Previously on Blood Island
From the body of the dead Russian came a muffled radio voice. ‘Belaya Lisa, Belaya Lisa, ty menya ponimayesh?’ Mark understood little Russian but he knew this must be the fallen man’s colleague from the monastery reaching out for information.

Mark rushed to the dead man and gave him a kick, lifted the man by his cassock collar and smashed him back on the ground, moaning and heaving, creating an atmosphere of two people in combat.

In the central living room of the monastery, old Father Juan knelt on the rug subdued, in a praying position, surrounded by three burly Russians. The one who spoke into the radio, slightly bemused, red-haired, nodded twice. ‘Belaya is fighting with the Nigerian,’ he said in Russian. ‘Go and finish him off.’ One of the Russians drew out his firearm and shot away. The other two waited.

After one or two long moments they heard two gunshots. Red Hair lifted his radio. ‘Ryzhiy Kot, Kot, ty menya ponimayesh?’


‘Do you read me?’ he repeated. Silence.

The duo exchanged glances. Red Hair parted his lips in a snarl, then he heard kicking, a blows, heaving and moaning, from his radio. ‘Fighting again? Go and find out!’

The second Russian hurried off. Red Hair waited, outraged. Then it happened. Two gunshots reported twice. Red Hair reflexively drew his pistol out and rushed to the window. ‘Chto yebat!’ As if in response to his swearing, Mark’s pistol cracked twice and Red Hair fell down.

Father Juan opened one eye. He observed the fallen Red Hair with righteous disdain. ‘I thought Russians were tough, but the Nigerian has been killing you like sheep.’

Red Hair, his shoulder covered with blood, nodded. ‘But I will kill you before he comes,’ he said. He lifted his pistol. The priest mouth was agape but he soon got hold of himself and made the sign of the cross. Mark kicked the door open, as Red Hair pulled the trigger, Mark shot him on the head.
#       #
‘Nooo!’ Valencia shouted, her fingers tight on the balcony railing, nearly shaking it. ‘No, no, noo!’ She brought out her cell phone and dialled Mark’s customised number. The phone rang to its full, no answer. She tried unsuccessful to swallow a mighty ball in her throat as she dialled the number again. Mark connected the call.

‘They shot Papa Juan,’ she accused. ‘Yes, I felt it. They shot him, you let them shoot him!’

‘Listen to me…’

‘No, you listen to me,’ Valencia rasped, ‘why did you let them shoot my papa! I am going to kill Sade.’ With this she let go of the phone, it crashed on the floor; she got her pistol out and kicked into the foreroom, empty safe for a table and one or two chairs. She would put the pistol on Sade’s head and blow up her brain, and continue to shoot and empty the bullets on the remains of Sade’s skull. Valencia kicked open the door to Sade’s room. She stopped shocked. Sade was not on the bed. Instead, on the floor lay the nurse who had ‘treated’ Sade, her face in a small pool of blood from her neck. Sade had escaped.

Valencia made to the window, there were blood stains on the frame, panes and operating cranks. Could Sade have jumped the fifty feet to the ground? Impossible, but not very impossible. Sade was the official bitch of Nigeria, she could dare this. But considering the height between the window and the ground, and Sade’s weak health, Valencia decided Sade hadn’t gone far. She would find the bitch. Valencia darted out of the room.

Someone, from under the bed moaned, then began to crawl out of the bed. Sade. Her joints and chest were still sources of terrible pains but she held on, she couldn’t afford to not hold on. They have pushed me about too much, time to kick their guts.

Valencia was on the staircase of the first floor (it was a two-storey building) when she heard Sade’s scream. Valencia stopped short. Sade screamed again. Valencia turned and began to eat the stairs three steps at a stride. She couldn’t wait to meet Sade and blast her head. That bitch. Bitch, bitch… Bitch.

Valencia slammed the  foreroom door with her shoulder and entered pistol first. The door slammed back, trapping Valencia’s wrist. The pain burned her so hard she dropped the pistol. She rammed her kneecap on the door then came face to face with Sade. She flew her craws for Sade’s eyes. Sade just got away in time to hit a blow on Valencia’s chin which slowed the tigress but energised her with livid determination. Sade’s second blow was parried then the two grabbed each other in a deadly hug and crashed to the floor in a powerful thud.

The fall cost Sade a sizeable portion of her strength. Before Sade could recollect her energy, her concentration, Valencia seated on Sade’s belly with her fingers deep into Sade’s neck. Sade held her breath, making herself go limp. Valencia’s face, a mask of fury, cut into two by a savage grin, a telltale of victory. Sade suddenly heaved up, sending Valencia into the air. As Valencia landed a sledgehammer blow shook her teeth to its foundation. Another blow to the skull, then Sade was on top of her.

It was like trying to hold down a leopard. Valencia kicked, struck, scratched, tossed, charged, heaved. Sade couldn’t get a hold of her throat, any flesh. Valencia kicked Sade off her body, to the floor. Sade could have been flung further but was wedged by the table. Valencia’s eye caught the pistol lying on the floor with dangerous abandon. Valencia smiled, lifted to her elbows and began to crawl to the firearm. Sade hastily turned, lifted the table, solid mohagany, and charged forward. Valencia’s fist clenched on the head of the gun. Valencia lifted the gun. Valencia turned, Sade crashed the furniture on Valencia’s head so hard that she fell on them, Valencia and the table. The pistol fired in protest. And for a long minute, Sade didn’t know whether she had been hit or not, whether she was losing consciousness or not. In fact she lost consciousness for at least a moment.

When Sade regained awareness. She studied her handwork, Valencia’s head was opened and streaming with blood. The cell phone Valencia had dropped at the balcony was ringing. Sade moved on all fours to the phone. She lifted it to her ear. She said hello, Mark said hi.

A rush of emotions charged up Sade’s spine and she nearly smiled. But Mark had litle time for sentiments. ‘The priest is dying. He’s asking for Valencia.’

‘Valencia is dead.’

‘Come on, Sade. Her priest is asking for her.’

‘Valencia is dead,’ Sade repeated.

‘What happened to her?’

‘I killed her.’

‘Oh damn it Sade. The priest is our only link to the Russian satellites. He’s dying, but he’s asking for Valencia. He won’t tell me where the satellites controls are located until he speaks to Valencia. Come on Sade, check again, Valencia shouldn’t be dead!’

Anger mixed with frustration with a whiff of disappointment filled Sade’s head like hot gas. It was a narrow escape, it was her life or Valencia’s. She barely escaped with hers. But here, her lover was blaming her for surviving. And she had been to hell and back….

Mark was saying something but Sade wasn’t listening. Sade let the phone fall; she began to toddle back to the sitting room, she would get hold of Valencia’s gun and shoot herself. End everything. Perhaps, it would make Mark happy.

To be Continued