Hunting Ground

by L J Morris

  The man didn’t shout but he spoke with quiet menace. He pulled out his own silenced semi-automatic and pointed it at Porter. ‘I’m going to count to three. Tell me where the book is,’ he lowered his weapon and pointed it at Porter’s legs, ‘or lose a kneecap.’

  McGill had quickly weighed the guy up: if he was a real professional, he would have looked behind him by now to check for any threats; if he was the police or security services, he would have identified himself and he wouldn’t have been alone. There was no backup following him into the room, he had left himself wide open.

  Porter was terrified. McGill didn’t blame him – it can be very disconcerting having a gun pointed at you for the first time.

  Porter’s attacker started his count. ‘One … two …’

  McGill raised his weapon and pointed it at the back of the big guy’s head. ‘Three.’

  The man spun around but it was already too late. As the realisation that he had fucked-up showed in his eyes, McGill shot him in the forehead.

  The big guy dropped to the floor, straight down. There was no resistance in his legs to stop the fall. He was dead as soon as the bullet hit him.

  McGill quickly checked the corridor outside for any late-arriving backup but it was deserted. He stepped back inside the apartment and closed the door.

  Porter was frozen to the spot. He hadn’t moved at all. McGill grabbed his arm. ‘Callum?’ Porter didn’t respond, he just stared at the dead body in front of him.

  McGill grabbed Porter and shook him. ‘Callum. Snap out of it or you’ll end up the same way. We need to get away from here as quick as we can.’

  Porter finally looked up at McGill. There was blood on his face and his skin was pasty white. ‘Who … who was he?’

  ‘I don’t know but he wasn’t here to invite you to a party. At least it confirms that Justin was onto something big. If you’d given that guy the book, he would have killed you. There’s no doubt about that.’

  Porter slowly shook his head, still rooted to the spot. ‘I feel sick.’

  McGill dragged him across the living room and pushed him into the bathroom. ‘Do what you need to do, Callum – throw up, splash water on your face, whatever, but get on with it. Get your shit together. I’m leaving, with or without you.’

  Porter realised McGill had just saved his life, but he wasn’t used to such extremes of violence. He’d never seen a dead body before, never mind a man shot right in front of him. He looked down at his T-shirt. There was a fine spray of blood covering the front of it. He closed his eyes. He could still picture the cloud of pink mist that had signalled the fatal shot. If he had been standing in the wrong place, the bullet could have hit him, too. He shook the thought from his head. McGill was a professional, he knew exactly what he was doing.

  Porter took two deep breaths. The feeling of nausea began to leave him. He splashed some water on his face and pulled off his T-shirt.

  McGill checked through the pockets of the body: no ID or cash, just a car key and a photo of Porter with the address written on the back. Whoever had sent this guy had access to the same information as McGill. When the bathroom door opened, he looked up at Porter. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so.’

  ‘Good man. Now, do you have some kind of backpack?’

  Porter pointed towards the bedroom. ‘Yeah, in there.’

  ‘Right, pack some clothes. Nothing fancy, just something to change into. Throw in any cash you’ve got, passport, that kind of thing. And hurry up.’

  Porter pulled some clothes from his drawers and threw them into the bag: T-shirts, socks, underwear, toothbrush. Did he need to take shampoo? Christ, he felt like he was packing for a holiday. He grabbed his wallet and shoved it into his jacket, along with his passport. He pulled on a clean T-shirt and was ready to go.

  McGill opened the door an inch and looked along the corridor, it was empty; he fully opened it and stepped out, looking both ways: nothing. He looked back at Porter, standing in the hallway. ‘You ready?’

  Porter nodded.

  ‘Good. Follow me and stay close.’

  Porter hurried after McGill, he knew his best hope of survival was in this man’s company. He also knew the book was in McGill’s pocket, so he didn’t really need him – McGill could have just left him alone, in the apartment, with the corpse. He was helping him even though he didn’t have to. That made him feel safer.

  McGill led them along the corridor and through the door to the fire escape. After a quick check, they moved quickly down the stairs and out of the back door of the apartment block.

  They stopped at the corner of the building as McGill retrieved his own small backpack, full of essentials, from behind a dumpster. He threw it on his back and winked at Porter. ‘Always travel light, son, you never know what might happen.’

  After one last check for any followers, they walked to the other side of the car park and out on to the street.

  Porter kept his head down. He didn’t want to make eye contact with any passers-by. He was sure they would know what had happened; like he had a mark on him somewhere that was telling everyone there was a dead man in his flat. ‘Where do we go now? The consulate?’

  McGill shook his head. ‘We don’t know who to trust, son. The guy in your flat had the same picture of you that I had. Someone had tipped him off, given him the information, probably blown my cover. Someone high up wants you dead and the notebook in their hands. We need to disappear.’

  ‘How do we do that?’

  ‘Just keep your head down and follow me.’ McGill pulled up the hood on his jacket and Porter pulled on a baseball cap, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets; the rain started to fall again as they headed back along the Rue Saint-Joseph, away from the apartment.

  Chapter 2

  Ali Sinclair sat cross-legged in the dust, next to the prison block, and watched the comings and goings of the other inmates in the yard. It was how she spent most of her time. The corner she sat in was on the north side of the yard and in the shade all day, but that wasn’t its only attraction. There were people out in the real world who wanted her dead. Rich, powerful people who had the connections and resources to put a high-value price on her head. The other prisoners – the gangs that ran the prison – wanted the money, and were more than willing to kill her to get it. She had to watch her back.

  The corner she sat in was overlooked by a guard tower, although that was no guarantee of safety. Many of the guards in the prison came from the same background as the inmates. Some still had loyalty to gangs they used to be members of, others were corrupt and easily bought. Many simply feared for the safety of their families if they went against the cartels. Sinclair couldn’t rely on any help from the guards.

  The main reason she chose that corner was the razor-wire topped fence running along three sides. If anyone wanted to come at her, they couldn’t approach from behind or climb down from above. Anyone who wanted the money would have to come at her head on.

  It had been four months since the Mexican authorities returned her to the prison to finish the remaining five years of her original sentence. Despite behind-the-scenes efforts in London and Washington, the Mexicans had added another three years to her jail time and refused to let her serve the sentence back home. She knew she couldn’t – she wouldn’t – last that long.

  Physically, for now, she was okay. Her broken bones had healed and she had managed to keep herself reasonably fit, but she knew from her previous two years here that the food wasn’t good enough to maintain her health long-term. With no family to visit her and bring her extra supplies, she needed money to survive. Extra rations, like most things, could be bought – either on the black market or from the concession stands in the visitors’ yard. Sinclair’s problem was that the black market and the stands were controlled by the gangs, and they weren’t likely to do her any favours. Any money that was smuggled in for her was much less than the bounty on her head. It was in the gangs’ interests to keep her down, keep her
weak. They just needed to bide their time, keep chipping away at her defences, until, sooner or later, they succeeded in killing her.

  Mentally, Sinclair really was on the edge. The constant fear of attack meant she was unable to relax, unable to sleep for any length of time. At night, in her cell, she woke up at the slightest noise or sign of movement. Although she was sharing a crowded cell, with mainly European women, she couldn’t let her guard down for a minute; the price on her head was substantial.

  Frank McGill had visited her a few times in the beginning. He’d told her not to worry, that everything would be alright, but she hadn’t seen him now for more than a month. He had always been there for her and she believed him when he said he would never abandon her. She was convinced that something must have happened to him. He was the only one fighting her corner. The only one who would make sure that Carter and Lancaster, back in London, lived up to their promise to bring her home. Without McGill on her side, Sinclair had no hope.

  She looked around at her surroundings. Visitors mingled with inmates amongst the concession stands, sitting under trees that the prisoners had planted to try and make the yard look more like a town centre park. They looked like ordinary people, on a normal day out, but the threat of violence was never far from the surface. Occasionally she would catch one of the other prisoners watching her; was it her paranoia or were they checking for a weakness, making plans for another attack?

  She looked up at the birds that circled and swooped just outside the fence. These weren’t the starlings she remembered being fascinated by as a little girl, these were large black vultures feeding on the rubbish discarded by the prison. Even they perched on the fence, watching her, happy to pick at her bones if given the chance. It seemed to Sinclair as if everything here would be happier with her dead. Maybe she should just give in, give them what they want, at least she wouldn’t be afraid any more. The only thing stopping her was the voice in her head. It spoke to her constantly, telling her not to give up, to keep fighting, that she’d be okay. It was Frank McGill’s voice and it was the only thing keeping her alive.

  The sound of a bell ringing snapped Sinclair back to reality, it was chow time. The other inmates began to walk towards the canteen but she, as usual, hung around for a few minutes before tucking in at the back of the queue. By the time she reached the pile of trays at the end of the serving hatch, most of the other inmates had eaten and already left. No one hung around for too long, there were a lot of scores settled in the canteen.

  Sinclair picked up a tray and looked at what was left on the food counter: lukewarm soup, mouldy bread and some chilli, very appetising. She decided the chilli would be the best option, the spice would have killed everything in it. As she picked up the ladle, she heard a commotion behind her. She instinctively stood with her back to the counter. Two women were going at each other in the middle of the canteen. One was lying on her back with her hands full of the other woman’s hair; the other woman knelt on a bench, punching her adversary in the face. Guards ran in to break them up as the rest of the inmates cheered them on.

  Sinclair was checking to her left and right – she didn’t see the attack coming at all. A muscular forearm came from behind her and clamped around her throat, pulling her back against the counter. She twisted to break the hold but her assailant’s other arm was now hooked across her chest. A young Mexican woman broke off from the canteen fight’s baying crowd and ran towards the counter, the six-inch blade of a prison shank held out in front of her, ready to strike. Sinclair only had one option: she lifted her legs and pushed herself backwards over the counter. Her attacker lost her balance and her grip, and the two women landed in a heap on the kitchen floor.

  The other kitchen workers scattered, they didn’t want anything to do with a killing. Sinclair sprang to her feet and faced her unseen attacker for the first time. She was an older woman, with prison gang tattoos covering her muscular arms. Without hesitation, Sinclair kicked the her in the jaw before she could stand up. The woman went down, stunned, but she was tough. As she began to climb to her feet, Sinclair grabbed a heavy pan from one of the cookers and swung it hard. It hit the woman’s head with a dull metallic ring, like a muffled church bell. Sinclair followed it up with another kick to the woman’s ribs.

  The younger woman clambered onto the counter and, screaming like a banshee, launched herself at Sinclair. The heavy pan crashed into the side of her head before she’d even landed, as Sinclair swung it like a baseball bat.

  The two women lay on the floor, unconscious, blood seeping from head wounds. The other inmates had given up on the canteen fight and were now standing along the edge of the counter, watching, as guards ran into the kitchen and pepper sprayed Sinclair, leaving her coughing and heaving on her knees. Tears streamed down her face and mingled with the snot running from her nose onto the floor, as she curled into a ball to protect herself from the beating she knew was coming.

  Chapter 3

  The prison guard’s keys rattled in the lock as she slid open the barred door of the cramped cell. Two three-high bunks ran along the walls on either side, with another three women sleeping on thin mattresses thrown on the floor. The leaking toilet in the corner dripped stinking water, which added to the smell of sweat and decay that permeated the prison. The stench was bad enough to trigger a gag reflex in anyone who wasn’t used to it. Flies and cockroaches settled on every surface and the humidity was stifling.

  Sinclair opened her eyes. She rarely slept for more than an hour at a time – unable to relax and often disturbed by the sound of women screaming as they were ripped from their nightmares. The guard was early; it wasn’t morning yet and none of the other women in the cell were awake. The sky outside the cell’s barred window was still dark, and the normal sounds of the prison coming to life weren’t there. Something was wrong.

  Sinclair turned and looked at the guard, who motioned towards her with her head. ‘Sinclair, vámanos. Let’s go.’

  What the fuck did they want now? Sinclair was exhausted and her head throbbed. She was badly dehydrated and her whole body ached. She slid out of the middle bunk and tiptoed between the tangled limbs of the women occupying the floor, trying not to stand on anyone. She stepped through the cell door and stood in front of the guard, her arms outstretched. ‘Okay, what? Am I due another kicking?’ The side of her face was bruised and her ribs still hurt from the last talking to the guards had given her.

  The guard grabbed her arm and propelled her down the corridor. ‘You must clean up. You make visit.’

  ‘Wait … what? Visit? Visit who, where?’ She’d never been taken out of the prison before. If anyone wanted to see her, they always came here. Something wasn’t right.

  The guard handed her a towel and a clean set of clothes in a plastic bag. The chance to have the showers to herself and her first set of clean clothes since she’d got there. Today was shaping up to be a good day, no matter what else happened. The guard opened the door and pushed her into the showers.

  As Sinclair stood under the cool water of the shower, washing off the sweat and grime of several days, she tried to figure out what the hell was going on. If Frank was there it would be a normal visit, no need to clean up or go anywhere. The guy from the foreign office had only visited her once and that was to ask her to keep her mouth shut. After everything she’d done and the way they’d treated her for the last few years, she’d soon told him where to shove his request – after she had broken his nose. He’d scuttled away, holding a handkerchief to his face, and she didn’t think he would be back. Maybe she was being transferred to another prison. But, the guard had said a visit, none of this made sense. She dried herself off and put on her new clothes.

  Out in the corridor, the guard had been joined by the prison’s governor. She was a hard bitch who always dressed like she was going for an expensive meal with a rich boyfriend. She liked to remind the inmates of everything they didn’t have. The rumours were that she was on the payroll of the drug cartels, but if that ha
d been the case, Sinclair would be dead already. The governor knew the gang murder of a British woman in her prison would likely cause her problems she didn’t need; she tried to keep the attempts to kill Sinclair to a minimum.

  Sinclair pulled at the hem of her T-shirt. ‘So, what’s all this about? Where am I going?’

  ‘You are going to meet with a lawyer, from your government. It’s about your appeal.’

  ‘Why don’t they just come here?’

  The governor shrugged. ‘I’m thinkin’ that the man from your embassy doesn’t want his nose broken again, so won’t bring them here. You are goin’ to the British Consulate in Juarez. They will talk to you there.’ The governor stepped closer to Sinclair, looking straight into her eyes. ‘If you cause any trouble, we will take care of you when you get back.’

  The guard laughed and nodded, she didn’t need an excuse to give an inmate a beating. Sinclair smiled at the governor. ‘I’m sure you will.’

  The governor took a step back. ‘Take her.’

  The guard grabbed Sinclair’s arm and frogmarched her along the corridor towards the exit.

  The white prison van sat outside with the engine running. Sinclair, now in cuffs and leg chains, was bundled into the back by the guard, who slammed the door shut and climbed in the front beside the driver.

  Sinclair checked the inside of the van – force of habit. The back was separated from the driver by a steel cage and all the windows were covered with steel mesh. The doors had no handles and couldn’t be opened from the inside. There was no way she could escape from the van, even if she wasn’t cuffed and chained. Maybe, once she got to the consulate, she could make a run for it.

  The prison gates rolled open and they drove out into the Chihuahuan Desert. After twenty minutes the back of the van was like a greenhouse: the windows didn’t open and there was little ventilation making it through from the front. Sweat ran down Sinclair’s face and back as the temperature continued to rise. ‘Any chance of some air back here?’