Hawks had been busy. She had gone through the liquor and found bottles of Bacardi 151, was pouring a river of alcohol all over the crime scene, over the men on the floor, but most importantly all over the blood and DNA trail we had created. The scent of Bacardi 151 filled the room and the hallway, back down to where I had found Hawks hiding, had been splashed on the walls, gave moisture to any place she had touched, any place I had touched. Any alcohol over one hundred proof was better than gasoline.
A microwave was on the counter. I put cans, metal, and aluminum foil inside the microwave, filled it with things that would create sparks—sparks that would start a fire and make friends with the flammable river. Hawks and I limped and hobbled by each other, once again moving in concert, trained by Konstantin.
The homes were made of cinder blocks—no dry walls for flames to burn through—with sturdy roofs made of concrete and tile; impossible for a flame to leap from one section of the compound to another.
Once started the blaze would remain contained and burn until its conclusion.
I set the microwave to three hours, knowing that was overkill.
Hawks bent and picked up her stray boot, limped, opening shutters, letting Caribbean air inside.
Fire needed oxygen, had to breathe so it could spread and become a living and roaring beast.
We limped away, moved through the rain, rain that would make trekking across sand a little easier. We passed the dead man in the infinity pool, raindrops splashing around his body. After that I picked up my backpack, let it hang from my right shoulder, the same shoulder Hawks used as a crutch. The rain came down harder, the winds picked up. Not long after, our wounded strides took us to where I had left the red-haired man in the sand. Hawks cringed when she caught a glimpse of that horror. Every pain told me I was the one who was still living. What I had done to him was what he would have done to me. That was what Detroit would have loved to have heard had happened to me. The red-haired man was dead but my deep-rooted fears were alive. Moved over my skin like a million lizards.
Powder Springs. They will die.
We hobbled to the water. Hawks cringed, was stopped by the extreme pain when the salty water licked her injured foot. When the pain subsided and she was able to go on, we crawled over rocks, made it to where I had left the dinghy. We fell inside, winded and wounded, the rain coming down as hard as a shower. Hawks slid toward the back of the dinghy, pulled the crank, started the motor on the third try.
I adjusted, felt my iPhone in my back pocket. Knew it was waterlogged and useless.
A new frustration mounted. No way to get in contact with Catherine and the kid.
No way to try to get in contact with Alvin White. No way to call Konstantin.
For a moment, a small,
small
moment, I thought of Arizona, wished for her help as well.
Hawks looked at me, her expression the same as mine, laced with a deep hurting and aggravation. She maneuvered, pulled herself up on the edge of the dinghy, positioned a gun in each hand, her eyes on the shores and sand behind us, guns aimed the same way, on full alert. I moved us out into the sea. It was the thick of the night. Darkness across the waters was deep, appeared bottomless. If someone was in the water waiting, we wouldn’t see them until it was too late.
The waves slapped into the dinghy, rocked us; the motor hummed like a dying old man.
The world stretched out; the mainland looked like it was a hundred miles away from where we were.
I looked in the direction the strawberry blonde had fled, back toward the Beachcomber Hotel.
Thought I saw flashes on the dock. Muzzle flashes. At least a dozen. Maybe more.
If they were shooting at us, unless they were using a cannon, we were too far away.
Just the same, I kept my eyes that way.
If they had regrouped, if they had another dinghy, or a boat by now, we were fucked.
I couldn’t go back. And I knew we wouldn’t survive a shoot-out on the seas.
We kept moving, fought the waves, looked to see what was coming from that direction.
In the distance, headlights came on inside the same parking lot where we had left our stolen ride.
They were there.
Detroit was there.
The dark skies made those headlights light up like stars, probably visible for miles.
I didn’t have binoculars; no way could I see that far, but my guess was the strawberry blonde had made it to shore. Someone was there waiting for her. Didn’t know how many, maybe dozens.
Hawks stared at me, her haunting eyes powerful as she wiped sweat, seawater, and rain from her face. A downpour and harsh winds assaulted us, waves rose and sprayed us by the gallon. Seawater burned and cauterized my injuries, gave the same unbiased and needed pain to Hawks’s wounds.
I had no idea if they were speeding after us, the darkness too complete.
Our engine moved us forward as the sea did its best to flip us over.
Hawks pointed; that motion told me to look back and to my right.
It pained me to do so, but I shifted, frowned in that direction, ready for the worst to happen.
There were lights back at Jumby Bay, the ferry leaving the docks for Antigua.
They couldn’t see us from where they were, riding waves in darkness.
I sped us toward the docks at Parham Town, the oldest town on the island, storm harsh, the gentle flames from a burning two-million-dollar vacation home glowing, reddening the night behind us.
Again I grimaced in the direction the strawberry blonde had fled, searched for people in pursuit.
In the distance, once again, gunshots lit up the night.
Thirty-four
target of an assassin
Hawks hot-wired
a twenty-year-old four-door Nissan and crawled into the backseat.
I sideswiped three parked cars before I controlled my anguish and adjusted my one-handed driving. Right arm ached as much as the gunshot wound in the left. My steering and braking and abrupt turns tossed Hawks around. Everything on my body ached. I broke all traffic laws and drove a stolen car through Parham Town, streets wet, the rain no longer coming down. I slowed down, drove empty roads back toward St. John’s, almost ran off the road a few times, pain continuous and undefeatable. Elbows. Knees. Jaw. Shins. Wrists. Hands. Every part of my body felt swollen. Hawks grunted, her pain deep, looked behind us, both of the guns in her hands.
I drove around, made sure we weren’t followed, took High Street, Corn Alley, Nevis, then Independence Avenue back over to Redcliffe Street, cruised until the road ended at St. John’s Harbour. The streets were clear. The city naked and quiet. I backed up and parked outside Vendors Mall and Kalabashe restaurant. I had circled the block to check it out, had seen unarmed security guards around the corner at St. Marys and Thames streets, guards who sat outside of Antigua Commercial Bank and Bank of Antigua. Those guards didn’t stray from their posts, looked like they were in a battle to stay awake all night. The town was asleep. Unaware of the fire back at Jumby Bay. Unaware of the dead bodies left behind. Unaware that two people who were on the run like outlaws were hiding in Antigua’s shadows. We reeked of violence. The stench of alcohol had covered our soiled and bloodied clothing.
City Pharmacy was on St. Marys, close to Best of Books, below Hemingways.
This stop wasn’t random. I’d brought us there for a reason.
We had open wounds; last thing we needed was infections.
Hawks picked the locks to the pharmacy and I crept inside, panted and dripped water and sand. I pulled things from shelves in the darkness, collected medical supplies, grabbed a few bottles of water, wanted more, but this wasn’t a casual shopping day at Epicurean. I grabbed candy bars, PowerBars, stuffed them inside my wet shirt, didn’t worry about fingerprints. By the time I finished shopping Hawks had broken into the store next door, was limping out with T-shirts.
The wet clothes would be a problem too.
I drove the stolen car down Popeshead, slipped through the congestion in the red-light district, then turned left at Percival Texaco, drove to the beach down at Fort James, that area dark and empty.
Not until then did I exhale. When I stopped, the ache didn’t do the same.
Under the moon and stars we tended to our wounds, then got back inside our hot ride.
We sipped water, ate candy, chewed on PowerBars.
Hawks was in the backseat, her leg elevated.
I was in the front, aching like hell. I was still alive. For now.
I was the one who could hear the sounds of the sea crashing into the shores.
I was the one who could look up at the dark skies and see a million constellations.
I was the one who would live to die another day.
Detroit.
She was out there. She was close.
She had been dying for her chance at retribution.
I felt the same way.
I needed the same thing.
Retribution.
I shifted, ached, frowned, swallowed curses laced with pain, felt the same fucking way.
Hawks asked, “Anywhere to get any real food?”
“Not until morning.”
“I’ve been hungrier. Need to lose a few pounds anyway.”
“Water okay?”
“I could use one bourbon, one scotch, and one beer.”
“I could go for a Jack and Coke.”
Hawks shifted, let out a sound of pain. “How we looking on weapons?”
“Not as good as they’ll be looking.”
“Wonder how many more she’ll send after you.”
“I want to put you on a plane in the morning. The first flight to anywhere.”
“You going?”
“Just you. I want you to get to another island, then catch a flight back to America.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Hawks.”
“If I didn’t know any better I would think you were trying to get rid of me.”
“Hawks, you only have one good leg.”
“You have a thing against one-legged women?”
“Hawks.”
“And you have one good arm.”
“Hawks.”
“But do you hear me discriminating against you?”
We went back to silent mode, looking out, expecting to be found, waiting for another attack.
I said, “She knows about my family.”
“You have a family?”
“The woman who raised me. And her son.”
“The wonderful mother who nurtured you and taught you to kill people to make lunch money.”
“Yeah. Her.”
“And she has another son?”
“Long story about me and her. One I want to live to see to its end.”
“Think Detroit is going to go after them?”
I didn’t answer. Something told me she already had.
Detroit wasn’t done. I was alive and she wasn’t done. Like a gambler who was losing all of his money, she would keep playing, keep gambling until she won, until she hit blackjack.
I wasn’t done either.
We drove back into St. John’s and abandoned the third stolen car before sunrise revealed us, slipped out into the maze of one-way streets as soon as delivery vehicles came toward Redcliffe Quay. New T-shirts on, pants still wet and covered in mud, sand, and blood. Hawks limped on her sprained ankle and wounded foot. My face was beaten, arm shot and stung. We looked like we had been pulled from under debris after a hurricane. We needed to blend in; what we had on wasn’t doing the trick.
No way could we show up at V. C. International Airport looking like battle-weary refugees.
Detroit would have more assassins guarding the routes to the airport, I knew that.
But I didn’t have a choice. I needed to get back to North America.
Even if I had to shoot my way into the airport and steal a plane.
A Cessna could get me to another island.
I remained anxious, expected the shoot-out to resume at any moment.
Soon we were on the move. I wanted to move faster but the ache in my groin controlled my stride; the muscle was a fiery knot. We mixed with droves of people that came from the east and west bus stations. First the crowd wearing jeans and T-shirts showed up, along with older women in modest dresses and sandals. Farmers brought in fresh produce and filled bins by five in the morning. We bought bananas, mangoes, coconut water. The vendors who sold arts and crafts, beaded and shell jewelry, and other goods arrived and set up before darkness ended. After eight or nine the sun would be high, streets filled with men in dark suits and women in low heels and colorful bank uniforms. And killers in search of a man and woman who had killed more than a few of their coworkers, the reward on my head probably doubled by now. Wouldn’t surprise me if a bonus had been offered to take out Hawks. We had to keep moving, no matter how exhausted. Couldn’t chance getting caught out in the open, clothes covered in evidence.
We limped down Redcliffe Quay, followed a pathway that took us back into the heart of Heritage Quay, searched until we found the public toilets. I stood guard as she washed her face and cleaned up the best she could. Then she stood guard while I did the same. My left arm wouldn’t cooperate, the pain back. I popped more pills, antibiotics and Benadryl we had stolen. Didn’t want drugs in my system, but didn’t have much of a choice, not with the jellyfish sting. Not with the chance of infection. If I ended up in the same condition I was in when I had flown that Cessna from Alabama to Georgia, I would be no good to anybody. With sunup we had a new enemy. Heat assaulted me, beat me down like I was an unworthy opponent, made me sweat and kept me dehydrated, kept me light-headed, drained what energy hadn’t been drained by the blood loss and battle at Jumby Bay. A roadside vendor was out selling home-cooked food and beverages, the back of her van crowded with early morning customers. I stood in the crowd, my body starved, still thirsty, tried to keep my balance, and when it was my turn the vendor looked at me. I ordered two sandwiches. The bruises on my face, Hawks’s injuries, the crowd took them all in as the woman made the food. The first sandwich was ling fish with eggplant, spinach, okra, and sweet plantain. The other was bread and salt fish, eggs, crushed eggplant, lettuce, cucumber, tomato.