by Yasmin Angoe
No, no, she couldn’t. She’d never wanted that, not since they’d snatched her virginity from her, desecrating her. But her feelings were becoming undeniable to her now. She had fallen hard for him, even though it was impossible. He put away people like her. She dispatched people like him.
Her body tensed when he slipped his arm around her waist to slowly pull her in. He stopped when she hesitated, then pulled her the rest of the way when she allowed it. She stepped all the way in. Into his arms.
The dance music switched to Lianne La Havas’s “Don’t Wake Me Up.”
“Love this song,” Nena said softly. She swayed to its beat, surprised she was feeling this comfortable. She let the soulful song, let being with Cort, take her to a place of peace she’d never known could exist for a person like her.
And then she thought, Why not me?
58
BEFORE
I keep going during the rigorous conditioning portion of my initial training, even when my body screams it cannot move another inch. But after a few weeks I must be conditioned enough, because while I’m at the table, lacing up my combat boots, Witt slides a picture of Monsieur into my line of vision. I look at it without saying a word; then my gaze flicks up to his.
“Show me how you did it,” he says.
I drop my head back down to finish lacing. How can I reenact something that is not the same? I am without the primal drive to survive I had then. Why does Witt want me to relive that horror? Why is he not teaching me something new? He taps the picture sharply, and my head snaps up to him.
“Show me,” he says. “Count off.”
What is his end goal? Is he trying to break me, or can he not believe a scrawny thing like me can take down a being like Robach? But he wants to see, and I acquiesce.
We stand, facing each other. Robach and I weren’t standing when I attacked him, and I must bring Witt down to where I can do what I did. I cannot tell him to have a seat so I can stab him, can I? Instinct takes over, and my right foot swipes Witt’s from beneath him. He falls with a surprised grunt to the floor, and I lock away the sliver of worry that I might hurt him. I grab a pen that has rolled from atop the table. I feign a stab to his cheek.
“One,” I say.
I jump on top of Witt, who bucks me off and rolls. When my body hits the floor, I roll fluidly, scamper to my hands and knees, and spring up, jumping on his back as I did with Monsieur.
“Two.”
I cling to Witt’s back as he tries to shake me off. He rears backward, smashing us against a wall. Pen in hand, I tap it against his neck.
“Three.”
And his throat. “Four.”
And his chest. “Five.”
Witt tumbles to the floor, and I continue tapping him in the same places I stabbed Monsieur, counting while I do it. When I reach 150, I stop. My hand drops to my side, and I lift myself off my instructor. I stand back, panting, waiting for him to tell me what is next.
He is panting as well. He does not speak to me. Instead, he stands and walks to where Monsieur’s picture has fallen on the floor and drops it back on the table. He shuffles through a file I neglected to notice was there. From there, he extracts two more black and whites, photos of the muggers from the Parisian breezeway. I stare at the pictures, amazed. What don’t Witt and the Tribe know about what I have done?
He does not need to tell me to show him. I just do.
“Your method of attack is intrinsic,” Witt says. We are standing outside the warehouse, waiting for my car to collect me. How he is capable of speech after our grueling training, I have no idea. I want to lie on the ground. My body throbs, and I am tired beyond comprehension. I wait for him to continue his assessment, since that is what this is.
“What I mean is it is instinctual. It’s also sloppy and has many points in which your combatant can turn things around on you. You leave too much evidence, and you do not think. Your kills to date are from emotion, and from that rage, people can manipulate your weaknesses, your blind spots. You can’t let emotion cloud your judgment, Nena. You can’t take things personally.” He lets that rest, having read me like a book.
“Correction,” he reverses. “Robach was rage. The muggers were not. Those kills were more strategic. Those kills were cleaner. Why did you kill them?”
“They were attacking my mum.”
“She wasn’t your mum at the time you encountered them. Why did you step in?” He looks down at me curiously.
“Because she had shown me kindness, and I owed her.”
He nods, approving of my answer. “When emotion is at the helm, mistakes happen. You’ll learn to leave all your feelings behind. You must be methodical, Nena, when dealing in the business of dispatch and order as we do. You must think many steps ahead and of the repercussions. What happens after this job’s done? Who will this affect? Can I get in and out cleanly?” He speaks as if reading from a laundry list of assassin what-not-to-dos. “You get the job done, though.”
He looks at me, amused. “And it looks like you prefer to stab.”
The corners of my mouth twitch in response.
From his assessment, Witt tailors my training to focus on my strengths. When I get in close, I am the most effective. He brings in several sparring partners of varying abilities, heights, weights, and strengths. He watches us duel until one of us taps out. These men and women don’t get caught unaware like Monsieur and the Parisian men. These people are lithe killers and hold nothing back from little teen me. In fact, I think they mean to kill me.
“Use your proximity, Nena; forget the element of surprise here. It’s gone,” Witt commands as he observes me losing the fights repeatedly. All he needs is a bowl of popcorn to top it off. “Surprise is a luxury you can’t always afford, so always assume they know you’re coming. Like when you were in the basement, use anything you can find. Any object is a weapon in the right hands, in your hands. Use your surroundings to your benefit.”
My eyes flutter open, unfocused. I nearly pass out from the arm pressing into my throat, squeezing both the air and consciousness out of me. Witt’s words echo in the distance, as if down a long, empty hall. I grasp for anything of use. I use myself, letting my body suddenly go limp in feigned unconsciousness.
My partner loosens his grip a little, confident he has put me down. When his defenses drop just enough, my fingers grapple for anything, a boot kicked off during the struggle, now by my knee. I grasp the tip of it, then launch the heavy bottom sole with all my might, which isn’t much. It strikes my partner in his temple.
After nearly a year of continual training—some phases concurrent—my sparring partner finally taps out, and I am ready to move on. Because of my age, my education in Dispatch takes longer than other prospects’. But during the next phase, Escape and Evasion, I have a little experience from my time with Robach and on France’s streets. It only takes me half the time to make an A.
59
AFTER
When Cort kissed her, it began with a peck. And then another, deeper, longer. And in the middle of the crowd, Cort kissed her deeply, passionately, like she’d seen in movies and had always fast-forwarded through when she could get away with it or suffered through when Elin complained she wanted to watch. Nena’s arms circled around his neck, guiding him closer.
And it all felt right. They felt right. The way this newfound feeling permeated every bit of her being, like nothing she had ever experienced before. She followed his lead, using a little tongue when he did. Biting lightly, slightly, when he tugged. Sighing when he peppered her forehead with feather kisses. She found that more sensual than when he kissed her lips. She no longer knew herself. She felt forever changed by this moment, even if she never had it again.
“Renmen mwen,” he said in a language she did not know.
It sounded like French, but not what she’d learned. “Your French is different than what I know.”
“That’s because it’s Creole, like Haitian French.”
“Oh.” She’d learn it.
Pleasure sizzled through her. She had a new name, and that name was love.
Later, they walked hand in hand along the Miami Beach shoreline with waves cresting and washing up to meet and wash away their tracks.
She took a deep breath, knowing if she was going to take the leap and open herself to another person, it would have to be now, despite the promise to herself to never discuss it again. “Remember when we had lunch at Jake’s? You asked about my past?”
He nodded.
“Well, I lived in a small village called N’nkakuwe. It was a great home, full of love, life, and prosperity. We had a good man, a chieftain, who was kind and fair, giving. Always giving.”
“Sounds like a cool guy.”
“He was,” Nena agreed. “He was also my father, Michael Asym.”
Cort slowed, his head twisting slowly toward her. “Wait. Hold up? You mean you’re a princess? Like a daughter-of-a-chief kind of princess?”
She shrugged. “Titles don’t matter much to me. We were simple villagers.”
He cast her a dubious expression that read, Yeah, okay. Then he said, “Yeah, okay.”
She couldn’t explain the urge she had to tell Cort about what had happened in N’nkakuwe. It was like if she didn’t speak it now, show him the most vulnerable part of herself, then she never would. And she couldn’t continue to not give most of herself with Cort. She couldn’t move past the hurt if she didn’t let him know the hell from which she came.
She told him what Paul and his men had done to her village and people, what they’d done to her.
His steps halted. “What?” he asked, staring at her incredulously. His eyes searched hers, pleading for her to say it wasn’t real. She wished she could. But one look into her eyes let him know every word she spoke was horribly real. His grip on her hand tightened.
“I know shit like this goes on, but to know it’s happened to you . . .” He couldn’t continue, overcome with anger. “I could really fuck somebody up right now, Nena.”
“That’s sweet of you,” she replied in a tone she hoped was not patronizing. She appreciated his concern, but she needed no one’s protection. She’d learned to protect herself years ago.
She went on to describe life at the Compound and the abuse she and the others had suffered there. She spoke of the Hot Box, remembering the heat of it. Her recounting of her time with Robach came out haltingly, ending with the opportunity to run six months later. She left out the American woman. And the state in which she’d left Monsieur.
“I was living on the streets of Paris. Only for a week or so—the days got a bit hazy.” She’d relived this story over and over in her mind, had told it only a couple of times out loud, so to hear it from her lips now was unnerving.
“Must have been horrible.”
She looked at him, full of determination. She didn’t want him pitying her. She wanted him to see her as the survivor she was. “Anything was better than where I had been.”
He nodded his head, kept bobbing it up and down. Placing his hands on his hips when they stopped briefly. He looked out into the dark waves lapping at the shore. His jaw moved. He had so many questions, so much to say. She knew this. But she only wanted him to listen. And he knew that.
“I found Mum, or rather she found me. The Knights took me in, adopted me. And here I am. A Knight.” She threw out her hands and jiggled them like jazz hands.
But that was only half her story, wasn’t it? Nena might be lovestruck, but she wasn’t struck dumb. The training, the dispatching, the Tribe, she couldn’t tell Cort about.
Nena looked up. Cort’s head had dropped as if in prayer. She first thought he was displeased. She was used goods, wasn’t she? Soiled. Ruined. He was shaking his head slowly. Maybe she shouldn’t have told him all of this, but she had to. There was already too much he didn’t know.
She prepared herself to lock away all those amazing first-time feelings, because she understood more than anyone that her baggage was tremendous, more than anyone else should have to deal with. She couldn’t ask Cort to be patient with her as she got used to intimacy beyond the kiss they’d shared. The kiss had been terrific, but sex? There was no way she was ready yet. No matter how much her body had come alive tonight.
Nena peeked at his face. What she saw astonished her. Her fingers touched his face and came away with wetness on the tips. She looked down at them, confounded. Cort wept for her.
He passed his hand over his face. He looked at her sheepishly, unsure of what to do next.
“Ocean spray?” she asked with a knowing smile.
He laughed in spite of himself, a deep, rich laugh that elicited a genuine smile, small and rare as it was, from her.
He made a move to hug her and paused, asking permission. She stepped into his arms.
“Oui, mon amour. Damn ocean spray got the hell out of me.”
Nena luxuriated in Cort’s arms, knowing he was the first man, aside from either of her fathers, with whom she’d ever felt safe. It was a feeling that Nena knew once she had, she never wanted to be without again.
60
BEFORE
Elin knocks on the frame of my open door and finds me reading in bed, my second-favorite pastime after watching movies. What is quickly becoming my third-favorite thing to do is training, especially as the thrill of working with tools during training increases. I look up from the latest Stephen King novel.
“Mum wants us in the kitchen,” she says, looking annoyed at having to stop whatever she was up to, to do Mum’s bidding.
We enter the kitchen and are immediately assaulted by a chaotic scene. Mum is behind the stove, something we never see. Ishmael helicopters, a complete wreck at having to yield his beloved kitchen to the mistress of the house. He wrings his hands and tries to guide Mum while remaining at a respectful distance.
He pleads, “Madame, please, it’s best to use a wooden spoon on the pots so as not to scratch them. Perhaps I should take—” She shoots him a deadly look, making the words fall away from his lips. There is steam everywhere and a barrage of scents, making me wonder if I should be excited or fearful.
“Mum, what are you doing?” Elin eyes the explosion of sizzling stainless steel and bubbling cauldrons warily.
Mum shoots a quick glance over her shoulder. “I’m cooking supper.”
Elin pantomimes sticking a finger in her mouth to gag and elicits a small guilty smile out of me. It is something Elin discovered only she seems to be able to do.
“You never laugh, Nena,” my sister observed one day as we were looking through her favorite style magazines. “Not even a smile.”
I shrugged. I find things amusing. I laugh within.
Elin blurted, “I think Ishmael and Margot are fucking.”
I choked at the absurdity of her words. Margot is as old as a grandmother—no offense—and Ishmael is gay, although he has not made it publicly known.
“Fucking with you,” she said, turning the page of her magazine. “But wouldn’t it be a sight?”
I covered my mouth to hide the giggle that escaped. I find my older sister entirely inappropriate and wildly entertaining. “Aha,” Elin said without looking my way. “So you will laugh for me.”
“Ishmael, out!” Mum commands, fed up with his hovering. He falters in his hesitation to leave his blessed domain, but one more lethal stare cast in his direction reminds him whom he’s dealing with.
Elin and I move closer to Mum’s frenzy. There is cubed meat sizzling in a pot. Onions and tomatoes cut in various sizes, almost to a mashed pulp, litter the cutting board. On the countertops are open containers of peanut butter, palm nut, and other ingredients that I recognize. Mum wears a food-splattered apron, and her usually coiffed hair is in disarray. It doesn’t look like that even when she is fresh from the bed.
“What are you making?” Elin asks, huge eyes roving over all the mess. She may not want to know.
Mum turns to us, beaming. �
��I’m making peanut butter soup and fufu and fried kelewele. Nena’s favorites.” I look over the hurricane that used to be our kitchen. The kitchen back home never looked like this.
“Really, Mum? You couldn’t ask Ishmael to do it or have it brought in?”
Mum looks at me. “I wanted to bring a bit of home to Hammersmith for Nena.” She offers me a hopeful look, wanting my acceptance. She has stepped out of her comfort zone, done something she never does. For me.
My heart nearly bursts from her display. Elin slides her gaze to me, waiting.
The corners of my mouth eventually pull into a small smile. I nod. “Thank you, Mum. It will be delicious.”
Elin lets out a resigned sigh, and Mum hiccups as if she’s sucking in a cry. She spins around quickly, returning to her sautéing and boiling.
Behind Mum’s back, Elin leans toward me, whispering, “I’ll ready the Pepto Bismol. You’ll need it, love.”
Mum’s is the worst peanut butter soup (pudding is a better description), fufu (white, gritty, and as hard as stone), and kelewele (a mushy, salty mess made from plantains not ripe enough) I have ever had the pleasure of eating.
I eat every bit of what she puts in front of me. Then I ask for seconds, ignoring the looks of utter repulsion from Elin and Dad.
61
AFTER
Although Nena was still high after her magical date with Cort the other night, the threat of Paul’s next move loomed over her head. His cigar was a message that he could reach out and touch anyone. But she’d already known that, hadn’t she? That was why she and Georgia were currently pulling up in front of a nondescript building in a warehouse section near the port where they’d fed the gulls earlier.
She and Georgia toured the facility. The gym was small and looked more like a boxing training facility. Didn’t have the purple of Planet Fitness or orange of Orangetheory. There weren’t a lot of people there, just a thick punching bag suspended from the ceiling and, in a back room, an expansive blue mat taking up much of the floor space. Georgia wondered aloud if they were about to practice gymnastics.