Kipper shook his head in exasperation. ‘Look, what the fuck is this? I have a major disaster on my hands. Eighteen people dead. And you call me in here to make fucking small talk.’
The major walked over to the door and carefully closed it, cutting off the growing hubbub from the corridor outside.
General Blackstone spoke up as he did so. ‘The last time I checked,’ he said, ‘we had a lot more than eighteen dead. When last I checked, our casualty count was well over three hundred million, Mr Kipper. So I have some sour news for you, sir. This morning was a minor fuck-up, and there will be more of them.’
‘A minor -’
‘That’s right. And there will be more of them. More death. More chaos. Get used to it, and get used to dealing with it. Because if we don’t deal, it’s game over here. In this city. Everywhere.’
Kipper waved away the cup of coffee McCutcheon held out.
‘What are you talking about, General? If this morning was your idea of dealing with things, then yeah, we’re fucked.’
‘Look, this is kinda delicate,’ said the air force man, taking a perch on the edge of the desk, where he could look down on Kipper. ‘We’ve got a bit of a problem with the council, I’m afraid.’
Kipper shrugged. He’d wondered how on earth the military was going to continue working so closely with a group of people who were almost their antithesis. ‘Well, apart from this morning, things seem to be getting done,’ he offered. ‘All my department’s requests are going straight through the Special Means Committee and getting approved without any questions. What’s the problem?’
Major McCutcheon sort of whistled inwards, which Kipper recognised as the universal sign of bad news coming. ‘Well, the thing is, we don’t really have a Special Means Committee,’ he confessed.
‘What?’ asked Kipper, completely dumbfounded.
Blackstone leaned forward. ‘I had them arrested three days ago.’
McCutcheon actually looked embarrassed for a second. ‘Yeah. And we’ve been kinda winging it ever since.’
24
ACAPULCO DIAMANTE, ACAPULGO
The roadblock was almost professional. Four old cars arranged in a herringbone pattern that forced any oncoming traffic to slow to a crawl as it negotiated a winding course through the obstruction. A dozen armed men, locals by the look of them, lounged on the bonnets and inside the vehicles, passing around bottles of no-name tequila and Dos Equis lager, and smoking an assortment of cigarettes and reefers.
‘We could take that left,’ suggested Fifi, pointing to a narrow side street that remained open to traffic, just before the roadblock.
‘No,’ replied Shah without hesitation. ‘Too narrow. Nowhere to go. And they have enfilading fire from the roof-line and windows above. We must reverse immediately or go through.’
‘Drive on,’ said Jules. ‘But slowly. Don’t spook them. They’re probably just shaking down the turistas. I’m sure we can talk them around to leaving us be.’
She lifted the dark grey Franchi SPAS 12 auto shotgun from the improvised gun rack that Shah had installed on the dashboard of the Jeep Cherokee, and jacked a round into the chamber. Behind the wheel, Sergeant Shah – they’d all taken to calling him that now – slowed the vehicle and made sure his own weapons cache, a pair of MP5s, was close to hand. In the back seat, Thapa and Fifi readied themselves.
They had almost managed to drive right up to the edge of Acapulco Diamante, the most exclusive tourist enclave in the city, but the roadblock brought them to a halt a couple of hundred metres from the start of the private resorts and clubs. Jules had been expecting trouble even earlier, which is why the Jeep was kitted out with so much firepower. Until now, however, the sight of a few gun barrels lazily produced out of the Cherokee’s windows had been enough to negotiate their passage through the town, where most of the violence they encountered was still small-scale and anarchic.
‘Sergeant Shah, if you wouldn’t mind, I think Fifi and I will handle the negotiations. A prominent display of your willingness to kill anybody who interferes with us would help, of course.’
‘Of course, Miss Julianne.’
The former non-com brought them to a halt at least twenty-five metres from the blockade. A lot of the men up ahead were carrying rusty revolvers and.45s, which were unlikely to hit anything they aimed at over ten metres away. And most of them appeared to be drunk or stoned, which further called into doubt their chances of deliberately targeting anybody. There was a lot to be said for volume of fire, though, and they had plenty of that to go around.
Jules slipped a pair of sunglasses down over her eyes and stepped out of the cabin, fitting a radio headset. Fifi emerged behind her, already wearing her commo gear, the same sets they’d used back on the Rules. Immediately the wolf whistles and catcalls began. It was almost comical, really. It was a hot, bright day and both women were dressed in shorts and hiking boots. Jules wore a Level III A armoured vest over a white tee-shirt, but Fifi had only a sleeveless checked L.L. Bean to protect her. She’d knotted it, exposing a long expanse of tanned, finely muscled midriff, and most of the would-be desperadoes were torn between which of the chiquitas they wanted to objectify and harass the most.
One guy stood out from the rest, simply because he didn’t ogle them or grab his crotch. He just stared cold and hard at the four gunned-up intruders.
‘That’d be our guy,’ Jules whispered into the mike. ‘He’s mine.’
‘Gotcha,’ said Fifi, who took her much-loved Russian PKM from Thapa at that moment. Jules was almost certain she felt the ambient temperature drop as blood began to run cold. ‘What’s happening back at the car?’ she asked.
‘Both Shah and Thapa are good to go, if they have to.’
‘Are they being obvious about it?’
‘Yup.’
‘Excellent, and… Good morning, seсor. This is your turf now, I suppose?’ Jules favoured the gang leader with the full wattage of her smile, holding the shotgun so as to squeeze just a little more cleavage up towards his face.
‘You presume I speak English, no?’ he said in reply.
‘You look like an intelligent, educated man, well travelled and worldly wise. It’s a reasonable assumption.’ She beamed at him. ‘Especially when you use big words like presume.’
In fact, he looked like the worst sort of bad news. Sober and mean and not likely to be sweet-talked or bullshitted into anything he didn’t fully intend to do.
‘I am the block capitбn here now,’ he informed her. ‘I coordinate security for the Mayan and Fairmont resorts.’
You mean you’re shaking them down for protection, she thought. ‘Well, that’s excellent,’ said Jules. ‘Because that is where we are headed this morning. So if you’d like to provide an escort for me and my friend here…’