A Wanted Woman Part 48

War Machine, Appaloosa, Guerrero, and Kandinsky followed, eyes on the road.

She came back to life, kicked and yelled, "Let me walk. Let me walk with my head up."

Guerrero said, "Still too arrogant. Maybe we should tie her down and tame her again."

Appaloosa said, "Let the come bucket walk to the rendezvous. Make her move fast."

They hauled her to her feet, forced her in front, kicked her, hit her, abused her more, two guntas flanking her, both armed, one with a long bladed knife, the other with at least two guns, one a Glock, and they let her stumble, pushed her bloodied body, again hit her with fists, hit her like she was a prisoner of war, of their war, marched her barefoot in the rain, saw her as naked, broken, and defenseless, this the green mile that all who crossed the LKs would eventually walk.

She gathered a handful of water in her cupped hands, washed her bloodied face.

War Machine said, "You're more trouble than we'd antic.i.p.ated."

"I guess a simple apology and a Hallmark card expressing condolences won't do."

"Kiwi, your night is only beginning. This will be your longest night."

"It's a little past my bedtime and I was hoping you were done with this fete."

"This fete is only beginning."

"So now what happens? Do I get a last supper before I stand trial? I'm partial to flying fish, macaroni pie, and a big cup of Mauby, but I will settle for a few fishcakes. Then do I get flogged again, maybe get to carry a wooden cross as the mockery continues?"

He spat on her. Then his hand sped through the rain and he slapped her, tried to slap the sarcasm out of her mouth. She stumbled and touched where he had struck her.

She laughed. "It's too late for foreplay, War Machine. Foreplay comes before s.e.x, you moron."

He slapped her five more times. Guntas held her arms and she couldn't hit back. She strained and struggled, tried to pull them all, then eventually ran out of power, stopped screaming threats, pointless threats, and within two heartbeats, became incredibly calm, eerily calm.

They resumed trekking back toward their vehicles, a solid phalanx of armed men surrounding her, leading her. She rubbed her bloodied mouth and looked around.

She asked, "Where is King Killer, by the way? I don't see the crooked-d.i.c.k p.r.i.c.k."

War Machine slapped her three more times.

She said, "Wipe away your sordid expression and tell him I said thank you for bringing me into your group, for allowing me to get an up-close look at the LKs. Tell him I said thanks."

He grabbed her, choked her, spat in her eyes, choked her again. She strained, grinned.

She said, "You're married to your cousin's sister. Why not call it what it is? You married your own cousin. Your parents are brothers and sisters. What, are you preserving the bloodline?"

He let her go, shoved her into the wall, left her gasping for air, stumbling and struggling to breathe. She had seen their files. She knew his personal information. She knew too much.

She said, "Drugs. Guns. Real estate. Oil. Security. Protection. For losers being led by a power-hungry b.i.t.c.h, you've done well. One question, and this is serious. Who eats p.u.s.s.y better? You or the wife? Who eats more p.u.s.s.y at Pa.s.sy Bay? Heard your cousin-slash-wife does."

He pushed her into a wall again, made her trip, fall to the ground hard, land on her shoulder.

She spat blood and said, "Whatever gets your d.i.c.k hard. Whatever gets you hard."

War Machine made her get back up on her own, shoved her, made her limp at their pace.

She asked, "How did you murder your gullible cousin?"

"We will show you. We will show you and you will wish you never knew."

She said, "All of you boys are s.h.i.+t."

"Shut up or I'll shut you up."

"Appaloosa? Now I'm talking to you, you intellectually circ.u.mcised behemoth."

"What, s.k.a.n.ky Kiwi b.i.t.c.h? Ready for me to put my d.i.c.k back in your a.s.s again?"

"So valiant. The strong man who a.s.saults women as if it were sport and throws unarmed men from the tops of buildings to hear them scream. To hear the men scream, not the building."

She pointed at him. Teeth clenched, riled, she pointed at him, an empty threat.

She asked, "How does it feel to be first? Tonight, how does it feel to be the first?"

"f.u.c.king you? How did it feel to f.u.c.k a b.l.o.o.d.y bint? I have had better."

"Since you're first to offend me, then you will be the first, so please tell me how penetration feels."

"What did it feel like to make you grunt like a gorilla? What did it feel like to make you squeal like a pig? What did it feel like to make you walk like you're fresh out of labor?"

"I want to know if it hurts, boo. Don't you want to scream?"

"We've beaten and humiliated you; now you're sh.e.l.l-shocked and delirious."

"It has to hurt."

"What has to hurt?"

"The arrow."

Appaloosa twitched. Blinked. Grunted.

He glanced downward.

Protruding from his jacket was four inches of shaft. Appaloosa frowned, grimaced down at the arrow, pain docking in swells, and he finally had enough air in his lungs to whisper . . .

FIFTY-NINE.

"That. Hurts."

Appaloosa fell face-forward, landed in puddles of rainwater that had flooded the narrow, darkened road. A gunta sprinted to him. A second gunta was. .h.i.t with an arrow, in the stomach and out of his back. He let out a horrific, yodeling yell. He dropped and went into convulsions. The report of guns rose as War Machine directed his men to get into a better position.

All of my talking, all my rambling, all the shouting I had done in the dark had been my GPS. I wasn't making conversation with those vile motherf.u.c.kers for sport.

I was in too much agony to move. All I could do was bleed, breathe, and watch.

Guntas yelled they were under attack. At the same moment, another wave of the storm arrived, wind gusts and noise that rang like thunder. The storm had all trapped. The gusts died as fast as they had come, my naked body drenched. War Machine fired at the rooftops, and between changing clips, shouted a command to reconstruct the arrow's trajectory to pinpoint where it came from. They raised weapons and fired in the darkness. I caught my breath, tried to ease away, tried to vanish while they were occupied, but a gunta grabbed my right wrist. I threw a left-handed blow to his face, but he didn't let go. Throwing that haymaker had hurt me more than it had hurt him. Another grabbed the left. Both twisted my wrists, took my arms close to being broken, did that until I collapsed screaming. I blinked water from my eyes, spat blood and saliva to the ground. They yanked me back to my feet again but didn't let my wrists go. I could barely stand. As long as I had been moving, I was fine. Standing still brought pain. War Machine was down on one knee, guntas guarding him as he slapped Appaloosa's face as if he were trying to knock death out of his system. Guerrero and Kandinsky stuttered commands to men who had no idea what to do at this point, men used to attacking but who had never been attacked.

There were more guntas than before. All of them fired up into the shadows.

They had seen the fast-moving silhouette of the enemy.

The two guntas let me go, drew their guns, joined in, and fired toward the silhouette as well. Pandemonium intervened and I dropped to my knees in agony, was left unguarded.

More shattered gla.s.s rained down on the road. More fires erupted.

It took all I had, but I panted, put my acc.u.mulation of pain on pause, ignored the feeling of unwanted blood, stool, and seed draining down my legs, and I stood, drew back, and grunted and gave it all I had, laid a fast blow to the throat of the gunta to my right, a knife-hand strike, tried to separate his larynx from the trachea. I s.h.i.+fted my weight and threw my shoulder into the gunta to my left, tried to gouge his eyes, crashed into the flooded road and its filth. While he reacted to his gouged eyeb.a.l.l.s, I grabbed a blade from the gunta, slashed his arm, and when he grabbed his arm, I used that opening to stab that sword into his left eyeball, attacked him and pushed until the blade exited the back of his skull, my actions as swift as they were brutal.

That left me spent. Had to lean against the wall, ease down on my haunches.

A round of bullets came from above. Two heartbeats later, guntas organized and sent wicked reports that answered rapid volleys, two dozen wild shots that hit nothing but rain.

The first gunta I had attacked surprised me, began to rise to his feet.

Either I had missed my mark or hadn't hit him as hard as I had hoped.

Again I mustered my strength, forced myself back to my bare feet, clung to my training and the blade, took smooth breaths and attacked the gunta, gifted him with rapid punctures, and when the gangly thug grabbed his pain and tried to scamper away from my rage, I wrestled him, became a tick, a maelstrom on his back. I pulled his curly hair with ferocity, exposed his neck and with a wicked pull I opened his throat. The nonce had struck me and kicked me a dozen times, had held me down, had laughed the loudest when I had been pushed down concrete stairs.

Thirsty for reparations, famished for my own justice, anger owned me and I had an overwhelming edacity for vengeance. This war was our marriage, until death do we part.

Gunshots came from the rooftop, the muzzled fire making the target easy to locate.

It came from the rifle of a Bahamian sniper.

Arrows gave no hint where they had come from, left no burning trail.

Gunfire created its own tracer, displayed its exact origin with every shot, like GPS.

I made it one shop down before they realized what I had done. By then I had two guns, had the guns of the dead men in my hand, and from the ground, we exchanged fire.

Reports came from above as I grunted, screamed, issued shots from up the road.

Then my guns ran dry. Being Winchester meant that I needed to buck the pain and flee for my life again. I tried to take two quick steps.

The agony was too great.

I sat down, almost collapsed. I knew this would be my final time sitting down. Elbows b.l.o.o.d.y, knees b.l.o.o.d.y, aching, I wiped salty water from my face, the salt making every wound burn like fire.

As the G.o.ds cast stones and p.i.s.sed on us all, as h.e.l.lfires danced in the windows of a dozen two-leveled shops, more men with guns stood shoulder-to-shoulder and marched my way.

They came from the opposite direction. Without announcement, they fired on the LKs.

The Royal Barbados Police had arrived and they arrived blazing.

They probably had seen their dead comrades and now were lined up.

The line for revenge was forever growing, was never stagnant.

Again I was surrounded.

There was no way out.

SIXTY.

Silhouettes came down Swan Street from Broad Street, stormed through salty rain and harsh wind. They weren't LKs spitting lead at will. I had expected more law enforcement. They weren't the Barbados Defence Force, the Barbados Coast Guard, or the Royal Barbados Police Force.

Barbarians.

They were Barbarians, intruding on my date night.

They'd finished with the Rastafarians and now they were here, locked and reloaded. I recognized Zenga's build, knew that jerk's bulky silhouette as it peeked out and fired shots at the LKs using an automatic weapon. The pyromaniac was in the mash-up as well.

Gunfire came from both sides of the road. A third shooter was in place.

Dormeuil had to be in the shadows too. This was the cleanup crew and I bet their refrigerated truckload of Rasta rotis was nearby and had room for me and a few more bodies. Fear magnified. Barbarians were my enemy as well. They had come to erase me and wipe out the LKs. Laventille Killers were on Swan Street behind me, shouting, shooting.

Barbarians had organized in front of me. They were spitting out.50 caliber rounds and could destroy a target two football fields away. That was what they had taken to the Rastafarians, rounds that could knock down brick walls. A concrete block wouldn't stand a chance. It would go through a door like b.u.t.ter and leave pink mist like no one had ever seen.

One round could cut a man in half. The LKs continued firing. They backed off, but they didn't go away. The exchange of egos continued for a while, two minutes that seemed like two years. The LKs had traveled too far, had sacrificed too much to simply turn and run.

The exchange died down. Fires on Swan Street yielded an eerie glow.

Someone from the Barbarians called out, "Reaper."

Part of a structure collapsed; gla.s.s, steel, and concrete fell into the road. Fierce winds returned for a moment, buffeted the noise, pushed debris, made me cover my eyes.

Once the winds died down, they shouted my name again.

I shouted in return, "I'm busy. Take a number."

War Machine called out, gave orders, but I couldn't hear what was said.