Cartel Fire

by Tom Riggs

  “Fuck you Jack. You have three guns pointing at you. I’m in control of this situation, not you. And you have to do as I say.”

  “Ok tough guy,” said Munro smiling despite himself, “what do you say?”

  “Right,” said Hudson straightening his back, “my employer would like to talk to you. Don’t ask me why, but he wants a word. You can either come quietly…” he paused and motioned to one of the men. The man was fast approaching middle age, fifteen stone and had a handlebar moustache. If he hadn’t been holding a gun he might have looked comic. He holstered his pistol and took a small black case out of his jacket pocket. Opened it and took out a stab-once syringe.

  “You can either come quietly,” repeated Hudson, “and let us sedate you. Or you can not come quietly, and the boys here will blow your knee caps off. After that we’ll sedate you anyway.” The two remaining meatheads pointed their guns at Munro’s legs.

  “Looks like I’ve got you Jack,” said Adrian smiling.

  “I’ll take the syringe, no knee caps,” said Munro looking straight at Adrian and pulling down one of his sleeves.

  “And Adrian?” Hudson had turned to pick up the syringe but quickly turned back to look at Munro.

  “What Jack?”

  “Don’t forget. The only reason you have me, is because I let you have me.”

  And with that Munro half turned, his left sleeve raised above his shoulder. Held his left arm out.

  “Try not to fuck this one up Hudson,” said Munro.

  Hudson picked up the syringe, pushing slightly on the plunger until a few drops seeped out. Munro raised his exposed arm slightly, looking straight at Hudson.

  “Don’t worry Jack, this is only ketamine, they use it on horses all the time. Shouldn’t be a problem for a stud like you.” Laughing, he turned the syringe in his hand and stabbed it hard into Munro’s outstretched arm. Munro winced slightly as he felt the needle go in. He realised that he had forgotten to ask Hudson who his employer was. Just as he went to speak he felt the ground turn to jelly, and then his legs. And then nothing.

  Munro came round, and he knew he had been out a long time. He felt groggy, hung over. He slowly opened his eyes as the chemical mist began to clear. Despite the drugs, he knew he was in danger and he knew not to make any sudden movements. He opened his eyes, only slightly, and was surprised by what he saw. He was in a large, sun-filled sitting room. Thickly carpeted and decorated with bright wallpaper, thick curtains and hunting prints on the wall. He was behind a sofa, at one end, facing a wall. He looked over the sofa carefully, slowly. There was another large sofa, and some armchairs, arranged around a huge log fire. On the other side of the far sofa was a large bay window. The source of the light. Standing in the bay, facing away from him, was a tall, heavily built man. Munro opened his eyes slightly more. It was not Hudson and it was not his goons at the cottage. This man was completely bald. A fourth man. Munro slowly moved his arms and legs. Very slowly. He kept his head upright, looking ahead. No sudden movements. He immediately realised that he was tied down. Tied down to a small wooden chair it felt like. He moved his wrists. They were bound down with some kind of thick tape. Munro felt the adrenalin pump into his brain, dispersing the chemical sedative like a blast of ice cold water. He laughed inwardly. They had tied him up with masking tape. Who were these amateurs? He began to slowly turn his wrists, easing away the tape a millimetre at a time. All the time he stole quick glances at the man in the window. He was smoking a cigarette, carefully blowing the smoke through an opened upper window. Munro turned his wrists slowly, the tape gradually easing away. But the room was quiet. As he got some leverage with his right wrist, several centimetres of tape came away. As it ripped away from the wood it made a sound. A quick rip, no more. But although the unstitching sound was slight, it was enough. The bald man froze momentarily and then turned. He was across the room in seconds, Munro noticed. Very fast. As he came towards him, Munro began to struggle against the masking tape with all his strength. He saw a look of pure hatred. Pure hatred in a large, bald man. He tried to unstick his right hand, to block his attack. But he couldn’t. The man hit him square on the side of the jaw, with all his might. Munro was knocked unconscious as he fell, still attached to the chair, onto the thick carpet.

  42

  He came round, suddenly this time, with an ice cold blast. He opened his eyes to find himself soaked in water. Ice cold water. He was still in the light-filled living room, but his chair had been moved so that he was now in front of the fireplace. A large blond man, one of the thugs from the cottage, was standing three feet from him with an empty steel bucket and a grin on his face. Munro noticed that he too had a moustache, thin and ginger slithered over his top lip.

  “Time to wake up boy,” said the man. An accent. Munro was awake. The drugs had completely left his system now, he knew that. But the chemical hangover had been replaced by a low dull ache in his jaw. The blond man stepped back. Munro looked up and around. All three of the goons were standing around him grinning. Middle aged meatheads with moustaches.

  “You sleep well boy?” Munro looked to his left and saw the bald man again. This man was about the same age and size as the others, but in better shape. Less muscle had turned to fat. He had a mean look about him, like he drowned kittens on his day off. He stepped in front of Munro, his eyes glaring.

  “You think you can escape tough guy?” Again the accent. Clipped and heavy.

  Munro moved his arms and legs, the tape was still there but handcuffs had been chained to his wrists and ankles as well. No escape. He looked at his captors. The bald man wore a cut-off denim shirt. He saw ‘C1’ and ‘Koevert’ tattooed on his arms, one tattoo across each outsized bicep. The man glistened, his skin was brown, almost hairless. Munro took a deep breath, and let his adrenalin surge, let it dispel any fear that may have been rising in his stomach.

  “So I’ve been kidnapped by the Village People have I?” said Munro looking at his captors and smiling, “I should tell you guys now, I’ve never been a huge fan.”

  One of the blond men punched him hard on the left of his face. Munro felt blood and drool fly out of his mouth as his head was knocked back on his neck. The bald man stepped forward and pulled out a knife. Short, sharp and double-edged.

  “You think you can joke with us tough guy?” His face was inches from Munro’s now. That accent. It was South African. Thick Afrikaans. Munro said nothing but kept looking him straight in the eye.

  “How about I carve up that pretty face of yours eh? See if you still joke with no nose?” He held the knife to Munro’s face, the tip of the blade just below his eye. Munro could already feel it. Razor sharp. He pressed the tip harder and it punctured Munro’s skin like it was rice paper.

  “Ok Anton that’s enough,” said a voice from behind the South Africans. Mid-Atlantic accent, refined voice. The bald man immediately pulled down his knife and stood up and away from Munro. Munro looked up and the four South Africans stepped aside, two on either side of him.

  A man, the owner of the Mid-Atlantic accent stepped forward. He was small, no taller than five six, and stocky like a prize-fighter. A thick shock of silver hair combed back over a receding scalp. The hair framed a face that Munro had seen before. Slightly bloated with thick lips, but with unnaturally clear turquoise eyes. Munro realised that he had actually only seen the face in pictures before. In one picture. The man had been standing in front of a sledge, dressed in a red Arctic survival suit, grinning inanely with his arm around a younger man. The younger man had been Richard Lipakos.

  Munro was looking at Constantine Lipakos.

  “Welcome to Scotland Mr Munro, your motherland I believe,” said Lipakos, “You are a guest at a little hunting lodge I sometimes use. Please forgive Anton and his men. They get a little bored up here. You’re the most fun they’ve had in weeks.” Munro looked at the man called Anton and his men. They were staring at him with pure hatred. Munro had seen men like them before, a long way gone from the normal paramete
rs of human decency. He realised that he really did not want to be the object of their fun. He looked at Constantine Lipakos and started laughing. Lipakos raised his eyebrows in amusement.

  “You find your predicament amusing Mr Munro? I would say you are in a bit of trouble.”

  Munro stopped laughing.

  “I’m laughing because I’m right. I had a bet with my partner that it was you who was behind all this. He wouldn’t believe it, insisted that you were clean. I do like being right, that’s all. He owes me a beer now.”

  “You’re competitive Mr Munro, I like that in a man. Competition is the only thing that drives us to succeed. I wouldn’t be where I’m today if I had not had to compete with my older brother, and then with the other ship owners. Competition is the source of all greatness Mr Munro, the source of all greatness.”

  Munro looked at his captor. He was nut brown and had an expensive looking yellow cardigan tied neatly around his neck. The man looked as though he had just stepped off of a yacht in Portofino.

  “Thanks for the life tips Lipakos, I’ll remember to tell my children that. Is that what you told your son, before you had him killed?”

  Lipakos had been smiling but stopped now.

  “Don’t talk to me about that boy Mr Munro, you know nothing. And if you’re still talking about him like that, then you are clearly not the hot shot that Hudson here had me believe.” Lipakos turned and Munro saw that Hudson had been there all along, standing at the back of the room.

  “Bring me the file,” said Lipakos to him. Hudson stepped forward with a thin red folder, avoiding Munro’s eyes. Munro immediately recognised the file as an SIS personnel file. Lipakos took it without thanking Hudson and turned back to Munro, opening it. Munro saw the name on the front. His.

  “My head of security here tells me that you are, or were, one of the best around Mr Munro. A score of confirmed kills, all high-level players. Two generals in West Africa, three high level Al Queda operatives, a Taliban commander. Very impressive stuff.” Munro burst out laughing again.

  “Head of security?” he laughed, “Hudson? Mr Lipakos, you must be in serious trouble if you’re relying on this man for securi..” He stopped as one of the South Africans punched him hard in the jaw.

  “You talk when we say you talk, cunt,” he said. Munro saw it was meathead with the handlebar moustache.

  “Please forgive Piet, he has a thing for manners. But I suggest you listen to him Mr Munro. You should see what these men can do with some petrol and a car tyre. It’s really quite extraordinary how long they can keep you alive for… really quite extraordinary.” Munro looked at Lipakos, he looked completely calm and relaxed, like he was talking about a new type of boat at a cocktail party.

  Munro ignored him and spoke anyway.

  “So why am I here Lipakos? I assume it was you who sent Hector and his men after me? They seemed very keen to kill me and Anna, so now’s your chance to finish the job. By the way, what have you done with her? You’ll be very sorry if she’s hurt.”

  The moustachioed South African went to hit him again but Lipakos stopped him with a raised hand.

  “Believe me Mr Munro, you will die if I say you die. The girl is fine. She’s upstairs. Drugged, but otherwise unharmed. For now. But I must warn you, these men are only too willing to do the job that those Mexicans messed up so badly. You caused a lot of trouble in Mexico Mr Munro, a lot of trouble. Lots of dead people, lots of bad press for my associates there.”

  “I didn’t know you associated with drug dealers Lipakos. We checked you out, you hide your dirty money very well.”

  “That’s because there is no dirty money Mr Munro. You think I need to risk everything by getting money from the likes of El Cazon Salazar? I could buy him four times over … he’s a greasy little peasant who was in the right place at the right time. The same with those Colombian paramilitaries. Farmers who give themselves tough names like the Black Eagles and happen to have land ripe for growing the coca plant. No Mr Munro, I don’t need their money. I have more money than I can ever use, believe me. They have something that I value far more than money … they have power. The power of life and death. That’s what I get from them Mr Munro. Power. I let El Cazon and the Colombians have the odd container on one of my ships every now and then, and they’re absurdly grateful. Absurdly. It seems transporting drugs is getting more difficult these days. A bonded container going via a bonded warehouse is worth its weight in gold to these men.”

  “And what do you get in return Lipakos, drugs?”

  “Drugs? You think I need drugs Mr Munro?” he laughed a short bark-like laugh. “No Mr Munro, I have no interest in narcotics. What I get in return from El Cazon and the Colombians, what I get is a network of killers stretching from Toronto to Buenos Aires. One phone call from me Mr Munro, and a man will be dead in twenty-four hours. One phone call, twenty-four hours. That is real power Munro, real power.” Munro looked at him, the smooth yacht owner at the cocktail party had gone. The clear blue eyes were burning, bulging slightly. He had started to lose his composure, become agitated.

  “You’re a businessman Lipakos, why on earth would you ever need to kill someone in twenty-four hours?”

  Lipakos stopped and looked at Munro.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to understand Mr Munro. Looking at your file, you’re in fact from quite an ordinary background. Father an American air force officer, mother a girl from the Scottish village near the base. Orphaned when you were only six years old, sent to live with your grandparents in Glasgow. Scholarships to good schools, expelled from good schools. A naughty boy, but hardly anything spectacular. For me Mr Munro, life has been different…” he paused and looked over Munro’s shoulder, at the marble mantelpiece behind him, lost in his thoughts for a moment, “…harder in a way.

  “On my sixteenth birthday,” he eventually continued, “my father took me to a brothel in Paris. I was presented with a selection of the most beautiful women you have ever seen, and told to take my pick. Can you imagine that aged sixteen? It was eye-opening, I can tell you. From then on Mr Munro, I have always been able to have whatever I wanted. Anything. Women, cars, boats…companies. Anything. My older brother died when I was twenty-five. After that there was no longer even any competition, I got everything my father had created. Millions. Pretty soon those millions turned to billions, and I found that I was one of the richest men in the world. Do you know how boring that can become Mr Munro? How dull? You want to get into mining - you buy some mines. You make more millions. Mining is boring, you want to get into oil trading – you buy a trading house. More money flows in.”

  “It must have been a hard life,” said Munro, waiting for a punch. But it never came. Lipakos was in his stride, and did not wait to continue. His mouth was beginning to froth slightly, Munro saw.

  “To be honest Mr Munro, when I was about forty, I had something of a mid-life crisis. I had no competition, I had more money than I could ever use. What do you do after that? There is nothing left to achieve,” he looked at Munro as if seeking some sort of understanding from him. “I looked at the other ship owners. They had the same problems. They competed on women, see who can get the famous actress, the wife of the dead president. But that didn’t interest me. Sarah was a good mother, my sons are important to me. Family is very important Mr Munro, never forget that…”

  “I…won’t,” replied Munro looking at his captor in slight confusion.

  “But anyway, where do you go from there? You have women, you have cars, you have boats. You own companies, conglomerates, a corporate empire that stretches across the globe. What more is there? You’re only half way through your life and you realise there’s nothing left to entertain you. Nothing to get you out of bed in the morning. And so you ask yourself, what do I still not have?” He paused as if waiting for an answer from Munro.

  “The answer Mr Munro, came to me in Anton here’s homeland. South Africa. It was the 80s and I was making a lot of money selling them oil when no one else wou
ld. I used to go down there to holiday, see the lions. My boys loved it. They loved the safari. But anyway, I was with a friend of mine down there, on my own once. We were hunting Eland, out in open-top jeeps, when a call came over the radio - poachers had been spotted. We had a couple of police Colonels with us, and lots of guns, so we set off after them … driving through the bush at sixty miles an hour, it was quite exhilarating I can tell you … I thought we were going to arrest them. But oh no, Mr Munro…” he paused a beat, “…we hunted them. We tracked them like you would track animals. Using dogs. It didn’t take us long to get their trail. After that it was only a matter of time. There were four of them and one of the Colonels shot one of them from a distance, straight through the head. We caught the other three and lined them up in front of the jeeps. What they do, or what they did before all this Mandela rubbish, they always leave one poacher alive. As an example, so he can tell his friends.

  “So here they were, these three guys lined up in front of me. I wasn’t sure exactly what was going to happen…but I soon found out. One of the Colonels said to me that as I was the guest, it was my honour to choose which of the men lived and which died. It was up to me. I had the power to choose who lives and who dies. It was quite extraordinary; I can tell you Mr Munro. All I had to do was say the word and two men would die, and one would live. I knew then, I knew then that I had found something…” he paused, his eyes alive but distant, “I knew I had found something that would keep the boredom at bay, something that could give me real...joy. The power of life and death. In South Africa they called it the kill test. They asked me to take the kill test. ”

  “So that’s why you had your son killed?” said Munro incredulously. His left eye had swollen from where a punch had landed, his cheek was bleeding from being cut and his shoulder still hurt from where Hector had sliced him with a machete. Lipakos stopped and looked at Munro, brought out of his story with a jolt.