Spotlight: The Soft Underbelly by Carlisle Richardson
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He did not get twenty feet from the duo before he heard the click of the gun. Simon’s last thoughts as a bullet hit the back of his head were of his mother and Gina. He hoped they would forgive him. It had all been for them.
A murdered customs worker accused of stealing imported goods; collusion between competing politicians to overthrow the sitting Prime Minister; an international weapons trafficking syndicate one step ahead of British authorities; and a mysterious expat living on a small Caribbean island.
In what used to be a tropical paradise, police officer Gerald Brookes and MI6 agent Fiona Sawyer race against time to connect these seemingly isolated dots. But for the mastermind of these acts, there is a far more nefarious revenge plot in play. A grand design that would lead to an assassination and the resumption of a decades-old international conflict.
Excerpt
The cold night air tickled the back of Simon’s neck as he slunk along the dirt path. He knew he should not be there. He had been weaned on the stories of the area. “No good comes from unsettling the ghosts of the past,” his grandmother used to say.
He had parked in the bushes behind the cul-de-sac, just out of view from the main road, and he planned to walk the rest of the way. The track zig-zagged through a little village, passing wooden, one-story chattel houses with galvanized roofs that had been built haphazardly over the years. In the dead of night, they seemed abandoned and haunted. He tried to move more quickly so as not to be detected, but he need not have agonized about that possibility. In these old villages the inhabitants locked the doors with rusted hooks and tightened the screws of the hurricane shutters whenever the first signs of night descended. They remembered their ancestors’ fables and hugged their progeny close. Even the stray dogs sensed that his presence was unusual, as rather than barking at him they whimpered, and ran behind the houses.
He could not stop a shudder running through his body. Was he that superstitious? Or was it apprehension of the night’s mission? She would understand.
The ‘she’ in his mind alternated between his mother and Gina, his ex-girlfriend. He sought to convince himself they would not be disappointed in him if they knew his intentions tonight.
At the edge of the village, he looked around once more to verify there were no witnesses. Darkness and bush loomed before him, as the reach of the lone streetlight extended no further. In this part of the village there was no need for light. Anyone venturing into the bush of ‘The Rocks’ at night would make no request to be seen clearly.
He slogged through the muddy track between the acacia trees, putting his hands up to shield his face from the thorns. The path was overrun with harsh vegetation, but he kept moving. The cuts on the palm of his hands stung from each additional scratch, but this was the only way to protect his face. The quarter moon’s sliver provided little light on the few occasions that it peaked out from the gathering rain clouds. Despite his increasing distance from the village, he still tried to be as silent as he could, navigating around the twigs beneath. With each crack he grimaced and contorted his body, channeling the sound into himself.
She would understand.
Gina had been so pleased when he had become a customs officer. Many of their classmates had suffered the indignity of unemployment after high school. Gina liked his uniform, and the pride he took in wearing it. But she encouraged him to do more, told him this job was just a building block, that he had potential and shouldn’t be idle like the others he worked with.
How he wished he had listened to her.
When she had been accepted to the University of the West Indies on a full scholarship to become a lawyer, he was deflated. She was his one and only love. No one else mattered. They had promised each other to always be together, and ten years later, this was still all he wanted. But now she was gone to another island, possibly with someone else stroking her face while she studied.
She had offered to help him apply for loans, encouraging him to get a degree. But he’d pushed her away. He refused to admit it at the time, but he was jealous of her success. He could not wait to finish high school so that his days of studying were over, but she wanted more. He had no desire to pick up a textbook ever again, and he told her this in one of their rare arguments. He also accused her of being a snob, of looking down on where they were from, and it hurt her. But then she was gone, and he had lost her. He never had the chance to apologize, and his regret knew no bounds.
He would get her back. He had to get her back. He would go to university too. He would get the money.
While working at the customs department, Simon observed many things. He knew that once every month a container arrived that only Mr. Lincoln, his supervisor, was allowed to examine. He also knew that Mr. Lincoln was able to afford a luxury vehicle on a government salary. Most interestingly, Simon knew that the container in question belonged to Mr. Antonio Del Vasto.
Del Vasto. People said many things about him, including that he was connected to drug lords in the Americas and revolutionaries in Eastern Europe. The official story was that he was a wealthy retired businessman. He certainly had enough money and political connections that people lowered their gaze when he walked by. And he had purchased this derelict, cursed land, The Rocks, for development.
Simon did not want to pursue illegal activities. He had seen too many of his contemporaries succumb. He knew of the risks involved in accepting Mr. Del Vasto’s request for this late-night private meeting, but if he agreed to turn one blind eye, maybe, just maybe, he would make enough money to win Gina back.
This was how he found himself walking towards an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of a construction site, far off the beaten track, in the darkest hours of the night.
He hoped his mother’s heart would not be broken. This was the woman who had sacrificed so much for him and his siblings. Their father had migrated to Miami years before, promising to send for them once he had settled. He never did. So, she worked overtime and extra jobs to ensure they were secure. Truthfully, he could not complain about his childhood.
They had food on the table, clothes to wear, and a roof over their heads. He personally knew of those denied such luxuries. But why did she have to work so hard for the basics? Every time he turned on any show based in North America or Europe, people his age and younger were enjoying a life of which he could only dream. Having a starter vehicle straight out of high school? Unreal. The ability to travel the world in a gap year? What did that even mean? Opportunities to join a Fortune 500 business and work his way to the top on pure determination? In which company around here? She would understand.
He walked past the remnants of homes that were built more than a century before. They had been abandoned for so long that they had become part of the terrain. He thought briefly about the history of the place. This was the area spared for the former slaves to inhabit following the Emancipation Proclamation. It was uninviting, desolate, and near barren, save for the acacia trees and shrubs. The historians had deduced that the area had been selected for the newly freed persons precisely because agricultural productivity would be slim. They would have to maintain contact with their former oppressors if they wanted to survive. Stories abounded of the great suffering that persisted. Tales of robberies, disappearances, and murders infiltrated the psyche of the inhabitants to the point that they were convinced the area was cursed, that anyone venturing there risked being cursed themselves.
The howling winds screamed, and Simon hugged his body. He was terrified, and he wondered if his fear was due to the yarns he had heard as a child about the area, or his apprehension of the night’s mission.
He inhaled, expecting the crisp night air to be fresh with the aroma of the moist foliage, but instead there was a faint stench growing stronger as he moved through the bush. He stumbled over a rock and fell headfirst, scratching himself. He yelped in pain and recoiled in horror when he saw the decomposing carcass of a bull, just inches from his face. The stench was at its peak there. He struggled to move away, retching as he scrambled to stand up. The bile settled in his throat, and he ran through the bush until the air cleared. He hunched over, gasping for air, wishing he was home. Why, oh why, had he got involved in this?
He straightened up. The acacia trees swayed in the breeze, casting shadows. The cold chill on his neck returned as his imagination and conscience wreaked havoc in his mind, making him believe that the trees were actual people. Perhaps they were the forces of nature warning him to deviate from this path. But it was too late. He dared not cross Del Vasto.
Finally, in the distance, he saw the silhouette of a warehouse. The surrounding area had been cleared of all trees and bushes, and it stood on the top of an incline, a lone shadow in the dark.
He swallowed the lump in his throat.
Just a simple thing, he had been told by Mr. Del Vasto’s assistant. Pick up the package from the freight before it’s processed in customs and put it in your backpack. Nobody will notice. Bring it to us on Sunday night. Easy ten thousand dollars.
He could begin his university dream with that sort of money. Why did it all feel so wrong?
He approached two figures outside the warehouse. “Mr. Lincoln,” Simon said, recognizing him as he got closer. He looked at the other man and froze. His stomach tightened. The foreboding he had felt earlier returned in a flash. Finally, he forced words out in a whisper. “Please. I won’t tell.”
He knew the other man only as ‘Phantom’. Hollow, dead eyes. Black lips from smoking since childhood. A rasping voice from a ruptured voice box in the gang war. A known hitman.
Simon tried to remember the prayers he used to garble through on mornings in Sunday school, but he had never truly cared at the time, and his mind now drew a blank.
“Tell who what, eh?” Mr. Lincoln asked. “What you gonna tell? Just give us the package then go your way.”
Simon fumbled in his backpack and pulled out a small box. He dropped it nervously, bent to retrieve it, and dropped it again. He slowly got on his knees and reached for the box again, but his middle finger was stabbed by a twig. He stifled a yelp as the pain seared through his finger. Maybe the pain was exaggerated, brought on by the dread he felt. He tried to remain calm, and this gave him the strength to grasp the box firmly. While on his knees, he handed it over to Mr. Lincoln’s outstretched hand.
“Can I leave now?” he pleaded, standing and backing away slowly, the words barely escaping his throat, which felt so tight it hurt. “I promise I’ll be quiet about the package.”
He was met with cold stares, and he knew it was over. He was at the place cursed with untold suffering of his ancestors, and now he was destined to join the ranks of the wretched.
If he could just make it back into the bush, he might have a chance. It was dark enough to evade them there.
Simon turned and sprinted away. His heart pounded, and he could feel the blood flowing through the veins of his temples. His lungs were on fire as he pumped his arms with all the might he could muster. All thoughts of his face getting scratched by the needles of the acacia trees had disappeared, as survival was now his only instinct. He was almost there.
He did not get twenty feet from the duo before he heard the click of the gun. Simon’s last thoughts as a bullet hit the back of his head were of his mother and Gina. He hoped they would forgive him. It had all been for them.
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About the Author
Carlisle Richardson, author of The Soft Underbelly, is an International Relations expert. He has served as Ambassador of St. Kitts and Nevis to the United Nations, and as an Economic Affairs Officer of the United Nations. He is currently based in Melbourne as a Lecturer in International Relations, and as an independent consultant supporting organisations in their multilateral engagement and in implementing the SDGs.
Carlisle has published articles on international relations in the International Peace Institute, the Lowy Institute, and the Australian Institute of International Affairs and is author of the book, Island Journeys: The Impact of the Island Way of Life at Home and Abroad.
As a fiction writer, Carlisle has published short stories in Litro Magazine, Lolwe Magazine, Bookends, and Mystery Tribune.
He recently published a Children’s Picture Book, entitled “Rose Grows Veggies,” which addresses sustainability, making new friends, the importance of community, and the joys of gardening.
The Soft Underbelly is his debut novel.
