Trigger Point

Chapter 6

4

4Yucatan Peninsula, Mexico, 30 June

2014

Long ago, an underground river coursed through the karst. It nibbled at the limestone, chewing patiently, untiringly, until it had eaten tunnels through the rock, carved great caverns and dug deep chasms. When she felt like it, Planet Earth directed the river to new pastures, leaving a vast, dried up labyrinth a testament to its toils.

karstA steaming mass of humanity was packed into the subterranean maze. The air trapped beneath the rock ceiling was oppressively humid from perspiration. It reeked of exhaled carbon dioxide, and a concoction of noisome vapours of cigarettes, drugs, pheromones, flatulence and alcohol-laced breath.

The nauseating odours did not bother Luc Fortesque. He had smelled worse — fear and death. He shouldered his way through the mire of bodies. Most of the people blocking him were d**g-addled or inebriated to varying degrees. A tall, white-skinned man who, for all appearances, was simply moving forward, did not warrant their attention. A few glared at him, before retreating from the hard glint in his eyes. That… and the vivid scar on the right side of his face. His disfigurement was a warning. Fewer attempted to confront him only to be dissuaded by their companions — regulars, who recognised Fortesque from an epic fight, a week ago.

As he thrust forth unwaveringly, the incoherent babble of raucous conversations gave way to a deafening chorus of chants and jeers.

The arena.

arenaThe atmosphere was volatile, cleaved by supporters for each fighter. Bookies called for bets; crumpled, soiled money was passed around, as was more booze and drugs. Fists pumped, insults and encouragement were hurled into the air in equal measure. The audience was engaged, oohing and aahing and cursing and clamouring for their champions. Yet, the air was distinctly fresher.

oohingaahingFortesque raised his eyes.

Circular, ribbed walls rose upward. The fight-pit was at the bottom of a cenote. The vocal frenzy swirled about the inside of the cenote and erupted like a geyser toward an indigo-hued, sky with a new moon framed in the rim of the cenote. Fortesque prowled the fringes of the audience, found a point of entry and pushed toward the arena. He had to duck from the bouncing elbows, punching fists and stomping feet. He emerged ringside and beheld the fight.

A pair of boxing-shorts-clad men lunged, parried, kicked, punched, scratched and bit each other. Their blows landed with meaty slaps, yowls of pain and shrieks of anger. Their mud-streaked bodies glistened with sweat and blood; their faces bore bruises. As Fortesque watched, the shorter of the two fighters launched himself into the air with a bestial scream, pivoted and lashed out a stiff leg, catching his opponent in the face, corkscrewing the other man’s torso. Blood sprayed out of the stricken man’s mouth as he went down. Shorty landed, still screaming, the veins on his neck sticking out, limbs taut, ready to deliver another attack. His opponent stayed down, unmoving, eyes rolled up into his head.

In this illegal fight, where anything went, the crowd was the referee. The count-out was a rhythmic cadence. “Uno! … Dos! … Tres! … Cuatro! … CINCO!” The audience erupted, people screaming into each other’s faces, some bruised egos triggering scuffles.

Fortesque ignored all this. His gaze locked onto the Mexican fight master across the arena, who was eagerly collecting his winnings. The cigar clenched between the Mexican’s teeth bobbed as he counted his money. He had oily, pockmarked skin; his fingers were adorned with rings; the buttons on his Hawaiian shirt were open revealing the glint of a gold crucifix against a hairy chest. The fight master looked up from his tally… and found Fortesque.

He froze.

Fortesque and he were an aberration of stillness against the backdrop of an agitated crowd. The cigar tumbled from the Mexican’s fat lips, his eyes went wide. He swallowed, shoved the wad of damp, rumpled money into his shirt and backpedalled, dissolving into the crowd.

Fortesque crossed the arena, brushed against the victorious fighter who was beckoning adulations from the crowd. The jostled fighter spun angrily on Fortesque, believing he could defeat God at this point in his career and was about to advance when another Mexican confronted Fortesque.

One of the fight master"s cronies.

The crony should have acted instead of trying to intimidate Fortesque with a death stare.

Fortesque ploughed into the man, kneeing him in the groin and the Mexican fell, clutching his jewels. Fortesque entered the crowd, stalking the fight master, his senses alert. An arm encircled his neck, a body pressed against his back. Fortesque felt something hard in the small of his back. His attacker had a knife — it was the hilt that Fortesque could feel. Too bad the attacker decided to brawl instead of stab. The assailant’s forearm was sweaty. Lots of lubrication. Fortesque pivoted, coming face-to-face with his assailant and head-butted the man. The guy cried out, cupped his shattered nose. Fortesque pushed him aside but not before relieving him of the knife. He admired the stiletto, palmed it and progressed after the fight master.

He emerged from the vicinity of the arena and spied his quarry making off. The Mexican glanced over his shoulder and gawked to see Fortesque in pursuit, more determined than ever. With a yelp, the Mexican darted away. Fortesque gave chase not wanting to lose the man in the labyrinth. The crowd thinned; the sounds of the arena grew faint… replaced by sounds of a carnal nature. Fortesque stumbled into a cave, found himself in a sea of copulating bodies. At the far side of the cave, vanishing into another tunnel — the fight master. Fortesque weaved among the writhing flesh. The Mexican was fast for his misshapen bulk. Or maybe it was his familiarity with the tunnels. Fortesque realised this part of the labyrinth was deserted and cooler. The terrain rose steeply, and Fortesque emerged into a field.

He was outside.

A sound to his right and he beheld three Mexicans closing in on him.

Moonlight glinted on the blades of their machetes. The fight master was behind them, grinning stupidly. The trio fanned out. Fortesque assessed them from left to right. They had the bravado of bullies, accustomed to picking on helpless prey. He read their body language, determining who would strike first. His counterattack would be swift and decisive, or he would not be leaving this field alive tonight.

Or, he could simply… attack.

He flipped the pilfered stiletto blade underhand. It flashed in the night and caught the leftmost Mexican in the throat. Mortally wounded, the Mexican dropped his machete. He crumpled to his knees in the grass, with a wet gurgle. His companions and the fight master were stunned. Distracted. And Fortesque used it to his advantage. He barrelled forward, reaching out and grabbing the nearest Mexican. The guy had placed himself ahead of his companions and Fortesque interpreted this to mean he would be leading the attack. Now that he was fatally preoccupied, that overconfident placement had the man in the danger zone. He found himself in Fortesque’s grip. Fortesque clamped his left hand on the guy’s machete-wielding hand, clamped his right hand on the guy’s right shoulder and tripped him. In the process, the Mexican’s trapped arm was bent backwards and then Fortesque jabbed at his elbow. The c***k of the elbow joint was drowned by the Mexican’s scream. His fingers unclenched and Fortesque armed himself with the machete. He hopped the weapon from his left to his right hand, ducked and spun, leading with the machete in his right hand. And as he came around 360-degrees, the blade of the machete struck at the leg of the third Mexican cutting through sinew, to the bone. That assailant shrieked and Fortesque turned his attention on the fight master.

Who, on seeing all his goons incapacitated, had run to his car.

Fortesque stormed over, scooping up a fist-sized rock. The fight master was frantically trying to turn over the car’s engine from a cold start. The motor coughed. Fortesque tossed the rock, shattering the driver’s window, striking the Mexican in the side of his head. Fortesque yanked the door open, the Mexican cringed. Fortesque manhandled him out of the car, shook him violently, and smashed him against the side of the car, once, twice, and —

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait!” He threw up his hands, shielding his bleeding head. Fortesque paused. “It was all Wei Ling’s idea,” the man admitted fearfully. “He paid me to get you into a fight with the Congolese. He told me you would be defeated.”

Clearly, not.

“I can find Wei Ling. I can —”

“I found Wei Ling,” Fortesque growled, “he did not leave the meeting alive.”

The Mexican deflated, robbed of his bargaining chip.

“What do you want with me?” he asked. The moans and groans of his injured goons reached their ears.

“I want to get into Europe,” Fortesque stated, “under Interpol’s radar.”