Her Name Is Knight (Nena Knight)

by Yasmin Angoe

  Her finger found a blade. He passed through the sliding glass doors held open by one of the servers. She watched him close the gap between them, wearing the same brilliant smile from so many years ago.

  Her stomach constricted. All these years believing him gone, believing she had survived him, only for it all to come crashing around her ears in the space of an hour. He was a beautiful monster, aged like fine wine. He looked better than she remembered. Her family was dead, and there was Paul, living better than he had before.

  “Beautiful out here, yes? I find the sea air and the lights of the city refreshing, don’t you? Spectacular. You don’t see sights quite like this in Lagos.” He stopped a foot away, his back to the party inside. He pulled out a lighter that was more a torch, pushed the tip of his cigar into the flame, and puffed until it caught.

  Every molecule of her was electrified, yearning to toss out all her years of training and run him through with her blades.

  When she wouldn’t answer, he squinted. Took in her features. Considered her for a long while. “I’m not sure what it is.” He held his index finger up, shaking it as if he were trying to shake out a memory. His vile cigar in his other hand. “But damned if you don’t seem familiar. Have we met in passing? Maybe you attended an event with Oliver and Elin? Accompanied your father on Tribe business?”

  This was the moment. This was when she’d declare who she was and kill him when he attacked her. She could claim self-defense, and the Tribe would forgive it. She straightened her shoulders, pulling herself to her full height.

  “Could be we met sixteen years ago, in a little town where you beheaded my father and then sold me to a homicidal psychopath.” Her words came out low, measured. She could fling the devil incarnate from the balcony railing and watch his body break and bleed on the grounds below.

  She zeroed in on him, watching as his curiosity moved from surprise to a split second of fear; then finally he shuttered himself from her, regaining his composure. His relaxed, controlled smile slid across his face.

  “For true? Aninyeh?” he asked, his amazement evident. “This is you? Still alive?”

  “As are you.” She bared her teeth.

  He barked a laugh, slapping his palms together as if he were with a long-lost family member. “I had heard the bastard Robach was dead years ago.” He paused, drawing back to look her over like some proud uncle. “I knew you had it in you, girl. A survivor. I knew it!”

  Her eyes narrowed. As if he’d done her a favor.

  “And beautiful.” He put his hand to his chin, cheerfully. He looked at her with appreciation. He clapped once. “You would fetch quite a price on the market now, Nena. Much more than before.” Another casual smile, sickening her.

  He must have seen something in her eyes, because he waved his hand. “It’s a joke, Aninyeh, a joke. That time was eons ago, yes? Haven’t we grown, you and I? Matured? Look at you now. One of the Knights. A daughter. I gave you this life.” He bowed low, magnanimously. “You are welcome!”

  Her blades nearly came out at his audacity. She couldn’t let her emotions cloud her judgment.

  Witt’s training during hand-to-hand combat replayed in her mind. Never take things personally.

  No. This was personal, very personal.

  Paul’s laughter died, realization dawning on him. He looked at her deeper, reading her anger. “That explains Attah,” he mused softly.

  She didn’t respond.

  “He was valuable to me, you know. I even paid good money to get him off on those charges. I had members of the jury in my pocket to ensure no conviction.”

  “Then why have the Council dispatch the prosecutor?”

  “I like to hedge my bets. And I wanted to see just how much the Council wanted me. Always have a plan B, dear girl.”

  Silence had always been her best quality. She needed it more than anything now. She kept reminding herself not to react. Don’t be foolhardy, Nena. She struggled to believe that Paul being here was not a mirage or a nightmare, that he was really here in flesh and blood, because up until this point—even after Attah Walrus—she’d never truly believed Paul could still be alive.

  Her silence was unnerving, and Paul cast cautious looks at the caged tiger in front of him. He looked back at all the unknowing people inside. He stepped to the glass railing, looking down. She could push him, she thought. Right now. She gripped her hands behind her back.

  “Your new family—these Knights—are good, generous, powerful people. You’ve received a second chance, a better chance. You’re not wallowing in the dirt, wed to some poor goat-herding chieftain. You sit atop the throne of modern-day African royalty.”

  He waited a long beat. When he spoke next, he dropped all traces of earlier joviality. “You would do well to let bygones be bygones. You have made your point with Attah. Don’t you agree?”

  This was the Paul she knew and loathed. Her mouth twitched. So many things she wanted to say. Attah’s death was not enough. Not by a long shot.

  “Aninyeh, let this pass. Your sister loves my son and vice versa. My strongholds in Gabon and links with its government and other factions will further solidify the Tribe’s power. But if you tell anyone who I am and alter the scenario . . .” He sighed, looking at her solemnly. “It will all go to shit for the Tribe . . . for your family.” He gave her a long, pointed look that speared her all the way through. “You know what I can do, Aninyeh.”

  When she refused to answer, he nodded, taking his leave.

  Only she knew how dangerous Paul was. Only she knew the gravity of his presence. To drive home his implicit threat, he went to Elin, bending to kiss her cheek. He moved to Delphine, taking her hand and feathering it with a light peck. Delphine smiled, warming up to him. He clapped Noble on his shoulder as he grabbed his outstretched hand to pull him upright and grasp him in a warm embrace. They shook hands again and snapped their intertwined fingers. Then, while holding her father, he turned to her, still alone on the balcony. He smiled at her, a smile as treacherous as she remembered.

  Beside Paul, her dad turned, spotting Nena on the balcony and breaking into his familiar, dashing smile. Noble gave her a boisterous wave, beckoning for her to join them. She shook her head, begging off. He waved at her in a joking forget you then gesture, mistaking her actions as one of her usual solitary moods.

  She tore her gaze from her dad, hating how close he was standing next to the man who’d killed her papa. Paul, alive and more well than he ever deserved to be, was watching her with a calculating smirk playing on his lips. Paul’s message was plain and simple, a reminder of how easily he could touch the most important people in her life again.

  But now Paul also had something important to him. Didn’t he? Her eyes shifted to the young man with his arms wrapped around her sister.

  He had his son.

  40

  BEFORE

  The woman in the fur coat is the first to break our three-way stare down. Maybe she reads the determination on my face, a look that says I will not give these items up without a fight. I know I can do it, fight . . . until the death. Once you have killed your first, another may not be as difficult.

  “Monsieur, it’s fine. She’s picking up items I asked for.”

  “Madame? How so? You two did not come in together.”

  She turns to me with a hint of a smile. “But darling, you need to get the new ones. Not the testers.” She steps to the shelf, picking up a box of Hugo, and holds it out to me.

  “Madame, no. She is nothing but a misérable, a vagabonde. The police can handle her accordingly.”

  Wretch and vagrant. Two more names to add to my growing list.

  The regal queen rears on the clerk. I would never want to be the recipient of the look she gives him. “You will take my payment.” She pauses while the weight of her words settles on him. “Wait for us at the counter. Elle est à ma charge et nous achèterons tout ce que nous prendrons. C’est compris?” She is with me, and we will buy everything we collect. Under
stand?

  Shrinking beneath Madame’s glower, the clerk opens and closes his mouth several times before stumbling back to the front of the store and waiting as told. Through the mirror, he glares at me. At her. She holds the box out to me again. She gives me an encouraging nod. Hesitantly, I take it.

  “Don’t put it in your bag yet. We need to pay first, and I don’t want to give him any reason to call the authorities.” She waits for a response. When none comes, she says, “Tell you what, put the test lotion back, too, and pick up a sealed box.” She points to little baskets stacked at the end of each aisle. “Get whatever you want, but do not steal anything. I will pay for all of it. Deal?”

  Her kindness does not make any sense to me. She doesn’t know me. I am a nobody to her, a vagrant, as the clerk said. Why give me a second thought? And what will she want in return? Because one thing I have learned is there is always a price. My eyes shift to the shelf, to the mirror, then back to her.

  Finally, I nod quickly. She rewards me with a smile that surprisingly makes me shy. She leaves me, heading toward the counter. While she gives the clerk commands, ignoring his protests and insisting that he take her money for anything I want, I pull the tester bottle from my sack and put it back in its rightful place.

  “Madame, vous m’avez donné trop d’argent.”

  “Then give the child the change.”

  She moves away from the counter, about to leave with whatever item she came in to purchase. As the clerk scurries to unlock the trap he set for me, she looks at me one last time. It’s as if she wants to say more, then thinks better of it. She pushes open the door, the bell chiming her departure.

  My rucksack is laden with my bounty. I have Olay, Hugo Boss, plenty of tightly wrapped packages of food, hot chocolate, and €284 in change. The door does not fully close behind me before I tear into the sack, grabbing a package of Oreo cookies. The onslaught of cookies and hot chocolate sends a jolt of sugary energy coursing through my veins.

  I catch a whiff of my father’s scent, feeling gutted when for the briefest of moments, I believe he is behind me and only empty air greets me instead. But now, anytime I want, I have Papa’s protection and Mama’s love. Anytime I want, I can spray a cloud or squeeze a drop, and they will be right there with me.

  Thoughts of my parents consume me to the point I take little notice of my surroundings. I pass the dark and narrow breezeway next to the market. There is scuffling coming from within, which I figure is rats. They can be big, nearly the size of kittens. But when I hear a sound that sounds more human than rat, like a woman’s voice, it gives me pause.

  “Don’t,” the woman says.

  “Keep ahold of her. Ne la laisse pas s’échapper.” Don’t let her get away. The second voice is male, menacing.

  I know the woman’s voice. Quickly, I take cover, peeking around the corner of the building. I strain to make out the dark shadows, trying to sort out the moving shapes—two, maybe three. I sweep my eyes up and down the street, looking for help as I bite the insides of my mouth. The safety of the park feels miles away instead of right across the street. The street was bustling not too long ago, yet now there is no one in sight. There is only me. I look longingly in the direction of the park. This woman’s trouble is not my concern. I should mind my business.

  As she minded hers back in the store, Aninyeh?

  It is not me who asks the question. It is like a blend of my mama and papa. I shake my head to clear my muddled thoughts. Their scents are clouding my judgment.

  Or did she help you?

  My feet refuse to move. The woman was kind to me when she had no reason to be. She protected me, helped me. The heaviness of my rucksack is proof of it. I owe her, and Papa said to pay your debts, the good and bad.

  Nothing comes without a price, and it seems my time to pay is upon me.

  I consider my options. I have the scissors, which served me well. But I choose the knife. First, I stow my rucksack in a corner, where I hope it remains until my return, if I return. Then carefully, I follow the voices.

  “She’s loaded. Look at her jewels. Maybe we should take her instead, hold her for ransom. Her people will pay.”

  The first man’s back is to me; he is kneeling in front of a prone figure. His partner hovers over his shoulder, watching. He is the one I take down first, thrusting the knife into his neck until its tip comes out the other side. He lets out a gurgle as his hands grab the point of the blade. The blood spurts like an unclogged spigot, steaming in the cold.

  I yank the blade out when he begins to fall. I need to close the gap between me and the second man before I lose the element of surprise. The second man is too fixated on the woman to notice his partner is gone.

  “Shut her racket before someone hears,” he says.

  The woman moans as he attempts to take her jewelry. He hits her.

  “Maybe you’re right, Jacques. Maybe we’ll take her shit and kill her.” He grunts as he struggles with her, unaware his friend Jacques is a corpse.

  The woman struggles desperately. He slaps her again, harder. I can tell because I hear her head smack the ground. It reminds me of the woman in Monsieur’s basement. I move to grab the man’s neck—I seem to like necks—but he catches my movement in his peripheral vision. He twists, yelping a curse, and knocks me back. I fall, tripping over his dead friend.

  “Jacques!” He sees his friend beneath me and lunges. With a dead man at my back and his partner’s weight on top of me, I am pinned. The man’s grasp on me is weak, slick with water and grime. He punches me on the side of my head.

  Mon dieu! Stars flash in my vision.

  I have come too far to die at the hands of this thief, to be a victim of yet another man. Again, my will to survive ignites me, taking me to the primal place, as it did a week ago.

  We grapple, and I lose the knife. He launches curses and squeezes, trying to get a firm hold around my neck. I try to hold him off with one hand, my knees digging into his belly. My other hand roots around the oily ground for the dropped knife. The only things saving me are my legs, but I do not have enough leverage to push him off. I can only keep him at bay. Until my fingers touch something hard beneath me. I yank on it, desperate for something to save me. My hand closes around the handle, and I realize it is a gun. I have never held one. I do not know if it will work. There is no time to think. So as the man pushes his weight on me, I lift the gun, trying to get a better angle and my finger on the trigger. I point away from me. I pull.

  A flash in the dark. An explosion in my ear that briefly robs me of my hearing.

  The man topples over on top of me, dead.

  I lie there, sandwiched between him and his equally dead friend, sucking in mouthfuls of burning air.

  “Est ce que ça va?” the woman croaks. I can hear her moving. “Merci de m’avoir sauvé. Es-tu blessée?”

  She repeats in English, “Are you okay? Thank you for saving me. Are you hurt?”

  Instinct tells me to run, and I need to do so because if I remain here any longer, the woman will call the authorities, because now there are two dead men, and she must. My nest is no longer safe for me. The police will have too many questions I do not want to answer.

  I will never be taken by them—or anyone again. I shift beneath the weight of the man, wiggling free from within the cocoon of the dead.

  41

  AFTER

  Through Nena’s earbuds, Witt said, “Hold for the intel you requested.”

  Seconds later she watched a file download itself to her computer, then unzip and open. She tapped the mousepad, watching as the contents began popping up on her screen, images of the men as they had been long ago. Images of who Attah Walrus and Kwabena were now, both older, though Kwabena was still younger and much better looking.

  “This info was buried so deep it was damn near impossible to find. That’s why it took me a bit of time,” Witt said apologetically.

  If a week was a long time to gather intel, then Nena guessed he’d taken for
ever, but in the span of one night, she’d forgotten all about Bena. All she could think about was how Paul had slithered back into her life and threatened everyone and everything important to her.

  She couldn’t leave Elin’s fast enough, pretending to feel unwell. Her mum had insisted on checking her temperature as if she were a child, all under the hawkish gaze of Lucien—Paul. She’d spent the rest of the night alternating between vomiting in her toilet and curling up in a ball on the floor of her bathroom. She’d awoken to the sound of an incoming call on her computer.

  Witt hadn’t let her appearance faze him. He regarded her with troubled eyes but continued with their business. The information flashing across Nena’s screen woke her up, gave her something else to think about for the moment, something other than the stark terror she felt whenever she thought about Paul. She’d thought she was strong. She was a stone-cold killer. And yet, knowing he had been inches from her not twelve hours ago regressed her to fourteen all over again.

  Kwabena now went by Kamil. He was in town, convenient. Had to come in because of Dennis Smith’s death to handle their business dealings. And one of their businesses was a place called the Lotus Flower. She immediately recalled the photocopied business card from Cort’s office. Okay. But where’d she seen it before that?

  “It’s a day spa,” Witt was saying when she refocused on him. “Seems innocent enough.”

  Nena knew its true purpose because just like mental connections seemed to do, something clicked, and she remembered. “It’s not,” she said. “It’s a front for human trafficking, and the people who ‘work’ there are being trafficked, most likely. If you check for business partners, you’ll find the Cuban was a client of the spa.”

  Witt sat with the information for a moment. “Well, that’s your proof right there, yeah?”

  But was it enough? “The Council was willing to go off script, kill a man just doing his legitimate job, to gain more power and territory. Do you think they’ll care that these guys were selling people?”