A Wanted Woman Part 11

"s.h.i.+t."

"Red hair. Half naked in a black dress. Boots. They have video of you inside the bank."

"I killed the target."

"You killed a priest."

"Then I killed the target."

"You killed a bank guard."

"After I killed the target."

"You killed two members of the Laventille Killers."

"I killed the target."

"You killed two f.u.c.king members of that group and that was not the job."

"I impro-f.u.c.kin'-vised."

"You f.u.c.ked up, Reaper."

"I did what I was a.s.signed to do."

"You're a wanted woman. You're too hot to handle. You're a risk."

"Calm down. All this screaming is giving me a headache."

"Outside of the footage from the bank, that and photos that will be on the front page of every paper this morning, you killed two LKs on the busiest street on that island and it's already gone viral."

"You make it sound like I a.s.sa.s.sinated Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife, Sophie."

"You might as well have. It was a simple job and you killed everyone to do it."

"I did what I had to do to get the job done."

"You arrogant, belligerent b.i.t.c.h, that was not the a.s.signment."

"Now what? What do I do now?"

"This situation is beyond f.u.c.ked-up."

"What's the plan for getting me out of here?"

"The man behind the double red doors is outraged."

"What's the plan?"

"Get back to the safe house."

"For the last time, I'm three hours from there."

"Get back in one hour."

"f.u.c.k you. You should be congratulating me. How about asking if I'm injured?"

"Safe house. One hour."

"Three."

I hung up, took steps back toward the vehicle.

My phone rang again. The Barbarians again.

"MX-401, don't return to the safe house. Someone has traced you there."

"Impossible."

"A new plan is being constructed. I will text you a location to meet."

"Don't set me up. I'm a Reaper. Remember that. I'm a G.o.dd.a.m.ned Reaper."

"No more contact until you hear from me or another rep from the Barbarians."

"I get it. Don't call you, you'll call me, if you call me at all."

"You f.u.c.ked up."

"I'm alive. The target is dead. That's all that f.u.c.kin' matters, b.i.t.c.h."

The call ended.

ELEVEN.

By sunrise I was where the Caribbean Sea met the Atlantic Ocean, in Toco at a Roman Catholic church. The doors were wide open. Only two other cars were in the parking lot. I stepped out, gun in hand, eyes looking for a sniper, knowing the Barbarians were about to put me down. I walked inside and a man in a black suit was there, waiting for me. Tall. Older. I'd never seen the man before in my life.

He showed me his empty hands, then raised his suit coat, let me see that he was unarmed.

That done, he lowered his hands and said, "Designation."

I didn't lower my gun as I responded, "MX-401."

"So, you're the one who earned an M and an X."

"Your designation?"

"Since we're in a church, just call me Preacher."

He motioned toward a green duffel. An envelope rested its weight on top.

I opened the envelope. Three pa.s.sports were inside, numbered 1, 2, and 3.

I said, "There is no money."

"MX-401, I just deliver what I am told to deliver. It's been delivered. I'm done."

I opened the bag. There was clothing. Dresses. Flats. Wigs. Other items.

Still no money.

Preacher reached into his pocket, tossed car keys at my feet.

He said, "Your vehicle is hot. Take the Kia. Three days from now, leave it at the airport."

Then he started to walk away.

I said, "You tell me that I have to lay low for three days. I have no money."

"Not my issue."

"I was supposed to be paid. They didn't send me one coin."

"After yesterday in Port of Spain, you're lucky to be alive."

"Maybe I was blessed and highly favored."

"No, you were f.u.c.king lucky."

"Maybe G.o.d has other plans for me."

"On this island, the LKs own G.o.d. You were f.u.c.king lucky."

He stopped walking. He opened his wallet, took out a thousand dollars in the local currency, which was less than $160 in US dollars. He set it on a pew.

Without looking back he said, "Eat doubles. They're cheap. Drink tap water."

"Three days. f.u.c.kin' seriously?"

"Let me tell you something, and listen without complaining. I grew up in Southern Africa and I once went six days with no real food. Six days. I won't describe to you the s.h.i.+t I ate to stay alive, to get protein. You do what you have to do when you want to stay alive."

"All that to say? . . ."

"You are lucky to have three more days to hide. Be thankful their G.o.d took a nap."

I nodded.

He said, "Stay out of Port of Spain. They've dropped a net over everything from the airport to cruise s.h.i.+ps, all hotels have been notified. Car is full of gas, so you won't need to go to a gas station. If you sleep, sleep in the car and don't get out of it unless you have to. Drinking water is on the front seat."

"I have no desire to go anywhere near Port of Spain."

"If I were you I'd lay low this way, north in c.u.mana Village, L'Anse Noire, Mission Village, or Monte Video Village. Maybe park down on Salybia Bay, but keep away from the Olorisa."

He moved on. Hard shoes moved across gravel. A car started before he got in on the pa.s.senger side. Then he was gone. I pulled a can of gas from the trunk of the first vehicle I had been in, set the car on fire, left it burning in the church parking lot. I had no fingerprints, so what I had touched at the safe house was of no consequence, but I had left the diagrams on the walls. I had left the blueprint to this mission.

As I drove the Kia over rugged road, I switched wigs, put on Jackie O shades, and inserted false teeth to make it look like I needed mild dental work and plaque removal. I became British. Hours later I sat in the car, parked off the main road, hidden in bushes, engine off, heat practically unbearable, afraid to step out, and waited. I had been left out here alone. Contact had been cut off.

I pulled out the pa.s.sports, looked at the travel sequence.

None of the places on the itinerary was anyplace I'd been before.

Neither of the three was anyplace I wanted to go.

I stayed parked in the bushes, turned overgrown gra.s.s into my closet.

TWELVE.

The first day I used makeup, gave myself freckles, a different hairline, shaved away my eyebrows and drew in arches, and made sure I had a tan so dark and sunburnt that I looked nothing like the Kiwi on the news. I found a spot and sat by myself at Maracas Bay. I was so unattractive that little children avoided me and clung to their mothers. On the second day I took a razor, shaved my head bald, applied makeup so that I would look sickly, wrapped a scarf around my bald head, created a walk that said I was a woman low on energy. I went back to Maracas Bay again, sat in the sun all day.

Alone. Not a word spoken to anyone, not even when I bought bake and shark.

I sipped bottled water and slept in the Kia each night.

The third day, still not a word from the Barbarians, I went to Piarco International. I grabbed the duffel bag, mixed with the crowd, and headed toward the terminal. Police were all over. I pa.s.sed by much security and many police, walked by many from the military. I pa.s.sed undercover cops as well. I pa.s.sed by men and women who glanced at me, then dismissed my tanned ugliness and searched for the red-haired Kiwi.

People carried the morning papers, my image as a murderous Kiwi on every front page.

On each television was a news report, again my image as a Kiwi the lead story.

They showed the images of the dead politico. The dead guard. The wounded.

They showed interviews from people who had been inside and on the street.

They did interviews in the hospital. A dozen injured and all wanted stage time.

Mrs. Ramjit's face was in an interview, outraged that this had happened to her island.