Her mouth went dry. If she had read the signs right, Ash had returned … and walked straight into an ambush. The receptionist had mentioned a gang wielding weapons. But there was no sign of them now. Or of Ash.
Once more Jemma examined her surroundings. To her dismay, a black smear on the pavement proved to be blood not oil. Was Ash wounded? Or dead, and they’ve dragged the body away. She clamped down on that thought, hard, and took herself to task. There’s not enough blood for that. Besides, it might not even be Ash’s blood. She can take care of herself.
She tried to imagine herself in Ash’s position—outnumbered; too many enemies between her and the hotel. Maybe she had decided to run for it, then double back later when the coast was clear. Knowing Ash, she might even have things under control already, but still … The urge to help was overwhelming.
With the aid of a bent paperclip, Jemma picked the Volkswagen’s door lock. Then she slid into the driver’s seat and reached under the dashboard. While she hotwired the car, her thoughts raced ahead. Rio’s huge, and Ash could be anywhere. Where on earth do I start looking? There was nothing else for it. She’d have to start at the Hotel Almirante and work her way outwards, street by street.
Chapter 5
THINGS HADN’T GONE quite the way Ash had planned. The subway stop nearest the Hotel Almirante was shut. Only at weekends did the metro stay open until one a.m., apparently. Should have remembered that. She glared at the locked gates preventing her from grabbing a ride into the heart of Rio and losing the five men pursuing her there. But their running footsteps were growing louder, so, with reluctance, she left the subway station.
Guess I’ll have to do this the hard way.
She turned left into the Rua das Laranjeiras and broke into a jog. It should have been a simple matter to shin up a drainpipe, clamber over the rooftops, and give those following her the slip, but though the feeling had returned to her forearm and fingers, the stab wound meant she didn’t dare risk it. Not only was her shoulder hurting like hell, she was losing blood. The shirtsleeve she’d torn off and used as a makeshift bandage was drenched and hadn’t slowed the bleeding. She needed to apply pressure, but no matter how she twisted, she couldn’t manage it herself. The sooner she got back to the hotel and enlisted Jemma’s help the better.
A glance back revealed that two of her pursuers had broken away from the group, opening up a gap of a hundred yards. Two against one—not bad odds. Not slackening her pace, she unzipped a special compartment in her money belt and felt inside for the garrotte.
As she pulled out the length of wire, she scanned ahead for a likely place to take them on. That’ll do. She darted into the dark alleyway she had spotted and hid behind the overflowing refuse bins at its far end. Moments later, pounding feet entered and slowed. She controlled her breathing, gripped the garrotte by its handles, and waited.
The two men searching the shadows froze when Ash leaped out of hiding, and she got behind the one closest to her and wrapped the garrotte round his neck. As the wire sliced into his throat, he thrashed about, gurgling, and with a roar, his companion barrelled towards her, switchblade glinting. The blade missed her neck by a whisker as she let go of the garrotte and twisted to one side. The man was as strong as an ox, and it was an effort to keep his knife hand away from her as they grappled, swaying to and fro. But using her bodyweight and feet, she managed at last to knock him off balance, and he fell … taking Ash and a refuse bin with him—its crash as it toppled over set the neighbourhood dogs barking. Luck was with Ash, though, for the fall badly winded him, and she was able to scramble clear first, and take his jaw and the back of his skull in a vicelike grip. Ignoring the agony that flared through her shoulder and down her arm at the sudden movement, she wrenched his head to one side, and with a dull crack he went limp.
The fight had drained her, so Ash took a moment to catch her breath before checking on the other man. He was dead, her wire embedded too deep in his neck for retrieval. She wiped her fingers on his shirt and straightened. No gun. No garrotte. Great. Hope they’re not all going to be this tough to kill.
She emerged from the alleyway and saw the remaining pursuers were approaching fast. She resisted the urge to thumb her nose at them and picked up her pace again. Two down, three to go. Pity they couldn’t just give up, but they were as tenacious as terriers. The pay must be good. She wondered how the Libyans had found her, for these men must be working for them. An unlucky fluke? One of al-Akhdar’s men could have spotted her having lunch, or on the bus, or in the cable car …
Ash paused as the street ended, unsure which way to go. To the west loomed Corcovado with its famous statue of Christ on the summit. Or she could double back into the streets of Laranjeiras. Which would make the best killing ground? She flipped a mental coin and headed west towards the mountain’s lower slopes.
The thudding of Ash’s feet seemed deafening in the early morning quiet, and it felt as though she had been running forever—in more ways than one. Her legs were turning to jelly, and for the second time in the past ten minutes she tripped on a kerbstone and almost went flying. Cursing, she regained her balance, and ran on.
A familiar silhouette halfway along the road ahead caught her attention. It was one of the little phone kiosks the Brazilians called “big ears.” She crossed towards it, wondering whether to call Jemma or Celio, then realised that she would be unable to call either—the kiosk was the old-fashioned kind that required fichas. She had meant to get some tokens earlier but hadn’t got around to it. Damn! For a moment she considered calling 193 for free assistance, but she had killed people tonight, and had no desire to be detained by police with a reputation for brutality.
She continued past the phone kiosk and puffed up the steepening incline, trying to decide which hurt more—the burning in her calves and lungs or the throbbing in her stabbed shoulder. The street ended, and she found herself staring at a cross between a rubbish dump and a housing development. A favela. Moonlight softened the shantytown’s ramshackle appearance as she headed up the slope, but the stink of rubbish and untreated sewage intensified.
A muffled shout made her glance back. Two of her pursuers were catching up fast, and as she watched, the third appeared in the distance. They had stripped off their ski masks, and, at the sight of her, fierce grins split their sweaty faces.
She scanned her surroundings, but it was difficult to make out things clearly. Hmm. Was that a plastic bag draped over a TV antenna? It might be litter, but she’d heard cocaine dealers used such signals to indicate the presence of the police or the arrival of a drug shipment or—
Movement by a sheet of corrugated iron fencing snagged her attention—a group of youths was watching her. Hopes rising, she swerved towards them. “Os homens que me perseguem,” she called, not slowing, “trabalham para o cara rival que vende drogas.”
At the mention of a rival drug dealer, they got to their feet, muttering and gesturing. Guns appeared in some hands.
“Eles querem você fora do acordo,” added Ash, hoping that the thought of being cut out of a drug deal would aggravate them. Mutters became angry exclamations, and wary looks deepened into scowls. Maybe this would work after all.
The youths had to part to let her through or be mown down, so she kept on running, and glanced back in time to see them closing ranks once more against the men following hard on her heels. Ash was banking on the reception for those invading the youths’ turf being a hot one. And as she swung in a wide arc that would lead her back down the slope, a flurry of shots broke the early morning silence.
She bared her teeth. Serve them right.
ASH WAS TRAPPED in a dead end, and this time she hadn’t planned it. Two pursuers had survived the encounter with the favela youths, though one now sported a broken nose and the other was bleeding from a nasty gash to his thigh. They glared at her, hefted their cudgels, and circled her. She was supposed to be easier prey than this.
Tough.
Brakes squealed and tyres screeched in
the distance as a driver took a corner too fast. If Ash could reach a main road, she might be able to flag down help. Getting there presented difficulties. She assessed the drainpipe up the side of a warehouse and doubted if she could make the climb in her condition. I might have to try though. Flexing her hands, she prepared to give as good as she got. At least these two didn’t have guns.
As she evaded their blows, she was aware her energy was ebbing fast. From their expressions, the two men knew it too. More and more their pokes and prods were malicious. She ducked a blow aimed at her wounded shoulder and searched for an opening.
The roar of a car engine was suddenly loud, and headlights dazzled Ash. As she squinted against the glare, a cudgel caught her, and she clapped a hand to her stinging ribs.
A green Volkswagen Gol screeched to a halt behind the two men, leaving a streak of rubber on the road. “Get in,” yelled a familiar voice, as the car’s passenger door swung open.
Ash didn’t need telling twice. She drove her head into the abdomen of the man standing between her and salvation, barged past his wheezing carcass, and swung herself into the car. Jemma didn’t wait for her to get settled before reversing down the alleyway at breakneck speed. Ash hung on for dear life and with an effort managed to get the door closed.
As her attackers receded into the distance, becoming mere silhouettes, she imagined them gazing after her in frustration and laughed, aware that it was tinged with hysteria.
“In the nick of time.” She slumped back against the upholstery.
“I’d have got here sooner,” said Jemma, driving with fierce concentration, “if I’d known where you were. Next time how about a homing signal?”
“Okay. Your file didn’t mention you were a racing driver.”
“Never needed to be before.” Jemma reversed onto a main road, straightened up the Gol, and set off once more.
In the welcome safety of the passenger seat, Ash let her eyelids droop. The night’s exertions had taken their toll.
“You look awful,” came Jemma’s voice.
“Don’t feel too good,” she admitted. The car slowed, and she sensed she was being scrutinised.
“Your shoulder. Let me pull up somewhere, take a look at it—”
“No time. Our cover’s blown. We need to get our stuff from the hotel and get out of here.”
“But you need a doctor.”
“Later,” said Ash. “We’ll head for São Paulo. Give me a field dressing once we’re on the road. Okay?”
Jemma cursed under her breath but muttered a reluctant “Okay,” and they picked up speed again.
“Thanks.” With a sigh of relief, Ash let her eyelids flutter closed.
Chapter 6
AFTER A QUICK stop at a supermarket for a first aid kit, Jemma parked outside the Hotel Almirante. Leaving the Volkswagen with its engine running and Ash dozing in the passenger seat, she rushed through the deserted lobby and took the stairs to their room two at a time, heart pumping. She kept her eyes peeled for an ambush, but the coast was clear, and a few frantic moments later she had crammed their belongings into their bags and half pulled, half pushed them down the stairs.
She dumped the luggage bags in front of the reception desk and pinged the bell. After what seemed like an age, the woman who had checked them in yesterday appeared. “I’d like to check out please.”
The receptionist glanced over Jemma’s shoulder. “Your friend, Senhorita Kenyon, she is checking out too?”
“Yes. She’s outside. How much do we owe you?”
The woman worked it out, and Jemma handed over some of the reais Ash had given her.
“Did the police come in the end?”
The woman gave her a sharp glance. “You heard about the disturbance?”
Jemma nodded.
“By the time the polícia got here, there was no sign of anything out of the ordinary.”
No sign? Jemma opened her mouth to ask about the blood she had found then closed it again.
“They were angry at us for wasting their time.” The receptionist shrugged and handed Jemma her change. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in Brazil,” she added, her tone perfunctory.
“Me too.” Jemma lugged the bags out to the car, loaded them into the boot, and eased back into the driver’s seat.
Just outside Rio, she turned off the highway onto a lay-by sheltered from passing traffic by a line of trees. She killed the engine and regarded the still dozing Ash—it was a shame to disturb her, but it had to be done.
The first aid kit and bottle of hydrogen peroxide were on the back seat where Jemma had put them—sterile saline would have been better, but the supermarket hadn’t stocked it. She retrieved them then touched Ash on the arm. “Hey.”
Eyelids fluttered open, and blue eyes regarded her blearily.
“I need to take care of your wound. Can you lean forward?”
Ash did so, wincing.
“I’ve got some painkillers for you once we’re done,” promised Jemma.
“Good.”
She helped Ash to strip off her tattered shirt, revealing a blood-spattered white bra. The gash in Ash’s left shoulder made Jemma suck in her breath. It wasn’t gaping enough to require packing, but still—
“Bad?” said Ash.
“Well, it isn’t good. But I think the bleeding’s slowed.” She unscrewed the cap from the brown bottle. “This may sting.” She trickled its contents into the stab wound. Ash’s hiss made Jemma wince. “Sorry.”
“S’okay,” said Ash through gritted teeth.
If Jemma had been on the receiving end, she would have howled, but Ash appeared to be made of sterner stuff, so she kept pouring. Mac had covered “in the field” medical treatment during training—it was vital to irrigate the wound thoroughly. At last she was satisfied. “Done. But we should get you to a doctor. It needs stitches.”
“Later.”
With a sigh, Jemma cleaned her hands on an antibacterial travel wipe and took a sterile bandage from the first aid kit. She wrapped Ash’s shoulder in it, tied off its ends, then picked up the packet of painkillers. “Take these.”
Ash took the two white pills, swallowed them, and made a face.
Jemma studied her for a moment, then fetched Ash’s bag from the boot and rummaged through it.
“Looking for something?” Ash arched an eyebrow.
“You can’t go around in just your bra.” Attractive sight though it is. “Ah.” Jemma pulled out a cotton shirt, clean but rumpled from too hasty packing. “This do?” With a weary nod, Ash allowed her to help her into it. Jemma did up the buttons and stood back.
“Want to tie my shoelaces too, Mum?”
Jemma smiled in relief. If Ash was joking, she must be feeling a bit better. She returned Ash’s bag to the boot, then got back in the driver’s seat and reached for the dangling wires. “Now go back to sleep.”
“You can’t do all the driving,” protested Ash. “It’s six hours to São Paulo.”
“Of course I can.” Even if I didn’t get much sleep last night, and I have to drive on the wrong side of the road, and most Brazilian drivers are lunatics. She touched the wires together until the ignition sparked and the engine roared to life.
A smile tugged at the corners of Ash’s mouth as she regarded Jemma. She knows I’m not as confident as I sound. Jemma prepared herself for an argument, but it didn’t come. Instead, Ash relaxed against the upholstery.
“Okay.” Ash closed her eyes. “Thanks.”
Jemma put the car in gear. “No. Thank you. For having faith in me.” She glanced at Ash, but Ash was already asleep, her head lolling. “Sleep well,” she murmured, resisting a strong urge to brush a strand of hair out of Ash’s face. Then she pulled out onto the highway.
JEMMA HOPED FOR an undemanding drive along a well-maintained, preferably empty highway—what she got was the BR116. The old highway that connected Rio to São Paulo was run down and riddled with potholes, and though she was travelling at just under the
speed limit and minding her own business, trucks were constantly crowding the Volkswagen’s tail, their impatient drivers revving before pulling out and roaring past in a stink of exhaust fumes.
The scenery was nice though. To the north was the Itatiaia National Park, and cloud-forested mountains dominated the skyline. And it was a little cooler than it had been in Rio.
She glanced at the sleeping Ash. Suppose I hadn’t woken up and gone looking for her? Suppose the knife had severed an artery? Suppose … For God’s sake, stop it. Tightening her hands on the steering wheel, she thrust the recurring thoughts away. Ash was here with her and safe. That was all that mattered.
Jemma took another swig of lukewarm Coke from the can—her third. The caffeine in it was keeping her alert; the only trouble was … Her bladder signalled its need again, and she checked her watch. Yup. Ninety minutes since the last stop. Time for a break and a leg stretch. When a suitable spot appeared, she pulled over, ransacked the back seat for the box of tissues, grabbed a handful plus some travel wipes, then got out and headed for a bush.
Once the pressure on her bladder was relieved, Jemma returned to the car to check on Ash. Her colour was good. She touched the back of one hand to Ash’s forehead. No fever either, thank God. At her touch Ash stirred, and Jemma pulled back, fearing she was going to wake her. But she merely let out a deep sigh and resettled herself more comfortably.
Jemma regarded her with a wistful smile for a moment longer, then set about stretching the stiffness from legs and shoulders and returning the feeling to her buttocks. The driving that lay ahead held little appeal, but what choice did she have? With a reluctant sigh, she resumed her place in the driving seat.
FOR THE NEXT several hours, for something to do, Jemma tried to remember the towns and villages she had driven through. Barra Mansa, Guarantinguetá …
Licensed to Spy Page 15
