Age of Voodoo (2 page)

“Conventional bombardment won’t work,” said the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “Even a MOAB hasn’t got the penetrating power. Way that place was built, so far underground, all that concrete, nothing short of a tactical nuke would make a dent. I don’t suppose...?” His tone was faintly, disquietingly hopeful.

“We’ll table that one for the moment, general. In case of need. Although, given Anger Reef’s history, it may prove to be a moot point. Can I tell you what I think?”

“Of course.”

“As a matter of fact, it’s not just me. Langley’s had its analysts going over the footage with a fine-tooth comb. Consensus is, this is a grey-ops scenario.”

“In other words, Team Thirteen territory. Yeah. Yeah, I can see that. There’s a problem, though. Those guys have just run a half-dozen missions straight, back-to-back. Right now they’re somewhere over the Bering Sea, inbound from Siberia, where, by all accounts, they did not have a fun time. They’re exhausted and they deserve a furlough. They’ve been flat-out since May. World seems to have gone nuts this summer. More nuts than usual.”

“Still, the CIA figure they’re our best bet,” said the Secretary of Defence. “This is their kind of situation. And seeing as the matter is time-sensitive and of the highest priority...”

“No rest for the wicked,” sighed the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “I’ll make the call to the Special Activities Division, confirming Thirteen are available.”

“The Agency has one other recommendation.”

“And that is?”

“We bring in some sort of local liaison. Someone who knows the lie of the land and might be able to provide relevant intel.”

“Okay. Yeah.”

“Do you know of anyone?”

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs hummed in thought. “There is one guy I can think of, off the top of my head. A Brit. One-time covert wetwork operative.”

“Ugh.”

“Retired now. Inactive. He seems to have made contacts in the region. Well embedded.”

“You know him personally?”

“He’s worked with the military on a couple of occasions.”

“So he could be persuaded to participate?”

“It’s worth a shot. He has dual US/UK nationality, so technically he’s one of us. Under the circumstances, he’s the right man for the job. Certainly the best we can hope for at such short notice.”

“All right then. Get a hold of him. Thank you, general.”

The Secretary of Defence replaced the phone handset and returned his attention to the monitor on his desk. He rewound the footage part of the way, his hand trembling ever so slightly as it manipulated the mouse. Once again he watched the final hellish three minutes, the death throes of a mission gone badly wrong.

Men running. Men screaming. Semi-naked figures lurching at them in the shimmering green phosphorescence of image intensification. Gunshots rippling near and far.

One commando yelling, “What the fuck—what the Jesus fuck are they? They’re taking hits; they just won’t fucking go down!”

Another: “They’re coming from all sides. God help us, they’re everywhere!”

A third, to his commanding officer: “Sir! Sir! What are our orders? What do we do?”

Distantly, a man sobbing, crying for his mother, and another man intoning the Lord’s Prayer.

And then a figure lumbers towards the commando whose helmet camera is recording the chaos, and there is a final, shrill, hideous scream, abruptly cut short.

In the silence that ensues, a voice can be heard, elated, triumphal.

“Bondye! Bondye! Hear me, Bondye. I am coming for you.”

The clip vaporised into a hissing burst of screen static and white noise, and the Secretary of Defence spun his chair away from the desk. An American Airlines 747 was coasting in to land at Ronald Reagan airport. The sky was boundless and blue. A city of half a million people—hell, a planet of seven billion people—and none of them had a clue what was going on down in the Caribbean, a thousand miles due south. Not a fucking clue.

It was up to Team Thirteen to ensure things stayed that way.

ONE

POSH BOYS

T
ROUBLE DIDN’T COME
knocking often at Wilberforce’s Rum Shack, and when it did, it was never anything Lex Dove couldn’t handle. Usually it could be dealt with using just stern words and a bit of eyeballing; sometimes, however, more was called for.

Case in point on this Friday evening: a trio of drunk posh boys. On holiday from England. Probably their first time abroad without mater and pater. Nobody to keep an eye on them and keep them in line.

They were big and brawny, in that well-fed, upper-class way. Shoulders broadened by rugby and rowing. And they thought they were something special, with all that paid-for education filling their heads and that trust fund money filling their pockets.

At first they just behaved rowdily, and it was safe to ignore them and hope they’d eventually leave of their own accord.

But after downing several of Wilberforce’s patented rum roundhouses—‘stronger than just any old rum punch,’ as the drinks menu put it—the three posh boys became lairy and obnoxious. They began braying crude personal insults at the tops of their voices, at one another and at the other customers. They made disparaging remarks about the state of Wilberforce’s shack, which admittedly was in need of some upkeep but wasn’t nearly as much of a health hazard as they made out.

One of them then started hitting on an islander girl, trying to chat her up by bragging about his parents’ ski chalet in Val d’Isère and the job his father was going to get him in September with a hedge fund firm. The girl kept shying away from him, but she was too polite and well brought up to do what she needed to, which was tell him to fuck off and leave her alone.

That was when Lex intervened. He looked to Wilberforce for consent first, and got a nod. Wilberforce, behind the bar, made an air-patting gesture:
take it easy, man, don’t go too far
.

Lex moved between the posh boy and the islander girl.

“Listen,” he said to the boy. “I think you’ve had enough to drink. And I know the lady here has had enough of you. How about you and your mates call it a night, eh? Go back to your hotel, get some sleep, start over tomorrow. Okay?”

Posh Boy fixed him with a bleary, malevolent glare. “And just who the fuck are you?”

“Does it matter?” said Lex. “A bystander. Someone who wants a quiet Friday-night drink and no trouble.” He laid a light but distinct emphasis on the last two words.

“Oh, yeah?” slurred Posh Boy. “Well, Mr Bystander, stop sticking your nose into other people’s business. This has nothing to do with you. This is between me and her.” He pointed at the girl with the hand that was holding his drink; rum roundhouse slopped onto her skirt, but he didn’t notice. “She happens to be very interested in me, and later tonight she’s going to give me the best blowjob ever. You can tell by looking at her. She’s got that kind of mouth.”

The girl gasped in dismay.

“So,” Posh Boy went on, “I’d be very much obliged if you’d fuck off out of it.”

“Yah,” said one of his friends, taking up position behind him. “You tell him, Timbo.” To Lex: “Timbo does martial arts. Karate and a bit of, whatchemacall, june keet do. Is that right?”

“Jeet kune do,” said Timbo.

“Yah,” said Posh Boy #2. “So you’d better not mess with him. He can kick your scrawny arse.”

Conversation at the rum shack had trickled almost to a halt. Only the reggae on the stereo was continuing as loudly as before—Bob Marley and The Wailers, ‘Fussing And Fighting.’ Everyone was monitoring the confrontation, keen to see how it played out.

“I said I don’t want trouble,” said Lex, keeping his voice low and calm. “I’d like it if you—all three of you—would simply go elsewhere and stop bothering us. This is my favourite drinking place on the whole island, I come here most evenings. Is it too much to ask that I and all the other customers here are able to enjoy our cocktails and the beach and the night air in peace?”

Timbo balled a fist.

Posh Boy #2 encouraged him with a clap on the shoulder. “Right behind you, Timbo. You show the little fucker what’s what.”

“Don’t do this,” Lex said. Not a plea. Just sound advice.

Which Timbo didn’t take.

He swung a punch, and to his credit it wasn’t a bad punch. There was some bodyweight behind it, and he kept his forearm straight, wrist solidly locked. If it had connected with Lex’s nose, as it was intended to, the blow would have done some damage.

Lex, however, ducked under it as though Timbo was delivering it in slow motion. At the same time his hand came up, fingers rigid, and chopped like a knife into the side of Timbo’s neck, just below the jaw. The blow struck the mastoid process, the rounded projection of bone at the base of the skull. Had it been delivered at full strength, it would have killed Timbo outright, but Lex gauged it so that the boy was merely stunned. Timbo’s brain went into shock, and he reeled and sank to the sand.

Posh Boy #2 looked astonished for a moment—outraged—and then he smashed his glass against the edge of a table and stabbed the jagged remains at Lex’s face.

He was even more astonished to find himself on his knees with the broken glass crushed in his hand, shards embedded in his palm and fingers. He started howling in pain.

Posh Boy #3 now joined in, incensed that his two friends had been so easily bested by this ghastly jumped-up little prole. It was not the natural order of things. Status and breeding triumphed every time. That was what he’d been brought up to believe. That was the proper way.

He lunged at Lex, rugby-tackling him round the waist. Together they crashed into a table, a flimsy trestle-type affair; it collapsed under them and they sprawled on the ground.

Lex was irritated by this. Sand got down the collar of his shirt. He hated sand getting down his shirt.

He threw Posh Boy #3 off him, almost without effort even though the lad weighed a good thirteen stone, rolled over and straddled him, and swiftly rendered him insensible with a rapid one-two-three to the temples. He stood up and shook his shirt out.

Timbo was just this side of conscious. Posh Boy #2 keened and wailed over his injured hand. Posh Boy #3 was silent, out cold.

Wilberforce shook his head sadly. “My table, Lex. You wrecked it. Those things cost money.”

“Not that much,” said Lex. “Besides,
I
didn’t wreck it. He did.” He indicated Posh Boy #3. “So he can pay for it.”

A quick search of the boy’s pockets unearthed a wallet stuffed with currency—dollars, both US and Manzanillan. Lex fished out enough of the latter to buy a new table and also a round of drinks for everyone, which seemed only fair.

T
HE POSH BOYS
slunk off along the beach, sheepish and sobered. Timbo had recovered enough that he and Posh Boy #2 were able to drag Posh Boy #3 between them, although he was clearly in a great deal of pain and Lex predicted he would have a dire headache for the next couple of days. Over his shoulder Posh Boy #2 muttered about calling the police and getting Daddy’s lawyers to sue, but Lex brushed aside the threats. The three of them knew they’d been lucky to get off as lightly as they had. They wouldn’t stir things up any further. It was a humiliating incident they would rather forget than have to explain to others and account for.

“One thing’s for sure,” said Wilberforce. “They won’t be coming back to Manzanilla any time soon. And good riddance, I say. We’re better off without them.”

“No argument here,” said Lex, settling himself back on his usual stool at the bar. “If you ask me, this island started going to the dogs the day they started letting tourists in.”

“Not just tourists, white folk.” Wilberforce looked pointedly at Lex.

Lex frowned, then tapped his chest. “Ohhh,” he said disingenuously. “Oh, I see. That’s a dig at me, is it?”

“Been downhill all the way since you came, Lex,” Wilberforce said with a grin. “Used to be this was a respectable country. Law-abiding. Then you turn up, and...” He sucked his teeth in disapproval.