The ARC Chronicles Collection

Prologue

Madden Scott jammed his foot on the brake pedal of the stolen Chevrolet Malibu, causing the car to skid to a halt.

“I’m right. You’re wrong. Get used to it.”

Several white Toyotas blew past the end of the alleyway, their blue lights flashing and filled with Montego Bay constables, oblivious to the fact their prey had, for the moment, eluded them.

He took a moment to gaze up, through the pouring rain, at the building in front of him, the air conditioning only just enough to clear the moisture from the windshield. White. Colonial. Classic Jamaican Imperial architecture. He let the wheels find their grip on the dirt track.

“See? Where are we?”

“Canterbury,” came the reply from Turell, the gang leader and mastermind behind their failed robbery on the local branch of the bank of Nova Scotia. Despite their argument, he kept his eyes trained on the road. “Let’s go, man. They gonna notice we not there any minute now, man.”

With voices of assent from the other two gang members, Joseph and Delon, Madden took a breath to steady his nerves, and eased the car back out onto the road. His heart thumped hard in his chest, the sound thudding in his ears. Sweat made his palms slick and he squeezed the steering wheel to regain control. He edged the car back out, fearing pursuit. The wide road allowed a good view, dense woodland on one side in stark contrast to the dwellings of the rich and shameless on the other. Madden gunned the throttle, and the car lurched into action, back down towards the center of Montego Bay.

In the passenger seat, next to Madden, Turell turned to keep a watch out the rear window, his rancid breath causing Madden to turn his head away from the stale after-effects of a jerked-chicken feast.

Turell caught sight of his brother. “Damn, Jo. You got hit.”

“I’ll live. Bullet went right through. Babylon can’t aim right.” Joseph cradled his arm as Delon tied a makeshift bandage tight, blood seeping through the material almost as soon as it was complete.

Madden concentrated on driving. “So where to? You will have to tell me at some point, or we will run out of road.”

“You concentrate on the driving, buccra,” Turell used the Jamaican term for ‘White Man’ in such a way Madden was left with no illusion this was going to end well, “and I will tell you where to go. We are on Upper King Street. Head for Gloucester Avenue; let’s blend in with the crowds.”

Madden did as instructed, intending to blend with the busy traffic in downtown Montego Bay. Driving with purpose, but not too fast to be singled out, he considered the choices he had made to find himself in this position. He was not without regret.

Madden was a loner by nature, flitting from place to place, not really caring how he was received, using charm to wheedle jobs and women alike, his good looks and shoulder-length brown hair a natural attraction. He had developed a taste for fast cars, and in recent years, had come to settle in Jamaica, the laid-back lifestyle suiting him. His love of the underground street-racing scene had earned him the nickname ‘Mad One’, a play on words on his own name. And with time, he had come to know Turell Banks. Small courier jobs had become bigger and more illegal. Now he had reached the point that he was a getaway driver, albeit a reluctant one, in a robbery. He had to see this through to the end. Turell was not a man one said no to.

The rain beat down, and Madden opened the window of the Chevrolet for a better view, as the moisture inside threatened to render the air conditioning redundant. Water sprayed in, adding to the sweat on his hands. Taking a couple of back streets, he avoided the highway that had been the scene of the chase.

“Man I’m hungry,” Joseph complained. “Mad One, there’s a KFC up ahead. I’m bruk-pocket. Go get me.”

“Yu mussi born back a cow,” Turell admonished his brother. “No food till we make it safe.”

Madden stopped the car in traffic, attempting to appear nonchalant. They were in the busiest part of town now, near the beaches. Even in this mild tropical storm the streets were busy. He had no choice but to move slowly. As he did so, he spied the blue-and-whites of more Jamaican police. One officer saw him, and raised a walkie-talkie to his lips.

Turell warned, “Them seen us! Drive!”

Several police cars converged toward their spot, sirens blaring. Madden had no choice but to floor it. The car lurched forward, beaches and stunning ocean to the left, with police in pursuit. People jumped out of the way, but they were a blur as Madden focussed on the road, becoming one with the car. “We are on Gloucester,” he shouted above the noise of the engine, and the ricochet of bullets on the road as their pursuers tried to take out the tires, “but the road is blocked up past the Coral Cliff Hotel and that’s only a kilometre off. So if you have a plan, tell me now.”

Turell just stared ahead, his wits deserting him.

“Damnit Turell, where? The Coral Cliff? Burger King? The sea? Where?”

“Tru dem barrier.” Turell answered.

“What?”

Turell brandished the glock he had taken from his police victim. “You drive, tru dem barrier, or I kill you myself, Iree?”

Madden shook his head and concentrated. Behind them, several police cars were jostling for position, each trying to get around him. He held the line of the road and the beaches flashed past all too quickly. The so-called ‘Hip Strip’, known for its restaurants and bars disappeared in moments.

The road veered away from the coast for a moment. “You had better be right about this,” Madden growled.

As the road swung back to the coast, Madden saw flashing lights ahead. By the Margaritaville restaurant, perched right on the edge of the water, several police cars blocked the road. A small army of police waited behind, guns already raised. Waves burst over the rocks, blurring with the slate-grey sky. Madden aimed for the small gap between the middle two cars, preferring the attempt to a bullet to the head. About ten metres out, a boat was moored; white with a pale-blue underbelly, it rolled with the waves churned up by the storm. In a moment of clarity, Madden saw one officer raise his gun, take aim, and fire.

The bullet smashed a hole in the windshield, whistling past Madden’s ear. In the rear-view mirror, Madden saw red mist and gore all over the back window.

“Joseph!” Screamed Turell, “Joseph, No!” Turell tried to climb to the back seat to comfort his already-dead brother as more shots were fired. The front left tire exploded.

The car swerved, skidding on the wet surface, and jumped as it hit the curb. The momentum lifted the car up over the all-too-small sea wall and out through the spume over the cerulean water.

“Hold on!” Madden shouted, and threw his head forward, protecting his neck with his arms.

Screams from passengers rang in his ears. The car flipped upside down as it flew through the air, and Madden felt the air blast in through the now-smashed windshield. There was a crunch as the car landed atop the boat, and then an instant of heat and darkness.

Madden found himself adrift in the water, a couple of feet from the surface, and propelled himself up with sure strokes. Unsure how he got there, he floated for a moment to get his bearings. He ached, but it was more of a tingle, and not the pain of someone recently in a car wreck. Just metres away, he could see the mangled mess of car and boat, on fire in places and mostly submerged, a small oil slick being whipped up by the waves.

He swam away, using the momentum of the waves to push him toward the shore where he climbed the rocks, and sat shivering against the sea wall. Behind him, the lights of the police vehicles flashed blue, magnified by the addition of his pursuers. Police approached, and stood beside him.

“Man, ain’t nobody gettin’ outta dat alive,” one said to his fellows. “There’s four bodies to be pulled out. Them say it’s Turell, his brother, cousin and them white boy driver. Let’s go grab a brew and wait.”

The police stared for a moment, and moved off, seeking the refuge of the Margaritaville. Madden sat there confused, staring at his shaking hands. Something swelled beneath the skin. Madden closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them, his hands were normal again. The police were chatting in the distance. They hadn’t even noticed him.