Black Coke (22 page)

She marched down the corridor, back towards the lab. El Patrón had invested millions into this programme. They needed a drug that would be so indescribably pleasurable that everyone would want it. Not one that turned people into deranged junkies overnight.

She marched through the row of lab benches, ignoring the technicians as they gaped at her and then at Herbert, who stumbled in behind her. As she marched out of the underground complex back to her Lynx helicopter in the clearing on the mound, she stopped and looked at the clear blue sky through the jungle foliage.

Maybe it wasn’t all bad news after all.

She reached for the radio transmitter in the back of the chopper.

A plan began to take shape in her mind.

Turks and Caicos Islands
12 April 2011

E
lijah tossed the remains of his jerk chicken overboard. The sea erupted into a bubbling frenzy as swarms of fish converged on the left-overs. A long beast with a strip of jagged fins on its back tore through the others like a torpedo.

It was what nature was all about. Fighting, killing, survival.

The world of men was no different. The Old Testament was full of lessons of how only the finest, most agile, most cunning survived.

Elijah knew this only too well. He’d battled hard to get to where he was now, ruling Jamaica’s fastest growing drug smuggling network. Yet he considered himself a respectable man. A man of his word. Yes, he was stern, but he never made an empty threat and always kept composed, unless he was before a throng of believers roaring their approval as he led them through his carefully choreographed service of Pentecostal prayer and praise.

There were fortunes to be made in the Pentecostal ministry, his strict Baptist father had once told him with a wisp of regret in a rare moment of openness. His father had seen his flock desert his church in droves twenty years ago as the Pentecostal wave swept Jamaica. But not as much money as Elijah had hoped. Jamaicans were too poor to give much to his Church of the End Times, which was why he’d branched out into the drugs trade.

There were huge profits to be made there, particularly for an enterprising young church minister with links across Kingston’s criminal underworld. Developed through a childhood of living in Trenchtown, they ensured business was good.

‘Boss, we’re getting near the island.’ Patrice stepped reverently closer to Elijah. ‘We’ll be there in less than an hour.’

‘And?’

‘Still no sign of them.’

‘You fuss like an old mama.’ Elijah waved his hand dismissively. ‘The Lord spoke to me in a dream last night. They will be there.’

‘They should have made contact by now.’

‘Do you question God’s holy message?’

‘No, boss. I was just—’

‘Then back to work.’ Elijah faced the sea again. Amonite would have given clear instructions to the Haitians. They would be there.

Or would they?

He called out to Patrice, who had descended into the cabin to speak to the rest of the gang.

Patrice hurried up the steps, his eyebrows knitted into a frown. ‘Yes?’

‘What was the deal with the Haitians?’

‘To radio in. On the hour every hour.’

‘They haven’t?’

‘No.’

‘Since when?’

‘Three hours ago,’ Patrice said.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘You were busy.’

‘In future, always interrupt me. Understood?’

Patrice bowed his head, but not fast enough to hide the blaze of anger that shot across his young face.

Elijah ignored it. ‘Tell the boys to kit up. We can’t take any chances. I will pray to the Lord for guidance.’

Patrice stuck his head into the cabin and barked some orders. Metal clanged on metal. Elijah shoved past him, blinking against the acrid mist. His team of four gangsters, including his cousin Dan ‘Puff Puff Boy’ Wesley, was hauling Glock pistols, AK 47 assault rifles, Ingram Mach 10 ‘Street Sweeper’ submachine guns and clips of ammo out of hidden compartments in the floor of the boat. They had scummy dreadlocks and scarred faces. They yapped away in a rough patois, sounding like wild dogs in a kennel. Their eyes were bursting with blood vessels from smoking too much freebase Black Coke, which they said was ‘harder shit’ than crack.

‘Stay below deck,’ Elijah said. ‘Come out at my signal.’

He yawned. He hadn’t slept well for days. His joints and back hurt too much, and he couldn’t stop worrying about this drug deal. He moved to the bow, where Patrice was now sitting with his legs dangling over the side. His curly black hair and the rippling muscles of his naked torso gleamed in the late afternoon sun.

Elijah marvelled again at his own bountiful generosity: a few months ago, he’d saved Patrice from the horror of Kingston’s slums. Patrice’s parents hadn’t seemed too bothered about giving their fifteen-year old son away in exchange for a hefty sum. Patrice had since tried running away several times. Elijah shook his head in disbelief as he sat down next to Patrice. Kids never knew what was good for them.

Patrice shuffled away. Elijah grabbed his arm and yanked him close. He kissed him. He tasted so soft and good, it made his groin stir. Patrice tried to pull away, but Elijah tightened his grip so hard Patrice grimaced in pain, his eyes moist with tears.

Satisfied, Elijah let go.

‘Stay below when we get close to the island,’ he said as he stood up, patting Patrice on the head. ‘Don’t want you to get hurt.’

Patrice hugged his knees to his chest.

Elijah went back to the main deck. He put a pair of binoculars to his eyes. Everywhere around him was the same expanse of sea, broken by row on row of little waves, with the occasional flicker of a fish breaking the surface.

Then he saw it. Just on the horizon.

‘Land,’ he shouted, arms raised. ‘Praise the Lord!’

Patrice rushed over and grabbed the steering wheel. He revved the engine. The rocks drew closer, revealing nooks and crannies and white sandy beaches that stretched for hundreds of metres like a scene from a postcard.

‘Slow down,’ Elijah said, still peering through the binoculars.

No sign of activity on the beach. That was to be expected. The Haitians wouldn’t make their presence too obvious in case the Drug Enforcement Administration was observing from a spy plane. He glanced upwards, suddenly nervous. He’d heard that the DEA’s equipment was so powerful it could recognise the make of a gun from thousands of feet in the air.

Still, the island looked too quiet.

‘Where could they be?’ he thought out loud.

Patrice was standing a bit too close. ‘There’s nowhere else to go apart from behind the rocks. I’m guessing that’s why Amonite chose this place.’

‘Something doesn’t feel right. Let’s go in real slow.’

Patrice leaned towards Elijah. ‘Boss.’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s about Wes,’ Patrice said quietly. ‘He’s wasted.’

‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’

‘But—’

‘Shut up. Tell the others to get up here. Hand me a gun.’

Patrice shouted some orders to the others, who clambered out of the cabin and lay flat on the floor. Patrice handed a gun to Elijah. He held it in his right hand, while keeping the binoculars to his eyes with his left. The island drew closer. It was barely a kilometre across, yet the rocks jutted out far enough in all directions to offer protection against the prying eyes of passing ships and the elements if a storm arose.

The yacht glided towards the beach. Elijah knelt down. He prayed to God for protection. He licked his fingers and dipped them into the small bag of Black Coke in his pocket. He rubbed the drug against his gums until he felt the rush kick in. The heaviness in his joints vanished. Everything became clearer, sharper. He stood up, energy surging through him as though someone had flicked a switch. He fingered his gun.

‘Let the Haitians come,’ he whispered. ‘The Lord is with me.’

‘Boss,’ Patrice said from behind him.

‘What now?’

‘It may be an ambush.’

‘Ephesians 6 verse 11. Put on the full armour of God, so that you will be able to stand firm against the schemes of the devil.’

Patrice didn’t answer. The yacht stopped a dozen or so metres from the beach. Elijah ran his tongue over his fuzzy teeth.

The Haitians are your rivals. Kill them.

Elijah’s eyes narrowed. The voice was right. But first, he had to meet the Haitians, make them feel comfortable, then hit them hard. Suddenly emboldened by a rush of Black Coke, he kicked off his shoes and jumped into the sea fully dressed, ignoring Patrice’s shouts. He swam towards the shore, holding his gun above water. As soon as he touched the sea bed, he stood up and waded onto the beach.

There was no sign of anyone.

No footprints on the sand.

Nothing.

Bogotá, Colombia
12 April 2011

‘D
on’t turn round,’ Nathan said as he and Manuel strolled down Plaza de Lourdes, past street performers and hippies selling crafts laid out on blankets on the stone floor.

‘What is it?’ Manuel said out of the corner of his mouth.

They passed the Gothic white-stoned church that loomed over one side of the square.

‘The sicario,’ Nathan said. ‘Next to the tree, fifty metres at five o’clock. Buying food.’

Manuel tensed, but kept walking.

‘Psst.’ A drug dealer in ripped jeans and a grey shirt was leaning against the wall next to the entrance to the church. He beckoned them over. They ignored him. The dealer sauntered over, scattering a cloud of pigeons. A mangy street dog barked. Nathan gazed up at the church’s tower and spires, pretending to be a tourist.

‘Get rid of him,’ he hissed to Manuel.

Manuel spoke to the dealer, who’s face went pale. He moved off briskly.

They resumed walking towards Carrera 13, a main street leading away from the square. It was lined with shops and street vendors selling anything from belts, sunglasses, shoe laces and wallets to kids’ toys, mobile phones and DVDs. Nathan stopped to study a shop window that was packed with mirrors of different sizes that reflected the square back at them.

‘He’s gone,’ he said, after a moment.

‘You sure it was him?’

‘I’d recognise that scar anywhere.’

‘How did he find us?’

‘It may not be us he’s after.’ Nathan turned to Manuel. ‘What did you tell that dealer?’

‘That I’d gouge his eyes out and feed them to the dog.’

‘Come on.’ Nathan smiled. ‘Let’s find Lucia.’

They hurried deeper into the Chapinero area of Bogotá, past trendy bars, clubs, shopping centres and universities. A black SUV stopped outside a strip joint in front of them. A six foot four bodyguard clambered out of the front seat and blocked the pavement. Nathan tried to go round him, but Manuel held him back. An arrogant young man in a white designer suit stepped out of the back of the SUV, dripping with gold necklaces and bracelets.

‘Traqueto,’ Manuel whispered with disdain. ‘Drug millionaire.’

The bodyguard threw them a dirty look. Nathan’s muscles tightened.

‘Front controlled?’ Nathan said.

‘Most of the strip bars are down here.’

Two women in white mini-skirts and stiletto heels as thin as icicles clasped the traqueto’s outstretched hands. They tottered out of the SUV behind him, then bundled into the dimly lit interior of the strip joint.

Nathan and Manuel pressed on to the inclined streets of Chapinero Alto, a residential neighbourhood at the base of the hills that climbed to the mountains to the east.

‘Tell me about Lucia,’ Nathan said as they walked down a street lined with apartment blocks.

‘Third child of a rich entrepreneur. He owned one of the largest timber companies in South America. Gave his four kids the best education money could buy. Harvard. Stanford. Berkeley. They all did well. Except Lucia.’

‘What happened?’

‘Her dad was influential in politics. Used to invite all kinds of heavyweight politicians to his hacienda, including the current president, for huge banquets. He was hardline against the drug cartels. Close to the secret service, even when they were accused of human rights abuses. Lucia rebelled, dropped out of medical school. Became the black sheep of the family. Fell out with her dad in public at her brother’s wedding. All very embarrassing.’

‘I can imagine that,’ Nathan said.

‘Then the brother overdosed on coke.’

‘Ouch.’