by Yasmin Angoe
“You asked how I learned to fight,” Nena began, settling her eyes on the younger girl. “It wasn’t for pleasure, okay? It was for a purpose.”
“Okay,” Georgia prompted.
“The type of fighting you witnessed that night is called Krav Maga. It’s not easy, and it takes years to learn.”
“What is it? Like kung fu or something?”
Nena pulled a face. “No. There is no liberal philosophy with Krav. It’s about doing whatever you have to and using whatever is around you to be the one that lives. Do you understand?”
“Think so.”
“Krav is about acting by your instincts and using techniques that are simple and effective to get you away. It essentially makes you a human weapon.”
Georgia cracked a grin. “That sounds pretty fucking cool.”
Nena gave her a sharp look.
“Sorry,” Georgia mumbled sheepishly. She bent down to untie her shoelaces. “Should I take my shoes off and get on the mat?”
“Do you plan to have your shoes off when you’re attacked?” Nena asked curiously.
Georgia hesitated as if trying to determine if she was serious or not.
She was.
“No,” Georgia drawled when Nena didn’t answer. “I guess not?” It came out as a question. She seemed to wilt beneath Nena’s intense scrutiny.
Nena said, “When the girl from your school put the gum in your hair, what did you do?”
Georgia offered a limp shrug. “Do? Where?”
“When you fought.”
“I never said I fought.”
“You didn’t just stand there either. Show me,” Nena prompted.
“But what does that have to do with learning combatives?”
Nena didn’t answer, instead channeling her inner Witt.
Georgia gave in, positioning Nena as Sasha’s stand-in. She pantomimed hitting Sasha in the mouth by tapping Nena on hers. Nena blinked away her surprise at the unexpected force of the blow.
Georgia grinned, pleased she’d gotten one in.
She grasped Nena’s arm, recalling how she’d twisted Sasha’s until the girl had cried out in pain and embarrassment. When Georgia dropped Nena’s arm, she stepped back.
“And that’s when Coach came in and broke it up.”
“That’s all?” Nena asked.
Georgia’s head bobbed in several short nods.
“Was quick,” Nena observed, lightly touching her smarting lip. Little bugger. “Not bad.”
Georgia sighed with relief.
“Most fights are quick. Not long and drawn out like you see in the movies. And you tire fast because it takes a lot of energy to be that physical. Adrenaline is what pulls you through combat. You must use the little opportunity you have to get your opponent in a position for you to either get away or kill them.”
Georgia blinked multiple times. “Who said anything about killing?”
“Had you ever fought before? Before the racist girl?”
Georgia made a face that questioned Nena’s sanity. “No.”
“Self-defense, then. That’s what propels you.”
Georgia thought about it. “Yeah, especially because of the hair. And she made a slick comment about my mom,” she said between gritted teeth, fresh anger flooding her voice.
Nena nodded. She knew all too well about triggers. Nena’s own hair was a mass of brilliant, luscious coils now twisted in a thick rope of two braids and swirled into a bun at the base of her head. And there was that one time when Robach had made derogatory comments about her father and brothers. They were the last comments he’d made before she’d killed him.
“So your mother is your trigger.”
Georgia shrugged, toeing the edge of the mat. “I guess? And Dad too. No one can talk about my parents but especially my mom, since she’s gone.”
Who else but Nena would understand? “Let’s start with if you’re grabbed from behind.”
“Why from behind?”
“That is typically the case. Element of surprise.” She stopped, pursing her lips. “And I’d like to also work on if someone has a weapon on you.”
“A what? You think that’s going to happen to me?” Georgia choked out.
Nena frowned. “Hasn’t it already happened? Those gang guys?”
“Again. You cut me off before I could say ‘again.’”
Nena let out a cross between a cough and a snort. Georgia stared at her, wide eyed.
“I just made you laugh. Sort of. Was it a laugh? You need practice,” Georgia said, practically vibrating.
As quickly as Nena’s outburst had come upon them, her face blanked. “All sorts of things you never expect to happen can happen to you, and more than once. Remember that. Expect that.”
“Okay.”
“Let’s begin,” Nena said, pushing Georgia onto the mat facing the wall. From behind, she continued. “Couple things to remember. Fight with whatever is around you and in reach. Make anything a weapon.”
“Anything?”
“I once killed a man with chopsticks.” Nena said it as if she’d picked up milk at the grocery.
Georgia snapped around, forgetting they were supposed to be training, her eyes as round as saucers. “Get the fuck out!”
“Language,” Nena said blandly. “Now turn back around and repeat the move from your nonfight. I’ll react, and let’s see what you can come up with to defend yourself.”
This time, Georgia did as she was told.
62
BEFORE
Dad and Mum teach me and Elin the ins and outs of Council, although she enjoys it much more than I do. Elin is shrewd, like Mum, knows when a deal is good or bad, plans and thinks things through. And I, like Dad, am better suited to action. We are becoming a well-oiled machine, each with our own roles and purposes. And I begin to feel real comfort at being a part of the family.
My sophomore year at university is when I begin tagging along on light team missions. It took Witt a while to get the okay from Dad, but Witt convinced him that the best way to learn was with on-the-job training. Reconnaissance and concealment go hand in hand. When I tag along with the team or with a member on a job, I usually stay back in what we call an urban assault vehicle. It is filled with cameras and microphones strong enough to pick up a mouse breaking wind, if they did that sort of thing.
I learn the key to recon is to be the observer, not the observed. And to never let a mark see me until it’s too late.
I practice languages, one of my favorite subjects because of my affinity for them, thanks to Papa. Eventually, Languages and Linguistics becomes my major at uni, while Elin, of course, chooses Business and Accounting. A good decision.
I perfect my driving skills when Dad treats me to a weeklong event at the Circuit de Monaco, where I experience the Monaco Grand Prix. I train with one of the racers for Defensive Driving and High Speed. My first trip to America is to the Daytona 500 in Florida. It is a memorable experience that makes me fall in love with Florida, more specifically Miami, when we shoot down there afterward for Dad to conduct some business.
At the 500, I also learn to ride motorcycles, something to use in tight spaces and for quick getaways.
I undergo all these intense trainings over and over until I not only get a passing grade but excel. My education consists of the University College London and the University of Witt. I hungrily consume both, the illegal and the not, especially anything hands on. And I accept the consequences of my choices, the good and the bad.
After one particularly grueling day with the team, I am on my bed. Every inch of my body is racked with pain. When I try sitting upright, a sharp stab ricochets through my sides like a ball in a Ping-Pong machine. I bear down, breathing through the pain. My mind does a body check—I took a course from a field medic at the University of Witt—and I diagnose my pain by comparing it to injuries I have received before. I have bruised my ribs.
The scalding-hot shower I took to help ease the pain provided only temporary
comfort, and I stare at the jar of ointment sitting all the way over on the dresser. My body begs for me not to move. But I try to ease off the bed, hissing through the pain.
“Need help?” Elin asks from the doorway.
I close my eyes, knowing what she will say when she sees my bruises. She invites herself in without my answering her, grabbing the ointment. She twists it open as she approaches me. She gets on the bed as carefully as possible, which, of course, makes me hurt worse.
“Sorry.”
She gently removes the robe from my shoulders and emits an audible gasp at the dark-purplish bruising over half my body, the side Dana pummeled earlier that day.
“Bloody hell, Nena, how much more of this will you take?” Elin asks as she begins applying a thick slathering of ointment. The room fills with the smell of camphor. “You don’t have to do this. It’s been years, and you still get fucked up. Haven’t you had enough?”
“I like it.” I wince. “And I am nearly finished with my training.”
“You’re always hurt, bruised, cut, broken, or exhausted,” she fumes. “I hate this for you.” With nimble fingers, she kneads away knots of pain. I grit my teeth, my hands fisting into tight balls and digging into the duvet cover, to keep from crying aloud.
I hiss, “I’ll be okay.”
“Why can’t you stick to the business side with me? Run it with me?” She asks me this every time she nurses me. It has become our routine. “We would be unstoppable.”
“I don’t want to run anything.”
She pulls my robe over my shoulder and watches me inch into the bed, between the covers she has thankfully pulled down. When she tucks me in tightly enough I cannot escape, Elin lies beside me, her head touching mine. “What about a double date? Tomorrow.”
Her voice brightens when she says it, and I twist my head to gawk at her, then return to my more pressing matter of finding a comfortable position to sleep in beneath this cocoon she has wrapped me in.
“Ben has a friend who says you’re hot.” Ben is her flavor-of-the-month boyfriend. Her words, not mine.
“I am hot,” I mutter. “Would you mind turning down the heat when you leave?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Not that kind of hot, Literal Lucy. He finds you attractive. You need to shag, sis.”
“Never.”
“Never?” Her eyes are round as the saucers we use for tea. “You’ll never have sex?”
We have had this conversation as well. My sister believes I have had enough recovery time and should enter the world of the sexually active. “I have unwillingly had enough sex to last a lifetime. And I find it quite distasteful.”
“What about when you find love? I mean romantic love, not family kind of love.”
I sigh again. Elin will never understand how dead I feel inside when it comes to sex, my repulsion when men touch me in that way or any way. I cannot imagine ever wanting someone to touch me like that again. She won’t know the ruin I feel, the lack of desire. I have never known romance. Sex was used as a weapon against me. I want no more part of it. Even though she will never understand, I tell her how I feel. Then I open my eyes and look at her.
It is undeniable, the despair I see in Elin’s eyes as she gazes at me. I wish she would not. There is nothing to despair. It is what it is. Exhausted, all I want to do is sleep, but Elin has more talk in her.
“Nena,” she breathes, “when you came to us, you were this scrawny little thing. And in this short amount of time, you have become the most amazingly strong and bravest person I’ve ever met.”
I can no longer meet her gaze. If I do, I will break right in front of her. With great effort, I say, “Kindly thank Ben and decline the date with his friend for me.”
Elin huffs, annoyed with me, but only for a little while. I am not worried it will last. “Also, if you’re going to be on Dispatch, you’ve got to sound more human, more your age,” she says.
“Do I not sound human?” Her words are nonsensical. If I am human, how do I not sound so?
Elin touches her forehead as if dealing with a difficult child. “You sound robotic, Nena. You speak very properly, and I know you know multiple languages, and that’s wicked, but you sound stilted. You’re too tight, need to loosen up.” She begins convulsing, jiggling her body in an alarming manner. “See, like this. Loosen up. And you need to use slang and contractions and idioms. Shit like that, or you’ll stick out like a sore thumb, and your mark will make you.”
“My thumb is actually the one part of my body that’s not sore.”
“And maybe throw in some cursing too. Say bloody hell, or call someone a tool-ass wanker or fucking cesspot.”
I frown. “Is cesspot a word?” I am pretty sure she is saying it wrong.
Elin throws her hands up as she shrugs. “Who knows? But it sounds good when you’re in the moment.”
I nod, giving up on any comfortable position in my mummy wrap. “Okay.” Elin makes a good point, and if I am going to be an invaluable member of Dispatch, like I plan to be, I had better get to work on becoming less . . . robotic.
63
AFTER
It took Nena a couple of days of soul-searching to decide to tell Elin who Oliver’s father was and that he might not be as innocent a bystander as Elin believed him to be. There was no more dancing around the fact that Paul had to go. His attempt on her father and his threats against the rest of the family were bad enough. It was the cigar that solidified her decision—Paul’s cigar, its scent easily recalled from their encounter the evening of the supper party. Nena could no longer remain silent.
She’d asked Elin to meet at one of their favorite Mediterranean restaurants. Sitting across from her in her sharp business suit, Elin still looked fresh faced and beautiful despite having just arrived from closing on a new business venture in New York, a meeting she’d had to chair on their father’s behalf.
“You’re lucky Oliver had to cancel our plans for tonight . . . and that I love sister time and all,” Elin said, gesturing to the server for another glass of white wine.
Nena watched her sister finish the first glass, wondering if there was any way she could be wrong. No, she decided. She wasn’t.
“Yeah.” Nena hesitated. “About Oliver.”
Elin set her glass on the table, accepting a second glass and thanking the server with a quick smile. She took a sip and furrowed her eyebrows at the expression on Nena’s face. “Jesus, Nena, why so grim? You and the kid’s dad have a row?”
“No.” Nena stalled, knowing this would be the moment that could divide her and Elin for the first time. “Cort gave me a cigar that was left at his house.”
Elin snickered. “That shifty little bird. Is she smoking them or using the wrap for weed?”
“It’s not Georgia’s,” Nena said. “It’s Paul’s cigar.”
Elin snorted. “You must be totally knackered, sis. Where the hell did Paul come from? Last I checked, intel only had Dennis Smith and Kamil Sanders coming up, not big bad Paul.”
Nena forged ahead. “Because I remember its smell from when he smoked it the night of the dinner party.”
Elin’s initial reaction was to lean away, as if whatever amount of crazy Nena had was contagious. “Come again?”
Nena lowered her voice. “Lucien Douglas is Paul Frempong.”
She said it as if he were the boogeyman, and indeed he was. She watched as Elin, initially shocked, narrowed her eyes, which were filling with doubt that had never been there before.
“You’ve gone mad,” Elin told her. “Perhaps Dispatch has taken its toll on you. You can’t go throwing accusations like that around. Lucien is a Council member.”
Nena nodded. “And he is Paul.”
Elin wasn’t buying it, the way she glowered at Nena. She held up a calming hand. “Nena, let’s think this through. I know Attah Walrus brought up a lot of past feelings. And then learning of Kwabena, but there was nothing on Paul. Attah and Kwabena had intel. Lucien’s intel has only been on the up-an
d-up. He went through the vetting process. We would have recognized him.”
“How, when he had no photos? No one knows what he looks like except his old soldiers, who were dispatched when the Tribe raided the Compound, and any survivors who were there. Me. His face is something I could never forget.”
Nena watched as Elin, their mum’s spitting image, vacillated between doubt and the belief she’d always had in Nena. Nena had never lied or overreacted, and yet today she was asking Elin for more than she was willing—ready—to give.
“Okay.” Elin looked up at the ceiling, no doubt thinking of a million contingencies. “You killed Kwabena, and when Paul, whoever he is, found out, he’d retaliate.”
Nena took a sip of her water. “He did. He had Dad poisoned, Elin.”
Elin was incredulous. “This is too much, Nena.”
“Honest to God. Paul called me when I was at the hospital. He admitted it.”
Elin thumped the table. “I thought we were a team, Nena. It’s been over a week since Dad. And what about Mum? And if Lucien is who you say he is, he’s been sniffing round her ‘for moral support,’ he says.” Elin cast a doubtful look. “Are you sure, Nena? No bullshit.”
“None.”
“Let’s say you’re right,” Elin proposed.
Nena nodded with great difficulty. Meeting Elin’s withering gaze was unbearable, and even more so was the disappointment radiating from her.
“But attacking Dad now, when Lucien’s barely at the table two minutes? You should have said something. That night. That very night you saw him, you should have said something to us. Instead, you go off half-cocked on a revenge tirade and make a bigger problem.”
Nena shook her head emphatically. “You don’t know him like I do. This is what he does. Infiltrate, ambush, bulldoze, take what he wants with no regard for anyone else. If I had told you that night—”
“Then Dad wouldn’t be recovering today.”
Nena dropped her head. Elin was right. But Nena was right too. “No, Dad wouldn’t be recovering today. Because he’d be dead, Elin, you understand me?”