Dying for Revenge (42 page)

Hawks nodded, then unzipped her carry-on, pulled out a small, empty backpack.

I had Hawks mix with the crowd and move toward the rear exit, the section that would get off the plane and make it to the gate first. She did that while I moved to my right, blended with the rest of the travelers, and headed toward the exit near row nine. I pulled my belt out of my jeans. Grabbed a few airline magazines, rolled them up until they were tight, hard enough to strike with, and held them in my hand. Inside my backpack I had two ink pens. I took those out too.

The empty can I had confiscated, I worked it as I stood there, bent it until I could tear it in half, then dropped those halves inside my backpack, made sure those ragged pieces of aluminum stayed near the top. People saw me doing that, but no one questioned what I was doing in the name of recycling.

Everyone moved slowly, dragged overpacked luggage and backpacks, carried babies to the stairway so they could hike down that narrow roll-up to the heated blacktop, a steep walk that would leave everyone two or three steps apart for safety, the angle perfect for separating targets, that two or three steps between passengers enough room for a sniper to find his target. And if I made it to the bottom I had to move across the open lot to the terminal, again out in the open, easily seen and a closer, surer shot.

Man, woman, young, old—I had no idea who the trouble would be this time.

Hawks peeped back at me as she moved with the crowd, pulled her carry-on luggage, on her own as she headed in the opposite direction. She looked back as if it might be the last time she saw me alive.

In the blink of an eye the back door to heaven had become the front door to hell.

 

I moved with the crowd, headed down the roll-up stairs to the tarmac, on full alert as I moved through the heat and humidity. To my left was an area separated by two layers of barbed wire and fencing, a perfect place for a sniper to lie in wait. Or the bullet could come from above.

I looked up and there was a row of floor-to-ceiling windows, the departure lounge, and the area that had a masseuse on duty. That area was well-secured. She was there. Standing in one of the windows. Watching me walk the green mile she had created. Her brilliant colors caught my eye, her wardrobe that of an arrogant movie star, her stance like she was more important than any man’s deity.

Detroit. The woman who wanted me dead, the ultimate return on her investment.

She had been watching me the whole time. I paused in the heat, sweat draining down my face and back, this moment prayed for and unreal, as if the heat had created some sort of mirage.

Detroit was here in Antigua.

I stopped walking.

She smiled. She smiled at her living nightmare. I frowned at mine.

She was on the second floor of the building, behind glass. No way to get to her.

We had created widows, orphans, grieving parents and family members, had created work for morticians and members of law enforcement who had been assigned to unsolvable cases.

Three men came up, stood at her side. Men in dark shades and hats. Her killers for hire.

My enemy took out her cellular, no doubt making a phone call to the harbinger of Death, sending out an alert, never taking her eyes off me, front row and center for whatever was about to happen.

Then my cellular rang. I answered. It was Konstantin.

He said, “Tell me you’re not in Antigua.”

“Just got off the plane.”

“Well, I’m with the handler who helped set you up.”

“How is he?”

“He’s dead.”

“Good.”

“Where are you?”

“Walking the green mile.”

I told him where I was, that Detroit was in the window watching, that I had nowhere to hide.

He said, “Let me get a flight down there.”

“It will be too late. You know that.”

“Fuck.”

“I have to go.”

“
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
” His curses were powerful, rapid as gunfire. “This is
fucked
-up.”

“My feelings exactly.”

“I’m coming down.”

“No. You know the rules, Konstantin. You taught me the rules.”

“Fuck.”

“Stick to the rules.”

“Hawks?”

“She knows the rules too.”

I hung up the phone and got ready to face my malignancy from the Midwest.

Sweat crowded my brow as my heart throbbed inside my chest.

Detroit was still talking, her eyes on me, her frown stalking me.

My expression deepened. She saw my anger. Saw the man who should’ve killed her a year ago.

She had killed innocent people to get to me. I had put many in the ground because of her.

In a crowd of at least five hundred, a crowd that was growing because more flights had landed, hundreds of people behind me; Hawks was at least thirty people ahead of me, the way I wanted it.

If anything broke out, if anyone was here for me, Hawks was far enough away to be safe.

Again I looked around, searching for a way out. People hurried toward a multicolored Liat plane, rushed through humidity, rolling hills, lushness, and coconut trees, the background to our silent madness.

When I glanced up at the window again, Detroit was gone, same for her henchmen.

My enemy had run away to hide until this act of vengeance was done.

The line moved at a slow pace. Security watched everyone as if 9/11 had them just as paranoid as it had the U.S., as if they refused to have their own version of London’s 7/7.

An airport employee came down the line, one of the crew members, moving slowly, staring at faces until she made it to me, my mind busy looking for a way to escape this prison, calculating how long it would take to jump the fence, how many innocent people I would have to hurt to get out of the airport.

The airport employee stopped in front of me, then she moved closer to me.

I watched her, her eyes on mine, her hand slipping inside her pocket.

It had started. I was about to explode, was about to put the pencils I had deep in her throat.

The girl handed me a slip of paper and paused in front of the adverts for Romantic Rhythms, yielding a brief smile at photos of Brian McKnight and Shaggy before she licked her lips and moved on.

She was no one. Just a messenger. A messenger who had no idea she’d almost lost her life.

On the folded slip of paper, seven words:

Thirty-two

trapped

Stress sweating,
trapped in a sluggish line snaking toward immigration, caged in by barbed-wire fences and too much security to count, I called Catherine and the kid. No damn answer.

Couldn’t get online. No wireless signal out on the tarmac.

Images of them butchered, blood flowing like a great river, those images stuck in my mind.

I called Alvin White. His answering service kicked on, I was forced to leave a message.

Outside a sudden storm had come, as they did in the islands, rain coming down hard.

The line zigzagged, moved straight in from the outdoor upside-down-L-shaped pathway, connected to a pathway shaped like an L in reverse, its horizontal leg to the left of the letter, moved inside the building, and my travel changed to a series of right-left-right turns, all leading toward the inevitable.

My heartbeat was fast, breathing brusque, movements calm, thoughts many.

It had taken forever but I had made it inside the heart of the building, the air-conditioning having no effect on my warmth and perspiration. This was my purgatory, my waiting room in hell.

I looked around. A hit inside here would leave the assassin with no way out.

They wouldn’t try it inside here, not unless they had government help, not without this being choreographed the same way the U.S. had choreographed Jack Ruby’s killing Lee Harvey Oswald.

There were too many people. Anyone who tried it here would be a damned fool.

But vengeance owned no logic.

I looked around, memorized many faces, searched for anything that was a threat.

At least 25 percent of the people were heading toward stations one through six, Antiguans and CARI COM, the Caribbean Community; desks seven through fifteen had the longest lines, held the congestion marked for visitors to their paradise, people who had been lured there by the white sands and 365 beaches, and it also held at least two people who did wetwork and had been lured there under false pretenses. It felt like I was taking step after step toward a warm, welcoming light known as my own death.

Hawks made it to the front of the line, was sent to the customs officer at desk fifteen, the desk for the supervisor. Hawks never glanced back, gave no hint that we were together. Her long hair in a braid hanging down over her black tank top, that braid stopping at her belt buckle, a heart with a knife in its center. If nothing else, her boots announced that she was North American. Just another tourist in search of sunshine. Questions were asked, questions I had told her to anticipate, and answers were given, answers I’d told her to regurgitate in order to make it flow. She was on holiday. Staying in St. John’s at the City View Hotel on Newgate. Would be there a week. Was flying out on American.

Her passport was inspected, the inspector looking at Hawks’s photo, comparing it to her, turning pages. Satisfied, paperwork was stamped. The officer pointed to his right, her left. Hawks nodded. Grabbed her carry-on. Then she was gone, moving into the heat of the West Indies, making a right past baggage claim, concerned, no doubt heading toward the sign that said NOTHING TO DECLARE. Again answering questions, telling them she had brought no gifts, nothing for sale, feel free to search her bags.

I’d made it from the tarmac inside the building without sniper fire ending my controlled anxiety.

That thirty-minute walk seemed like it had taken thirty months.

The Lady from Detroit had outsmarted me, had pulled me into a dark situation.

She’d paid six figures to get me to step in this rattrap. That meant her team had to be well-paid. When you had enough money, when you were determined, you could find anything, anyone.

I smiled what could’ve been my last smile.

That meant whatever was planned, whatever was in motion, could start when they saw my fake passport, maybe with the police taking me away. But I didn’t think my enemy was interested in my imprisonment, not when I held secrets that could ruin her and have her incarcerated for the rest of her life.

I was the villain in her story. The demon that had to be destroyed.

I made it to the front, was called over to desk eight, answered the few questions, same answers as Hawks, then moved into the baggage claim area, still looking around. No other exit available. Security posted all over. A few minutes later I was on the other side of NOTHING TO DECLARE.

The only thing between me and whatever was outside was a glass door, a door that opened automatically as others pushed tons of luggage and hurried to the outside of the international airport. The doors opened and I saw a man out there waiting. He was in the crowd, but his look called attention. Wide-legged pants, white tennis shoes, chewing gum fast and hard, things that told me he was American. And the hat. Only tourists wore wide-brimmed hats like that. He was just as anxious as I was, eyes on the door, watched everyone as they exited. He saw me and paused, lifted his dark shades, squinted his eyes, lips moved like he was talking into a jawbone earpiece, then he moved away fast, moved out of the line of sight into the multitude of people who waited on taxis, mixed into the rambunctious crowd.

But there was another soldier not too far behind him.

Baggy pants, dark shades, chewing gum like he was nervous. He held his hat at his side.

They were already in position. Ready for me no matter what direction I took.

When I made it to the door, I moved through the crowd, hurried toward the far end, took the problem away from the people, away from innocent children, took it out in the rain, to the parking lot.

They were on my heels, followed me, caught me there, ready to make that my grave.

I turned just in time to see the one closest to me pulling out his gun.

My heart raced and I ran.

Not away from Death.

Toward its messenger.

I ran.

 

Rain fell like a tropical orgasm, sunlight no more, clouds a blanket over the terminal.

Going at a man holding a gun, sprinting straight at the gunman, meant you were running right into the bullet because all he had to do was pull the trigger and get a center-mass hit. Life would abandon your body midstride and what was left would be as useful as a paper-weight. I didn’t rush at him in a suicide move, didn’t do a zigzag and become a moving target, but I moved with a quickness and did a half-moon maneuver, a move Konstantin had taught me years ago, a move that was in the pattern of a crescent and made my attacker think I was running away, but in reality I was rushing toward him, had arced and closed the gap just as he realized what was going on, but not before he got a shot off, a shot that hit my shoulder as I pushed the muzzle away from my body, a shot that created instant agony, pain that I grimaced against and embraced and allowed to turn my whole body into a weapon. Pain became power, agility, and determination. Avoid the weapon, stay clear of the business end of the gun, and become a velociraptor, embrace the violence, attack to kill, or hesitate and be killed. I threw spearing elbows and knees at a relentless pace. I shut off his takedown attempt with a bone-jarring fist to the jaw, a blow that stunned him but didn’t take him out, then pulled him down for a nose-shattering knee to the face.

Rain fell hard as I looked back, saw I wasn’t alone, in pain and outnumbered.