The Lord of Opium(113)

“I’m not angry, but we may have been invaded.” Matt realized that the little boy was too shocked to answer questions. “Listen to me,” he said urgently. “I have to get help. I have to rally the Farm Patrol. The whole country is in danger. Do you understand?”

“Don’t leave me,” cried El Bicho. He grabbed Matt’s sleeve with his good hand.

Matt pulled away. “None of us is going to survive if I don’t get help. I won’t forget you. You’re my brother, and I won’t desert you. Try to stay strong.”

“Don’t leave me!” screamed the boy.

Matt fled the room. The Bug’s screams followed him. He slammed the door and leaned against it, breathing heavily.

Being a drug lord isn’t all guitar playing and pachangas, said the old, old voice in Matt’s head. I left my dying mother to build an empire. I sacrificed my son Felipe to the drug wars. I shot down a passenger plane to preserve the peace.

Be quiet, said Matt.

El Patrón chuckled. I am the cat with nine lives. I’ve had eight, and you are the ninth.

Leave me alone!

Matt realized that he hadn’t contacted Esperanza, but he couldn’t bring himself to go back into that room. He ran to the armory, hoping to find Cienfuegos or Daft Donald, but it was deserted. Where is everyone? Matt thought. The silence was unnatural.

He selected a stun gun. He’d never fired one and now cursed himself for overlooking a basic drug-lord skill. He strapped a knife to his leg and another to his upper arm. He filled his pockets with tranquilizer beads. When you threw them at someone, they exploded, and the gas knocked the person out. That was how the Farm Patrol had captured Cienfuegos when he was trying to reach the United States.

Matt had never used a weapon in his life or even gone hunting. He didn’t know whether he could kill someone. You’d better make your mind up fast, advised El Patrón. We’re not playing soccer here. This is pok-a-tok.

Matt crossed the gardens, heading for the nursery, where he thought Listen and Mbongeni were. He felt the hidden knives pressed against his skin and mentally copied the swift movement that Cienfuegos used to produce a stiletto. He knew that he could never equal it. He’d seen Daft Donald pull a switchblade from a pant leg. It wasn’t simply a matter of practice, but will. You had to want to kill someone. You think too much, complained El Patrón.

He kept to the shadows of trees, and every moving branch or birdcall made him flinch. He simply didn’t know where the dangers were. But the children weren’t in the nursery. A line of caretakers sat along a wall, and at their feet was a dead eejit. It was probably the one who let the cow die, the animal Dr. Rivas was using to grow a replacement for his son.

Matt ran to the main part of the hospital, and at last he saw normal people. Nurses in white scrubs were standing outside an operating room with doctors in gauze masks and latex gloves. The operating room door opened, and the medical staff went inside.

Matt edged forward, and his foot bumped against something. He glanced down and saw a body. It was a soldier, and the smell of hot metal rose from him. He’d been killed with a stun gun, and very recently. Matt backed away, but an African man in a military uniform came out of the operating room and shouted, “Stop him!” Instantly, soldiers poured out of the operating room. They grabbed Matt and removed the stun gun and knives as easily as peeling the skin off a banana. They shook the tranquilizer beads out of his pockets, but it was Matt who was overcome by gas, not his enemies. He passed out almost instantly.





45





PRISONERS




He woke up on the floor. He was in a hospital room, and on a bed, clenching her teeth like a little wild animal, was Listen. He stood up and almost passed out again. He fell against the bed.

Then he noticed the men sitting by the door. They were squat and broad-chested, your standard-issue thugs. Their booted feet looked twice the size of those of a normal man.

Matt was swept with dizziness again, and his stomach heaved. Listen sat up. “There’s a bathroom next door if you want to barf.”

Matt staggered inside, lost the coffee he’d drunk earlier, washed his mouth out, and staggered back. He collapsed next to Listen. “Don’t bother trying to talk to them. They’re Russians,” said the little girl. “They’ve been jabbering at me for hours, but I’ve been ignoring them.”

“How many of them are there?” asked Matt.

“Only two. Dr. Rivas said the border closed before more could get in. I didn’t know we were at war with the Russians.”

“We aren’t. They’re working for Africans,” said Matt. He knew now who had taken advantage of the open border. Just as El Patrón preferred Scottish bodyguards, Glass Eye Dabengwa had preferred Russians. Foreigners weren’t as likely to betray you as your own kind.