Short Story: G.o.d (part Ii)

Short Story: G.o.d (part Ii)

This piece has not been edited by the ShortbreadStories team.

Miss Kwaso handed her the GPS thingy, built like a large phone with a blinking red dot. She tapped the touch-screen and coordinates came up.

“Know that place?”

“It`s a health bar just next to the army barracks called Woody`s.”

“Health bar?”

“The government had refused to give him a license for a topless cafeteria so he changed businesses and applied for a health bar: soda, dairy products, coffee, water, fruits and fruit juice. No alcohol and the girls keep their tops on.”

“That`s good news, no? We don’t have to beat up drunks.”

“That`s bad news. One, all the guys who come there are either fully sober, or have drank alcohol elsewhere and are just passing time there. Two, there are always very many soldiers there, the kind who consider themselves above weaknesses like alcohol.”

“I don`t understand the second point.”

“In the army, there are certain soldiers who consider themselves holier-than-thou. These are fervently religious, or are fitness fanatics. That means soldiers who box, wrestle, do martial arts and body building…and stay sober.”

“So we must fight them, so what?” Trudy turned her head sharply without holding it and her neck snapped, then she swung it the other way and another snap sounded.

If the idea is to impress me, you are almost there. Pity I work alone.

“Did I mention many of them are officers and so have side arms as well as escorts outside with assault weapons?”

“Is this a ploy to ask for more money?”

“No, dearie, it isn’t. It is a ploy to open you to the threat eminent. And stop saying `we` because you are not joining. You shall stay in the vehicle and wait for your watch.”

“This is also my gig.”

“But that actually changed when I was contracted to do it. Besides, I don’t want a trigger happy partner killing innocent UPDF officers and men all in the name of a watch. I will go in and I will get you your watch back. End of discussion.”

“Did I mention I have two black belts in some serious whoop-ass disciplines?”

“Don’t care. Long as you don’t have a black belt in Go-Against-The-Grain-Of-The-Jackass discipline, this conversation is over.”

“And if I insist?”

The Jackass gave her a small sad smile.

“You know where you put your stash. Get it and bust or I will burst your head open before you can say Guantanamo!”

One of the kids approached the vehicle holding a nail. The Jackass, knowing he wanted to scratch the paint work, let him get real close before she let off a siren that woke up so many walking people. The soccer match stopped briefly, the Ugandan-American jumped momentarily, the passersby hastened on their way and the kids scuttled off.

“Shit!” said Trudy with real feeling. “You scared the hell out of me?”

“I can do worse when people don’t listen to me.” She started the vehicle and turned it around in the small lane, making a V-turn by reversing onto the pavement. Within five minutes she was outside the bar.

Woody`s was a trendy little place with enough parking for twenty vehicles, but being on an idle street, customers could park anywhere along the street heading to Gaddafi Barracks, the largest in East and Central Africa with two schools, one of Infantry and the other a college for Senior Command and Staff.

The bar itself was built with mostly wood, glass and thatched with grass and looked like a sore finger in a plate of white spaghetti. It was tastefully done but the décor was confusing, suffusing local and foreign pieces, cheap plastic chairs and the most advanced entertainment and security systems.

“Music,” the Jackass commanded and her reggae CD started playing again. By voice-activating the radio, she was making it harder for anyone, even with a key, to get in or out without breaking something. She opened the door, telling Trudy, “Let me scope it out and get back to you.” Before she closed the door, she said, “Central lock.”

All locks clicked and she closed her door which locked like the others. Now there was no way Trudy would follow her into Woody`s. Or anywhere for the foreseeable future. She walked away, armed with only her wits and training, having left the guns and knife in the vehicle.

She was searched by a bored fifty something woman, then had to walk through a metal detector before accepting a scan from a hand held scanner held by a more alert, and younger woman. She had been in here before, also on business but then she had on an army uniform and doubted anyone would remember her but hoped not as the last time she had been here she had almost killed five soldiers and four civilians, all protecting a man they thought was innocent. This was almost full circle because she knew how men like Daniel Kirkwood operated; get into a community, spend on the locals and make them think you are the best thing to ever happen to them.

She recognized Mr. Kirkwood immediately. He was surrounded by about six goons but of a different variety. They did not look much like goons if you went by identifying them from their rags. They all wore expensive clothes and had neat, well cut looks about them. But their faces couldn’t absolve them of what they did for a living; they had the hard faces of men who took whatever they wanted from whomever they chose. One or two even had a dead look about them, probably guys who had done a lot of time in some concrete-and-barb buildings.

Seven guys, counting Kirkwood and adding the svelte woman by his side, were piece of cake for her. But Mohammed Ali, the bar tender, kept a shot gun under the counter and there were two armed guards outside.

Inside the bar was a small group with the unmistakable haircuts of soldiers, all eight of them looking fit and dangerous. The odds were still good if she disregarded hurting them seriously but because she did not want to do that, they became overwhelming. She even contemplated going back for Miss Langley but discarded that idea soon as it hit her head.

Obviously, plan A was out of the question. She had to get Daniel Kirkwood away from this group without beating him or anyone else in the bar. She approached the bar man and ordered a repeat of what everyone was having-- twice. She laid the money on the counter when Ali eyed her strangely.

A glass of the cheapest juice here, plain orange, was one Euro fifty. There were a few guys who came after her so she put a hundred Euro note on the counter and Ali relaxed slightly. After checking to make sure it was a genuine note, he visibly relaxed completely and offered her a smile. She winked back and took her seat at the extreme end of the counter, next to the route to the ultra modern toilets.

Ten minutes later, she asked Ali to give them another round and keep change. Three minutes later, a broad shouldered soldier walked to her. He was decent looking and was maybe worth a romp but the timing was very sad.

“Hey, thanks for our drinks,” he said. She nodded silently. “I`m Captain Joshua Mugabo.”

“Nice meeting you, Captain. Don’t worry about the drinks, it is money from my late husband. He was a Major attached to CMI, died last year or Hepatitis B, refused to get ARVs, that`s the problem. We had no children so I spend the army`s money on soldiers when I see them. Want to stay a while?”

Many a Ugandan associate Hepatitis with AIDS, and the Captain was quick on his feet. “Uh, no, just came round to thank you for the drinks. And sorry about your husband.”

He left soon after. And a second later, Daniel Kirkwood sauntered over. He was not as fit looking as the previous candidate but looking at his age, he wasn’t doing particularly very badly. A small pouch of a tummy was starting to show, but he did a swell job of holding in his stomach. And his right wrist was wrapped in a gold Rolex that most likely was the CIA`s interest in the Brit.

“In my country, no disrespect to you and yours, when a woman buys fellas drinks, it only means one thing,” he said, laughing. He sounded like Phil Collins on crack cocaine at a mike with poor acoustics.

No wonder you are not married. That voice could irritate any spouse to divorce; or death.

“That I`m interested in you,” she nodded. A lot of white people, wanting to make a point to Africans, misrepresented many facts about their countries of origin. Once a boy from Germany had assured her sixty percent of his country folk loved foreigners. When she had intimated to him that that figure could most likely be six percent, he had melted away.

But the last thing she wanted was Daniel Kirkwood walking away. They had to walk away together.

“Are you?” he raised grayish eyebrows in a forehead beginning to seriously take to furrowing.

“That scare you?”

“I`m British, nothing scares me. Unless of course you tell me you are IRA and have explosives hidden in that firm body of yours.” He smiled, a crooked smile that saw his left lip curl up. But he looked fatherly, almost palatable, when he smiled.

Aren’t you the friendly goon!

“Well, am not Irish and neither do I work for any organization that explodes devices to destroy others but I do have dynamite under these clothes and if you don’t believe me, we can go to my SUV and you check it out before we make concrete plans for later.” She winked and coquettishly passed her tongue between her luscious lips without smudging her gloss.

“You are white under that dark skin of yours aren’t you, miss?” he smirked delightedly.

“Let`s just say I know what I want and how to get it and once I set my mind to something, I don’t stop `til I get it and in enough quantities.”

Just as he started to say something, Miss Svelte walked up holding a bottle by the neck. The Jackass had been in so many bar fights to know the drill.

“So you gonna steal my man, bitch?” She sounded a little higher than Woody`s could be guilty of.

The Jackass laughed sexily, wanting to infuriate the woman while turning the man on.

“My name is not bitch, Miss,” she said speaking very politely but condescendingly. “Can you even spell the word?”

Most prostitutes spoke very good English but were at a loss when it came to writing it as many had chosen to skip school, or were forced to, in favor of taking to the streets to make a quick buck laying on their back. The way the girl flared, for she was no more than twenty two, the Jackass realized her wild shot had actually hit a nerve.

Miss Svelte yelled something and rushed at her, her arm going up. The Jackass quickly thought of the best option under the circumstances: she could exhibit her proficiency in self defense and `unman` Mr. Kirkwood, or play the damsel in distress and wait for him to take over. She chose the latter and said a quick prayer.

Just like she had hoped, Mr. Kirkwood rose to the occasion. He grabbed the arm holding the bottle and disarmed her. Squeezing her hand hard, he told her to go take her seat before something nasty happened to her. She began to walk away but half way the length of the counter, she grabbed a glass and raised it to throw. Ali pulled out his shot gun and cocked it.

“If you try that shit one more time, I will shoot you and your party. Now go take a seat!”

Miss Svelte gently put down the glass and teetered back to her table. All around them, people were minding their business, like no one had seen anything. Most likely no one wanted to ruin their evening by interfering in a love triangle affair. With love triangles, few people knew the angles of approach so they instead kept clear when they could.

“I think I better go,” said the Jackass, holding herself like she was feeling cold.

“I will walk you to your car,” said Daniel, putting his almost empty glass on the counter top.

At the Escalade, she talked the doors open and pulled the passenger one behind the driver open. She leaned toward Daniel as if to kiss him and put her hand on his right shoulder. She then slid it a little further up and grabbed his trapezium together with a pressure point. As Daniel started to collapse, she supported him and then laid him in the back seat, strapping him in. She cuffed him and taped his mouth, then secured his legs.

She closed the door, got in and drove off.

“Check in the glove compartment, you will find a cape, a wig and large sunglasses. Put them on,” she told Trudy who was seething.

“I thought you were gonna get our watch back, what are you doing with him?” Before she could answer the other woman added, “And that was a cheap trick, too, leaving me in the vehicle.”

“Told you I work alone, but your objections are duly noted. Besides, I had to be sure we got the right watch so could please check it instead of going ballistic on my ass?”

Trudy Kwaso undid her seatbelt and leaned into the back. She undid the clasp then asked for the keys to the cuffs. After she got the watch off, she redid the cuffs and sat back in her seat, fastening her seatbelt.

After four minutes, she gave a small laugh. “This is the watch. I guess you earned your keep. But I don’t like your methods.”

“Just tell me where I let you off, girl, this business is concluded.”

Trudy pulled a cell out of her pocket and dialed. “Got it, ask John to come pick me at the Central Police station. Will be with you in two hours.”

Five minutes later, as she reached the police station, the Jackass scanned her vehicle again and this time after the minute, the car glowed red. Central-locking the vehicle, she pointed her gun at Trudy.

“Where did you put the bug?” Her voice was cold.

“Don’t know what the hell you are talking about,” Trudy answered, sounding puzzled.

The Jackass dropped the hammer. “I will slowly count to three, after which your ass is cooked. I will kill you, then arson my vehicle after pouring acid on your corpse. Want to try me?”

“Jackline, I swear I don’t know anything about a bug.”

She parked just passed the main entrance and turned all her attention to Trudy.

“Three,” she said, lifting the barrel a little so she could shoot her head.

“Wait!” the other girl held up her hands.

Jackline Assimwe raised both eyebrows and waited. Then there was a tap on the passenger side window. The Jackass covered the gun with the lapel of her jumpsuit which she had opened going into Woody`s.

When the glass rolled halfway down, they both saw a white guy standing there in a crisp suit.

“My name is Jason Stiltham, I work for Her Majesty`s government. The High Commissioner would like a word with Miss Kwaso about a delicate matter.”

“Oh,” said the Jackass. “Then she is all yours.”

“I`m not leaving this vehicle unless I hear from my Station Chief,” said Trudy stubbornly.

“Well, Mr. Statham, she is all yours whenever you are ready.”

Trudy looked at her like she had just handed her to Al Qaeda operatives.

“The name is Stiltham, Miss.”

“Whatever,” she said. “Just get her out of my vehicle before I call the police.”

“That will really complicate the matter,” he said. “Right now it`s between CIA and MI6. Involving the police will inevitably bring in ISO and ESO, most likely even CMI and that will put a lot of egg on our American cousins. So Trudy it`s your choice: either come quietly so the matter of the watch stays a secret between our two organizations or open a hornet`s nest.”

Trudy sighed and got out of the vehicle.

“My transport is back there, a white Land Rover Discovery.” Then he turned to the Jackass and said, “By the way, we shall be needing our agent back, Miss Assimwe.”

“Daniel Kirkwood is British Intelligence?” asked the Jackass, truly surprised and glad she had not killed the bugger.

“One of our best actually. But this of course stays between us.”

“Just as long as you don’t forget I could have handed him over to our cops but I`m releasing him to you, Mr. Statham.”

“Stiltham, Miss.”

“Statham sounds better, someone should have told your parents that.”

Stiltham nodded then made a small gesture with his head and two guys came and carried Kirkwood out of her vehicle. Just before she drove off, she scanned her vehicle again and this time all was green. Then it downed on her that Daniel Kirkwood most likely had a tracking device embedded somewhere on his body and that that was how Brit Intel had laid such a perfect little trap for Miss Langley. Talk about reversed traps and shit. She was glad she came out unscathed and five million dollars richer.

As she commanded her radio, she was wondering which charities to donate to next. Normally, she spread fifty thousand dollars thin into ten or so charities, mostly buying them food, clothes and installing solar panels. When she decided a charity needed big money, she hid behind a fake NGO and released the money, mostly for things like dormitories or latrines or boreholes and she made sure she contracted someone decent to monitor the project until completion.

She also wondered where to spend the night. She had homes in most major towns in the country but decided to bunk in a six star hotel on the outskirts of Jinja. It had a marble bath and tile Jacuzzi and a really great masseuse.

Warm bath and massage-to-die-for here I come.

To be continued....