Between the two of them, they should be able to handle this guy.
Gaffan saw the Audi’s lights moving up the side of the hill, a Cheshire cat smiling in the dark. The sedan itself remained invisible, its black bulk hidden under the trees. Gaffan put the bus in gear, rolled slowly down the hill, the rosewood and mahoe arching overhead. The Audi came up at him. Behind them, Gaffan saw Wells turning off the A1, maybe thirty seconds behind.
Gaffan heard the Audi grinding up dirt and rock from the unfinished road. Then, at last, he saw the car. The Audi blasted its brights at him, honked, slowed but didn’t stop. It swung left, away from the centerline, to make room to pass. In Jamaica, like Britain, cars drove on the left.
Gaffan flipped on his own brights, swung left, but not enough to allow the Audi by, trying to buy enough time for Wells to close the trap on Marley. He didn’t want to be too obvious about what he was doing, not yet. Gaffan was wearing a baseball cap pulled low on his forehead. He raised a hand as if he were shielding his eyes from the Audi’s brights. In reality, he was hiding his face to keep Marley from recognizing him.
The Audi stopped, honked again. Gaffan put the Daewoo in reverse, backed up, as if trying to make more room. Marley edged forward.
Then Gaffan saw Marley’s eyes open wide in surprise and recognition. Marley reached under his seat. Going for a pistol, Gaffan figured. Gaffan put the bus into gear, floored the gas, steamed downhill. The Daewoo jumped ahead, smashed into the Audi, obliterating the interlocking rings on the front of the grille. The whine of tearing metal and the high clink of breaking glass echoed through the rain. Birds poured out of the oaks beside the road and disappeared into the night. Gaffan was thrown against his seat belt. In the Audi, a half-dozen airbags exploded, the white balloons filling the sedan, bouncing Marley harder than the collision had. The steering wheel airbag covered his face like a man-eating pillow. He wrenched back his head to free himself.
Gaffan floored the minibus’s engine. The bus ground into the Audi, pushing it backward down the hill. The steering wheel’s airbag deflated. Again Marley reached down below his seat. Gaffan laid off the gas, slammed the bus into reverse. Metal shrieked, tore, as the minibus and the Audi separated. Gaffan tapped the gas, backing up as Marley came up with a pistol. Gaffan ducked low as Marley fired blindly through his windshield, the shots high and wild, echoing in the night, scaring up more birds. One flew directly at Gaffan, its breast a shocking iridescent green. A foot from the windshield, it pulled up and disappeared over the minibus. Gaffan raised his head and chanced a peek at the Audi and saw that Marley was scrambling for his seat belt, which seemed to be stuck.
And Wells’s van appeared.
WELLS HAD HEARD THE crash not long after he turned off the A1. So had half of Jamaica, probably. Gaffan was supposed to block Marley from getting by for long enough to let Wells get behind him. But Marley had spotted the trap too soon. Wells bounced up the hill, the Econoline sliding sideways on the mud. He took a right too fast and nearly cracked a tree but feathered the gas and the brake at the same time and kept the van on the road.
Now Wells saw the Daewoo’s headlights. He was one turn away when the shots started, four in a row, a medium-sized pistol. Finally, too late, Wells skidded around a corner and saw the Audi stopped in the middle of the road, its driver’s door opening. The sedan’s hood was crumpled, and the minibus looked worse. Daewoos were not exactly built to military specs.
Twenty feet away now. Wells stopped the van, jumped out, ran for the car. Marley pushed open his door and stumbled out, nearly falling. Red dirt smeared his Hawaiian shirt. He focused on the minibus and didn’t see Wells. He raised the pistol in his right hand, taking careful aim at the Daewoo’s windshield—
Wells tackled him, a linebacker drilling a quarterback from the blindside, a clean shoulder-to-shoulder hit that arched Marley’s spine. The gun clattered from his hand and skittered into the drainage ditch. Wells kept coming, driving his legs, finishing the hit, pushing Marley face-first into the mud of the road. Marley grunted and then cursed wildly, shouting into the night. Wells grabbed a hank of his long blond hair and jammed his face into the road to choke the fight out of him.
Gaffan jumped out of the bus and piled on, putting a knee in Marley’s back. Together they cuffed his arms and his legs. They turned him over, and Wells slapped a piece of duct tape on his mouth. They picked him up and ignored his wriggling and tossed him in the Econoline’s cargo area and slammed the doors.
“What about the van?”
“Let the cops figure it out.”
Wells reversed down the hill until the road widened enough for him to make a U-turn. He didn’t hear sirens. The incompetence of the Jamaican police might save them yet.
AT THE BOTTOM OF the hill, Wells turned right, east, away from Montego. After Rock Brae, the next town, the road opened into low green fields. A billboard promised they were looking at the future home of the Marriott White Bay. Wells pulled over and grabbed a baton and leather gloves from his kit. He nodded for Gaffan to drive and slipped into the back. When they were moving again, he tore the duct tape off Marley’s mouth, taking a piece of Marley’s lips with it.
“What’s your name?”
“You assholes are dead,” Marley said. “You have no idea. I’ll kill you.”
“No one’s killing anyone.”
“Slice you up.”
“We want to have a conversation, that’s all.”
“You think you’re hitting a coke house? Snap off a couple hundred keys and no one’s going to notice? You are as stupid as they come.”
Wells didn’t enjoy beating prisoners, but he had to take some of the fight out of this one. He smashed an elbow into the side of Marley’s skull, the soft spot high on the temple. The force of the contact ran up Wells’s arm into his shoulder. Marley’s head snapped sideways. But when he opened his eyes, Wells saw that he hadn’t given up.
“Your name.”
“Ridge. Real name’s Bruce. But everyone calls me Ridge. Since high school. Ask me what you need to ask. I can answer without getting myself killed, I will.”
Wells sat Ridge against the side of the van and offered him three photos of Keith Robinson. The first was a blown-up version of Robinson’s CIA badge. The second and third were computer-generated versions, predictions of what Robinson might look like now with long hair — or no hair.
“Mind if I ask why you want him?”
“Yeah,” Gaffan said from the front of the van. “We do.”
“Robin speaks,” Ridge said.
“Focus,” Wells said. “He might have different hair. Put on weight.”
“Lemme see the third one.” Ridge looked for a while. “There’s one guy, it might be him. He’s maybe fifty pounds heavier.”
“He’s in your business?”
“Works a couple places on the east side. Nowhere too fancy. We buy from some of the same people. He’s got a kid who helps him. I’m not saying it’s him. Just that it could be.”
“He have a name?”
“He goes by Mark. I think.”
Mark. Keith Robinson’s dead son. Robinson’s life had gone off the rails when his son died. Would he be crazy enough to have taken his son’s name as an alias? Wells suspected the answer was yes.
“Is he American?”
“I think so.”
“Where can we find him?”
“I’m telling you I’ve met him, like, twice.”
“I need you to find out where he lives.”
“He’s connected, just like me. Come after him, you piss off some nasty boys. I help you, they may take it out on me. Nothing more I can tell you. And if you’re smart, you’ll catch the first plane out tomorrow and hope the boys don’t chase you back to whatever hole you’re from.”
Wells grabbed Ridge’s handcuffed wrists and twisted them back and up until he felt Ridge’s shoulders come loose from their sockets. Ridge let out a low moan.
