A Wanted Woman Part 15

Since Trinidad, I'd had intense nightmares night after night, like a soldier fresh back from Afghanistan. I sat on the worn bed and inhaled, coughed a dry cough that went on forever.

The room was stuffy, dull beige tiles underneath my feet as cold as the stale air that surrounded me. Seconds pa.s.sed before I frowned at the map I had left on the floor. A map of a Hilton hotel, its entrances and exits. I gazed up at the dingy off-white walls of the safe house. My head cleared.

I remained trapped in St. Philip Parish, thirty minutes from Bridgetown, Barbados.

A forty-minute flight from Port of Spain, where I remained their number-one enemy.

Again I whispered, "Get out of my head and let me rest one night."

Another chill ran through me, G.o.d giving me the middle finger.

I rubbed my eyes, shook off the residue from that nightmare and refocused, looked down and saw forty-one black markers, all dry, then my eyes walked across the walls, across graffiti, across my journal.

Forty-plus days of black graffiti gave life to the dull walls.

A girl screamed for her life. Gun in hand, I jogged to the front room, spied outside. A woman was under the streetlights, beating her preteen daughter with a plank. In a strong Bajan accent, one I could barely understand, the mother yelled that the girl had been caught bringing a boy into the house. Her third time being caught. Neighbors recorded the corporal punishment with their phones. I mimicked the woman, mimicked her every word, made myself sound like her. Then I mimicked the daughter, copied her high-pitched voice, mocked her pleas as I went back to the bedroom, picked up the package, opened the envelope, and slid out the photos of a disgraced cricketer destined to die tonight. As the madness outside continued, I studied the photo of the target. Then I dropped it back on the floor.

Angry, I kicked the package to the side.

A photo of another man was taped to the closet. Portly. As attractive as a roach in heat. That one wasn't a contract from the Barbarians. They hadn't paid me, and I was doing what I had to do to garner enough money to survive. If the money had been here, I would've handled that business days ago.

I was breaking the rules. The rule I was breaking carried the penalty of death.

f.u.c.k the Barbarians.

The Barbarians hadn't paid me and I needed money, so I would do a side job, if needed.

More noise erupted, only the sounds came from the house next door, fifteen steps away.

Inside a darkened two-bedroom made of concrete blocks, fan blowing in my face, I sat in the window, dark curtains barely parted, night-vision binoculars in hand. The neighbor was just out of the shower, a towel wrapped around her body. Her husband came into their bedroom and pushed her down on the bed. He was naked. Their nightly routine. Work. Home. Dinner. Shower. f.u.c.k.

My cellular buzzed with a text message: Get to location. Wait on verification.

I put the binoculars away and replied: How long will I be trapped on this f.u.c.kin island?

No response.

I typed in all caps, YOU SENT ME OUT IN THE OPEN TO TAKE OUT f.u.c.kIN DRUG RUNNERS THAT HAD HIGH-POWERED WEAPONS AND YOU'RE GOING TO SEND ME BACK OUT AGAIN LESS THAN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER ON ANOTHER JOB? I'M DONE IN BIMs.h.i.+RE. GET ME OFF THIS d.a.m.n ISLAND BEFORE I END UP BEING HUNG BY THE LAW.

I picked up my phone, looked at the online paper for Barbados Today. The front page was about the shootout in St. James, one of the most pristine tourist areas on the island. A baker's dozen of drug smugglers had been gunned down. A day ago everyone complained about the economy; the day before, there was the heated issue about p.o.r.nographic stills from a video of school kids having s.e.x in a cla.s.sroom being posted in one of the island's newspaper; but today it was all about the shootout and funerals. I had topped conversations for the management of the resources of the country island and kiddie p.o.r.n.

I was trying to put the pieces together and figure out the drug hit.

I scowled at my damaged motorcycle helmet. The helmet was the equivalent of an Aston Martin DB5. Now it was worthless. It wasn't bulletproof. A bullet from a high-caliber weapon had blown open its side. Three inches to the left and I would have been a dead Jane Doe cooling in the morgue right now.

Flexing my toes, I glowered at the phone, waited for a text response. Then I gave up, flipped the pages on the digital paper, went to the next page. A Rastafarian family had squatted on prime real estate on the island and the megabank that owned the property was doing all that it could to get them removed. They had squatted for twenty years, long enough to have thirteen children.

Thirteen rounds of natural childbirth, not a cesarean in sight.

Sounded like the woman had been squatting over stiffness and reproducing without pause.

That article meant nothing to me and I forgot about it the moment I glanced it over.

p.i.s.sed off, I sent another message: I need a safe house with a better location. Where I am, there are houses, many families, men p.i.s.sing on the mango tree outside my window, women outside beating their kids for kicks, and the local rum shop is outside my window and it's always too d.a.m.n crowded. There are too many people living down here. I stand out and you know I stand out. I did a job last night. What if someone recognizes me? Just get me away from down here where I don't fit in.

Ten minutes pa.s.sed.

They replied. Get to location. Wait on verification. Until then, STFU.

Me: What are these West Indian jobs about? Are these random hits or is there a big picture?

No response. I had asked the same question yesterday.

I typed, The LKs. The authorities in Trinidad. I need an update. Now.

Still nothing.

I haven't been paid since before the Trinidad job. You're not honoring your end of our contract. So for the umpteenth time, send my money. Another pa.s.sport. Credit cards. Get me off of this rock.

The Barbarians: Last time, MX-401. Get on location. Last time. STFU.

I rubbed my temples, asked my aching head to give me some reprieve.

My aching head gave me the middle finger.

I looked inside of my backpack, counted the few bills I had, cursed.

Across the road, thunderous music kicked on.

I screamed, begged for the torture to end.

I changed SIM cards, took a deep breath, and did another sweep to make sure there were no listening devices within these walls before I used a disposable phone and sent a text message.

MR. BJ. NO MONEY, WON'T BE ABLE TO FIX ISSUE. PARTS AND LABOR IN ADVANCE.

MS. R, $ FOR P&L WILL BE DELIVERED AS PROMISED. JOB SITE IS CLEAN.

MR. BJ, I CAN'T FIX ANYTHING BEFORE I HAVE $ IN HAND TO PAY FOR LABOR.

"BJ" stood for Black Jack, the handle for a nickel-and-dime West Indian broker in Barbados.

I needed that side job, but I wasn't going to work without being paid up front.

Desperation.

MR. BJ. THE HUMMINGBIRD STOPPED SINGING. I NEED TO KNOW IF THERE IS A NEW SONG.

MS. R, WILL DO WHAT I CAN REGARDING THE HUMMINGBIRD AND ITS SONG.

Trinidad was the land of the hummingbird.

I typed: WILL NEED VARIOUS FIREWORKS FOR THE 4TH OF JULY. AMERICANS LOVE TO CELEBRATE.

He replied: WORKING ON THAT TOO.

Fireworks meant things that go boom and blow up everything nearby.

A thousand flaming, riled-up scorpions lived inside of my brain. Head ached. I was on edge. Intel coming from the Barbarians, anything regarding Trinidad had died off two weeks ago. The Barbarians had all but shut me down, had unofficially made me an unpaid outcast. Still I had read the Trini news online. I didn't know what the LKs knew, where they were searching. I only knew their home base was less than an hour away by plane. If the wind blew while they p.i.s.sed on their beaten and battered enemies, the slosh could dampen my face. I knew what they did to men, what they did to women as well.

The Barbarians weren't giving me updates, so I had to do what I had to do.

Backpack loaded and on, damaged black helmet on with chinstrap tight and face s.h.i.+eld up, dressed in black jeans, black jacket, and masculine black boots, tugging on my black gloves, I climbed out of the bedroom window, dropped to the ground unseen, then closed the window.

I stepped on a frog the size of a New York rat. Slugs were there too, those on steroids as well.

The clamor of soca, dub, reggae, and a karaoke setup that kicked out R&B and country-western songs overlapped. It was this way almost every night until two a.m. With this headache, with this anxiety, it was too much to bear. The ruckus came from an obnoxious fete on the grounds of the Six Roads Public Market, a fenced section that was right off Farm Road. Composed of dozens of small, shoulder-to-shoulder low-end rum shops. Pubs without glitz and glamour and where four beers cost five American dollars. Alcohol was cheaper than chewing gum. Women arrived dressed in outfits that would make red-light workers blush. Men were out, beer in hand, wearing wife-beaters and T-s.h.i.+rts, pants sagging below the rounds of their a.s.ses, some barefoot and lounging on the curbs, yelling profane and blatantly s.e.xual things as s.e.xy women pa.s.sed, eyes on bubble b.u.t.ts like they were all professional a.s.s inspectors. The safe house was located in the heart of this communal madness. Every Sunday evening, a dime-store preacher and his congregation stood on the corner and gave a louder-than-loud sermon and did some bad singing until close to midnight. That was another level of punishment. Another reason to loathe my employer.

I kicked my Ducati into first gear and rolled it from its hiding place beneath a coconut tree. I zoomed away from my jailhouse and out of this section of government-built housing.

The bright lights from Chefette and the family homes in Emerald City East were behind me as I sped down Highway 6, whipping around slow-moving cars until I hit a roundabout at Nature Care, a plant nursery. I kept straight and rode a worn section, a strip of neglected roadway that led to PLAE in b.a.l.l.s, Christ Church. PLAE was twelve acres and stood for Play, Lounge, Advertising, and Entertainment. I drove between shelves of cut-rock road, headlights leading me into the mouth of total blackness, across road that was like three miles of severe acne, the kind that Proactiv couldn't help. The rough ride ended when I made it to the Tom Adams Roundabout, a well-paved highway that was the "A" part of the ABC Highway chain. I sped to the next roundabout at Kendal Hill, parked on the left edge of the road, across from a Rubis gas station. I put my bike in neutral, put down the kickstand, pulled a small plastic bag from my backpack, snacked on a conkie, sipped coconut water, and nibbled on Purity great cake, the c.o.c.kspur rum strong.

A Corvette 427 zoomed my way. Arctic-white exterior. Blue diamond leather wrapped interior. Racing stripes in pearl-silver-blue ran the length of the car. Sixtieth Anniversary design package. The beast moved like it was on the track at Bushy Park. The driver, reckless. Arrogant. Moneyed.

I dropped the last of my snack, kicked into gear, peeled out, shot through the roundabout, and matched the Corvette's speed in a matter of seconds, trailed that speed-limit-breaking Bajan down ABC Highway. I rode as I had ridden last night when I had put many lawless men into the ground.

As I had done ever since I had been banished here, I rode with Trinidad on my mind.

SIXTEEN.

Less than two hundred nautical miles from Barbados, on the country island of Trinidad More than a month had pa.s.sed since the public a.s.sa.s.sination. The controversial politician's body had been displayed in his family home, taken to Mosquito Creek and his remains placed on blocks of wood, his body then wrapped in flammable materials. A match was struck, the crackling began, and the politician was cremated as many stood around and had a celebration that was like a picnic.

His ashes were scattered on the island of Tobago.

The country vowed to find whoever had killed their political brother.

Two members of the LKs had been eulogized, the funeral private, for members of their corporation, of their family, and their legitimate children only. Both young men were cremated, ashes scattered. The priest had been buried. The same had happened for the bank's guard. He had been dest.i.tute, a hardworking man who in the end had left his wife and children with nothing but tears and debt.

The LKs had paid for his funeral and promised to set up a college fund for the children.

Trinidad remained restless.

The country was restless because the LKs were angered and restless, but they had to move forward at the same time. There was a big picture, a larger plan.

The search for the Kiwi continued.

Other news, other crimes, other political issues, other deaths had become the news du jour. There were other street killings in the slums that had the ear of the people.

But there were still people who whispered about how the invincible Laventille Killers had been killed so effortlessly by a female. The female a.s.sa.s.sin was unintentionally being given praise. Someone had taken photos of their dead brothers and those horrific images had been posted on the front pages of the Trinidadian papers.

The images were online, were still being circulated in cybers.p.a.ce.

Social-media experts had been used for redaction, as they were always used, and all negative content regarding their organization was expunged from the Internet, negative videos instantly removed from all sites, and any Twitter account that had too many followers who were their enemy vanished, or was hacked and repurposed. When the name of their organization was dropped into a Google search or put into Bing, the results were all positive. The spin that the LKs wanted was all that would be found.

From the roof of the Carlton Savannah, guntas in Italian suits behaved like well-educated men; the bluestocking wives were cla.s.sy ladies. They held a benefit for the Express Children's Fund. The day before, they had one at the Hyatt for the Cancer Society. Events were held almost every day, positive press used as a way to direct attention away from the deaths, away from the questions regarding the politico being a.s.sa.s.sinated on their watch. As photos were taken, guntas entertained children, held hands with their wives-women they had been a.s.signed to marry, those selected for breeding.

Despite the attempts to quell talk of the murders, one fact kept grabbing the imagination of the populace: a woman had done it, had killed two of the baddest of the bad men in Trinidad.

A woman.

Some called the red-haired Kiwi a one-woman army. Someone had drawn her as a comic-book character with wild and luxurious red hair, one with Angelina Jolie lips painted red, a small waist, and exaggerated b.r.e.a.s.t.s popping out of her cleavage as she gunned down five men at once. They had put her in a wet see-through dress, high heels, and a thong, made the killing of the LKs a p.o.r.nographic event.

The LKs had been lampooned by an unknown artist.

And that had inspired dozens, if not hundreds, of Bitstrips.

f.u.c.king Bitstrips.

The shame had become global.

Many thought the LKs had become vulnerable. None said so directly. It was implied. What gave War Machine the most pang was when the wives of the dead LKs begged for answers, when they demanded justice with their kids at their side or newborn babies on their hips.

When War Machine fell silent, his wife, Mrs. Ramjit, the beauty known as Diamond Dust, stepped forward, took her husband's hand, squeezed his palm twice as a signal to let her handle this matter.

To the poor she was Karleen; to the rest she was Mrs. Ramjit.

She spoke emphatically. "The Kiwi will be found and brought back here to Trinidad, and she will look into the eyes of the wives she has made widows, and we will be the ultimate law in this matter. We will not involve the police, so we will punish her as we see fit, as long as we see fit, and when we are done, dispose of her as we see fit. No matter the cost. That is my commitment to you."

War Machine listened to his stunning wife make a promise that would not be easy to fulfill.

Another woman asked, "How did she walk into the bank with a gun in her purse and no one noticed? Why was the alarm at the bank turned off? The alarm should have alerted the security guard."

War Machine said, "The Kiwi had to have had it arranged that way."

Someone chimed in, "Then someone at the bank had to be her accomplice."

Diamond Dust said, "All were checked. All were clean. All were just as traumatized."

War Machine looked around at the others, at the self-important people who flocked to them, to those who were attracted to power, to money-the same people who never helped a gunta when he was living in the slums. Now they were begging for donations and an audience with the king.

Like a politician, his wife continued to make promises he would have to live up to.