Read Online Age of Voodoo by James Lovegrove - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Lovegrove
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Wilberforce stay with the cars while he went inside.
The terminal building was a draughty concrete structure, built more with diligence than panache. Bright, gaudy posters occupied the walls of the arrivals lounge, showing sun-seekers at play in the sand and surf and advertising day-trips to Manzanilla’s modest natural wonders: the waterfall at Cannon Rock and the caves in the King Alfonso Hills with their three-metre-tall stalagmites of bat guano.
Flight CBC301 was on time, but the customs and immigration process was invariably slow, so Lex had leisure to peruse the racks at the news kiosk. A two-day-old copy of the Daily Mail , from back home, had a headline deploring the latest tax hike from Westminster, which the paper dubbed ‘fiscal lunacy’ and ‘an insult to the hard-working, hard-pressed middle classes.’ As a rule, Lex tried to avoid keeping up with events in the UK. It always filled him with a disquieting mixture of nostalgia and disdain. He wondered if anything would ever tempt him back to his homeland. Probably not. After seven years away it seemed a remote place, drab in his memory, and while he had been living there he had been something of a nomad anyway, seldom occupying his London flat for any significant length of time. Britain had been a base he returned to between forays abroad, a convenient foxhole, nothing more. He felt little affinity for the country, and whatever allegiance he owed it he had more than discharged.
At last CaribAir passengers began filtering through from the luggage carousels. Lex had no idea who he had come to meet, but he was confident he would know them when he saw them.
Sure enough, a group of five—four men, one woman—appeared through the doors, and one glance told Lex these were his people. They were dressed like tourists: shorts, sandals, eye-watering Hawaiian shirts, here and there an item of ostentatious jewellery such as a Rolex. Two of the men had stubbly chins and another sported collar-length hair.
They didn’t move like tourists, though. They didn’t gaze around themselves wide-eyed, or fan themselves in the stifling, inadequately air-conditioned atmosphere of the terminal, or check their phones to see if they had network coverage yet. They didn’t grapple with overloaded baggage trolleys—they had travelled with personal carry-on only. They walked as a unit, calm but purposeful, subtly aware of their surroundings.
US military, no question. Lex wasn’t fooled by the ‘relaxed grooming standards.’ Lean, efficient killers. Special forces.
He drew away from the news kiosk, making himself obvious. He had decided he would downplay his own talents until he got to know these people better. It was preferable for them to underestimate him, not perceive him as an equal or a rival. It would give him something in reserve if he needed it.
“Afternoon,” he said to the frontmost man in the group, a rangy, grizzled figure, mid-forties, athletic build, moustachioed like a porn actor. Instinct told him this was the leader.
Grey eyes peered at him from beneath bushy brows. “You Dove?”
“I am.”
“Tom Buckler. Put her there, sport.” His grip was strong, and Lex resisted the temptation to match it, pound-pressure for pound-pressure. “These here are my associates. That’s Bob Tartaglione.”
A glossy-haired Italian-American gave Lex a nod.
“Corey Sampson.”
A tall African-American touched finger to forehead. “Pleased to meetcha.”
“Madison Morgenstern.”
The woman’s short blonde bob offset a firm jawline. “Hi.”
“And him back there’s Pearce.”
This one looked like a farmhand or a cowboy, trim and permanently sunburned.
“He doesn’t go in for first names,” said Buckler.
Pearce grunted something barely audible.
“Or talk much,” Buckler added.
“Lex Dove,” said Lex, meeting everyone’s gaze in turn. “Welcome to Manzanilla. I’ll be your tour guide throughout your stay. Anything you need, don’t hesitate to
The terminal building was a draughty concrete structure, built more with diligence than panache. Bright, gaudy posters occupied the walls of the arrivals lounge, showing sun-seekers at play in the sand and surf and advertising day-trips to Manzanilla’s modest natural wonders: the waterfall at Cannon Rock and the caves in the King Alfonso Hills with their three-metre-tall stalagmites of bat guano.
Flight CBC301 was on time, but the customs and immigration process was invariably slow, so Lex had leisure to peruse the racks at the news kiosk. A two-day-old copy of the Daily Mail , from back home, had a headline deploring the latest tax hike from Westminster, which the paper dubbed ‘fiscal lunacy’ and ‘an insult to the hard-working, hard-pressed middle classes.’ As a rule, Lex tried to avoid keeping up with events in the UK. It always filled him with a disquieting mixture of nostalgia and disdain. He wondered if anything would ever tempt him back to his homeland. Probably not. After seven years away it seemed a remote place, drab in his memory, and while he had been living there he had been something of a nomad anyway, seldom occupying his London flat for any significant length of time. Britain had been a base he returned to between forays abroad, a convenient foxhole, nothing more. He felt little affinity for the country, and whatever allegiance he owed it he had more than discharged.
At last CaribAir passengers began filtering through from the luggage carousels. Lex had no idea who he had come to meet, but he was confident he would know them when he saw them.
Sure enough, a group of five—four men, one woman—appeared through the doors, and one glance told Lex these were his people. They were dressed like tourists: shorts, sandals, eye-watering Hawaiian shirts, here and there an item of ostentatious jewellery such as a Rolex. Two of the men had stubbly chins and another sported collar-length hair.
They didn’t move like tourists, though. They didn’t gaze around themselves wide-eyed, or fan themselves in the stifling, inadequately air-conditioned atmosphere of the terminal, or check their phones to see if they had network coverage yet. They didn’t grapple with overloaded baggage trolleys—they had travelled with personal carry-on only. They walked as a unit, calm but purposeful, subtly aware of their surroundings.
US military, no question. Lex wasn’t fooled by the ‘relaxed grooming standards.’ Lean, efficient killers. Special forces.
He drew away from the news kiosk, making himself obvious. He had decided he would downplay his own talents until he got to know these people better. It was preferable for them to underestimate him, not perceive him as an equal or a rival. It would give him something in reserve if he needed it.
“Afternoon,” he said to the frontmost man in the group, a rangy, grizzled figure, mid-forties, athletic build, moustachioed like a porn actor. Instinct told him this was the leader.
Grey eyes peered at him from beneath bushy brows. “You Dove?”
“I am.”
“Tom Buckler. Put her there, sport.” His grip was strong, and Lex resisted the temptation to match it, pound-pressure for pound-pressure. “These here are my associates. That’s Bob Tartaglione.”
A glossy-haired Italian-American gave Lex a nod.
“Corey Sampson.”
A tall African-American touched finger to forehead. “Pleased to meetcha.”
“Madison Morgenstern.”
The woman’s short blonde bob offset a firm jawline. “Hi.”
“And him back there’s Pearce.”
This one looked like a farmhand or a cowboy, trim and permanently sunburned.
“He doesn’t go in for first names,” said Buckler.
Pearce grunted something barely audible.
“Or talk much,” Buckler added.
“Lex Dove,” said Lex, meeting everyone’s gaze in turn. “Welcome to Manzanilla. I’ll be your tour guide throughout your stay. Anything you need, don’t hesitate to
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