Black Coke (48 page)

Nathan glanced up. He could see the heads of two men at the top of the rock face, fifty metres away. To his left was another guard, clutching an L85A2 rifle. He was dressed in the same black combat gear Nathan had seen the Front hitmen wearing when they’d razed the villages to the ground in Putumayo. The guard was drawing on a cigarette, looking bored. Clearly, the place was so well hidden that they didn’t expect an attack.

A door slid open in the rock behind the guard. Two armed men emerged and disappeared into the forest.

Nathan and Manuel waited until nightfall. Black beetles scampered past them, following a trail into the jungle. The guard changed twice, each one looking as bored as the other. Clouds gathered, adding to the obscurity. Torrential rain drenched them. The guard sought shelter beneath an outcropping and turned himself towards the rock face to smoke another cigarette.

The timing was perfect. Nathan tapped Manuel on the shoulder.

‘Cover me,’ he whispered.

Manuel nodded, his rifle pointed at the guard. Nathan crawled forwards, head low, keeping to the undergrowth, moving with the gusts of wind and rain in order to mask his progress. Every few metres he stopped and scanned the area. The guard was still facing the other way.

Nathan reached a rock jutting out of the ground to the far left of the guard. He hid behind it and unslung his rifle. The guard was only fifteen metres away. Nathan peered round. The rain was falling hard, making it difficult to see. Nathan whipped back round behind the rock.

The metal door had slid open.

Nathan heard voices, then the hum of the door sliding shut again. The guard was by himself, unwrapping a package of food and stuffing the contents into his mouth. His rifle was leaning against the wall. Nathan lowered himself and inched forwards through the mud that was forming. He kept his gaze focused on the guard and his finger on the trigger.

Thirteen metres…

Ten metres…

Seven metres…

The guard straightened up and grabbed his weapon with one hand, the half eaten food in the other. He trudged towards where Manuel was hiding. Had he seen Manuel? Nathan scurried forward into a dip in the ground that was full of undergrowth. A monkey emerged from the jungle and danced off. The guard returned to his post and put his rifle back against the wall. He was two metres from Nathan, facing the other way. The rain had fizzled out.

Nathan slung his rifle over his shoulder and pulled his pistol from its holster. He took a deep breath, his muscles taunt. A final glance around to check everything was clear.

He pounced. His left hand went over the guard’s mouth. His right hand stuck the pistol in the guard’s back. The guard dropped his food, then froze. Nathan hauled him over and flung him to the muddy ground next to Manuel, who rolled sideways and pointed his rifle at the guard.

The guard lay there, eyes wide. He was a young lad, probably barely eighteen, with short dark hair and a stubble. He had a cross on a gold chain round his neck and a black jacket with rolled-up sleeves. Nathan searched him, but found only a wallet with family photos and a few bank notes. Just a lowly footsoldier. Definitely not a trained Front hitman.

‘Tell him we won’t hurt him if he does as we say,’ Nathan told Manuel.

Manuel spoke quickly in Spanish to the guard, who nodded nervously.

‘Ask him how many people are in there,’ Nathan said, his pistol now under the guard’s chin.

Manuel talked to the guard, then turned back to Nathan.

‘This is a back entrance,’ he said. ‘Not many guards inside here. More further in.’

‘Tell him to let us in. No clever tricks.’

Manuel spoke to the guard, who rose cautiously to his feet. Nathan was right behind him and Manuel a few metres back. The guard stumbled towards the rock face. He pulled out a swipe card and put it to the scanner next to the metal door. It hummed open.

They stepped into a cave-like corridor. Neon lights cast a glow at regular intervals from the ceiling, which dripped water. Nathan was a few steps behind the guard and could feel his fear. They reached a junction where they could go forward, left or right. Manuel whispered in the guard’s ear. The guard nodded to the right.

Nathan listened. There was only the drip of condensation from the stone ceiling. He followed the guard down the corridor until they reached another metal door. Nathan grabbed the swipe card from the guard and put it to the scanner. The door slid open, revealing a long room with rows of benches and tables with test tubes, large white machines, computers and all kinds of other medical and electronic equipment.

The guard stepped through a little too quickly. His hand started to rise, aiming for what must have been the mechanism to close the door from the other side. Nathan lunged forwards. He curled his arm round the guard’s neck and tightened. The guard went limp.

Nathan nodded to Manuel, who helped him drag the guard into a corner. Nathan spotted a large cupboard. He ripped the sleeve from the guard’s shirt and stuffed it into the guard’s mouth. He pulled some cable ties from his rucksack and tied the guard’s hands and feet. They carried his unconscious body to the cupboard and flung him in amid a pile of empty boxes.

There were two other doors leading out of the room.

‘I’ll set up the explosives,’ Nathan said to Manuel. ‘You check the doors.’

Manuel handed him the rucksack. He began to take out the Semtex, the detonator and the wire. He was separating them into neat piles when he heard Manuel rush towards him.

‘Nathan, come.’

‘Wait.’

‘Come. Now.’

Manuel’s good eye was narrow. His lips were pursed. Something serious was clearly bothering him. Nathan tucked the explosives back in the bag and followed him through the nearest of the doors into another corridor. Manuel raced ahead, his feet pattering on the stone floor. He swiped the door at the other end. He pulled Nathan through.

Nathan opened his eyes to adjust to the even dimmer light. He was in a long room. The walls were grey and dripping with slime. The floor was a dull concrete colour. The far corner was deep in shadow. Nathan squinted. Something was moving.

He recoiled. He’d seen many horrors in his time in the forces and Soca. Mutilated corpses. Tortured bodies. Burnt flesh. But nothing like this. It was a mass of skeletal bodies. At first, he thought they were dead. Then he noticed some of them were moving, like worms on a pile of compost. They were lying on rotten mattresses and dirty sheets. Their clothes hung in scraps from bony shoulders. Eyes devoid of focus flittered in sunken sockets. It looked like an image from a concentration camp.

‘These are my countrymen.’ Manuel turned to Nathan, his eyes filled with tears. ‘We have to help them.’

‘Then we need to find another way.’

‘Madre Día.’ Manuel collapsed to one knee and threw up. The prisoners turned towards the sound. Some of them lifted their arms to protect themselves. But two of them crawled towards Nathan and Manuel, like scavengers approaching a dead animal.

Nathan lifted his rifle and took a step back. He tapped Manuel on the shoulder.

‘We need to get out of here,’ he said.

Manuel stood up, his face a mask of shock. The prisoners were getting closer. Nathan stepped back through the door. And felt himself bump into someone.

He spun round, finger on the trigger.

Amonite Victor was right behind him, a sinister grin on her face, backed up by a gang of Front hitmen bristling with guns.

‘You looking for someone?’ she said.

Putumayo, Colombia
17 April 2011

E
ngines whirring. Muffled voices. Oppressive heat.

Lucia opened her eyes.

Darkness.

There was a blindfold over her eyes, a gag in her mouth. She gasped for breath, grunted in pain, shifted around. Her hands were tied, something biting into her wrists. A stick had been forced over her elbows and under her knees, making it impossible to move.

She struggled, twisted, pulled and yanked.

No use.

Her breathing got shallower, her neck pulsing as her heartbeat sped up.

Where was she?

Lucia felt light, then heavy. She was in a plane or a helicopter, probably the latter from the sound of the blades.

How had she got here?

Memories of the gala tumbled through her mind. The president announcing his opposition to the war on drugs. The single shot from the assassin. The explosion that tore apart the stage and half of the dining room. The dead bodies, the injured, the screaming survivors. The guard who dropped to the floor, a piece of burning metal in his face from the explosion. Her attempt at escaping, then her capture by Front thugs just as she was leaving the hotel. They’d bundled her into a car, jabbed her with something.

She’d woken up here.

She was bruised, aching, exhausted, but she was still in one piece.

She groaned, tried to shout.

Where were they taking her?

Something whacked her on the head.

She slumped forward, unconscious.

Putumayo, Colombia
17 April 2011

N
athan woke up on his side in a small room with cement walls and no windows. Light trickled through the crack at the bottom of the door. He touched his sides gingerly. His ribs hurt, but there were no fractures. The gunshot wound on his left arm had split open. Blood seeped out, but it didn’t seem too serious. He rubbed his finger in his mouth. He’d bitten his tongue, which was still bleeding.

Mentally, he still felt strong. After all he’d gone through, there was no way he’d let Amonite break him.

Footsteps echoed. The door opened. Two gunmen burst in and yanked him to his feet. They dragged him into another room and lashed him to a metal chair. He sat there, impassive, bracing himself.

Amonite walked in, a grave expression on her face.

‘So,’ she said as she sat down on another chair. ‘Made up your mind yet?’

Nathan kept his gaze focused on the wall, steeling himself for the punishment that was about to begin.

Nathan curled up on the floor, wincing from the pain of his cracked ribs, bruises and cigarette burns. Amonite had unleashed her fury, beating him until he’d passed out. A Front thug had hurled cold water onto him, and the torment had resumed. Images of Amonite’s face, twisted with anger, were etched into Nathan’s mind.

He’d refused to crack.

He struggled to a sitting position. Amonite had shouted something about a final punishment as Nathan was being hauled, semi-conscious, out of the torture room.

The door sprang open. A guard marched in, dragging a chair behind him. He plonked it in the middle of the room, switched the lights on, and sat down. Nathan covered his eyes with his hand. The guard slapped it away.

Nathan leaned back, exhausted. The ordeal continued for hours, the guard preventing him from falling asleep, until Nathan didn’t care about Amonite, the Front, Soca, or anything. He lay on his side, his eyes drooping again.

The guard kicked him awake.

So this was the final punishment. Even the hardest men had been known to crack through lack of sleep. Once the mind started to wander and the hallucinations settled in, anything could happen.

The door clanged open. Amonite barged in, wearing a shoulder holster with a gun over her military shirt.

‘Still not going to talk?’ she said.

Nathan shook his head wearily.

‘Suit yourself,’ Amonite said. ‘You’ll regret it.’

Hunger.

Pain.

Nathan had felt it all before. He’d been beaten, tortured, burnt. He’d been left for dead. He’d seen his best friends die in his arms. He’d lived off rats and weeds. But they’d never broken him. And they weren’t going to now.

He propped himself up against the side of his cell just as the door opened again. Amonite stood in the doorway.

‘You’re like a troublesome fly that just won’t go away, aren’t you?’ she said.

‘You’re like a bitch who just can’t get enough, aren’t you?’

She marched over and kicked him in the chest. He crumpled over, coughing blood.

‘You dumb-ass shit,’ she said.

Fury surged through him, momentarily wiping away the exhaustion and pain. He shot forward, grabbed her legs and tugged. He tried to climb onto her, to pull her to the ground. She staggered backwards, then twisted herself free. Nathan crumpled, breathing hard. Amonite leant against the far wall and nodded to someone outside the room.

A tall man in a white overall stepped in.

‘This is Dr Herbert Grantling,’ Amonite said. ‘He has a little present for you.’