Jon Evans - Swarm

She was right, and Sophie knew it, but she looked wistful as Zavier drove us away, along a rocky road that climbed back towards Port-au-Prince’s main highway, following a taptap that was an ancient school bus encrusted by crude repairs and scintillating colours, like coral grown on a sunken ship. About halfway up we hit more traffic, and I groaned.

“What now?” I asked. Our small victory had brought us little closer to safety. “They know where we are. We can’t go back to Zavier’s. We can’t even use his phone.”

“Zavier,” Jesse said, “take us to the American Embassy.”

“No,” Anya contradicted him. “Not the Americans. We must wait for my uncle.”

“We don’t have time,” Jesse said. “Zavier, the embassy. They won’t arrest us, they don’t have jurisdiction. We’ll hide out there until your uncle’s men show up. No choice. It’s the only safe place in Port-au-Prince.”

Anya grudgingly acquiesced.

But we never made it to the embassy. As we crested the hill, moving slowly in the thickening downtown-bound traffic, we saw two black Mercedes with tinted windows climbing towards us. Compared to the rusted hulks and rainbow taptaps around them they looked like two sharks amid schools of tropical fish.

We all knew immediately what they were: the enemy’s ground troops. I grunted as if punched in the stomach. Neither the the embassy nor Viktor Kharlamov could help us. It was already too late.

The road was too narrow for Port-au-Prince’s usual improvised third lane of traffic, and the stone walls on either side were high and topped by broken glass. The oncoming traffic was thin, the two black cars were moving fast. Not even Zavier could turn his Toyota around before they reached us, it would be something like an eleven-point turn. In our haste to escape we had trapped ourselves.

I was probably the stupidest person in that car but it didn’t take a genius to see that there was only one way for some of us to get away. It was Sophie, Jesse, and Anya they wanted, not me. I didn’t matter.

If I had stopped and thought about it, I doubt I would have done anything, but there was no time. “Zavier, get them out of here,” I said, as I opened my door.

“What are you doing?” Sophie demanded.

Instead of answering I leapt out, sprinted up to the school-bus taptap ahead of us, climbed onto the little ladder that led to its driver’s door, and pulled it open. The driver looked down at me, utterly astonished by the sudden appearance of a desperate white man. His passengers were similarly astounded. I took advantage of the moment of shock to grab him by his shirt and pull him hard out of his seat. He was heavy, but I had the strength of panic. He was so surprised that he didn’t even cry out as he toppled past me onto the road.

“Sorry, desolee ,” I muttered as I leapt up into his seat, hoping he wasn’t hurt. The two men in the passenger seat shouted with stunned outrage as I grabbed the wheel of the taptap, spun it counterclockwise, and stomped on the accelerator. Fortunately for me he had left it in gear, and we didn’t have far to go.

Strong hands grabbed at me from behind and from my right – but then we hit the wall on the opposite side of the road, and they lost their grip. My body slid forward in the seat and I smacked chest-first into the steering wheel, hard enough to bruise. I ignored the pain, used that last moment of freedom to rip the keys from the ignition, step back out onto the top rung of the latter with one foot, and lob the keys over the wall with an underhanded throw, leaving the taptap stranded diagonally across the road, blocking both lanes, with the Mercedes on one side and Zavier’s Toyota on the other.

I had entertained vague hopes of getting back into the getaway car, but then the taptap driver loomed beneath me, unhurt and enraged, grabbing at my legs as his passengers shoved me out of the vehicle from behind. I fell hard onto the rocky ground, was barely able to get my arms up so that they instead of my face took the blow.

As I fought my way to my knees I glimpsed Sophie’s frantic expression as she stared at me from the Toyota’s window, aghast. Then it roared away, and I sagged with relief.

Passengers spilled out of the taptap, shouting furiously. For a second I hoped I might only be arrested – but then two muscular black men in aviator sunglasses, designer jeans and sportcoats appeared in the ragged ring of passengers around me, and parted that mob like the Red Sea. The angry cacophony faded suddenly into frightened silence. It was like the newcomers were lepers or angels of death.

I got up and tried to smile at them. It didn’t work. The first one to me punched me in the gut. I doubled over retching and he kicked me to the ground. Then they were on me, the weight of their bodies mashing my face and ribs against the rock and mud, wrenching my shoulders into agony as they bound my arms behind my back and tied a cloth around my head to blind me. It all happened in seconds, they were professionals.

They half-dragged, half-carried me along the road until I collided with something at thigh level. Strong hands pushed my torso onwards, others grabbed at my legs and tried to upend me. I thrashed with blind panic until another gun butt slammed into my kidneys; then I just curled into a fetal position and moaned as my captors half-shoved, half-lifted me onto some kind of ledge. I smelled rubber and gasoline. Then metal slammed on metal just above me, and everything went dark. It wasn’t until the engine roared to life, seemingly all around me, that I understood I was trapped in the trunk of their car.

The vehicle rumbled and thumped across Port-au-Prince’s potholes. I tried to fumble for some kind of tool, in books and movies the hero always found a piece of broken glass or sharp metal corner to free himself, but there was nothing like that in this trunk. Even if there had been, my wrists were bound so tightly that my fingers were growing numb and useless. I heard a distant police siren, and hoped; but it faded away.

The tiny space stank of gasoline, and my brain and body began to fill with nausea and a stabbing headache. There were no air holes. It was like being buried alive. I felt panic squirm in my gut like an animal, trying to break free and possess me wholly, and I focused on keeping it caged. From the front I heard dim conversation, and that sound of human voices helped. I tried to breathe slowly, deeply. The gasoline fumes felt like sandpaper on my throat.

The car climbed steeply and I rolled back against its very rear. I felt like an animal being herded to the slaughterhouse. It was all I could do not to hyperventilate. My guts felt cold and loose and watery, like they might literally fall apart. I tried to think about something other than what they would do to me, but all my brain came up with was the Tragically Hip song Locked in the trunk of a car , which didn’t help. I tried to treat the moment as a gift, as Lisa had taught me, but failed. Lisa had also told me what the narcos did to their enemies.

The car stopped. The trunk opened. My blindfold was sufficiently translucent that I was aware of being washed in sunlight as two strong men lifted me out like a carpet, carried me up a ramp, and sat me on a small metal chair that seemed bolted down. I heard faint roars and whines over my own hyperventilation. They sounded oddly familiar for a second, and then I placed them: airport noises, airplanes in motion. I was still in transit, in a plane that would take me to Colombia. I gasped with relief at the realization that I would not be tortured or murdered in the next few minutes. I had hours yet. Anything could happen, I told myself, in a few hours.