Fatal

by Arno Joubert

  “Good,” Neil said. “We need as many witnesses as possible to nail this bastard.”

  “I don’t think it should go down that way,” Bruce said softly, scratching his chin.

  “What do you mean?” Alexa asked.

  “He’ll go to prison. But he’ll still run his snuff film business, coordinating his operation from there. No, he has to be taken out, permanently.”

  “I agree,” Alexa said. She glanced at Neil. He nodded.

  Bruce turned to Neil. “I need you to take Metcalfe to the Philippines. Meet with some of the parents. Find out what they want to do.”

  “Back to the source, so to speak?” Neil asked.

  “Yep,” Bruce said, nodding thoughtfully.

  Someone pulled the cotton bag from Metcalfe’s head.

  He squinted and tried to focus in the brightly-lit room. “What? Where am I?” he asked, glancing around the room.

  “You’re in the morgue of the Barlig General Hospital, Manila,” Allen said.

  Metcalfe nervously scanned the room. It was chilly and smelled of antiseptic. He could see half a dozen metal doors on the wall. Allen stood beside a metal table with scalpels, knives, and a variety of surgical equipment. Drips, bandages, and syringes were stacked neatly on another rack.

  “This is kidnaping. You cannot keep me here,” he shouted, spraying spittle.

  Allen stood in front of Metcalfe and leaned towards him. “Let’s just say we have the Philippine president’s blessing. He doesn’t know why we’re here, but he isn’t going to stop what is going to happen to you either.”

  Metcalfe convulsed in the chair, trying to break the shackles that tied him to the metal chair. “Goddamn you, Allen. I’ll get you all,” he shouted, blood heating his face.

  Allen stood straight and extended a hand to the doorway. “Let me introduce you to our guests.”

  Three women entered the room.

  “Good day, ladies. Do you mind introducing yourselves to our distinguished guest?”

  A short, plump woman approached with a stern face. “My name is Imee Hidalgo. I am the president of the Sociedad Para Niñas Desaparecidas, or the Society for Missing Girls, in Manila. Two of my girls were abducted a month ago. Lucia, aged twelve, and Alexandra, seventeen. They were positively identified by me from the video footage on your computer.” She held up a video camera.

  Metcalfe smirked at the woman, his nostrils flaring. “Ah, the delicious irony of it all. The president of the Missing Children’s Society’s own children go missing.” He smirked. “I ordered that deft little touch, you know?”

  Imee slapped Metcalfe across the face.

  He sniggered at her. “This is going to be fun, isn’t it?”

  A second woman stepped closer and Imee handed her the camera. She had shoulder-length blonde hair. She was tall and walked resolutely with her shoulders held back, looking like she was steeling herself mentally.

  “My name is Dr. Suzette Ehlers from South Africa. You kidnapped my daughter, Elsa. I positively identified her from video footage on your computer.” She blinked and wiped a tear from her cheek. “I’m here to resuscitate you when you pass out and stop you from bleeding to death.”

  She turned around and walked back to the waiting women. Imee held out her arms and embraced the taller woman, soothing her, whispering encouraging words.

  Metcalfe looked up at Neil, his eyes shifting wildly between him and the women. “Why are they here? What do they want from me?"

  “They're volunteers. Specialists in their fields. We had to narrow the search down to six ladies; there were hundreds of parents that wanted the job. You will meet the other three in about four hours' time. They will be working in shifts,” Neil said.

  Metcalfe swallowed hard and looked up as the third women approached. She was tall, six two, and she looked strong. She wore a spaghetti-strap shirt and running shorts with sneakers.

  “My name is Pepe Fabrega. I am from Mozambique, Olympic gold medalist in boxing, heavyweight division. You killed my eldest sister, Estanza, in 2005. I identified her from footage on your computer.” She swung and hit Metcalfe with a crunching blow to his jaw.

  She shook her hand and looked over her shoulder at Neil. “I’ll need some protection for my hands, but not gloves. You know the type they use in tae kwon do? I still want him to feel the pain, but I do not want to bust up my hands before I'm done with him.”

  Neil nodded his head and punched a number into his cellphone. He explained to Voelkner what he needed and ordered two pairs.

  Metcalfe's eyes widened with shock. “You cannot do this, it isn’t fair.”

  Pepe drilled a shot into Metcalfe's nose, breaking it. She hit him once more, opening a cut below his eye.

  Suzette Ehlers walked up, examining his eye. “That's going to need stitches,” she said and strode towards the metal table, looking for a needle.

  Neil nodded and sauntered towards the door. “Ladies, you have four hours before the next shift starts. Good day.”

  Neil walked out of the room as Metcalfe screamed.

  Neil Allen and Imee Hidalgo walked leisurely, pausing briefly as a great white glided by over their heads. Neil marveled at the massive shark. Imee shivered, rubbing her arms.

  The Manila Ocean Park was empty, except for a cleaner who was buffing the floor with a colossal burnisher, moving the machine from side to side.

  They continued walking. “So, what happened?” Neil asked, glancing at Imee to his side.

  She hugged her arms. “Let’s just say I didn’t let him go.”

  Neil looked at her. “You killed him?”

  Imee shivered and rubbed her arms again. “Elsa shot him. In the head. After I hacked off both his hands,” she said. “We were at him for three days. He begged us to kill him.”

  Neil touched her elbow. “How do you feel?”

  “Better. It won’t bring the girls back. But I feel good. I removed a menace from society. Some parents suggested we send him to trial. Let him rot in jail.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t allow that to happen.”

  Neil stopped and examined her face. “You did the right thing. If he was still alive after you ladies were done with him, I would have killed him myself.”

  Imee smiled and squeezed his arm. “Thank you, Neil. For everything. You gave me closure. Gave us all closure. I hated not knowing what had happened to my babies.”

  Neil fumbled in his jacket pocket. “I have something else for you.”

  He removed an envelope and handed it to Imee. “This is for the Society for Missing Girls. Courtesy of the Dalerian Institute.”

  Imee accepted the envelope and tore it open. Her jaw dropped. “Fifty million dollars? What will we do with all of this?” she asked, blinking.

  “If anyone knows how to use it for a good cause, it’s you,” Neil said. “Good luck. Keep in touch.”

  Imee embraced Neil again. “Thank you so much.”

  Neil smiled and strode away, his hands in his pockets. He glanced over his shoulder. Imee was holding the check in her hands, still staring at it in disbelief.

  Perreira slid into his booth at the back of the Mardi Gras Cafe. The right hand one, as he always did. The waitress dragged two poles with a chain and a sign that read “PRIVATE” in front of the booths. She fetched Perreira his carafe of coffee, an Ethiopian blend, his favorite, and placed it on the table together with a white mug. She didn't bring any milk or sugar.

  On the dusky street outside, cars honked and rickety taxis made their way along Luanda Boulevard, their lights casting ghostly shadows against the dimly-lit walls of the restaurant.

  Perreira opened the newspaper. He held it at arms’ length and squinted. He glanced around the room and slipped on his reading glasses. He read the article, following each word with his finger, scrolling to the side and then back down. He nodded his head with a grunt and folded the paper, quickly removed the glasses, and put them away.

  The waitress unslung the chain from the poles and brought him
his dinner. A tall, sinewy man with salt-and-pepper hair followed behind her and slid in to the seat in front of Perreira.

  Perreira looked up, stuck out his hand, and smiled at Laiveaux.

  “Do you have the money?” Laiveaux asked in Spanish, shaking his hand.

  Perreira slid a bulging brown envelope across the table. Laiveaux opened it and looked inside. Nodded. “This should cover the remainder of the year. I need my next payment upfront.”

  Perreira shrugged. “Establish me another shipment line. I am grateful that you took care of Lobera, the greedy bastardo. But now I need another way to get my goods across the border.”

  Laiveaux leaned back in the booth and lit a cigarette, squinting his eyes against the smoke. “It has been done. Beitbridge, Zimbabwe. Your contact name is Mphele. He wants five percent.”

  Perreira nodded appreciatively. “Good. Very good. You have never let me down.”

  “I will need the rest of the money before the end of the week,” Laiveaux said.

  “You will get it. Where is the new shipment?” Perreira asked and pushed an ashtray towards Laiveaux.

  “We're keeping them at the embassy. I'll have them delivered to the warehouse by this afternoon.”

  “It was clever of you to use Guerra to get rid of Callahan. When Allen suggested it to me, I thought he was mad. But when I thought about it, it made perfect sense.”

  Perreira called the waitress and ordered more coffee. She filled a cup and put it in front of Laiveaux, who nodded a thank you.

  Perreira emptied his cup. “I get what I want. You get rich. Sheer genius, really. You trained the Guerra bitch to become my own personal assassin,” he said with a chuckle, shaking his head.

  Laiveaux nodded. “Yes, she is good.” He ground the cigarette into the ashtray.

  ”How are you planning on taking care of them?” Perreira asked, popping a chunk of meat in his mouth and chewing noisily.

  Laiveaux moved closer. “Miss Guerra has been called up to Baghdad. I've arranged a surprise for her.” He smiled. “In the form of a letter bomb.”

  Perreira nodded his head excitedly. “Yes, and the others?”

  “Allen is going to have a dive accident. I have four of my best men on the case.”

  “And finally . . . ?” Perreira asked, his eyes widening.

  “Bryden is dead already. You can thank me for that. He isn't as feisty when he is asleep.”

  Laiveaux placed a knife on the table. It had an ivory handle and the letters “B.B.” were carved into the blade. Perreira slapped the table with the palm of his hand, sending cigarette butts flying out of the ashtray. He grabbed the knife and examined it closely. He shivered visibly and looked at Laiveaux, a smile on his face.

  “Excellent, you have done well, General.” He handed the knife back to Laiveaux.

  Laiveaux waved him away. “Keep it. As a memento.”

  Perreira grinned and called the waitress. “Salina, bring me a couple of bottles of scotch, then close up shop. You can leave; I’ll lock up.”

  Salina smiled and nodded gratefully. A minute later people filed out of the cafe.

  Salina returned with two bottles of Glenlivet, an ice bucket, and two tumblers. She placed them on the table in front of the men, cracked the cap, and poured them both a double. Perreira waved the waitress away, holding his glass in the air. Laiveaux clinked his glass to Perreira’s and they quaffed the drinks.

  Laiveaux sauntered out of the cafe, his hands stuck deep in his jacket pockets, then hailed a cab. He checked his watch. It was quarter to four in the morning, and the roads were deserted.

  He had left after Perreira had passed out in the booth, his head on his arms.

  He looked up as an inebriated tourist wearing a floral shirt and a camera around his neck staggered his way, holding onto the wall for support.

  “Merde.”

  Laiveaux hooked an arm into the tourist’s and dragged him with him.

  “Hey, what’s your problem—“

  “We need to get out of here,” Laiveaux said. “Trust me.” He pulled the man along. “Let me pay for your cab.”

  A white Mercedes jerked to a stop in front of them, and he pushed the guy into the backseat, then he opened the front door and slid into the seat beside the driver.

  Alexa glanced sideways. “Done?” she asked.

  Laiveaux nodded then positioned the rearview mirror to check on their passenger. The man had fallen onto his side and was snoring loudly. “Anyone else in the street?”

  Alexa shook her head. “It’s clean.”

  He nodded then turned to Alexa and grinned. “You know what they say, Captain?”

  Alexa gunned the German sedan down the open road. “No, General, what do they say?” Alexa asked, the corners of her mouth turned up in a smile.

  Laiveaux opened the window, enjoying the cool air on his face. “Keep your friends close.”

  Alexa smiled and nodded. “And your enemies closer.”

  She shifted gear and accelerated. Laiveaux turned back and looked at the road behind them. He pulled a detonating device from his pocket and pushed a button. A massive explosion blasted across the road, blowing the roof off the Mardi Gras Cafe.

  Alexa checked the rearview. “I’m going to miss that knife.”

  Tartaruga Beach

  Inhambane, Mozambique

  Alexa slopped some sunscreen onto Neil’s back and shoulders and massaged it in.

  Neil stiffened his shoulders. “Ow, dammit,” he moaned, slapping her hand away, touching the bandage around his shoulder tenderly. “Be careful, Alexa.”

  She winced and lifted her hands up. “Oops, sorry, I forgot.” She planted some kisses on his cheek. “How are you feeling?”

  He cast her an accusing glare, then fumbled, trying to position the straw between his lips. She helped him, and he took a sip of his smoothie. “OK, under the circumstances,” Neil said with gritted teeth. His broken jaw had been wired shut. “I just wish they would take this shit off,” Neil said pointing at the wires on his teeth.

  His words were barely audible, coming out in a nasally, muffled drawl.

  Alexa kissed his lips then laughed. “You look like shit,” she said and lay back on her towel.

  He shrugged then grimaced again. He turned stiffly to face her. “This is all your fault, you know?”

  She frowned. “No it’s not.”

  He pointed at his jaw. “You did this to me.”

  She sighed. “I saved your damn life, Neil.”

  He pointed at his ribs. “Three broken, courtesy of Miss Guerra.”

  Alexa shrugged, rubbing some sunblock on her arms. “It was a simple misunderstanding, it could have happened to anyone.” She slapped his leg. “At least the shoulder wasn’t my fault.”

  Neil raised an eyebrow. “You think?” he said through his clenched teeth. “If I hadn’t taken the bullet for you, you would have been a goner.”

  She rubbed some sunblock on her tummy. “Yeah, but that was your own choice. You didn’t have to do it, you know?”

  Neil stared at Alexa with a blank expression then simply shook his head. He lay on his back and rolled onto his good shoulder, facing away from Alexa. “A simple thank you would have sufficed, you know,” he muttered.

  She punched him on his shoulder. “Stop being such a crybaby.”

  He sat up stiffly. “Ow, shit, be careful.”

  She winced again, holding her hands up. “Sorry.”

  “You’re bloody hurting me on purpose,” Neil grumbled through his clenched jaw.

  “Why don’t you ask me about my leg?”

  “Because it was a bloody scrape compared to my wounds.” He waved his hands dramatically. “Look at me!”

  “A scrape? They had to dig a metal slug out of my thigh, you uncaring oaf.” She lifted her hand to punch him again, but he glared at her, pointing a finger.

  Alexa sat up. “Let’s go for a swim.”

  Neil looked at her uncertainly. “I could try.”
<
br />   She jumped up and hobbled towards the sea, glancing over his shoulder. “What, you afraid you’ll drown?” She waded into the waves and stood with her hands on her hips, waiting for him.

  She laughed as Neil stood up stiffly, then jog painfully over the sand. He muttered “Ow” with every uncomfortable step he took. He glanced up at her, muttering expletives through a clenched jaw. “This is all your fault,” he grumbled.

  “I love you too, baby,” she said with a laugh and splashed some water into his face.

  Let’s Talk!

  I would like to say a very big THANK YOU to all the readers for making Fatal an Amazon Best Seller!

  That’s right! Fatal has made me one of the Top 100 Authors in the Romantic Suspense charts on the Amazon Best Sellers list, and I would like to extend my most heartfelt thanks to all of the readers who have made this possible.

  Still.

  Writing is a lonesome occupation. So I’m going to ask you, my reader, a huge favor.

  Please get in touch with me. Write me at arno@africaskyblue.com and tell me what you think, what you enjoyed, and where you reckon I should improve. Hey, I’m no Stephen King or Thomas Mann for that matter, but I do think I spin an interesting yarn, and if you would like to continue on this journey with me, please let me know.

  And if you have a moment to spare, please leave a review for this book or any of the other books you may have read.

  It would be greatly appreciated.

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