She peered cautiously in the direction she’d come from, but the alley was empty. The gunman in the bar bathroom had likely elected to exit from the front entrance and loop around. That was valuable information. She could anticipate his approach.
Still watching the alley, she reached her throbbing hand down and quickly went through the fallen attacker’s pockets, noting the telltale smashed earbud wedged under his head. State-of-the-art closed-loop com gear — as expected.
His weapon was another Beretta clone, so she exchanged the clip for the one in her pistol and then melted into the darkness of a nearby doorway, prepared for the next attack.
Which never came.
She waited expectantly but nobody materialized. One minute, then two, and nothing.
From the opposite direction, she heard conversation in Spanish over shuffling footsteps. It sounded like three young men arguing about where to go next. Their evening would be ruined when they came across the corpses, but that wasn’t her problem.
She needed to get out of there, grab her pre-prepared escape kit, and disappear forever.
Maya eased from the gloom, quiet as a ghost, and edged into the night, the echoing voices of the young men following her down the street as she became one with the shadows.
Chapter 2
Sirens keened in the distance as she marked out an unobtrusive pace — just another local on her way home after a long day.
That she would wind up being hunted by the police was a given. The only question was how long it would take. If they had help, such as an anonymous call fingering her, it could be near instant. If they had to piece things together after finding the bodies at the cafe, she probably had a few hours.
But she couldn’t count on catching any breaks — she hadn’t yet. It was safest to assume the authorities would start looking for her any minute, which made getting to her escape kit priority number one.
Four blocks away, she turned and continued towards the park — her destination an English pub owned by a woman she’d befriended shortly after arriving on the island, who had helped her find an apartment and put her in touch with many of the workers needed to finish out the internet cafe. Chloe was a French ex-pat in her early forties who had been through two husbands, was on number three, and had wound up living on Trinidad by accident, as many did. She’d come on vacation and fallen in love with the bar owner — Vincente, husband number three. They had a nice business carved out catering to islanders looking for something different. Four months after meeting her, Maya had asked Chloe to store a few boxes in her cellar.
The King’s Arms was slow this Friday night. Most of the action was down at the waterfront for Carnival, and there were only a few stalwart hard drinkers at the bar, and three fat Germans enjoying a loud argument in their native tongue over why nobody but Germans could brew decent beer. Maya spoke seven languages, but when she entered, she kept her understanding to herself, even as they made leering comments to one another at what they’d like to do with her.
Chloe was wiping down the bottles with a cloth.
Maya approached her with a smile.
Chloe frowned in return. “Sweetheart! What happened to you? What’s wrong with your hand?”
Maya knew she looked worse for wear. She glanced down at the bloody mess of paper towels she’d hastily wrapped around her hand, keenly aware of the bruising that must have been starting on her face.
“I’m such an idiot. I was trying to hang some new art, and it got away from me. I was using wire to suspend it, and it cut me when I fell off the chair I was standing on. I’m going to get stitches after I’m done here.”
“What? Stitches? Good Lord! Did you hit your head hard?” Chloe exclaimed, her mothering instinct coming out.
“Hard enough, but my hand got most of the damage. It looks way worse than it is. It was so stupid using a swivel chair. Listen, Chloe, I need to get into the box I left with you. I’m sorry about the hour, but is there any way I can? I’ll only need a few minutes.”
“Are you crazy? Go and get that hand taken care of. The box can wait.”
“I know, I know, but I’m here now, and I have a few things I absolutely need to get.”
Chloe sighed her resignation. “If you say so. I can open up the cellar, but I’m single-handed so you’ll need to manage by yourself. Vincente is at Carnival with some friends. We expected it would be dead tonight. Everyone’s out in the streets.”
“I’ll only be five minutes. I know exactly what I’m looking for.”
“Cheri, you’re worrying me. The hospital will take hours to treat you. Let me make a phone call to a friend of mine — a doctor. A general practitioner, but he should be able to handle a few stitches. He lives above his offices. Only a few streets away.”
Maya considered the offer, balancing it against her sense of urgency. She’d need to take care of her hand eventually or risk being in a situation where it could incapacitate her.
“Oh, Chloe. Thank you so much. You’re the best friend ever. Really. I hate for you to go to the trouble…”
“Nonsense. I’ll open up for you and then make the call. Hopefully he’s not drunk yet.”
They walked together to the back, and she unlocked the door that led to the basement. Chloe switched on the light and pointed down the rickety wooden stairs.
“It’s right where you left it, at the back by the two scuba tanks.”
“I remember. Go take care of your customers. I’ll be back in no time.” Maya slipped by her and entered the dank space.
Chloe nodded and softly closed the door behind her.
Maya locked the deadbolt so she wouldn’t be disturbed and made straight for the box she’d left almost two years ago. It was still sealed with the original packing tape. She pulled it towards her and slit the tape with her keys, then reached in and lifted out a medium-sized aluminum suitcase designed for carry-on luggage. After thumbing the numbers on the latch dials, she flipped the levers, and they popped open with a snap.
Maya glanced up at the door and then began her inventory.
First came the Heckler amp; Koch MP7A1 machine pistol wrapped in oilcloth, followed by the sound suppressor. Then the four thirty-round magazines and three boxes of ammo. Next, a butterfly knife with a razor-sharp blade, and two hand grenades. A Ruger P95 9mm pistol with one extra clip, and a stainless steel Super Tool.
Weapons spread on the floor, she reached in and extracted a heavy waterproof plastic bag. Inside were twenty thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills, a Belgian and a Nicaraguan passport in different names, matching driver’s licenses, a corporate credit card with an expiration date good for three more years in the name of Techno Globus SA that would allow her to access the account with a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in it from any ATM in the world. The final items were a first aid kit, hair dye and a handheld GPS resting on top of an empty Swiss slimline nylon backpack — virtually indestructible, with two compartments that were waterproof to five meters. After loading the magazines she repacked the box, replacing the locked suitcase before sliding it back into place next to the scuba tanks. She checked her watch then packed the weapons and documents in the backpack, amazed at how little room everything occupied. Maya felt much better now that she had her own guns and a couple of new identities in her hands.
In no time at all she was back at the bar, thanking Chloe again.
“See? I told you it wouldn’t take long.”
“I managed to get hold of my friend. He agreed to see you in ten minutes at his office. It’s next to the little cafe that serves those great croissants. Do you remember?”
“How can I forget? Thanks again, Chloe. I didn’t mean to disrupt your exciting evening with the boys,” Maya quipped, eyeing the inebriated Germans.