

‘Ha!’ Lucia said, pointing. ‘That’s all rubbish. Last year, the White House’s drug czar claimed they’d seized more cocaine than was actually produced. That’s because none of them have a single clue what everyone else is up to.’

A few people on the closest tables shot Lucia disapproving glances. Amonite stepped away, her anger replaced by suddenly feeling very self-conscious.

But Lucia shuffled over. ‘Are you sure we haven’t met before? Your face looks familiar.’

Amonite turned away. It was unlikely Lucia knew about her. Even during her time with Don Camplones and the Mexican mafia, Amonite had kept her identity hidden, known only as the secretive and ruthless Butcher of Juárez. She was the one who’d done the dirty work behind the scenes, unlike Don Camplones who’d been flamboyant and media-crazed.