by Yasmin Angoe
With all her strength and as fast as she could, she bore down, a move so sudden and unexpected she caught him unaware, and they both heard the sickening crunch of his neck as the delicate vertebrae cracked and dislodged from each other.
She released him, and his body hit the ground. Nena whipped around, prepared to take out the last one, briefly wondering why he hadn’t attacked while she was occupied, but he was nowhere in sight. Maybe after witnessing his leader’s stabbing and the tree crumbling like the Berlin Wall, he’d run for his life, his rep be damned.
Only Nena and the girl remained. The girl was staring at the dead bodies, her eyes wide and her breathing so loud Nena worried it would call attention to them. Or worse, that the surviving Flush would find some friends and return.
“We need to go,” she said.
The girl looked up at her, and Nena assessed her as best she could in the dark. She didn’t look physically harmed. Maybe her stomach would be sore the next day. Nena couldn’t attest to her emotional state. She’d been through a lot just now, seen even more, but after only a moment’s hesitation, she got to her feet and followed Nena to her car.
Once they were buckled in the Audi, and Nena’s gun was back in its rucksack and her dagger wiped clean and sheathed once again, she pulled away from the curb. She didn’t speak until she got some distance between them and those guys.
When she was more comfortable, Nena asked, “Where do you live?”
The girl rattled off her address—one Nena instantly recognized.
She turned her head to stare at the girl harder, her eyes narrowing. What were the chances? Slim to none, that was what. Nena keyed the information into her GPS while her mind raced. Coming across this girl meant something. It was a sign, had to be, and Nena wasn’t one to believe in signs or kismet or any of that.
“Aren’t you a ways off from home, yeah?” she asked, recalibrating her tone so the girl didn’t notice anything might be wrong—aside from all the wrong that had just happened, that was.
The girl watched the city lights passing by her window. “I like taking rides around the city.” She sounded tired, her adrenaline crashing, likely. “Beats staying home alone all the time. My dad works crazy hours.”
“You have a dangerous hobby.”
The girl shot her a look. “And yours isn’t?”
Nena’s mouth dropped open, but nothing came out. The cheekiness! She regained her composure, opting to confirm what she had already begun to suspect. “What is your name?”
“Georgia,” the girl answered. “Georgia Baxter.” She let out a huge yawn, resting the back of her head on the headrest and closing her eyes.
Georgia Baxter. Daughter of Cortland Baxter, the federal attorney who was about to try Dennis Smith. The same federal attorney who the African Tribal Council had marked for dispatch by Nena’s hands. If Nena were one for laughter, she’d do it now, because the chances of this meeting were a zillion to none.
Nena guessed she wouldn’t bother with a lecture about making wiser decisions about where the girl roamed at night. Georgia Baxter had a parent for that. At least for a little while longer.
10
BEFORE
An unwise decision echoes in my mind as Paul makes a motion with his hand and Attah strikes my father again, hitting him with the butt of his rifle. The force is so massive my own teeth rattle. Witnessing Papa struck in front of me is too much to bear, and I pry Wisdom’s fingers from around my mouth, twisting away from the mesh of limbs that are his and Josiah’s arms.
I am on my feet, rushing to Papa before I have a chance to consider what I am doing. My father tries to wave me back, but I ignore him. He’s been hurt. Blood trickles from his lip. I wrap my arms tightly around his waist, something I’ve always done when in need of his comfort. But this time our roles reverse, and Papa needs my protection.
I hear scuffling, an uprising of some of the villagers, the swelling murmur of the few men not yet silenced. Papa holds out a silencing hand when the villagers’ murmurs increase toward indignation.
His pain evident in his voice, Papa says, “Let us be reasonable. What you are doing here . . .” My father’s voice falters. He shakes his head as if to clear it of a fugue; likely, he is concussed. “When the government catches wind . . . when the president learns of it, they will put you in a cell.”
“You do not get to tell us shit,” the Walrus barks.
Paul’s answer comes from behind us. Where did he get off to? He reminds me that you should not take your eyes off a predator on the hunt, because the moment you look away, they pounce. Yet somehow I took my eyes off Paul, and he disappeared into the smoke and mass of bodies and reemerged.
“Michael, I had hoped you’d be more welcoming this time,” he says.
Papa straightens, covering my shoulder with his broad palm and easing me behind him.
Paul’s movie-star looks are back in place but do not match the menace in his voice, which slithers like an anaconda preparing to squeeze and eat. “Fuck the government and their figurehead politics only put in to appease the West against us ‘savages.’ Despite all your university learning, your doctorate and degrees, your multiple languages, and your association with Westerners and colonizers, do you realize they still regard you as a savage? They think you run around here naked with beads and piercings, yelping into the air with spears, taking ten wives, and bartering goats. I make Ghana thrive, not your politicians.”
“Ah, but why do you play with him so?” the Walrus grumbles, cranky, even sweatier than before. “Let’s be done with this shit, eh? It’s fucking hot.”
“It’s Ghana, Attah,” Paul scoffs. “It’s always fucking hot.” But he snaps his fingers and calls, “Bena.”
Kwabena appears from the back of one of the trucks. He is considerably younger than Paul and the Walrus, maybe twenty at the most. He may be younger, but I soon learn he is just as ruthless.
Bena and another man hold up someone by his shoulders. His head hangs, chin touching his chest. A thin strand of spit drools from his mouth. When Bena yanks him, his head jostles violently, revealing his face to me. It is Papa’s youngest brother and closest confidant.
Daniel’s left eye is swollen shut. His deformed face looks as if it has been stung by a dozen wasps. His skin glistens, not with sweat, like the men who imprison us, but with his blood.
“Daniel!” Papa’s body stiffens, and as if on a string, my head twists toward him, seeing the anger flash in his eyes. Papa’s hands fist at his sides. “Release him immediately.”
Paul smirks. “So this is the brother who has taken my place?”
“Uncle!” Wisdom and Josiah yell, abandoning their earlier attempts to quell knee-jerk reactions.
At the same time Papa implores, “There is still time to stop this.”
My eyes jump from my father to my brothers, then to my trembling, bloodied uncle, frailer than I have ever seen him. Paul is smirking. His eyes are bright and dancing; he’s clearly enjoying the scene he has created for the rest of us.
“Maybe you can save your entire village and yourself.” Paul holds out his hand. “Attah.”
The Walrus ambles over, begrudgingly relinquishing his weapon. Paul walks to us, holding the butt of the rifle out to Papa.
“Perhaps now you will reconsider my offer and do what you must to save your people, your children, your family. Will you sacrifice the one to save the many? Does your loyalty run that deep, Chief?”
He does not have to say the words for me to know what Paul means for Papa to do. The choice is sickening, one no one should be forced to make.
My father is beside himself. “Surely you jest? Daniel has done nothing. These villagers are innocent.” He looks imploringly at the man he was once schoolmates with. “Take me if you wish. I am not a threat. We can renegotiate. We can talk about opening up the village to your business.” Papa’s voice cracks. “But please, have mercy, Paul. Please.”
My father is begging. Pleading for the life of his bro
ther, his blood, the future of their Fanti village, which he left in order to learn how to be a good leader from Papa. Daniel, who is only six years my senior and is supposed to continue school abroad. Will he be able to still?
Paul’s face is impassive for so long as the two of them stare at one another. Suddenly, he breaks into a conciliatory smile, and a glimmer of hope peeks its way through.
“Yes, you’re right. Mercy.” He shakes his head, flipping the gun muzzle so it points in the air. “What have I done? How could I ever ask you to do such things?”
Papa visibly begins to relax, his body deflating with each measured breath.
Paul’s violence is so sudden there is no time to react, to even comprehend what is going on.
My uncle jerks as a succession of bullets explodes from the muzzle, slamming into him with such force he’s propelled backward. His jaw locks in a grimace of surprise; his body spasms. Bena and the other intruder yelp like hyenas, jumping away so Paul’s bullets do not hit them. Within seconds, Daniel drops to the ground.
The gunfire reverberates even after Paul stops firing. My uncle’s eyes stare, unseeing, motionless in a perpetual state of incomprehension. His face in death is forever seared into my memory, not the bright, enigmatic young man who introduced me to horror books and movies and comforted me when my mother died.
Paul approaches, leaning over me so they sandwich me, the slice of meat between Papa, the angel, and Paul, the demon. Through all the commotion around us, Paul’s words to my father are clear. For the rest of my days, I will never hear words more chilling, more filled with promises of utter doom.
“Tonight”—his voice slipping over me like a funeral shroud, coiling itself around me, feasting on my insides—“your world will cease to exist. All you love will suffer and die. Your sons will die. You will die. And your princess will sell to the highest bidder. You, Michael Asym, who have had every damn blessing imaginable, have run out of them tonight.”
11
AFTER
Georgia Baxter turned out not to be as sleepy or traumatized as Nena had thought. She began talking and didn’t stop until they made it to her house. Nena figured it was nerves. During the ride, she told Nena what she already knew, that her dad was a federal prosecutor. Nena’s fingers tightened around the wheel, a tell she wasn’t proud to be displaying. She shot a quick look at the girl to see if she’d noticed. She hadn’t. Nena shrugged away any more thoughts of divine intervention and pressed the petrol to get the girl home a little quicker.
She’d barely pulled the Audi to a stop when the front door to the ranch-style home flew open and Georgia’s father burst through the doors, still in his suit, top buttons undone and tie slackened.
Georgia muttered, “Shit,” under her breath. She hesitated before opening the door of the idling car. She sneaked a quick look at Nena. “Thanks again for—um—you know. Earlier.” She couldn’t seem to reconcile what had happened to her. “And for the ride home.”
She didn’t give Nena a chance to respond before she was out the door and heading her dad off in the middle of the walkway. Nena watched as he gesticulated wildly, his anger and fear apparent. He peered over Georgia’s head, no doubt wondering about the strange car and who was in it.
Nena weighed her options. She could just toot the horn and drive away, like she’d seen one of those carpool moms do in a movie when she’d dropped neighbor kids off. If she got out, there would inevitably be questions. But something drew Nena out of the safety of her car, curiosity maybe, because now she wanted to see her mark up close and personal—this man the Council said had to go.
Georgia looked back at Nena, now standing on the other side of the car, before turning to her dad. Nena heard the same story about a library. Only now, Georgia had lost her money too.
Nena smirked. This one was adept at lying. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or bad. Clearly, Nena wasn’t going to be truthful about dispatching the Flushes in front of his fourteen-year-old daughter (she had been quick to correct Nena when she’d wrongly guessed the girl’s age). Even if they got Georgia’s father to believe it was self-defense, which technically it was, he wouldn’t understand why they hadn’t called the cops. He was essentially “the cops.” Plus, Nena didn’t want questions about her ability to put those men down the way she had. While she preferred complete truthfulness, she realized tonight she’d need the opposite.
A voice in the back of her head warned she was pushing her luck as she rounded the front of her car to approach the Baxters, but she dispelled it. In the light of the streetlamp and the walkway lit with little round solar lamps, Nena got her first look at Cortland Baxter, up close and personal. And he got a look at her.
She released a measured breath, letting her exhalation absorb the shock of feelings assaulting her. She kept her face placid, was able to speak naturally, as if she hadn’t broken protocol and her heart wasn’t fluttering ten thousand beats per second. She could hear those beats drumming in her ears and worried Georgia and her father could hear too.
The force of the—attraction, was that what this was?—made Nena take a reflexive step backward. She again wondered what kind of fate had brought her into the path of this family. This never happened. To have saved the life of the daughter, only to rip her heart out in a couple of days’ time. How was Nena to reconcile that?
Her attention shifted to Cortland, who had spoken and was waiting for her response. She hadn’t heard.
“Sorry?” she asked, startled.
“Dad wants to know where you come in,” Georgia answered pointedly.
“Please, the blame is mine,” Nena began. “I happened across Georgia in distress with no money—”
“And my phone was smashed,” Georgia interjected.
“That too,” Nena agreed. “She looked hungry and said you were working late, so I suggested we grab supper; then I brought her home. I should have thought for her to call you from my phone.”
Georgia shook both her head and her hand at Nena. “It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, since I don’t know Dad’s number by heart.”
Nena nodded. Made sense. Smart girl. “You probably should have important numbers memorized. At least your dad’s.”
“Why,” she asked, “when it’s programmed in my phone?”
Cortland chimed in. “The one you smashed, right, Peach?” He placed his hand on the crown of her head and gave it a little shake.
A ghost of a smile appeared on Nena’s face. Peach. She found the nickname endearing. And she liked the way Cortland sounded when he said it. When her eyes met his, he was staring at her. It rattled her, and she immediately worried he might recognize her from somewhere.
Or perhaps—her stomach soured slightly—perhaps his own intuition was alerting him that danger stood right before his eyes. He wasn’t looking at her as if she were a threat, though. No, he was looking at her as if he had something more to say. The intensity of his gaze sucked her in, making her feel uncomfortably warm.
Nena found herself liking the way he looked at her. It was the first time she could remember ever welcoming the attention of a man. They stood there looking stupidly at each other, forgetting about the girl between them glancing suspiciously from one to the other. Then Georgia cleared her throat loudly, likely bored at the staring contest these two were having.
The spell broken, Cortland thanked Nena. His eyes, she noticed, were framed with thick dark lashes, like Georgia’s. It was too dark to tell their color. From the intel Nena had received, he was six feet two. The photos she’d seen did him no justice up close. She had already taken in his pronounced forehead, athletic build—not overly muscular, not too skinny.
She shook her head to clear it. Two days from now, she had a dispatch to do. She couldn’t get sidetracked even if Cortland Baxter was the first man she’d ever noticed, ever considered . . . in that way. He grinned at her, his natural smile nearly making her reciprocate until she remembered she never smiled unless on a job. Wasn’t she on a job now? H
e was her mark. She should smile, then. Her lips twitched instead.
“Right,” she said, gathering her wits. “Right. Night, then.” She turned before either had a chance to respond and made haste to her car. The two of them remained on the walkway until she was out of sight.
In two days, she’d do her job as planned. She had to, emotions and confusion and hesitation be damned. Once the dispatch was completed, Nena would never have to think about Cortland Baxter, or Georgia, again.
12
BEFORE
Blood saturates the ground, mingling with the fertile soil of my home. All around, people are screaming. The cacophony is so loud my hands clamp over my ears to drown it all out, but to no avail. With Paul’s words to Papa, he unleashes his men in full force upon us. Villagers, in last-ditch efforts to save their lives, attempt to flee up the mountain. They are gunned down like dogs. The rat-a-tat-tat permeates the air, followed by muted thuds of bodies falling to the ground. Mere hours ago, these people were laughing, believing themselves safe, believing all was right in the world.
The men are creative with their kills, chasing people down, shooting, hacking with dirty machetes as if my people are sticks of sugarcane. The intruders drag people I have known all my life away by their hair or clothing. They drag these people who have done no harm to death, to rape, to mutilation—whatever these monsters desire, and they desire all of it. I begin to believe my little village has somehow greatly offended God. This must be his wrath, this hell he has unleashed upon us. All because my father refused to be a participant in Paul’s illegal business? It all sounds unbelievable to me, transport routes and selling people.
Paul returns to his truck and throughout it all sits in the passenger seat. He observes the chaos while Attah Walrus and Bena bark orders about what to do with whom. They gorge themselves on the wealth and flesh of N’nkakuwe.