No Man's Land - A Russell Carter Thriller (14 page)

8

Jacko inhaled on his cigarette, causing the tobacco and cloves to flare and crackle. He looked at Carter through the cloud of sweet-smelling smoke. “You handled that well, champ.”

Carter moved his chair away from the table. “No one ever accused me of being smart around women.”

“You’re not wrong there,” Jacko said. “But she’s no ordinary woman.”

“Tell me about it.”

Carter took a long drink of water and looked through the open shopfront toward the beach. The backpackers had taken a break from their drinking game. Further down, Erina was walking across the hard sand toward the ocean with her hands in her pockets.

“She’s still mad at me for leaving the order,” Carter said.

Jacko dipped the last spring roll in sweet chilli sauce, took a bite and washed it down with beer. “Can’t say I blame her. But I understand why you did what you did.”

“Thanks, mate, I appreciate that.”

There was a pause before Jacko replied. “I’m not the one who’s in love with you, though,” he said.

“Jacko, she hates me.”

Jacko shrugged. “It’s the flip side of the same coin.”

“If this is her idea of love, she has no idea what it is,” Carter said.

“And you do?”

Carter couldn’t help but smile. “Good point.”

“I’m none too flash with this relationship stuff myself,” Jacko said. He took a last puff on his cigarette and ground the butt out in the ashtray. “There’s a part of me that would’ve loved to have had a wife and a few kids.”

“Yeah?”

“Thought seriously about it ten years ago. A normal life, you know?”

Carter nodded.

“But it’s not who I am. I made my choice and the order is family enough for me. It’s a good life.”

“It has its moments.”

Jacko took a slow sip of beer, put the bottle down and said, “I reckon you need to tell Erina how you feel and sort this shit out, right now, or it’s going to cause trouble.”

“I know.”

“Getting involved when you’re both in this line of work was always going to be tough. But you love her and she loves you. You both need to recognize the fact.”

‘She’s the only woman I’ve ever wanted.’

“Then man up and sort this shit out. The point is she’s hurting and she’s scared. Any dill can see that. You just have to talk to her.”

Carter felt himself nodding again. Jacko had got it right.

Jacko reached into his computer bag. “In the meantime, this might cheer you up.”

He handed Carter a piece of A4 paper headed
Equipment Inventory
.

Carter read the list. Two Glock 18s with adjustable stocks and suppressors, two clips of nineteen hollow-point rounds for each weapon, a sixty-foot length of nylon cord, a pair of night-vision binoculars, three Emerson throwing knives, a blowpipe and a pack of drug-tipped darts. Everything he’d hoped for and then some.

Carter felt his shoulders relax.

Jacko reached into his pocket, pulled out a set of keys and handed them to him. “You’ll find everything in the usual place. You and Erina can crash there tonight.”

Carter took the keys and slipped them into the secure thigh pocket of his cargo pants.

Jacko then held up a red memory stick attached to a black lanyard and waved it in front of him. “And this little beauty has every bit of information you’ll need, including what I’ve just shown you.”

Carter hung the memory stick around his neck and slipped it under his T-shirt. “I don’t know how you pulled this together at such short notice.”

“Mate,” Jacko said, “it’s what I do. Now go out there, sort out your shit with Erina, bring Thomas and Wayan home alive and take this crazy motherfucker and his mujaheddin zombies down.”

Carter picked up his daypack and stood. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Jacko raised his bottle of VB in a salute. “Good luck, champ. I’ve always got your back.”

“I know,” Carter said. “Thanks, mate.”

He headed for the front of the restaurant without another word, but before stepping out onto the beach, he turned and gave Jacko a two-finger salute. Jacko dipped his head and returned the gesture.

—

Carter walked down across the soft sand toward Erina. She stood a few yards from the water’s edge, her backpack by her feet.

Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” played from the speakers on the sand outside the cafe – another of his mother’s favorite songs.

The air was calm and the sinking sun still had a gentle bite. A rolling wave broke out on the reef and a guy on a longboard paddled for it.

Carter dropped his pack on the sand next to hers.

“You’ve come to apologize?” she asked, looking out to sea.

“I came to talk.”

She turned to face him. “Haven’t you said enough?” She shook her head, incredulous.

“Thomas has always been like a father to me,” he said. “You know that.”

“And that’s supposed to make me accept what you did? If you really believe that, you should’ve shown him more respect. You just took off without giving any explanation or warning.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sometimes sorry doesn’t cut it,” she said. “We both know this shit storm with the Sungkar clan could’ve been contained if you hadn’t walked out on us.”

Carter clenched and unclenched his right hand. Finally they were getting to it. “Erina, there’s no point playing “what if.” If Thomas hadn’t made me sink that boat, Arung would be alive and none of this would’ve happened. No one could’ve predicted any of this. As I’m sure you understand. We all do the best we can with what’s in front of us.”

“What you did was wrong. Leaving us was wrong. You betrayed the order.”

“I did what I had to do at the time.”

She stared at him without blinking. “We needed you, Carter. You left us vulnerable. Thomas had come to rely on you more than you can imagine and was devastated when you disappeared. You’re responsible for whatever happens to him – and to Wayan. Their kidnapping and the attack at Ubud are both on you.”

Carter opened his mouth to speak, about to argue, but then thought better of it. He heard Jacko’s voice in his head:
She’s hurting and she’s scared. Any dill can see that. You just have to talk to her.

He took a slow breath. “When you cut me out of your life, I didn’t handle it too well. I see that now. But do you understand how much I care about you? Have you ever thought about the effect you have on me?”

She’d always had trouble admitting fault or blame, and he didn’t expect an apology from her now. But he needed to say it, to tell her how she’d hurt him – for his own benefit as much as hers. “It was because of you that I left,” he said. “At least that was a big part of it. I couldn’t bear to be near you anymore, couldn’t bear the way you treated me.”

In an instant her right hand flashed through the air, aiming for his head. He caught her wrist and held it tight. Then, with his left hand, he grabbed her behind the head and pulled her mouth to his.

She struggled to free herself from his grasp and then, suddenly, her whole body relaxed.

An electric charge ran up his spine.

Their lips met, and it was as if they’d never been apart, as if they’d always belonged together. The familiar chemical reaction came on with a rush, making him feel lightheaded and dizzy. The euphoria was almost like a drug, sending him into an altered state.

Then, just as suddenly, an exploding pain in his groin snapped him back into reality.

He released his grip on her and buckled over. “Shit, Erina, what was that for?”

“Because I can and you deserved it.”

He looked up at her and grimaced, then walked in a circle until the pain started to subside.

“I get the point,” he said.

She stepped toward him and placed her hands around his face. He felt the gentle touch of her lips on his.

Behind him the waves lapped on the shore, and as their kiss grew deeper, her body trembled. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight.

“I fucking hate you,” she whispered.

“Now the truth comes out.”

“I thought you’d always be there for me. I’ve missed you every day since you left.”

“I’m here now.”

“It seems I’m not as tough as I thought.”

“Perhaps you’re human after all?”

She smiled. “Let’s not get too carried away.”

He leaned in to kiss her again.

BOOM.

A loud explosion ripped through the late-afternoon air. Carter felt the force of it against his back. He shoved Erina down onto the hard sand and covered her with his body.

9

Carter lay on top of Erina, his ears ringing from the explosion and the sound of people screaming on the beach.

She moved underneath him. He rolled off her, pushed himself onto his feet and stared through the billowing smoke in the direction of the Green Monkey Cafe. All that was left was a smoldering shell. The clan had once again got the jump on them with devastating results.

He reached down and pulled Erina to her feet.

“Fuck,” she said.

Unless Jacko had left the cafe before the bomb exploded, there was no way he could’ve survived the blast.

A film of charcoal slowly covered the sand. On all sides, people were shouting and screaming, running away from the point of the blast, including some who were bleeding from their injuries.

Carter felt like he needed to throw up, but he breathed deeply, trying to clear his thoughts. What had happened had happened – he needed to deal with the present.

“You stay here,” he said. “Cover my back and see if you can identify anyone suspicious.”

“Okay.”

He ran across the sand toward the smoking ruins of the cafe, breathing in the smell of burning wood and seared flesh, the odor of violent death.

The table where the backpackers had been sitting was no more. He examined their charred and bloody remains, seeking any sign of life. He found none and moved to the entrance of the cafe and peered inside. All that was left standing was the iron stove and a coffee machine. The rest was flaming rubble and charred body parts.

Just inside the front door, he saw an arm, but no torso. He recognized Jacko’s diver’s watch, the face smashed.

He quelled the urge to cry out. Instead, he turned and walked toward the beach, struggling to put one foot in front of the other. Ten yards from the cafe he leaned forward with his hands on his knees and stared at the now black sand, feeling sick and numb.

From the direction of the airport he heard the wail of approaching sirens. He took a slow, deep breath, stood up, and looked at where the backpackers had been laughing and joking only a few minutes ago. The young kids had been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, their lives cut short by a war that meant nothing to them. Their deaths were even more senseless than Jacko’s. It was one thing to kill your enemy, another to take the life of innocents.

The sirens grew louder and more intense, indicating that ambulances and police vehicles were converging on the beach.

He turned and forced himself to stride swiftly over the sand toward Erina. Her pack lay open beside her, giving her easy access to a weapon should she need it.

“Jacko?” Erina called as he drew near, but he could tell by the tremor in her voice she already knew the answer.

He shook his head.

Her head dropped and she pounded her fist into her right thigh. “Fucking bastards.”

“We have to go,” he said.

There was nothing either of them could do or say to bring Jacko back. They needed to keep moving.

“It’s fucking madness,” she said, looking at him, her eyes welling with tears.

“I know.”

“Were there any survivors?”

“We can’t help them.”

He didn’t need to tell her the injured needed proper medical attention. The ambulances and police would be there in a couple of minutes.

The sirens grew louder. They couldn’t afford to get caught up in a police investigation and have their departure for Batak Island jeopardized. He took her hand and squeezed it.

They gathered up their daypacks and began walking away from the cafe at a brisk but steady pace, not wanting to draw attention to themselves.

His body felt slow and heavy, but there was no looking back.

1

Legian Street, Kuta Beach, Bali, 7.20 p.m., 26 December

Charles Peacock stretched his lanky near-naked six-foot frame along the stained sofa, pumped his fist and yelled, “Go, you Hammers!”

He was watching his soccer team, West Ham United, play Fulham on a small television set in his Kuta studio at the Peaceful Garden Apartments, which were anything but.

A couple of kids were crying in the apartment next door and heavy traffic roared along Legian Street, just a stone’s throw away. A fan stuck on full blast whirred overhead, clicking to a rhythmic beat.

He adjusted the crotch of his navy boxer shorts and wiped the sweat off his face with a threadbare handtowel lying next to him.

Yet another siren wailed outside the open window, drowning out the football commentary. The blast he’d heard a couple of hours ago had stirred the local police into a frenzy of activity. Having served in the first Gulf War, he’d bet a sizeable sum on it being a bomb.

He turned up the television to drown out the distracting noise and looked at the half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label sitting on the coffee table beside him. It was lined up next to a jug of water, a cracked glass, a foil of hash, a pipe, a razor blade and a disposable yellow Bic cigarette lighter.

Through an act of great will, he’d held off having his first drink of the day. He had a flying job the next morning at 6.30 a.m. and needed to be in control. He figured if he stayed straight and sober until 7.30 this evening, he’d be fine.

A West Ham striker scored another goal, making it 2–1 in their favor. He double-pumped his fist in the air and sung out, “Yeeesss! We are the champions!”

Football was his religion and reminded him of how much he wanted out of this shithole of a country and to return home to the United Kingdom.

After fifteen years Bali had long lost its charm and he’d been trying to sell his helicopter for the last five months without a nibble, let alone a bite.

He sneaked a look at his watch: 7.25 p.m.

Close enough. After all, West Ham were now in the lead, a good enough reason to celebrate. He poured three fingers of whisky and a splash of water into the glass.

He lifted his drink, toasted the television and swallowed. The Johnnie Walker slid down his throat and warmed his stomach.

He let out a deep satisfied sigh, then bent over the table, cut a small chunk of black hash from the block with the razor blade, crumbled it into fragments between his thumb and forefinger and packed it into the black pipe.

As he lifted the pipe to his lips, a sharp double knock on the hollow plywood door made him look up.

His first instinct was to ignore it, but his dealer often called uninvited and he’d hate to miss him. His stash was getting low.

Another loud knock sounded.

He pushed himself up from the couch, pulled on a cotton shirt and a pair of baggy rugby shorts, then trudged to the door, mumbling, “Hold your damn horses. I’m coming.”

The sweet smell of a clove cigarette wafted from under the door. He opened it.

Two well-dressed and clean-cut Indonesians stood in front of him. Both around thirty years old, they wore sandals, black trousers and batik shirts. The taller one stared at him through cold brown eyes.

“Are you Charles Peacock?” he asked in fluent English.

“Who wants to know?”

The man levelled his hard gaze at him. “You don’t need to know.”

Peacock ran his eyes over the two men. “What’s this about?”

“We have a business proposition for you. I understand you have a helicopter for sale?”

The taller Indonesian moved toward the doorway without being asked. His mate followed.

Peacock stepped aside to let them in. He stood just inside the door and watched them cast an eye over his apartment. Then he looked down the hallway to make sure no one else was there, closed the door and said, “I’m listening.”