Last Light

by Andy McNab

  T was having a nightmare? I can't even remember what it was about."

  She started to get up as I pulled the wet sweatshirt away from my skin.

  "It happens. You OK now?"

  I shook my head to try to clear it.

  "I'm fine, thanks."

  "I'll see you in the morning, then. Goodnight."

  "Yeah, um ... thanks for the drink."

  She walked back into the dark computer room, closing the door behind her.

  "You're welcome."

  I checked my watch. 12.46 a.m. I had been out for over fourteen hours. Getting slowly to my feet, I squatted up and down, trying to get my legs back to normal while I had some more water. Then I ripped the plastic from the blanket, lay down and covered myself, blaming the drug cocktail for my doziness.

  Dihydrocodeine does that to you.

  I tossed and turned, eventually rolling up my jacket as a replacement pillow, but it didn't work. My body was telling me I still needed sleep, but I really didn't want to close my eyes again.

  Half an hour later I checked Baby-G and it was 03.18 a.m. So much for not closing my eyes. I lay there, rubbing my legs. The pain had gone, and I didn't feel as groggy as before. I felt around below the cot for the water-bottle.

  Blinking my eyes open, I drank to the noise of the crickets.

  I didn't want to lie and think too much, so decided to have a walkabout to keep my head busy. Besides, I was nosy.

  Pushing myself upright, I sat on the edge of the cot for a while, rubbing my face back to life before standing up and reaching for the light switch. I couldn't find it, so felt for the door handle instead and bumbled into the computer room, water in hand. The switch in here was easy to find. As the strip lighting flickered I saw that the living-room door was closed. I checked the darkness on the other side.

  The plyboard behind the two blank screens nearest me was covered with pinned-up printouts in Spanish, and handwritten messages on university letterhead, alongside Post-its with everyday stuff like 'need more glue'. This was how modern tree-hugging must be: out shovelling shit all day, then back to the PC to work out leaf tonnages or whatever.

  To the left of that was a cork board with a montage of photographs. All of them seemed to be of the extension being built, and of the clearing behind. A few showed Aaron up a ladder hammering nails into sheets of wriggly tin, some of him with what looked like a local, standing next to craters in the ground with half blown-up trees around them.

  Taking a swig of the water I walked over to what I assumed was Luce's PC. The school textbooks were American, with titles like Math Is Cool, and there was a Tower of Pisa of music CDs ready to play in the drive. The plyboard behind was covered with world maps, best-effort drawings, and pictures of Ricky Martin torn from magazines, along with a Latin band with permed hair and frilly shirts. I looked down at the desk and noticed her name scribbled on exercise books as kids do when they are bored -mine were always covered. Her name was spelt Luz. I remembered from my Colombia days that their Z is pronounced as S. So her name was the Spanish for 'light' it wasn't short for Lucy at all.

  I could feel the layer of greasy sweat over me as I headed for the living room, checking their bedroom once more before hitting the brass light switch the other side of the door.

  The room was lit by three bare bulbs, hanging on thin white flex that was taped to the supports. The cooker was a chipped white enamel thing with an eye-level grill and gas-ring hob. There was an old-style steel coffee percolator on the cooker, and various family-hug photos fixed to the fridge with magnets. Near it was a white veneer chip board dining-room set, with four chairs, that could have come straight out of a 1960s household and looked out of place in a world of dark hardwoods.

  I pulled two or three bananas from a bunch lying next to the oranges, and looked idly at the photographs while my back reminded me I'd been bitten big-time. The pictures were of the family having fun about the house, and some of an older guy in a white polo shirt, holding hands with Luz on the veranda.

  I peeled the skin off the second as my eye fell on a faded black and white picture of five men. One of them was most certainly the older guy with Luz. All five were in trunks on the beach, holding up babies in saggy nappies and sunhats for the camera. The one on the far left had a badly scarred stomach.

  I leant forward to get a closer look. His hair had been darker then, but there was no doubt about it. The long features and wiry body belonged to Pizza Man.

  Taking another couple of bananas off the bunch, I wandered over to the coffee table and sat down, resisting the temptation to give my back a good hard scratch, and trying not to make a noise.

  I put down the water and munched away. The slab of dark wood looked a good six inches thick, and though the top was polished, the bark around the edge had been left untouched. Strewn across it were tired-looking copies of Time magazine and the Miami Herald amongst glossy Spanish titles I didn't recognize, and a teen mag with some boy band posing on the cover.

  I sat, finishing off the bananas, while I ran my eye along the shelves. There was a selection of hardbacks, paperbacks, large coffee-table books and carefully folded maps. The well-worn spines covered everything from natural history to Mark Twain, quite a lot of American political history, and even a Harry Potter.

  But most seemed to be stern-looking textbooks on rainforests, global warming, and flora and fauna. I looked closer. Two were by Aaron.

  One of the shelves was given over to four hurricane lamps with already blackened wicks, and as many boxes of matches, lined up like soldiers on standby for the next power cut. Below that, two silver candlesticks and a silver goblet sat alongside a selection of leather bound books with Hebrew script on the spine.

  Finishing off the water, I got up and dumped the banana skins in the plastic bag under the sink and headed for the cot. I'd had a long rest but I still felt like more.

  I opened my eyes to the sound of the generator and a vehicle engine. I stumbled over the medical case as I made my way to the outside door.

  Blinding sunlight hit me, and I was just in time to see the Mazda heading into the treeline. As I held up my hand to shield my eyes, I saw Carrie at the front of the house. She turned to me, and I couldn't tell from her expression if she was smiling, embarrassed or what.

  "Morning."

  I nodded a reply as I watched the wagon disappear.

  "Aaron's gone to Chepo. There's a jaguar that's been caged up for months. I'll get you those clothes and a towel. You OK?"

  "Yes, thanks. I don't think I need to go to Chepo. The fever's gone, I think."

  "I'm fixing breakfast. You want some?"

  "Thanks, I'll have a shower first if that's OK.

  She moved back towards the veranda.

  "Sure."

  The hard standing at the rear of the extension was covered by an open-walled lean-to. It was obviously the washing area. In front of me was the shower, three sides formed out of wriggly tin, and an old plastic curtain across the front. A black rubber hose snaked down from a hole in the roof. Beyond it was an old stainless-steel double sink unit supported by angle-iron, fed by two other hoses, with the waste pipes disappearing into the ground. Further back was the toilet cubicle.

  Above the sinks were three toothbrushes, each in a glass, with paste and hairbrushes alongside a huge box of soap powder. An empty rope washing line was also suspended under the corrugated-iron awning, with wooden pegs clamped all along it, ready and waiting. A few of the white tubs were stacked up in the corner, one of them full of soaking clothes.

  The ground to the rear of the house sloped gently away so that I could just see the treetops maybe three hundred metres in the distance. Birds flew over the trees and a few puffy white clouds were scattered across the bright blue sky.

  I pulled back the plastic shower curtain, took off all my kit and dropped it on the hard standing, but left the sweatshirt bandage in place around my leg. I stepped into the cubicle, a rough concrete platform with a drainage hole in the
middle, and a shelf holding a bottle of shampoo, a half-worn bar of soap streaked with hairs, and a blue disposable razor not Aaron's, that was for sure. Soap suds were still dripping down the tin walls.

  I twisted myself to inspect the rash on my lower back, which was now incredibly sore. It was livid and lumpy, and about the size of my outspread hand. I'd probably got the good news from a family of chiggers while lying in the leaf litter. The tiny mites would have burrowed into my skin as I lay there watching the house, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it except play host for the next few days until they got bored with me and died. I scratched gently around the edge of the rash, knowing I shouldn't but I couldn't stop myself.

  The bruising on the left side of my chest had come on nicely since Sunday afternoon, and my ribs burned even when I reached out to undo the hose sprinkler.

  I soaked the sweatshirt material with lukewarm water to try to soften up the clotting, then, holding the hose over my head, I counted off my sixty seconds.

  Closing off the flow, I lathered myself down with the flowery-smelling soap and rubbed shampoo into my hair. When the water had had enough time to do its stuff with the dressing, I bent down and untied the sweatshirt, trying to peel it away gently.

  My vision blurred. I was feeling dizzy again. What the fuck was happening to me?

  I sat down on the rough concrete and rested my back against the cool metal. I'd been making excuses by telling myself that all this shit was because I was knackered. But I had been knackered all my life. No, this was going on in my head. I'd been so busy feeling sorry for myself, I hadn't even given serious thought to how I was going to get the job done yet, and had lost a whole day of preparation. I could have been on the ground by now.

  I gave myself a good talking to: Get a grip ... The mission, the mission, nothing matters except the mission, I must get mission-orientated, nothing else matters.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The flesh refused point blank to unstick itself from the material. They'd been mates for too many hours now and just didn't want to be parted. I ripped it away like a sticking plaster, and immediately wished that I hadn't: the pain was outrageous, and that was before the soapy lather started running into the raw, red, messy wound.

  "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" I couldn't help myself.

  As I gritted my teeth and rubbed soap into the gash to clear out the crap, there was a noise from the sink area. I poked my newly switched-on head out to say thanks `<49' to Carrie for the clothes and towel, but it wasn't her, it was Luz at least, I presumed it was. She was dressed in a blue, rather worn-looking long Tshirt style nightgown, and had the wildest black curly hair I'd ever seen, like Scary Spice plugged into the mains. Near her on the drainer was a pile of khaki coloured clothes and a blue striped towel. She stood there, staring at me with big dark eyes above high, pronounced Latin cheekbones and not a teenage zit in sight. She was going to be a very beautiful woman one day, but not just yet.

  Sticking out of her nightgown was a pair of lanky legs, skinny as shaved pencils, the shins covered with tomboy bruises.

  She looked at me, not scared or embarrassed, just interested at the

  sight of a soapy version of Darth Maul sticking out from behind the shower curtain.

  "Hold."

  That sort of Spanish I understood.

  "Oh, hola. You're Luz?"

  She nodded, trying to work me out, or maybe she just found the accent strange.

  "My mom told me to bring you these." She spoke American, tinged with a hint of Spanish.

  Thank you very much. I'm Nick nice to meet you, Luz."

  She nodded "See you' and left, going the long way round so as not to pass the shower.

  I got back to business. The wound was about four inches long and maybe an inch deep, but at least it was a clean cut.

  The soap and shampoo were starting to cake on me now as I stood and got to grips with the mission, and myself. Letting loose with the hose, I rinsed off for my allotted sixty seconds, having a piss at the same time, and the smell was bad.

  My urine was a horrible dark yellow, which meant I was very dehydrated. I supposed that might account for the dizziness.

  I towelled myself dry in the open air, then got dressed in Aaron's clothes, khaki cotton trousers with two map pockets either side, and a very old, full sleeved faded grey T-shirt, telling the world, "Just do it." The trousers were a few inches too big around the waist, but a couple of twists of the waistband tightened them up. The trouser pockets had good Velcro seals, so I put my wallet, passport and air ticket, still in their plastic bags, in the right-hand one.

  After slicking back my hair I attacked the D hose, sucking at the bitter-tasting water, then stopped for a while to catch my breath as I felt my stomach swell with the much-needed warm fluid.

  The next thing I did was take my Leatherman out of its case to wash off Diego's blood, then put it into my pocket. After another big water-sucking session, I hung the wet towel on the line like a good boy. With my old clothes rolled in a ball in my left hand and my Timberlands in the right, I walked back round to the storeroom, picked up the medical kit and satellite picture, then, after crawling about under the cot, Diego's wallet, and sat outside on the foundations again.

  Looking at the sat image I could clearly see the road from Charlie's house down to the gate, wagons parked, diesel fumes belching from a JCB as it dragged a tree stump out of the ground, bodies lazing by the pool. This was good stuff, but told me nothing I didn't already know. I'd been hoping for maybe a covered approach route from the rear or something that would spark off an idea.

  I found antibiotic powder in a little puff bottle and gave my wound a good dousing, then applied a gauze dressing and secured it with a crepe bandage, realizing, as I saw the dihy-drocodeine bottle, that my headache had gone.

  Carrie hadn't provided any socks or underpants, so I just had to let my boys hang free and put my own socks back on. They were the consistency of cardboard, but at least they were dry now. I pulled on my boots, rubbed antihistamine cream over the small of my back and the lumps on my face, then packed everything back into the case. I found two safety-pins to secure the map pocket, and took the suitcase back to the storeroom. I dumped all my old kit under the cot and rummaged about for matches, then gouged a hole in the earth with the heel of my Timberland, and emptied the contents of Diego's wallet into it, less the $38.1 watched his picture ID and family photo curl and turn black as I thought about what I was going to do with Michael.

  I didn't have that many options to consider. It was going to have to be a shoot.

  Nothing else would work with such little time, information and kit: at three hundred-ish metres, and with even a half-decent weapon, I should be able to drop him. No fancy tip-of-an-ear stuff, just going for the centre mass of his trunk.

  Once he was down and static I could get another few rounds into him to make sure. If my only chance at dropping him presented itself as he got into a vehicle leaving for or returning from college, then I was going to have to take the shot pretty sharpish.

  Afterwards, I'd stay in the jungle until Sunday, keeping out of the way before popping out and getting myself to the airport. Even if I didn't find an opportunity until last light tomorrow, I could still be at Josh's by Tuesday. As for the possibility of not seeing the target at all, I didn't want to go there.

  After pushing mud over the little pile of ash, I headed for the kitchen, keeping the antihistamine with me. I threw the wallet on to the back of a shelf as I passed through the storeroom.

  The fans in the living area were turning noisily, whipping up a bit of a breeze.

  Carrie was at the cooker with her back turned; Luz was sitting at the table, eating porridge and peeling an orange. She was dressed like her mother now, in green cargos and T-shirt.

  I put on my cheerful voice again and gave a general, "Hello, hello."

  Carrie turned and smiled.

  "Oh, hello." She didn't look at all embarrassed about last night as she pointed at me w
ith a porridge-covered spoon, but said to Luz, This is Nick."

  Luz's voice was confident and polite: "Hi, Nick."

  Thanks again for bringing me the clothes' was answered with a routine 'You're welcome."

  Carrie ladled porridge into a white bowl and I hoped it was for me.

  "Sit down.

  Coffee?"

  I did as I was told.

  "Please." By the time I'd pulled up my chair, the porridge and a spoon were on the table in front of me. A bunch of four bananas was next, and she tapped the top of a green jug in the centre of the table. Milk.

  Powdered, but you get used to it."

  Carrie turned her back to me and made coffee. Luz and I sat facing each other, eating.

  "Luz, why don't you tell Nick how we do things? After all, that's what he's here to find out. Tell him about the new power system."

  Her face lit up with a smile that revealed a row of crooked white teeth in a brace.

  "We have a generator, of course," she said earnestly, looking me in the one and a half eyes she could see.

  "It gives power to the house, and also charges two new banks of batteries linked together in parallel. That's for emergencies and to keep the generator noise down at night." She giggled.

  "Mom goes totally postal if the generator is left on late."

  I laughed, though not as much as Luz as she tried to drink some milk. Carrie joined us with two steaming mugs of coffee.

  "It's not that funny."

  "Then why has milk come through my nose?"

  "Luz! We have a guest!" As she poured milk into her mug and passed the jug over to me, her eyes were fixed on Luz with a look of such love and indulgence that it made me feel uncomfortable.

  I nodded at the cooker.

  "So you have gas as well?"

  "For sure." Luz carried on with her lecture.

  "It's bottled. It comes by helicopter with the other stuff, every fifth Thursday." She looked at her mother for confirmation. Carrie nodded.

  "The university hires a helicopter for deliveries to the six research stations in-country."

  I looked as interested as I could, given that what I really wanted to discuss was how to get my hands on the rifle I'd seen on the wall, and to see if it was any good for what I had in mind. I peeled a banana, wishing that I'd had a resupply every fifth week during my stays in the jungle over the years.