Black Coke (51 page)

Elijah and El Patrón appeared to be arguing. They were jabbing their fingers at each other and trying to shout over the sound of the rotor blades. One of the guards at the entrance of the mound was peering upwards, trying to see who had landed.

Nathan crawled closer.

The other guards outside the entrance were chain smoking, glancing around and fingering their rifles. One of them, a tall man with a balding head, appeared to be the boss.

Nathan aimed his rifle and pulled the trigger. The boss collapsed. He shot a second guard before the man even knew what was happening.

But the third guard jumped behind a rock.

Nathan sprinted and spun round it.

The guard wasn’t there.

Nathan scanned the area. The guard was crawling away, one hand fumbling in his pocket. He pulled out a walkie talkie. Nathan let out a round of semi-automatic gunfire. The guard shuddered and fell flat.

Nathan ran up the mound.

Lucia curled up in a corner of the cell. Her hands were handcuffed behind her back. She felt battered and bruised, but her spirits were high. Nathan was alive and out there, free.

Amonite, however, was furious. She’d thrown the walkie talkie against the wall and crushed it under her boot when she’d finished speaking to Nathan earlier on. For a moment, Amonite had looked like she was going to kill Lucia. But she clearly knew she was more valuable alive than dead, hence why Lucia was now in this cell rather than with a bullet in her head.

On the way to the cell, the corridors of the compound had been filled with rubble and corpses. A major battle had taken place. Had Nathan caused this chaos? If so, no wonder Amonite was so angry.

Lucia gritted her teeth. She needed to stay strong and wait. She’d told him to go, but she knew Nathan would come back for her. And when he arrived, she had to be ready.

Putumayo, Colombia
17 April 2011

A
monite slammed the phone down on the desk of the control room. A guard had just rung her to say that El Patrón, his bodyguards and some other guy had landed. El Patrón was wondering why Amonite wasn’t there to greet him. Well, he’d soon find out, if he hadn’t already. The compound was such a ruin that it would take even a complete moron barely a few seconds to figure out that something had gone horribly wrong.

She had two choices: come clean and ask for El Patrón’s forgiveness, or try to get out of here quick. She wished Dex was still alive. He was good at these sorts of situations. But he was dead, so there was no point worrying about him.

The key question was how to remain alive herself. El Patrón had never forgiven anybody, and he wasn’t going to start today.

Amonite stood up and picked up her assault rifle. Escape was the only option.

She headed for the stairs, then paused.

Maybe there was another way. If El Patrón wasn’t going to forgive her, then she wouldn’t forgive him either. After all, his attitude towards her had become increasingly hostile recently. A chilled resolve ran through her. What she was about to do ran against everything she’d lived for during the past year. But as she headed down the stairs, her resolve slackened. Did she really have the guts to kill her mentor? El Patrón was invincible. He’d survived countless assassination attempts. And he’d be surrounded by bodyguards, all armed and ready.

The corridors were eerily empty, her footsteps echoing. She’d sent most of the men outside to guard the perimeter and try to catch Nathan and the campesino.

And why had she not heard back from Elijah? The son of a bitch was meant to be organising a major new shipment of Black Coke. If he’d gone AWOL again, she’d hunt him down. This time there would be no mercy.

She headed for the closest exit. She reached the sliding doors and swiped her card. The doors didn’t budge. She peered closer. The doors were stuck, the metal twisted slightly, probably by the force of the explosions.

Furious, she headed back into the complex and through the lab, ignoring the mounds of rubble and Herbert’s maimed corpse. That bastard Nathan Kershner had caused all this. If ever she caught him, she’d make him beg for mercy while she sliced every limb off his body and skinned him alive.

A thought struck her. Lucia. The bitch was still holed up in her cell. If she couldn’t get Nathan, then Lucia would have to pay. To hell with El Patrón for now.

Driven by a vicious hatred and fingering her hunting knife, she headed towards the prison cells.

Lucia put her ear to the metal door. The sound of many footsteps and shouting echoed through the corridor on the other side. Something was going on. Maybe the Front guards were being called away. Had Nathan and Manuel launched the counterattack with the campesinos?

Her heart lifted for a moment, but then she realised it could all be wishful thinking. She could be stuck in here for days, even weeks. Desperation clutched at her insides. She leaned her back against the door and sank to the ground. The room was so dark, with barely a sliver of light coming from under the door. The ground felt cold and damp. A foreboding silence had descended.

Her head bumped against the door’s metal handle. She reached up and pulled it. Locked. As if they’d accidentally leave it open. She traced the contours of the handle with her fingers. It was all bent and damaged. She felt the lock underneath. Bits of metal were sticking out and there was a small gap between the door and the frame. The explosions that had smashed up the rest of the complex had clearly also damaged the door.

She tried tugging the door handle with all her strength. The door budged slightly, but not enough. She groped around the floor until her fingers curled round a piece of rock. She whacked the door handle with it repeatedly. The handle bent further, then broke off. It fell to the floor with a dull clang.

Damn. What a fool. Now she had no way of pulling open the door.

She sat back down, her head in her hands. Thoughts tumbled through her mind. If she used the rock as a weapon, she could attack the first guard who came through the door. But that could be hours or days of waiting, and there might be more than one guard. She stretched her legs out and felt the handle with her feet. She pulled it closer and toyed with it.

Could it act as a lever? She got up and pushed it into the gap between the door and the frame. She slid it down until it met the lock. She pushed and tugged and pulled it, twisting it in all directions. It was no use. The handle was starting to twist. She was about to give up, when she felt something give way. She gave the handle another tug.

The door inched open. She put her fingers round the edges and yanked it further. The hinges creaked. The top of the door was scraping against the ceiling. She kept pulling, slowly, agonisingly. Sweat broke out on her forehead. The door screeched like chalk on a blackboard. When the gap was wide enough, she tried to squeeze through. One arm got through, then her chest, her hips. The damaged lock tore at her clothes. She twisted her head through the gap, then pulled through her other arm and leg.

She ran off down the corridor.

Amonite reached a large pile of rubble that blocked most of the corridor. A dead guard lay, half crushed, underneath, the upper half of his torso and bloodied head emerging from the mess. There was a space to crawl through at the top. Amonite tried to squeeze through, cursing as she pulled away rocks to make room for her wide frame. The ceiling scraped her back and the stones scratched her hands.

She made her way down the other side and paused to take her breath. Then she pressed on down the corridor. Most of the overhead lights weren’t working, so she pulled out her flashlight.

At the end of the corridor was the door to Lucia’s prison cell. Amonite pointed her torch. The light reflected dully off the door’s grey metal. Was the door slightly ajar? Or was that just an illusion created by the shadows dancing on the walls?

She quickened her pace, her heart accelerating.

It was ajar.

She rushed forwards, kicked the door repeatedly with the flat of her boot. The door creaked open. She peered in.

The cell was empty.

Putumayo, Colombia
17 April 2011

N
athan peered over the top of the mound and crawled into some undergrowth from where he could see through his binos without being seen. Elijah and El Patrón were huddled together, now deep in conversation, near another entrance to the complex built in the rock-face. There were two helicopters next to each other. One of them was probably the one that had brought in Lucia. The other was El Patrón’s, its blades now at a standstill. The first hitman was checking the area around. If Nathan could take him out first, the others would then be easier. He could then take out El Patrón and Elijah and head back into the complex for Amonite.

He put his binos down and clutched his rifle. He was about to launch his assault when the entrance door slid open. But nobody came out. El Patrón swivelled round in his wheel chair. Elijah’s face broke into an ugly grin. There was clearly someone in the darkness of the doorway.

Probably Amonite.

One of the guards turned El Patrón’s wheelchair round so he could face the entrance. El Patrón was speaking heatedly, gesticulating and jabbing his finger. His guard was standing right behind him, playing with the safety catch on his assault rifle.

Nathan squinted through the binos again. From his angle he still couldn’t make out who was in the doorway. Elijah was speaking now, his jaw going in all directions and his eyes so wide they looked like they were about to pop right out of his skull. El Patrón kept on interrupting him. Elijah barked back. This was clearly turning into a major argument.

Nathan assessed his choices. If he could get close enough, he’d be able to take out El Patrón, Elijah and Amonite together, thereby crippling the Front in one go. The problem was the guards. There were too many of them and they were too well armed. One man had no chance against them.

He heard a crunch. One of the guards was heading in his direction. He kept his head down, trying to disappear into the undergrowth. The guard walked past him and back to the helicopter.

There was more shouting. Nathan glanced up. El Patrón was screaming at the entranceway. His face was bright red and he was waving his arms everywhere. The guard behind him had let go of the wheelchair and was lifting his rifle when gunshots erupted from the entranceway. The guard stumbled backwards and collapsed.

‘You bitch!’ El Patrón yelled.

The other guards spun round, but a volley of bullets from the entranceway mowed them to the ground before they had time to retaliate. Stray bullets dug into the earth and leaves just a few inches from Nathan’s face. He ducked down.

Nathan looked up again. Elijah was backing away slowly and was now out of the line of sight from the entranceway. El Patrón had gone silent, his face glowering. One of the guards lying on the ground groaned and rolled over.

The blades on the closest chopper started to spin. The pilot was in the cockpit, desperately fumbling with the controls.

Elijah disappeared down the far side of the mound. El Patrón had lifted his hands in the air and was shaking his head. Nathan couldn’t hear him because of the noise of the helicopter, but he guessed El Patrón was pleading for his life.

He was right.

A short burst of gunfire erupted. El Patrón’s body shuddered. His head flicked back. His arms went limp by his side. Then he slumped forwards and slid slowly out of the wheelchair.

Amonite stepped out of the darkness, a grim look on her face. She stepped up to El Patrón’s body and fired a round into his head. Without another glance at him, she marched towards the helicopter, her rifle pointed at the cockpit. The side door swung open and the pilot leaned out. He shouted something at Amonite, who jogged up towards him.

Something happened. Nathan couldn’t quite make it out. But suddenly, Amonite was stepping back and firing a round of semi-automatic gunfire at the pilot, who screamed and put his arms up in a futile attempt at protecting himself before sagging forwards in his seat.

Her back was turned to Nathan as she stepped closer to the helicopter. Nathan dropped the binos, grabbed his rifle and jumped up. He sprinted towards her, the sound of his movement masked by the helicopter’s motor.

Amonite was clutching the side of the doorway, about to haul herself into the cockpit. Nathan aimed his weapon. Part of him wanted to shoot her now, to kill her. The other part of him wanted her captured, interrogated, the information used to take down the rest of the Front.

Kill her.

The voice had come from nowhere. Nathan was about to pull the trigger when an explosion tore through the air.

Putumayo, Colombia
17 April 2011

C
hunks of earth flew everywhere. Amonite fell backwards, away from the helicopter. Nathan lunged at her. He lashed out at her hand holding the rifle, which fell to the grass.