Wilco- Lone Wolf 17 Read online

  The hotel gates loomed large, two smart guards posted – and armed, a leafy avenue to follow down to the hotel building, soon under a roof at the lobby. Doors opened, by us, and we grabbed our own luggage and I tipped the driver. Inside, we placed down passports on the reception desk.

  ‘Milton, party of four,’ I stated.

  A white American lady said, ‘You have the sex suite.’

  ‘Uh?’ Sasha let out, getting a look from the lady.

  Keys in hand, just two of them, envelope handed over with travellers cheques and signed for, we took the lift up four floors to the top - it was not a big hotel building, and were led down to a door. Key in and turned, and we found red sofas, red carpet, and huge photographs on the walls of people having sex.

  ‘I love it,’ Tiny let out.

  Closing the door, Salome taking in the photos, we found that it was a suite as stated - three bedrooms, large bedrooms, all with oddly round beds, and each bathroom offered a Jacuzzi, plus the main area offered a Jacuzzi on the balcony – a balcony big enough for twenty people.

  I dumped my case in a room and stepped onto the communal balcony, peering down through trees to a pool, soon seeing a fat middle-aged woman walking around naked. ‘Yuk.’

  Inside, I shouted, ‘You have one hour! Shower, toilet, get ready to move out!’

  Back on the balcony I called Tinker. ‘Don’t laugh, but I’m at the Hedonism Hotel, Jamaica.’

  He laughed.

  ‘With me is Sasha, Salome and Tiny from 14 Intel, we have a job on. If I need anything I’ll call you. Start by getting me a list of any westerners killed here in the past week, Negril area, any unidentified bodies or body parts.’

  ‘OK, and … you have fun.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  Inside, I observed as Salome’s perfect naked arse walked towards the showers. I sighed, loudly. But still, I was undercover and playing a part. I un-packed a few items, bathroom bag out, swimming costume out, trainers, jeans, making it appear that I was a tourist on holiday, a sick one that liked seeing other people have sex.

  When Salome said she had finished with the shower I stripped off, sighed, and walked in with my toiletries bag, Salome facing the mirror naked.

  She turned and gasped. ‘I had heard, but …. my god.’

  ‘Let’s try not to add more scars this trip, eh.’ I stepped into the shower, big enough for four people, and enjoyed a hot shower followed by a cool shower, noticing Salome sat on the toilet at one point and in full view.

  Out the shower I towelled down, Salome in the bedroom and walking around in knickers – and nothing else as she attended her case. Her tanned skin looked perfect, a natural dark olive, her boobs pointy, and pointing outwards, youthful in appearance.

  Near her, I touched her hip, and the stretch marks. ‘You were fat as a kid?’

  ‘Men always ask that, but no, I don’t know why they are there.’

  I dressed, jeans on, nothing on my top as I stepped across to Sasha’s room, finding just Tiny, on the bed, naked, the bed vibrating.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ she told me. ‘Does nothing for a girl.’ She eased up onto an elbow. ‘Fuck … me.’

  ‘Yes, I have scars.’

  She jumped up and stepped across, not a care in the world about being naked, running a hand across my scars. ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘Not any more, did at the time obviously. Get dressed, get ready, eh. And what’s the small writing tattooed onto your back?’ She turned with a grin.

  I placed a finger on it. ‘Don’t stop till I say.’

  She laughed as she headed to her case, leaving me shaking my head, a glance at her shaved pussy, just a small pink slit. Supressing a sigh, I opened the joining door and found Sasha.

  ‘Three rooms,’ he told me as he dressed. ‘So I am here, on … stupid round bed. Alone!’

  ‘When we step out that door next you are a couple, hand holding, arguing, kissing.’

  ‘Aiyah.’ He shook his head.

  ‘You’re a spy, what’s the issue?’

  He hesitated. ‘My girl, she’s … she is pregnant.’

  ‘Planned?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you have your head in two places..?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Best get your head sorted, or we’ll be killed quickly.’

  He nodded. ‘I won’t let you down in the jungle, just that -’

  ‘A naked pretty girl is a distraction, yes. We do the job, we finish it, we go. Professionals, yes?’

  He nodded affirmatively.

  I called Tomsk, getting Big Sasha, a chat for five minutes. He had the details of our contact, Smertz, a middle man to meet at a café bar a few miles away. I wrote it down.

  Dressed and ready, I checked my fax page and had them all study the face of Miller. Pockets were checked, passports in the room safe, money counted, and we were ready. ‘OK, in this hotel we’re two couples, always, act well. Outside, less important, but a good cover in Jamaica, couples on holiday, stupid white folk.’

  Turning, I held Salome’s hand and glanced back. Sasha reluctantly took Tiny’s hand, getting a big teasing grin from her as she fluttered her eyelashes up at him. Out we stepped.

  In the lift we stood next to another couple, American.

  ‘Where y’all from?’ came from the lady, in her forties.

  ‘England,’ I told her. ‘We used to be porn actors, and shot films down here a lot. After rehab we figured we might come down again and look around.’

  ‘Rehab?’

  ‘Drug rehab. Most porn actors kill themselves that way.’

  ‘I read something like that, yeah. Hope y’all doing OK now.’ She offered me a soothing look.

  The man touched my forearm. ‘Self-harm?’

  ‘It went with the low self esteem.’

  He nodded. ‘Got ya back, son.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Outside, we found a taxi-van sat waiting and piled in, address given.

  As we pulled off Tiny punched my knee. ‘You used my story.’

  ‘How was my acting?’

  ‘Good,’ she reluctantly told me. ‘The self-harm bit really added to it.’

  The driver asked, ‘Anything you folks need?’

  We exchanged looks. ‘Maybe, you got a card?’

  He handed me a card and I pocketed it. ‘I do late night adventure tours.’

  ‘Sounds good, but we have relative sick at the hotel, bad stomach.’

  ‘Common here. Stick to dee cooked food, wipe off dee sauce.’

  ‘Thanks man.’

  At the nominated café-bar we piled out and ambled inside, finding just two tourists sat having breakfast. I made the skinny Russian guy straight away.

  In Russian I began, ‘You expecting me?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Petrov.’

  His eyes widened. ‘Come.’

  Around the back, another man was sat with a coffee and a newspaper. He stood, but as Sasha stepped in he smiled. They hugged. ‘Long time,’ the man noted.

  The second man shook my hand. ‘The legendary Petrov. Come.’ He led us up stairs and to a balcony for private use, an old man sat there. ‘This is Smertz.’

  Our host stood, and we shook. ‘So, the man himself, Petrov. I am supposed to ask you to take off your shirt.’

  I was in a loose t-shirt, so it was easy to whip off.

  His eyes boggled. ‘I know a good plastic surgeon if you want one.’

  ‘I wear my battle scars with honour.’ I put my t-shirt back on.

  Sat around a large table, he began, ‘So how can I help you?’

  ‘A man was kidnapped a few days back, we need to find him, or those who killed him. Contract will be to kill them if he’s dead.’

  He nodded. ‘I have two local black men, trusted.’ He turned to the man that had hugged Sasha, that man soon back with two Berettas and spare magazines. I handed mine to Salome and she skilfully and professionally checked it, placing it in her bag. Tiny took the
second and also checked it, but slower. Still, I was impressed with Tiny; she cocked the pistol empty and peered down the barrel.

  I asked our host, ‘Know anyone at the airport?’

  ‘I have a contact yes.’

  ‘I want a list of private jets in and out, past week, especially any Colombians.’

  ‘Ah, bad people, a few around here hiding out.’

  ‘Bribe whoever you want, money is no object here.’ I showed him the now-crumpled image of Miller.

  ‘Not someone I have met recently.’

  As I took back the page, a shiny blue-green humming bird glided in to our table, our host pushing a small silver pot towards the bird. As I observed, fascinated, the humming bird hovered over the cup, a long tongue darting into the cup.

  Our host pointed. ‘Common around here. They need to feed all day, no energy stores in the body, or something like that.’

  Tiny lifted the silver pot and held it up, the bird still feeding. Stood, I thanked him and said we would return the next day.

  Outside, we flagged down two separate yellow taxis, one following the other just a mile to a modest hotel on a main road. Being tooted at by angry motorists in a hurry, we had pulled up on the opposite side, and I peered across, seeing taxis on a stand the other side - bored drivers with arms hanging out the windows, soon handing $20 to our driver. I held up a hundred, and he stared at it. Opening the crumpled sheet, I showed him the face, and handed two twenties over.

  ‘Go ask about that man. The taxi drivers over there. We wait.’

  A glance at me, and he took the paper and eased out, soon dodging traffic as he ran across the busy road. We could see him put a head inside a car, hand on the top, paper shown, a head shaken. Second taxi, and a head was nodded, a twenty-note handed over, a quick chat.

  Back across the road, he eased in. ‘Dat man were here, three days ago, two days he take the taxi to a café, Domino Café.’

  ‘How far?’

  ‘Ten minutes.’

  ‘Let’s go then, more money for you.’ I handed him the hundred.

  As we set off, he said, ‘I was in dee police, six years, then some problems. I taxi now for a year. Some tourist pay OK, some no tip.’

  ‘You have contacts in the police?’

  ‘Oh yeah, man, my brother be still police, and my uncle.’

  ‘Would a thousand dollars a day be enough for you?’

  He glanced at me and wobbled the car. ‘You serious, man?’

  ‘Yes. You find that man, you get enough for a year’s taxi driving.’

  ‘Who that man?’

  ‘A friend, now missing. His wife wants him back.’

  ‘You not English, man…’

  ‘Russian.’

  Salome cocked the pistol and put it in his neck. ‘Plato y plumb.’ A bullet or some money, the silver or the lead.

  ‘Dee money, yes, yes,’ he urgently got out.

  ‘We pay well for those who help us,’ I told him, a glance at his shiny tape deck. The car offered no air con, but it did offer a large tape deck where a nice handy air conditioner might sit.

  At Domino Café we eased to a stop, and I peered up the driveway. It looked exclusive, a second floor glass balcony, strong doors on the ground level, no windows, CCTV angled at the door.

  ‘Who comes here?’ I asked our driver as the traffic roared past.

  ‘Rich people, I sometime take dem.’

  ‘Tourist?’

  ‘No, no, local peoples, politician, police.’

  ‘What times does it open?’

  ‘Only after ten in dee night, open to the light come up.’

  ‘Where will your uncle be today?’

  ‘He no work because he crash dee car, they pay him sit at home and go fishing.’

  ‘Let’s go see him then.’

  We pulled off, getting some loud horn anger as we did. ‘His wife make good Cajun chicken,’ our driver enthused. ‘You see.’

  A twenty minute drive took us up into the hills, and past countryside and houses that reminded me of Sierra Leone; there was poverty here not seen by the casual week-long tourist. We pulled into a large yet run down house, Sasha and Tiny still behind us.

  It appeared as if a section of planation had been roughly hewn out of the red dirt, a square on the side of the road, a two-storey house built – and built badly. All around us sat lush green plantation, neat rows of shoulder-high shrubs seen, houses partly hidden in the foliage.

  Easing out, I paid Sasha’s cab, tipped the man well, and told him to wait. The man eased his seat back and closed his eyes.

  Inside, our driver introduced the family, kids running around. I gave his surprised uncle a thousand dollars. ‘I’m looking for a man that went missing after meeting with a Colombian,’ I said as the man studied the money before pocketing it.

  ‘Ah, Colombian, bad men.’

  ‘Do you think you could find a reason to grab the CCTV in the Domino restaurant?’

  ‘The owner sell drugs, so we threaten him sometimes. I can get my friend to get the tapes, yes.’

  I pulled out more money, and handed over a second thousand. ‘Now, today, quick, quick.’

  He eased up, took the money whilst eyeing Salome, and made a call on his house phone. Back with us, he said, ‘My friend take men there soon, they be sleeping at the cafe, but the men sleep inside to protect the place. We wake dem, no problem.’

  ‘Can you make another call, see if any bodies of white men have been found in the last few days.’

  He headed back to the phone. Ten minutes later, he said, ‘Only the man drown, old man, fat, thirty miles away. He be of Germany.’

  I nodded as cold drinks were placed down, something in the kitchen smelling great.

  Half an hour later we had Cajun chicken to sample, a late breakfast for us, the chicken very tasty, our driver keenly tucking in to his aunt’s culinary creation, the kids asking questions.

  When my phone trilled I stepped away. ‘It’s Big Sasha. He asked me to give you some information. Charlo de Santos, something to do with investment banking, if it’s the right man.’

  ‘Could be. Anything else?’

  ‘Connected to the underworld.’

  ‘So underworld investment banking, which they often call money laundering.’

  ‘Sounds like it.’

  ‘OK, thanks. Ask Tomsk where I can find this guy.’

  ‘Works out of Bogota and Miami, that’s all we know.’

  ‘OK.’

  Off the phone, I said to myself, ‘Bogota to Miami, stop in Jamaica.’ I pulled a face. ‘It’s on the route.’

  A nod, and Sasha stepped to me. ‘The Colombian man we think grabbed my American friend, he’s in money laundering. And the American, his people are heavily invested in the Belgian bank. So I’m thinking that … maybe the Americans were involved with money laundering – cash for secret jobs, and with the Belgian bank destroyed they have questions to answer – a lack of cash.’

  ‘Best you don’t meet that man, he may have some loud words for you about his bank balance!’

  I nodded, hiding my grin.

  An hour later, cold drinks provided as we sat around, and our uncle cop took a call. He explained, ‘We have flights to Colombia and Florida as you ask, they bring them for me with the tape of the camera.’

  ‘Good,’ I acknowledged.

  When a police car turned up I was cautious, Salome ready with her pistol – hidden under her top. The tall police sergeant handed our host a page of flight details with a keen smile, the page handed to me.

  As I glanced at it and our host led us to a room with a VHS tape recorder, and the sergeant was treated to some chicken after being handed a hundred dollars. I was very tempted to tell our uncle cop to be more generous with my money.

  Tape in and played, we noted the date, for yesterday, so it was discarded. Tape for two days ago found, we fast forwarded past the staff arriving for work and to the first guests arriving.

  Forty minutes later I recogn
ised Miller. He stepped inside at 10.45pm, so we fast forward to see when he left, finding him leaving with another man, at least shaking hands and saying goodbye.

  ‘Wait!’ I shouted.

  Our host hit pause.

  I said, ‘Man with a gun.’

  He rewound and played it again, and in the top left we saw both Miller and his contact rudely abducted at gunpoint and shoved into an oddly painted car.

  ‘I know that car,’ came from our host. ‘Drug dealer.’

  ‘You know where we can find him?’

  ‘We bust him a few times. He have a house maybe six miles away.’

  ‘Can you show us? More money to be made for you.’

  He grabbed his service revolver and some ammo, and checked it, and it took the tall sergeant about two seconds to make up his mind that he was up for some illegal extracurricular activity if it paid well. I handed the sergeant five hundred dollars, making his day.

  With the second taxi sent off, Sasha and Tiny got into the remaining taxi, myself, Salome and our host in the police car. But I made sure I sat up front so that I could get out quickly if need be.

  Turning around, we set off down the hill, almost to the coast, then due east a mile before we turned back up the hill, soon to a road above a dilapidated house, a high fence around that house. Dogs barked as we pulled up, and I wondered how far these cops would go.

  Uncle cop spoke to the sergeant, a shot rang out, and the gate lock was gone, our cops rushing inside, a door kicked in. I followed close behind, Salome right next to me with her pistol out.

  Inside, I found a man on the floor, face down, a second man on a chair but so stoned he never knew we were even there. The smell of the weed hit me. I lifted the man from the floor, his nose bleeding, and threw him into a sofa chair. Stood over him as he eyed the guns, I eased off my t-shirt, our cops shocked by what they saw.

  Accented, I began, ‘My name is Petrov, from Panama, the world’s most wanted gunman. I cut body parts off my victims and eat them. So, I’ going to ask you some questions, and if I don’t like the answers …I start with your eyes.’

  The man stared up, terrified, Sasha watching the road.

  I eased a few inches closer. ‘Three nights ago, Domino Café, you grabbed two men. One American, one Colombian. There is now a large reward for killing the kidnappers – which is you. There is a larger reward, from the Colombian drug cartel, for information. So … where are they?’