Red Stripes

by Matt Hilton

  He looked from me to Wendy. His eyes stood out sharply against the darkness, and I could see he intended killing everyone he could that night.

  I lunged for him.

  He made a bark of victory as he swung at the girl.

  Thankfully I got a hand to his right wrist and I shoved the blade aside. It skimmed Wendy near her hip, but she’d live. She went down, crying out, and Stephan finally came out of his terror long enough for me to shout at him.

  “Get her out of here!”

  I could spare neither of them any further notice. Machete-man backhanded the blade at me, and I had to twist away violently, almost rupturing the intercostal muscles between my ribs in my desperation. The kidnapper swung at my gut now, and I sucked in for all my worth, bending over the scything blade.

  He missed me. I didn’t miss him.

  I powered a palm heel into his chin, and he staggered, eyelids dancing as he fought unconsciousness. I followed, closing the gap, even as I heard the crashing of breaking window slats and guessed Rink was entering the fray. Behind me I heard harsh commands, and had an impression of Wendy being physically hauled out of harm’s way. Wind carried raindrops into the room. I was so energized by battle I’d bet the drops sizzled on my exposed skin. I went after the kidnapper. He’d made some space, and blinking through the disorientation, took swipes at me with his blade. Having no luck, he threw caution to the wind and came in with his favored hacking blow at my head and shoulders.

  I was ready for him this time, and unencumbered by a girl between my feet. As the machete swept down, I stepped inside its arch and head-butted the man in the face. His nose flattened, blood spraying out over me. He clutched at me with his free hand, getting a grip on the cloth at my right shoulder, while I jammed his weapon hand under my left elbow. I nutted him again. Then I twisted, using the pivoting action to wrench him around and power him at the wall nearest the doorpost. As he was slammed against the wall, I disengaged quickly, stripping the machete from his hand but relinquishing half of my shirt, which he clung to for grim death. It wasn’t a fair trade for him. So I gave it him back.

  Wedging my left forearm in his throat, I drove him tightly to the door frame, allowing him no room for escape and leaving him wide open for the blade as I forced the tip in under his ribs. He fought to push me away, but I thought of the boy’s bandaged hand, and gritted my teeth. I leaned my weight in, shoving the blade deep into his body.

  A flashlight beam played over us.

  Distantly I recalled there was still one man unaccounted for.

  But I was too busy contending with my opponent to worry about him now. The kidnapper still refused to die. He clawed for my eyes with both hands. I squeezed my eyelids shut, pulled out the machete then instantly drove it in again. Then again. The fingers fell away from my face. I wasn’t content that he was fully dead. I rammed the machete in a fourth time and felt it slide with little resistance through his body until it drove into the wall with a dull thud. I gave it an extra bit of pressure and left the man hanging on the blade like a display in a psycho killer’s trophy room.

  Stepping away, gasping for breath, I stood there for a moment. Gravity and the weight of the man’s upper body did their combined work. The blade sagged, was pulled from the wall, and the kidnapper splayed on the floor before me. I felt no satisfaction at his death. I was only relieved that his machete had completed its final work, and this time it wasn’t on a boy’s fingers.

  Thinking of Stephan, I turned and saw Rink pull him from the broken window. Rink looked at me, and his head jerked in warning.

  Again light played over me.

  Swinging around I saw the fourth man standing in the doorway. He was looking not at me, but at his dead buddies. But then he brought up the flashlight again and it settled on my upper body.

  He cursed, and I braced to take a bullet.

  Yet the man spun on his heel and took off down the corridor, calling out in fright.

  He was no Usain Bolt.

  I could have caught up to him. But two things halted me: for one he was running away and no threat. The other was Rink’s command.

  “Let’s get these kids outta here.”

  In recollection, it had to have been the guy with the flashlight who’d got a good look at my tattoo. From the way in which he’d fled the scene, crying out for assistance that would never come, I didn’t think for a second that he was the man now pressing Jolie for my whereabouts. A more likely scenario was that when the remainder of the gang had heard about what had gone down at the abandoned holiday complex, they’d got the description from their final man on the ground. We never identified the men in Miami, but because that was where the money drops had gone down, it was apparent to me that they were the key players. The thugs on the island were simply that. Men who didn’t shy away from chopping off the fingers of rich young American kids, or burying at sea the boat’s crew snatched alongside them. The Miami connection were the brains of the outfit, and better placed to discover who was responsible for snatching their prizes away from them.

  Although few people were aware of my tattoo, or what it signified, it wasn’t exactly a secret either. Recently I’d even seen a photograph of the tattoo design on the Internet, and wondered which of my old Arrowsake colleagues had been stupid enough to post it. It was only after I realigned the image that I understood the pic had been taken while its wearer was horizontal, lying dead on a morgue slab. The number of my old pals out there was dwindling. I was yet to find out which of them was the latest to die, because other than with Rink, I’d no connection to any of the other operatives I once hunted terrorists alongside.

  I wondered if whoever was hunting me had used the tattoo to track me, but that wasn’t likely. A more probable scenario was that they had used their connections in the criminal underworld, or even the law-enforcement community, to sniff me out. Unfortunately I’d enemies in both camps. Yet the most obvious way in which they would have traced me here to Tampa, and to Rington Investigations, was through Charles White, the private investigator from Miami who’d played at mediator between the Jamaicans and the Pilarcik family. As far as I could tell, Charlie White was a good man: I doubt he’d have given me up willingly.

  As I strode back to the office, clutching my waxed cup of Blue Mountain coffee, I called him on my cell.

  “Charles White Private Investigations,” said a voice.

  It wasn’t Charles. This voice was feminine. It sounded slightly wary.

  “Who am I speaking with?” I inquired.

  I didn’t get a straight answer. “If you wish to speak to Mr. White, I’m afraid he’s out of the office at this time.”

  “Can you tell me when you expect him back?”

  There was a hitch in the voice, a second or so of a pause that confirmed my fears. When she came back on, the woman went through the motions robotically. “I’m sorry, but I can’t be precise. If you’d like to give me your name and number I’ll have him contact you on his return.”

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t divulge that kind of information.”

  She sounded worried, and rightly so.

  I considered asking White’s assistant outright if he was missing, and if she had any idea about what had happened to him. But I didn’t. The Jamaicans had moved on from Miami. They were here in Tampa. As for Charles White, there was a likelihood that he was currently feeding the fish out in Miami Sound.

  Instead, I said, “It’s okay. I’ll call another time.”

  My assumptions were speculative at best. Maybe Charles was the type to disappear for days at a time, but I couldn’t ignore the coincidence. I had that prickling sense that had alerted me to danger in the past and I wasn’t about to write it off now. The Jamaicans would have easily learned Charles’s identity. Poke him with a machete enough times and he’d give up the names and descriptions of those he’d sent to conduct the rendition of their hostages. Perhaps the Rasta man at Jolie’s had thought my tatt
oo was more indicative of my identity than my name, and had described it to make sure he was closing in on the correct person.

  I’d purposefully left my Audi parked across the street from Jolie’s. The Jamaicans weren’t there, but since they’d already mentioned they’d visited Rink’s office and found it deserted, I decided I’d leave things looking the same way. Possibly they had someone watching Rington Investigations and they’d report if my vehicle turned up.

  I went left at the next intersection. Still two blocks up from the office. Mid-way along the next block was a service alley and I headed along it. Coming to the next cross street I paused, conducting countersurveillance measures instilled in me during all those years of active service. I didn’t spot a shadow. I headed for the next service alley, but once out of sight I halted, waiting to see if anyone nosey enough would poke their head around the corner. While I waited I sipped on my coffee. It had grown tepid. I binned the cup in a Dumpster. Nobody showed up.

  Happy that I’d gone unobserved I headed down the alley to where a roller shutter concealed the back entrance to Rink’s building. I had a key to the lock and I let myself in the back door. There’s a room at the rear that occasionally doubled as a bedroom. No one sleeps there anymore. A bullet hole in the door frame to the outer-office area had been left as a vivid reminder of what happens when you lower your guard. Alongside the bedroom is a short corridor, where there’s a small bathroom with a sink and a john, a small file room filled with rows of gray cabinets. Next to that is a closet. It holds mops, buckets, cleaning products. It also holds an armory locker. I also held the key to its lock.

  From the locker I took out my personal SIG Sauer P226. Unlike the SIG dumped in the Caribbean Sea as Velasquez steered us away from the kidnappers’ den, this one was in full working order. I checked the workings anyway—habit—and slapped in a full mag of 9 by19 mm Parabellums. Racking the slide, I put a round in the breech. Then, dropping the decocking lever, I lowered the hammer, making the weapon “drop safe.” All it would take to fire the gun now was slight pressure on the trigger, but I wouldn’t put my finger on the trigger until a viable target was in front of me. Cops and most military operatives would go postal on me for carrying around a hot weapon, but fuck them. I’d found the difference in a draw down was counted in milliseconds and any advantage outweighed the cons of an accidental discharge. Frankly, I’d never shot myself in the foot. My SIG went into my waistband at the back.

  These Jamaican mobsters, they liked their big knives. Well, they were no exception. I took from the armory two cutting weapons. One a military issue KA-BAR, the other an illegal push dagger that I slipped down inside my boot along my left ankle. I felt good to go. But there was something I had to do first.

  Using my cell, I asked first Velasquez, then McTeer to stay clear of the office until I gave them the all clear. Both men offered me their services, but I told them to enjoy their downtime. Rink wasn’t due back from his mom’s place for a few days, so I didn’t trouble the big guy. I knew if I called him, he’d be on the next plane out of San Francisco however forcefully I told him not to.

  Despite the heat, I pulled on a lightweight bomber jacket and ball cap, then locked up the office, going out the back way once more. I retraced my steps along the service alley to the first cross street and then decided that if I was going to draw out the Jamaicans, then now was as good a time as any. I headed for the main strip and turned for Jolie’s café, still two blocks up on the right.

  Before making it as far as Jolie’s, I crossed the street, jaywalking on a red light. A block ahead of me my Audi A8 waited. So did a tall black man. He was coal dark, bald headed: not the guy who’d spoken with Jolie about me. He was sitting on the hood of my car, arms crossed on his chest, sinewy muscles glistening under the sun. He wasn’t looking my way but across at the café.

  I picked up my pace, but not enough to draw the baldy’s attention, slipping into step with other pedestrians on the street. I kept my head down and facing forward, the peak of the cap casting a shadow on my face, but scanned to the right. As I neared my car I got a clear look across the street to where the outdoor tables were grouped on the sidewalk. I instantly recognized Jolie, who was standing talking with another black man. This one had café-au-lait skin and Bob Marley hair.

  Seems I wasn’t the only one with a raised alert level, because it was as if he sensed my scrutiny and turned to gaze at me. Even from across the street I could see he had intense jade-green eyes. Jolie also spotted me; she tried to distract the Jamaican, but he brushed her off with a flippant wave of his hand. Seeing the intensity in his friend, the guy perched on my Audi turned to follow his gaze. By then I’d put my right hand in my jacket pocket, and I pushed out with my index finger. He saw the positioning of my jacket and assumed that I’d a weapon pointed at him. Oldest, cheesiest trick in the book, but it still gets some people worried.

  The baldy slid off the hood of my car, unfolding his arms. He set his weight on his back foot. By now I was ten feet away, and as far as he could tell within point-blank range.

  “Tandeh, mon,” he said, holding out a hand.

  I hadn’t a clue what he said, but judging by his gesture he meant, “Stay there,” or, “Wait.”

  “Move away from my car,” I said.

  “Ease up. Everything’s irei, mon,” he said.

  “No, everything isn’t all right,” I said. I looked for his friend and saw the other man approaching from across the street. Like his pal he was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. No unusual shapes under the clothing, which meant they were unarmed. I turned so that I was at an angle, able to watch both men at the same time. In the background Jolie was watching, a hand fisted at her throat. I gave her a subtle headshake, encouraged her to go back inside her café. Jolie backed away but continued to watch from the shadows of her doorway. Brave woman, I thought. Most people would have buried their heads in the sand, but Jolie looked the type who’d come to my rescue with only her fingernails for weapons. But then, I was a good customer.

  The dreadlocked guy came to a halt, standing on the roadway. The curb was high, but he still met me eye for eye. He was tall. He was also young and fit, his muscles equally as defined as his buddies.

  “You’ve been asking about me,” I said. “What do you want?”

  “I think you know that already,” said Dreadlocks. His English was clearer than his friend’s, and I wondered if he’d spent some time across the Atlantic. That, or—judging by his lighter skin coloration—one of his parents was a British Caucasian.

  I considered his words.

  “You looking for revenge?”

  It was the bald man who answered. He laughed harshly. “Hector. Im run de Jamdung Rude Bwoy bizness. Im nuttin, mon.”

  I caught half of the words, but got the drift. Hector ran the business in Jamaica, but he was nothing.”

  “Hector was a piece of shit,” I agreed. It was pointless disputing who I was or what I’d done: they knew. “He chopped the fingers off a boy, and was about to rape a girl.”

  “Ha! Im be tinking im mantell. Im kyaan lock im hose off.”

  “I have no idea of what you just said.”

  Dreadlocks explained. “Hector always thought he was the man. He couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.”

  “So you have a pretty low opinion of him. You didn’t come looking for me for revenge then?”

  “Not on Hector’s behalf.” Dreadlocks moved off the road, stepping up alongside his pal. “But you cost us a big payday. We can’t allow that to happen again.”

  “That right?”

  “That’s right. We can’t have you ruining any of our future schemes.” Dreadlocks flicked a lazy hand toward Jolie’s café, and made another languid gesture in the general direction of Rington Investigations. “Some people might get hurt.”

  “Your beef’s with me, no one else.”

  “You strike me as the type who cares more about others than he does about himself.”

  “Enough to fig
ht to the death for them,” I assured him.

  The baldy laughed at my front. “Naa mek im vex, mon,” He said, with a look of pride for his friend. “Mi naa jesta, im tak your head.”

  “You’re forgetting I’m the one with the gun,” I said. “What’s to stop me taking off both your heads?”

  Dreadlocks hooked his thumbs in his waistband. Nonchalant. “If you have a gun it’s not in that pocket.”

  I took out my hand, my finger pointing at his gut. I gave him a lazy smile. “As if I’m going to shoot you with all of these witnesses watching. Where do you want to do this?”

  “You choose,” said Dreadlocks.

  “Where are your wheels?”

  Dreadlocks jerked his head, indicating a blue Ford parked behind my Audi.

  “Get in your car,” I told him. “Go back to Miami and forget all about me. Or follow me. Your choice.”

  “Only one choice for me,” he said. Then, with a grin for his pal, he slipped into patois, adding, “Mi muss a go kill mi dead.”

  Between Downtown and the Channel District off Meridian Avenue is a space dominated by railway tracks and sidings. Many freight companies have warehouses in the area, as well as there being a number of factories and mills. Near to one such mill, along a street where the trucks had long ago torn up the asphalt to display ancient cobbles beneath, was a deserted industrial unit. It had stood empty for a couple of years, a victim of the economic downturn. I only knew about the place having tracked a thief to the unit a few months earlier, and discovered his stash of stolen goods. The thief got off with a stern warning—and a lump on his head—and his wares were liberated and returned to their respective owners. I’d tagged the building’s location, never expecting that it would serve the purpose I had in mind for it now.