Mara Zambrano got out of the stolen car. Checking over both shoulders, she headed for the exit, her heels clicking through the subterranean parking lot. Planes moaned in and out of LAX nearby. There was sea fog tonight and Mara hoped there would be no delays. She hurried along the sidewalk, hugging herself against the chill.
Across the concrete lanes of Imperial Highway there were mail-sorting offices, warehouses, aviation companies. The freeway rose up and Mara welcomed the shadows beneath it. Traffic on the flyover above sounded like birthday candles being blown out.
She cut across the road, through a FedEx truck stop and past the Korean Air cargo terminal. Men in high-vis jackets rubbernecked.
‘Nice night for a walk,’ one called, eyeing her legs.
Mara ignored them. Next door to the cargo terminal, she came to a modern building that gave out to the runways. The sign read:
ELITE SKIES
Inside, the plush lobby was empty except for the man behind the counter.
‘Here for the pleasure cruise?’
‘I’ll need to see some ID.’
She handed over her fake driver’s licence and the man consulted a list. Checking her off, he nodded. ‘You can go through now. Your friends are already on board.’
Mara stepped through the secure doors, trying to control her nerves. She was now standing in an enormous hangar, deafened by the hydraulic whine of engines. The Gulfstream private jet was black, its air-stairs illuminated by LED lights. As she walked towards the open door she heard ‘Don’t Look Any Further’ by Dennis Edwards and Siedah Garrett.
A well-built man met her at the plug door, his aviators gleaming, his ranchero hat white. He patted her down unapologetically thoroughly, then shone a torch in her handbag. Satisfied, he shouted over the noise in Spanish. ‘You took your sweet time.’
She smiled. ‘I got here as soon as I could.’
‘Just get on the fucking plane.’
Mara climbed the stairs, the music louder now. Her heart was racing, though not through fear. It was the anticipated knock at the door. It was the glimpse over the edge before leaping into water. It was everything she had been living for. She could barely breathe.
The cabin was dark, only two strips of purple neon illuminating writhing figures. The air was pungent with sweat and perfume. Mara heard the cabin door clunk shut behind her as she made her way down the aisle. There were only thirty seats. She could not see Bebé Rivera.
Someone slapped her left buttock. The plane began to taxi out of the hangar as another song began – ‘All Night Long’ by the Mary Jane Girls. Some people were dancing, others were snorting lines from the duty-free trolley being pushed up the aisle. There was shrieking, laughter, bass. Splotches of whipped cream and fragments of fruit hit Mara as she made her way towards the black glass screen at the rear. She ignored these people; she ignored everything that wasn’t Bebé.
Cabin crew, seats for take-off.
A hand reached out and clutched Mara by the wrist. ‘Better buckle up, sweetie.’
She let herself be dragged down into the chair next to Benedict Novacek. She let him clip her belt on. She let his hand slide over her bare shoulders, the hair on his arms scratching her skin. ‘You glad I got you in here?’ His voice was low, his eyes glazed.
‘Very.’
‘Just very?’
‘Very very very.’ She used her playful voice, like everything was a game. She could see that they were in the line for take-off, the land outside dead grey. Soon the plane would head out over the Pacific before looping back over the glittering dreck of Los Angeles, an amber organ, never-ending, beautiful, rotten.
Soon they would be airborne and Mara realized she wouldn’t touch foot on this earth again. That provoked no feelings in her, the same as knowing you’d never return to a roadside service station in a country you didn’t particularly like.
‘Drink some champagne,’ Novacek goaded with a grin.
‘Aren’t you going to pour for me?’
‘Drink from the bottle. Friends share.’ He unzipped his pants. ‘And you and I are friends, aren’t we, Mara?’ He wiggled his cock like a puppet.
Mara did not want to ruin her make-up, she did not want to be touched. For the longest time she wouldn’t have cared, but things were different now.
‘Don’t be shy, sweetie.’
Mara had counted eleven men in the cabin, only one of whom she figured for muscle – the man who had frisked her. There was no telling what was behind the dark glass at the back of the plane but it had to be where Bebé Rivera was.
Mara closed her eyes. Her odds for getting it done were slim. Her odds for getting back down again alive were neither here nor there. But she could not risk being sidetracked by Novacek.
‘We’re friends, Benny,’ she purred. ‘This will be my pleasure.’
Mara lowered her head slowly. Novacek closed his eyes in anticipation. Then she snapped her head upwards at speed, her skull crunching into his jaw. She drove an elbow into his temple and he flopped backwards. As Novacek’s eyes closed he groaned the word ‘oh’, and a tear of precum dropped out of his urethra, lit up purple.
Mara planted a kiss on his cheek to brand him with lipstick and unbuckled her belt. She slipped the sharpened nail file out of the pouch she had fashioned in the strap of handbag.
Ladies and gentlemen – reprobates too, quick update: the fog means we’re a little backed up, but I’ve just been told by Control that we should be underway in a few minutes. Find some way to entertain yourselves until then. We have some great in-flight magazines.
Mara was the only one standing now; everybody else had taken their seats. She could feel the stares but these people didn’t matter. She reached the black glass screen and knocked. The door opened. A tattooed man with a scowl stood there.
‘Wait your fucking turn, sister –’
Mara punched the file hard into his neck then raked it through his jugular. She snatched the gun out of his holster and fired blind three times.
Return fire roared back and she used the dead man’s body as a shield. The shots splattered into his body. From the trolley next to her Mara picked up a litre bottle of vodka and threw it into the private room. It smashed. She fired at where it had landed. There was the whooshing sound of fire catching, then screaming. Mara closed the door on the flames just as an alarm went off. In the same moment, at the other end of the plane, the cockpit door opened and a laughing Bebé Rivera wearing a captain’s hat emerged.
Mara saw him, at last, with her own eyes. She had not hesitated once to get here, she had not once given into pity or mercy down the years. Yet now that she was looking at him, she was dumbfounded.
Bebé saw the gun in her hand, he heard the screams in the cabin. He understood. The man in the ranchero hat came out of the toilet. Bebé screamed at him to fire. He didn’t hesitate. The shot jangled past Mara’s face, air fluttering her fringe. She returned fire and hit the frisker in the chest. Something inside her snapped. In the alarm, in the screaming, in the purple neon, Mara fired over and over, hitting baggage bins and the backs of heads.
There was a second of stillness in the chaos. Then Bebé disarmed the cabin door and jumped out into the night.
Mara screamed.
Tossing the empty gun, she ran after him, shunting people aside. The frisker grabbed her ankle. Mara picked up a metal tray, lodged it in his mouth and slammed her shoe down. There was a wet crack and a puff of cocaine.
Mara unhooked her heels and leapt out of the plane. The concrete was cold on her feet, the noise of planes taking off tremendous. In the swirling fog all around her, there were lights of every colour, a line of planes inching forward, fuselages gleaming. Mara ran fast, pumping her arms, her breathing even. For the first time in a long time she felt alive. She felt true. For once she was not hiding. Not anymore. Mara Zambrano was here.
Three hundred metres ahead, Bebé checked over his shoulder. His face was white, his pudgy little frame not built for running for its own life.
Mara had cut the distance in half by the time he reached the terminal and bolted into the passage beneath Gate 68. She reached it just as the service elevator doors slid shut on Bebé. Mara hammered the call button and the twin elevator arrived. She went up two levels. After a few interminable seconds she stepped into a boarding corridor. At the other end of it the door hung open. Mara emerged into the departures area, which, despite the late hour, was busy.
Hello. This is Mayor Garcetti. I would like to take this opportunity to give special thanks to our nation’s servicemen and women for the incredible work they do. I’d also like to remind all members of the military about the Bob Hope USO right across from Arrivals – bringing that ‘touch of home’ we all need sometimes.
Mara saw Bebé now. He was on the level above, talking on his phone and looking around wildly. Plucking out a newspaper from the bin, she casually walked along the concourse towards the escalator. Hiding her face behind the newspaper, she reached the upper level. He had his back to her. Mara was close enough to hear his voice. She dropped the newspaper.
A businessman bent down and picked it up. ‘You dropped this, honey.’
Mara tried to dodge him.
‘Now come on, in this country we don’t just litter –’
She drove her knee into his stomach and shunted him out of the way. There were some gasps. Someone was calling the police. Bebé span around and saw her. He glared at her, then ran for the VIP lounge. Mara broke into another sprint and was quickly behind him. But as she reached the lounge, the receptionist came out from behind the counter.
‘Excuse me, ma’am. Do you –’ Mara floored him with a punch to the face and ran through the lounge doors.
She heard a loud thud. Then the same sound again, a pitchfork in hay. Now she felt a cold wooziness. Looking down, Mara saw the steak knife sticking out of her side. All that training and she had fallen for a child’s trick.
Not yet.
As Bebé tried to rip the knife out again, she punched him deep in the gut – a perfect delivery. With unfeeling hands, she tore it out. Bebé was staggering away from her, desperate to get air into his lungs. Mara was bleeding profusely but she wasn’t going to be stopped. Not now.
‘Bebé, you know why I’m here.’ She spoke the wet words in Spanish.
‘She’s crazy!’ he squealed in English. ‘She’s trying to kill me!’
Exhausted, Bebé clambered on to the buffet, planting a bloody hand in the beef burgers, his sweat illuminated by the heat lamps. The VIP lounge was mostly empty, elderly white men dozing in front of twenty-four-hour rolling news. Now they were trying to blink away the dream.
Mara climbed on to the buffet counter then straddled Bebé, her thighs across his chest. His hands fumbled for weapons but all they found were meat, potatoes, fresh fruit.
‘Edgardo Rivera.’ She coughed on her own blood. ‘May God illuminate you.’
Mara gripped him by the perm and cut his throat slowly, fending off his frantic blows with ease. She felt the silent spray of his windpipe. It tasted of glory. Then Bebé was still, his torn gullet sounding like an old sink.
Her head was spinning. Mixed blood was dripping on the buffet. There was shouting behind her, though. She could tell that much. It felt like she was either side of a dream.
Don’t fucking move!
Drop the shit! Right now!
Mara hopped off the body, the knife still in her hand. Blood and tears blurred her vision, but she could make out the shapes before her. The shapes of threatening men looked the same everywhere. Their poise, their eyes, their snarls. Carnivores didn’t care what you called them.
In broken glass, Mara could see her reflection. She closed her eyes and thought of Iwata. She hoped he would do what was right. She hoped he would grant her the full revenge she had spent so long cultivating. Not for her, but for all the others.
Easy now, we don’t want to put you down.
Drop. The. Knife.
These final seconds didn’t make any sense; they fit no narrative. The thoughts in her head were inane, paralysed by the thought that she should reach for some stoicism or great, redemptive philosophy at the end. Instead, she couldn’t think of anything beyond fear and relief at onrushing death.
Mara glanced over at Bebé’s dead body. Urine was dripping out of his pant leg, mixing on the floor with the burger grease. In death, his round face looked scared. Mara Zambrano drank in the image, savoured it as though she could take it with her.
‘Evelyn,’ she whispered. ‘I’m coming.’
Then Mara raised the knife and ran at the men. In the next second her cranium was a flesh piñata, blood and brain slapping the departures board – Zurich, London, Honolulu, Tel Aviv, Tokyo – every city dripping blood.