by Yasmin Angoe
“Nena—”
Nena cut in. “There is no winning against him until I give him what he wants, make him comfortable. Then get him when I am positive you, Mum, and Dad are safe. And the Baxters.”
Dumbfounded, Elin asked, “What is it Paul wants?”
Nena sighed. The hard part still wasn’t over yet. “He wants Dad’s seat. He can’t stand for any man to have better than him. That’s why he hated my papa. A seat at the Council table isn’t enough for Paul, so the head of the table is what he wants. High Council, Dad’s seat.”
Elin flounced back in her seat. “Bloody hell that would ever happen. There’s no way the Council would ever allow him to ascend to Dad’s seat.”
“And yet here he is, after hiding for over fifteen years, within reach of the High Council seat.”
Elin assessed her coolly, her lips pursed. Nena knew it was a low blow. None of this was Elin’s fault, and Nena couldn’t let her resentment at the Tribe’s failures rest on her sister’s shoulders.
Elin scoffed. “I mean, the man is a major douchebag opportunist, yeah, but he’s not some indestructible supervillain, Nena.” She took a long swallow of her wine, then held up a hand. “Still assuming you’re correct about Lucien-slash-Paul here, what are you getting at with the cigar your federal friend found at his home? You’re saying Lucien—Paul—put it there?”
“He likely had an emissary do it. He always uses others to do his bidding.” Who knew Paul better than she?
It was now or never. Nena tried to control her breathing, knowing this would be the straw that broke the camel’s back. “That emissary learned of the Baxters and told him about them. And that someone planted Paul’s cigar knowing I’d get the message.”
“What are you playing at, Nena?”
“Oliver is working with Paul and planted the cigar.”
Elin inhaled. “And when the fuck”—she said it so sharply Nena flinched—“would Oliver have done that?”
Nena shrugged. “I don’t know. But Oliver knows where they live. He saw me there and knows the Baxters are important to me.”
“Bullshit. He never went inside.” Elin’s dismay was so palpable Nena felt she could reach out and touch it. She looked at Nena with such hurt and betrayal it nearly broke Nena, and she almost took back everything she’d said. Nena forced herself to continue, despite Elin’s eyes begging her to stop.
“This is complete bullshit, Nena. You’re complete bullshit for even thinking Oliver has anything to do with whatever Paul’s got going on.” She downed the rest of her wine, watching Nena from across the table. Nena couldn’t read her, couldn’t tell if Elin even believed Lucien was Paul.
“You don’t know what you’re doing, Nena, you really don’t . . .” Elin trailed off, unable to look at her. She covered her mouth with her hand, shaking her head as Nena waited for her to say more.
All Nena could do was sit back and watch as her sister motioned for a refill, downed it, and then asked for the bottle. Nena was at a loss, knowing she might have destroyed the most important person in her life, her best friend, who’d stood beside her since the moment they’d met, because she had waited too long. If Elin doubted her, if Elin no longer trusted her, Nena wasn’t sure if she could survive it.
64
BEFORE
At eighteen, I spend a month of my summer in Sniper Training. My rifle of choice will eventually become a Nemesis Valkyrie because of its lightweight handling. I learn to use it both left and right handed. My second rifle, a little heavier, is a Vanquish 762 because I saw it in a movie once and took a liking to it. I add on gear like nightscopes, suppressors, and detachable magazines, to name a few.
I go through Weapons Training, learning how to handle guns of various sizes and weights, finally opting for a sleek black 9 mm Glock 17 with a suppressor as my personal sidearm. I love the way it feels in my hands. I am already well versed with sharp objects, but now I learn the art of knife fighting: how to hold them, making them extensions of my hands and fingers.
Eventually, I will possess many knives in my private arsenal in my little blue home in Freedom City, Miami, my favorite being a military-grade tactical blade I house in either a side sling or blade holsters. Or, if I’m on a big job or in a remote location, a tactical backpack or go bag. My two little secret push knives are hidden within fashionable-brand belts (thanks to Elin). These are short, tiny T-shaped blades that sit at either hip bone, can go unnoticed by metal detectors, and come in extremely convenient during hand-to-hand combat. These are proximity weapons I never leave home without. I like to call them my utensils.
In Interrogation Training, both giving and receiving, I learn all I need to know, and it is still not enough.
“Interrogation goes hand in hand with Escape and Evasion,” Rand, his long-roped dreads twisted into one long, swaying, beautiful braid, begins. He is from Jamaica, and maybe one day I’ll visit. “The key here is to use your E-and-E training before you are ever in a position to be interrogated.
“There are three main goals you must have when pumping anyone for information,” Rand continues. From his usual perch, Witt watches. “What is their weakness? Once you figure that out, how do you exploit it? And what is the best way to extract that information from them? Sometimes, the method of extraction might have to be forceful.”
“Torture,” I volunteer.
Rand nods.
I look at him. “And what if I’m the one being interrogated?”
He sits backward in his chair, propping his arms over the back. “You better stay free or die trying.”
His words are supposed to be a joke, but his meaning is horrifyingly clear. It is in my best interest to never get caught.
65
AFTER
Elin finally set her sights back on Nena. She firmed her shoulders, fighting to keep her voice level but failing miserably. “What you’re suggesting . . .”
With Nena, there was no hiding.
“What you’re suggesting is that Oliver, my Oliver, is a willing participant in Paul’s master plan?” She glowered at Nena while waving off a refill of her drink from the server.
Nena swallowed. Her hands were damp from the nervousness coiling through her body, twisting her intestines like a snake. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt her sister, undermine her authority, or go against Elin in any way. Their father had told them to always stand together no matter what. But there was no way Oliver did not know. That wasn’t how Paul worked with his inner circle.
“It is my belief, yes.”
Elin snapped at her, “A belief, but not a fact.” She lowered her voice. “I can’t accept this. You have no proof.”
“You’re right. I don’t.”
“We don’t deal in maybes and beliefs, Nena,” Elin hissed. “You know this. We deal with absolutes because we can have no reversals.”
“It’s a guess,” Nena concurred. “But it is probable.”
“It’s a fucking guess,” Elin scoffed, sitting back in her chair. Her eyes flashed anger, but there was something else, too, a sliver of fear that maybe Nena was right, a plea that Nena was wrong.
Nena rarely asked for anything. Never questioned Elin’s judgment or her ability to cut through bullshit and do what she needed to do. But now, when Elin had finally found someone she loved and saw a future with, Nena was asking for too much.
“It’s how Paul works. His inner circle will always know his motives and plans.”
“Oliver is his son. Did you ever consider maybe Paul would shield him from that?” Elin reasoned. “Look, you got a pass on the Attah thing. You took out Kwabena. But now? Now, you’re going too far, Nena. Dad is in the hospital. Mum is sick with worry. We don’t need any more shit right now.”
“I know.”
“Then take Paul out, but leave Oliver alone.”
Nena couldn’t stand the way Elin was staring at her intently, pleading again. She felt herself giving in. Maybe she was wrong.
“Oliver had nothing to do
with what happened to you,” Elin reaffirmed. “He couldn’t.”
It was as if Nena’s own heart was breaking. “I know.”
Elin’s eyes pleaded with Nena. Her voice was thick with emotion. “If what you’re suggesting is true, then it means I have compromised the Tribe—that Dad and the Council have compromised the Tribe. It means I allowed my feelings to take over common sense, that I’m unfit to lead.”
Nena was slowly shaking her head. “It would not mean any of that,” she said sincerely. “Paul is just too good, so good he’s managed to evade capture, reinvent himself under the Tribe’s nose, and then come out to join them. Only he has the audacity to do so. There is nothing you could have done, Elin.” Why hadn’t Nena believed those very words about herself all these years?
Nena reached out for Elin’s hand, grasped it in hers, and held tight. “There is nothing either one of us could have done.” Her voice betrayed her, cracking and showing how devastated she was at delivering this news.
Elin took a deep breath. “I love him, Nena.” Her eyes were glassy with tears and her voice soft and mournful.
“I know.” How she hated herself for what she was doing to her sister. How she hated Paul even more for making her do it.
“And we . . .” Elin gulped, forcing herself to continue. “We eloped three days ago.” Her phone began chirping.
Nena’s stomach plummeted. Her hand retracted as she sat back in her chair. “Elin,” she breathed, not wanting to believe it. Because if she was right about Oliver . . .
“When we were in Vegas. We just . . .” She trailed off. “It was sudden. A whim.”
“His idea?” Nena asked, trying to keep the accusation out of her voice.
Elin looked at her sharply. “It was both our ideas,” she said through clenched teeth. The phone kept ringing. Elin glanced at the number. “Network,” she informed Nena, clearing her throat. “Yes?”
Nena watched as her expression changed from business to horror.
“You’re sure?” She waited, her eyes connecting with Nena’s. “We are on our way.”
Nena was already out of her chair and dropping a hundred on the table.
“Where?” Nena asked, back to business. A second look at Elin’s stricken face gave her pause. “Who is it? Dad? Mum?”
Elin swallowed. “There’s been activity at the Baxters’.”
It was all Nena could do to not buckle in the restaurant. The Baxters. Georgia and Cort. Nena never showed fear, never had a chink in her armor, but it was there now, the chink widening each second she didn’t know what had happened to the Baxters.
She allowed herself that moment of emotion. But then her face returned to its impenetrable mask, because there was work to do.
Work only she could do.
66
BEFORE
Not long after I receive my field name and become Echo, on a particularly cold and miserable evening, I am on recon. Goon and Max are with me. Goon has become the closest thing to a friend I have in Dispatch. Tonight’s mission is to wait for a man—some radical threatening to disrupt the delicate power in a small country government under Tribe protection.
Simply put, he is planning a coup.
Allowing him to unseat the current government and obtain control for himself would drive up trade costs and undo all order the Tribe has created. And Dad’s motto is If there is no order, chaos ensues. Thus, Goon and Max are here to restore that order. I tag along to observe and learn, although I’m ready to get my feet wet beyond watching and driving.
Max is irritable. Goon prefers face-to-face confrontation. He is the proverbial bull in a china shop. Like Rambo, he wants to go in and fuck shit up—his words, not mine. But a dispatch can start either like a bull or like a lamb. Tonight is the latter. The lengthy surveilling we do in our very ordinary Subaru grates at both men.
“I’m hungry. What the fuck’s taking so long?” Goon whines. From the back seat, I look at him through the rearview mirror. The car isn’t big. He must be very uncomfortable, further amplifying his irritability. He knows we are supposed to remain undercover and in position, always watching for our mark and the first chance to take him out.
“Fuck it,” he says, opening the driver’s-side door. “I’ll be back. I gotta stretch my legs and make a food run to the cart across the way.”
“You shouldn’t,” I say, the sudden change making my stomach flip. There are too many unknowns when the plan changes. That I learned in training.
But Max waves me off. “Grab me something while you’re at it. The bugger’s probably getting in an extra screw with his whore anyway. Gonna be a while.” He pulls out his gun and lays it on the armrest between their seats. “Gonna take me a piss before the show starts.” He doesn’t wait for me to comment before he leaves.
I am left alone on a mission for the first time. I watch as Max walks around the corner of the apartment building, where the mark is indeed enjoying time with a young woman. At the same time, his wife sits in prison a world away because of crimes he committed, according to the intel reports I study before every mission.
I can barely see Max due to his dark clothing. He blends with the shrubbery. Goon has merged himself into a line that has suddenly materialized at the food cart. It’s funny how one second, there is no line, and the next, everyone becomes hungry all at once. I look at my watch, thinking our mark is due at any moment. My fingers tingle with anticipatory energy at what’s to come. Correction: my whole body is a mass of tingles.
I scrunch down lower when a Navigator pulls up in front of the building and sits idling, no doubt waiting for the mark. Goon’s view of the building’s front is now obstructed. He cannot return with the car there, or he’ll risk blowing cover and the mission. Max is nowhere to be seen. When the Navigator’s front door opens and two serious-looking men file out, sweeping the street for anything out of the ordinary, I know they are the mark’s detail. In moments he will emerge, slip into the waiting car, and be gone, as will our opportunity. All our time and resources wasted because Goon got hungry and Max had to piss.
And there is the mark stepping through the doorway, looking satiated in his three-piece suit, as if he hasn’t a care in the world.
An executive decision made, I grasp my door handle and open it. A cold wind hits me as I step out and make haste to the building. I have my cell to my ear, pretending to make plans to meet an imaginary friend. The mark’s eyes are upon me as he slowly makes his way down the six steps from the door. His men are to his right, one on the same step as him, one on a step above him.
As my boot reaches the curb in front of them, Max reappears, wiping his hands on the back of his pants. Unless he found a spigot, the wetness on his hands is not from water. But there’s no time to harp on his poor hygiene. The guards spot him and tense at the same time; their hands automatically reach into their jackets and extract their sidearms.
Max’s gun is in the Subaru on the armrest, a rookie mistake when he is not one. He should have another on him, but he notices the men a moment too late. The guards pay me no mind. I am a young girl who has tripped exquisitely over the heels of her shoes. I cry out in false pain and surprise.
The mark reaches the bottom of the stairs, but I stumble in his path, blocking his way to the Navigator. He smiles broadly. From the intel, I know he has a penchant for young women, which is why I caught his attention. Before he has a chance to decide whether he wants to assist me or not—the fact that he has to decide is rude—shots ring out.
His head snaps toward the commotion, as does mine, in time to see Max falling and one of the mark’s men, arm extended, pointing his gun at the space Max once inhabited. He shot without provocation. For all he knew, Max was some random man on the street, but he gunned him down. Just because.
People begin screaming, scattering this way and that. More shots ring out as Goon breaks from the line at the food cart and approaches. He has forgotten his hunger and no longer cares about his cover. He pulls his gun from his hidden
side holster. The guards shoot above where I crouch on the sidewalk. The man in the waiting car is shooting.
People screaming, running, falling, everywhere. I can hear Network calling commands to retreat in my ear. I know Goon can hear them too. It is three to one, and Goon takes a bullet in the side, maybe the hip. I am unsure, but the bullets keep coming. It pushes me to action.
Don’t let them see you coming . . .
The mark’s hand hovers in the air above mine. Seconds that feel like eons have passed, and no more must, or Goon will be as dead as Max must be.
. . . until it’s too late.
My hand frees my piece from the belt at my back, its silencer already in place. Slowly I rise up to position myself closer to the crouched mark. He is preoccupied, looking at his guards, who shout commands among them. I need to get to him before one of them breaks off to help him into the Navigator. My free hand, the one he considered grabbing, snakes out and latches onto him. I yank hard.
He yelps, surprised, and staggers as I unbalance him, bringing him down to me. I press my virgin gun into the softness of his submandibular space, below his chin, above his Adam’s apple. I squeeze the trigger. His blood splatters my face, and he goes down. I catch him but do not anticipate his dead weight, so we both fall hard to the ground, me flat on my rear.
There is no time. Quickly I push him off me and get up. His men lay a suppressing fire to keep Goon at bay as he takes cover behind a parked auto. I shift my target. The men are unaware their charge is dead, so focused are they on Goon. They do not see me coming.
I take aim and squeeze. One down.
The shot draws the attention of the other. His head snaps in my direction. His eyes widen at the dead men on the ground, but I allow him no time to gather his thoughts. I squeeze the trigger. He crumples, tumbling down the steps. Two down.
Goon has recovered ground and lets out another rapid-fire burst now that the other shooters are no longer a threat. He riddles the car and its driver with bullets, killing him. There is silence, except the echoing reports of gunfire against the walls.