Daring Dooz (The Implosion Trilogy (Book 2)) (28 page)

Chapter 66

Mrs Hathaway was restless -
like a cat ready to pounce, but with nothing to pounce at. She sat in the
pilot’s seat with her bronzed legs propped up on the instrument panel. She walked
to the fridge and spent some time selecting a bottle of water, she checked the
inflatable dinghy was in working order, three times, then she gave the cockpit and
windows a good clean from top to bottom.

She tried to pass some time
by phoning Aubrey. Best not to tell him how bad the situation was. Not that she
had a chance, as Aubrey was very excited about playing bass at the Golden
Legover
.

‘And, after I’d finished
playing, lots of bints came up and wanted my autograph.’

‘Bints?’

‘Ladies.’

‘You didn't write anything
vulgar?

‘No, course not, you
trained me proper.’

Mrs Hathaway, felt a little
flush of pride at that, so it was no problem to let him ramble on.

‘There was lights and a
stage and I did a solo and the crowd went wild, shoutin’ Aub, Aub, Aubrey! It
was really excitin’ Tallulah. More excitin’ than anyfin’, ever. I’m not a tax
inspector, I’m not a gangster’s gofer, I’m a bass player in a band.’ And then
he added, ‘and women like me.’

Mrs Hathaway missed the
final part of Aubrey’s sentence, because a rather large fly had splatted into
the Catalina’s cockpit window and ruined all her work.

‘Well Aubrey, it all sounds
very nice, you must play something for me, when we meet.’

‘Can't wait,’ said Aubrey
with an unusual amount of enthusiasm, ‘can't wait. When d’you reckon?’

‘Oh, just a few more days,
then everything will be settled.’

‘Great,’ said Aubrey, ‘and
one more fing.’

‘Can I say - I love you?’

‘Of course you can.’

So he did.

After the call, Mrs Hathaway
was in what she would call ‘a tizz’. Her energy levels doubled and she
re-cleaned the cockpit windows over and over again till they shone and sparkled
in the late evening sun.

That evening, she went to
bed in the fold-down seats next to the
Plexiglass blisters. Her heart felt young, her
skin was glowing, her head was full of exciting Aubrey thoughts. It would have
been the perfect way to doze off to sleep, apart from the fact that an M16 assault
rifle lay diagonally across her body, and her finger was on the trigger.

Chapter 67

Giles snapped his worldwide
office network into action. Their mission, which they had no option but to
accept, was to find a large flying boat which could get down to the
Hidroviaria do Amazonas
Riverboat Terminal in the next four days. He gave them an hour.

Fifty-five
minutes later, he had a result. A US Navy veteran, organising sports fishing
trips out of Tobago, had seen his business recently devastated by a major oil
slick. He was facing ruin, but when he was a younger and wealthier man, he’d completed
a restoration project on the plane his father used to fly in World War II - a four-engined,
200-foot wingspan Hawaii Mars flying boat.

When
he was told the nature of the mission, he refused point blank. When they
mentioned how much
Daring Dooz
would
be willing to pay, and the size of the advance, he said, ‘Give me 24 hours to
get a crew together.’

With
only a little massaging of the truth, the Daring Dooz logistics specialists
obtained all the necessary permits and permissions. There would be no need to
fly at 200 feet.

Giles
was thrilled things were underway so quickly. Splatter was hurtling down the M4
in a taxi, shuttle flights had been arranged for him in Brazil. There was still
the automatic weapons to consider, but one thing at a time.

He
pulled a chair over to the window and felt like the master of all he surveyed. He
asked for it to be done, and it
was
done. Then he had another feeling which wasn’t so nice.

There
he was, sitting on his arse, when Splatter and a couple of hundred Daring
Doozers were spending their hard-earned cash flying half way round the world to
rescue Mrs Hathaway, with no thought of financial gain. While he sat here all
high and mighty, the world’s No. 1 Couch Potato. It might be a solid gold
couch, studded with diamonds, but it was still as much a couch as the basic, build-it-yourself
Bumaik range from Ikea.

*

Back
in the long house, Mick and Jim would have given anything for an Ikea Bumaik
couch. They’d been sitting on the floor for two days, guarded by bandits who
looked as bored as
they
were. The GUA
had long run out, and when they went to perform their necessary bodily
functions, they were watched over by one of the guards and, for all they knew, by
the anaconda, who must, by now have digested Alfonso, and be looking around for
another take-away.

They
were getting to the point where they just wanted something to happen. And, of
course, happen it did. But in a way they would never have guessed in a million
years.

*

Back
in the Catalina, Mrs Hathaway, spent most of her day doing exercises. Giles had
phoned her as soon as Splatter had agreed to fly over. She couldn't see the
point, as she’d be the only one with an automatic assault rifle, unless the
customs in Brazil were a lot laxer than she’d ever imagined.

She
whiled away a little more time by phoning Aubrey who’d been rebooked at the
Golden Legover.
Again, it was a
fabulous success, with screams and cheers and a banner saying ‘Aubrey - King of
Bass’. Again, he went on about a strange warm feeling flowing through his body.
This rang no bells with Mrs Hathaway. All she was concerned with was the
unrelenting boredom. She was getting to the point where, she just wanted
something to happen. And, of course, happen it did. But in a way she would
never have guessed in a million years.

*

Back
in the Shard, Giles was ruminating over his short, but highly successful life.
He might be Giles
Montagu-Scott, CEO and owner of
Daring
Dooz and UFO News International
, but, at heart, he suspected he was still
Cyril Tweedy, scared of his own shadow.

The Daring Doozers were
stupid, gullible fantasists, but they weren’t scared. He suspected if it got
out that he wasn’t at the rescue, it could be a very tricky PR situation. But it
was more than that. Bloody hell, he had to break with the past, he had to
become his own man. He had, in short, to grow up.

Giles
thought it through for another five worrying minutes, then picked up the phone
and punched in a few numbers.

‘Morning
Clarissa, could you book me flights for
Manaus International, for today.’

 
‘One-way, or return, sir?’

Giles was as clueless
about the future as Mick, Jim and Mrs Hathaway, but he felt he owed it to
himself to back his gamble.

‘I think we’ll make it a
return.’

Chapter 68

It was late evening when Hamish was pushed into the long house. He looked
terrible. There was a large cut on his cheek and his face was bruised. He’d
obviously been badly beaten. He fell to the floor. The guards stepped in to push
away the women who moved to try and help him.

A few seconds later, a heavily armed Pango arrived, with the air of a man
who has just got what he wanted, and couldn't care less about how he’d got it.

‘Is oil!’ he announced. ‘Big pool of oil! Big bucks! And Hamish pig take
me wrong trail, so I persuade him do it right. So we know
what
and we know
where,
c
ompadres.
Nothing go wrong, now.’

At that moment, all the lights went out. The waterwheel’s lack of TLC
since Zac’s disappearance was bearing fruit.

‘Shit!’ cried Pango. ‘Get oil lamps. Anyone who moves, kill.’

After a few minutes, in which no one moved, the oil lamps were found and
lit.

‘Right,’ said Pango, two film poofy boys and Hamish Head Man - my office,
now.

Pango hung up the oil light, sat in the largest chair and threw a piece
of paper onto the coffee table.

‘Is legal - sign or we shoot village people.’

Hamish tried to grab him, but Pango hit him with the butt of his rifle,
and he fell back into a corner.

‘Fat Boy - Scrawny, check contract. Sign all land from here to Black Pool
over to Pango. Plus agree eviction, tomorrow. Bad news if oil men have 150 primitives
to dump.’

He held out a pen.

‘Put X or thumb mark here. No business funnies, or I shoot few hostages
for target practice.’

Hamish got to his knees and crawled to the table. He looked at Mick and
Jim.

‘It's what he says it is,’ said Mick. ‘Sorry mate.’

Hamish signed in an elegant ecclesiastical italic script, just how Zac
had taught him.

‘Fuck me,’ said Pango. ‘That’s cool.’ He folded the contract and slotted it
into top pocket of his overalls.

‘Now for bad news. We shoot all you, start in few minutes.’

Mick and Jim both said, ‘But…’

Pango cut them off. ‘You squeal to cops, hey! Trouble for Pango. My story
simple. You sign contract, wander off in jungle.’

 
‘Real story. Useful river. Caiman,
piranhas. One hour after bang-bang, no trace of anyone.’

‘When is this bang-bang time?’ asked Jim.

‘Right now, Scrawny. You want be first?’

Pango held the oil light up, higher.

‘Me like see what I do.’

He laughed again.

Mick got desperate. ‘But we’re nothing to do with this. We just happened
to be here doing a video job.’

‘Look,’ said Pango. ‘You here and, few seconds, bang-bang, you not here.
Keep things simple.’

He moved forward and raised his M16. But just as he was about to pull the
trigger, something very strange happened.

A rather podgy index finger had pushed up through the rattan flooring and
started wiggling.

Even Pango was intrigued. He bent down and looked at the finger. It wiggled
some more, then moved slowly forward, making a rip about a foot long in the
rattan. Pango moved the end of the rifle barrel closer to the rip. Whoever it
was had chosen to
gatecrash
the wrong party.

After a few seconds, a man’s head pushed slowly up through the gap. The
light was poor and it was impossible to see any features.

‘Come out!’ shouted Pango. ‘Time for first target practice.’

He turned to Jim, ‘OK with you, Scrawny?’

Jim, as you might expect, nodded.

Suddenly, the head spoke - quietly, and in measured tones.

‘Before you pull the trigger, take a closer look at my face.’

‘Why fuck should I?’ said Pango.

‘Just take a closer look at my face, then, if you want, you can pull the
trigger.’

It was only a head, so Pango knelt down and moved the oil lamp closer.

The lamp cast a rich, golden glow, but even in its rather pleasant, flattering
light, you could see the blood drain rapidly from Pango’s face.

His mouth opened and closed a few times, and the oil lamp began to wobble
in his trembling hands.

‘Mother of mercy and all the saints,’ he cried, putting down the lamp and
crossing himself, ‘What going on?’

‘Dunno,’ said Charlie Sumkins’ head, ‘suppose
you
tell
me
?’

Chapter 69

Pango backed away, trembling terribly. The M16 hung limply by his side.

‘Mr Sumkins, sir, I no idea…’

‘’Course you didn't,’ said Charlie’s head in the most menacing tone
imaginable.

There was a grunt from beneath the floor and Charlie rose up. He was
wearing his Alec Guinness
Man in the White
Suit
suit. Ignoring the large hole his arrival had made in the floor, he
moved over to sit in Pango’s chair.

Pango stood to attention in the corner. His face was bathed in sweat. Shiny,
wringing-wet patches had appeared on his overalls.

‘Was joke, Mr Sumkins, sir. Just keep everyone safe ‘til you here.’

Charlie looked relaxed. He sat back in the chair and placed the tips of
his fingers together.

‘Even for a toe-rag like you, that must count as the shittiest excuse on
record.’

‘Let me tell you what’s been happenin’. You are holdin’ two of my dearest
fiends in this room at gunpoint, and from what I heard under the floor, you was
about to bump them off.’

Mick and Jim were amazed. First, that Charlie’s evil reputation still had
terrifying power in a backwater, 1000 miles up the Amazon. And secondly, that
he’d referred to them as his dearest friends.

‘And do you know
why
they’re my
dearest friends?’

‘No, Mr Sumkins, sir.’

‘Shall I tell you why they’re my dearest friends?’

‘Yes, Mr Sumkins, sir.’

‘Because, they were lookin’ after, and takin’ very special care of, my
very best friend
in the
whol
e world.’

Pango’s knees started to knock.

‘And I don’t fink she’s around. And that makes me cross. You wouldn't
have anything to do with her not being around, would you?’

Pango fell to his knees.

‘She ran off.’

‘Ran off, did she?’ said Charlie. ‘And
who
made her run off?’

Pango started sobbing. ‘Gone in fly boat.’

A guard called, ‘You alright, boss?’

Charlie gave Pango a look.

‘Yeah,’ he called back.

Charlie leaned forward.

‘Now listen to me, shit face Pango
Demetrio
Alvarez of Flat 3,
Juan Smith Rua Visconde de Porto Seguro 1238.
Your fuckin’ number is up. I know where you live, where you pretend to work, I
know the names and addresses of all your relatives, including, your grandmother
and grandfather.’

He put his hand
up to a small earpiece, ‘I’ve just been informed that granddad Alvarez is
puttin’ the rubbish out. Does that every night, doesn’t he? Well, if you don't
release everyone here quick, and bugger off back to where you came from, he
won't have the bother of puttin’ the rubbish out,
ever again
.’

Charlie stood
up.

Mick and Jim
were starting to enjoy the evening.

‘And the same
goes for
all
your fuckin’ scumbag
family.’

Mick and Jim
could see the spit starting to fly across the room. They’d never seen Charlie
Sumkins get
really
cross.

‘I’ll wipe
the whole lot of you off the face of the fuckin’ earth. That includes Carlos
who services your granddad’s car, the woman who gives your auntie Conchita
embroidery lessons and Spot the fuckin’ dog.’

‘And I got
similar info on the rest of the scrotes in your band of imitation
desperados
.’

Mick noticed Charlie’s
face was now so purple, it had almost doubled the light values in the room.

Pango made
one last attempt.

‘It was joke,
Mr
Sumkins, your honour. Look,
gun not loaded.’

 
In his enthusiasm to prove his innocence, Pango’s
sweating finger accidently pulled the trigger and sent a deafening 60-bullet
burst up through the office roof.

He had just
managed to shout ‘Stay out,’ to the guards, when a couple of large parrots fell
back through the hole and bounced off his head.

These were quickly
followed by a 20-foot long, 2-foot thick, bullet-riddled anaconda, which spiralled
down, straight through the hole left by Charlie’s entrance.

Everyone was
shocked, especially the anaconda. There was a few seconds of complete silence,
before a desperate, strangled cry came from under the floor.

‘Mr Sumkins,
it’s got me.’

The anaconda was,
obviously, still alive, and was taking revenge on some poor sod.

Charlie
grabbed the M16 in one hand and the oil lamp in the other. He dropped to his
knees and peered into the hole.

‘Hold the
fucker’s head away from your body.’

There was a
single shot.

‘There,’ said
Charlie, with a satisfied smile, ‘
that’s
the way to do it. Come on up.’

Another head
popped through the gap in the rattan floor.

‘Hello,’ it
said, ‘my name’s Digby Elton-John, Solicitor-at-Law. Anyone got a sponge?’