by Yasmin Angoe
Goon limps toward our auto while I look down at the mark. He is very dead, but I have seen enough movies. I squeeze one last shot into the back of his head.
“Come on!” Goon commands from the car, its engine roaring. I step over the mark as if he were merely a crack in the ground and hustle to the car. I gaze over at Max’s body, checking for signs of life, before slipping into the passenger seat he once occupied.
“Maybe he’s still alive?”
“He’s not,” Goon growls through his pain, focused on getting us out of this hot zone. “Get the charge from the bag.”
I reach to the rear seats of the car, grabbing the go bag from the floor. Sirens wail in the background, coming closer. The street is relatively deserted, everyone either having run away or keeping cover. I rifle through the bag until I find the small black box no heavier than a D-size battery, no bigger than an old pager. I check with Goon, who nods pointedly.
I press the button on it, priming it. I roll my window down as I do. When Goon wheels past Max’s body, I toss the charge at it. The charge smacks the body, exploding on impact. The explosion amounts to a small firework you can buy for New Year’s, but it does its job, eradicating any trace of our dispatch team and the Tribe.
The mission has gone awry. Max is dead, and Cleaners will take care of his remains somehow. However, the objective has been met and the mark killed, even though I was only supposed to tag along, not work this job. I have graduated my training early and completed my first dispatch, while Goon is forced into retirement.
67
AFTER
With no more intel than what they’d received from the call, Nena and Elin raced to the Baxters’. The neighborhood was quiet, but not for long. The moment a neighbor came out to walk their dog or a car drove by, they’d see the dead body lying on the lawn that Nena observed with growing dread as she cut her bike’s engine. Parked in the driveway were Cortland’s Chevelle and an F-150 that she remembered from the cookout was Mack’s.
The house was dark, and the front door was cracked open. It was too quiet. Nena pulled her gun, sweeping the perimeter for anyone hanging around. She first checked the body. Mack. She felt his neck, hoping for a pulse. Nothing.
There was no more she could do for him, so she left him there and continued. Gun ready, she entered through the open front door.
She spotted Cort immediately. He was lying in the living room, unmoving, a puddle of blood beneath him. She ignored the sinking of her heart and contemplated not checking him at all. If she didn’t check, then she could avoid the possibility that he was as dead as Mack a moment longer. She backed away from his still body, deciding to clear the house first.
Muzzle pointed to the floor, she swept the gun side to side. Moving carefully down the hall, she cleared the three bedrooms, the bathrooms, the kitchen, the dining room, and the garage. There was nothing else out of place in the home. Elin entered the house as Nena reemerged from the bedrooms. Elin was already dropping next to Cort’s body, uttering an alarmed curse.
“The guy out there’s dead,” Elin huffed, as Nena knelt on Cort’s other side. “Is he?”
Nena touched an artery. “He’s alive.”
“Georgia?”
“Not here,” Nena said grimly.
Elin pulled her cell to call Network to get a team out. Nena balled a hand into a fist, pushing the knuckle of her pointer finger out. She pressed her fist into Cort’s chest, grinding the knuckle into his flesh, until he gasped awake with Georgia’s name on his lips. He looked around wildly, tried to sit up, grimaced when the pain hit him, and was back down. His hands went to the darkened area on his shirt. Nena lifted the shirt, making an initial assessment.
“Be still,” she said gently. Her fingers tenderly traced his eyebrows. She ignored Elin staring at her.
“What happened?” Nena asked.
Cortland’s response came in huffs. “Not sure? Some guy ambushed us when we came home.”
Nena asked, “Who was he?”
“Never saw him before. We were at a movie, the three of us. I opened the door and came inside first. Mack was last. I heard shots. Oh God. Mack.” His body jerked up. “Is he—?”
Elin dropped her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Where is Georgia? What is your sister doing here?” Cort asked, still struggling beneath their hands.
“What happened next, Cort?” Nena pressed on in case he passed out again.
Cort took in a ragged breath. “When I heard the shot, I came around the corner and saw Mack outside. Peach was in the foyer, and the guy was pointing the gun at her and made her come in. I struggled with him, and he hit me with his gun. I pushed Peach out of the way, and he shot me. That’s all I remember.” He looked around, confused and terrified. “Peach? Where is she?”
“She’s not here,”
“What do you mean, she’s not here? Where is she?”
“I don’t know. Yet,” Nena assured him. “Can you describe him? Did he say anything?”
He concentrated. “No. He got me before I had a good look at him. And he had on a hat, black, like his clothes. Maybe he’s about my height, fit, strong. I just didn’t get a good enough look. Nena . . .”
“I know, Cort. We’ll find her.”
Elin had opened her mouth to speak when her phone rang in her hand, and Oliver’s name appeared on the screen.
“Oliver, not the best time. I’m dealing with a situation,” Elin rushed to say, watching with trepidation as Nena applied pressure to Cort’s wound. “Can I get back to you?”
She paused as she listened to Oliver’s response, her expression turning from worry to surprise, then confusion. She pulled the phone from her ear and pressed the speaker button.
“She can hear,” Elin said. “But as I said, we’re dealing with a situation here.”
“Yes, and I believe I am that situation,” Oliver said.
Nena and Elin froze. Oliver’s tone was all wrong, not like how he’d sounded when Nena had met him the night of the dinner party. He sounded like his father.
Elin said, “What?”
“Shut up, Elin,” he snapped, enunciating as if she were an imbecile. “I need to speak with Nena.”
68
BEFORE
When both Elin and I have graduated university with our respective degrees, we strike out from beneath the protective umbrella of Delphine and Noble Knight and are permitted to relocate to the States, to Florida to be exact, for a couple of reasons. And by “reasons,” I mean me.
One, because Florida holds a special place in my heart because of the yearly excursions Dad and I make to the races. Two, because Florida can be hot and doesn’t have cold weather like England does. We all know how much I detest the cold. Three, because Florida has Miami, which is a port city (something Dad loves) and is a melting pot of so many cultures I feel I am both back home and not, at the same time.
Elin chooses to live in the high-rise flat in Coconut Grove, which is beautiful and fitting of the type of woman Elin has become, chic and sophisticated. A true High Council member-to-be. But I choose to live somewhere subtler, more comfortable to me. It is in Freedom City, in a neighborhood called Citrus Grove, where I find my home. It is small, with chipped, faded yellow paint and shingles in need of work I will happily pay for. It sits on the corner, and I can imagine how it will look when I am done renovating it.
I also meet the man who will become one of my closest associates, Keigel, head of the 102s, the local band of merry gang members. Keigel acts tough at first but soon changes when he realizes I don’t scare easily.
He appraises me as if I am a specimen. “And this ain’t no gentrification-type shit?” he asks when I tell him I mean to be his neighbor—three doors down.
“Not in the least.”
He twists his lips. “I ain’t no superman, ya heard?” he warns. “You come across trouble here, I can’t save you.”
“I understand.” Perfectly.
I enjoy Keigel’s company because he
’s a softy under a gruff exterior. And he has impeccable taste in lemon-pepper wings from Wings and Such. However, if he asks, I will deny it.
69
AFTER
Gently, Nena took the phone and switched off the speaker. She didn’t want Cort to hear if the news about Georgia was bad. Knowing she had been right about Elin’s now husband was devastating news enough for one of the people Nena cared about. She didn’t know if she could handle destroying the hopes of someone else just yet. Beside her, Elin balled her trembling hands at her sides. Nena put the phone to her ear.
“What is it?”
“Did Elin share our good news?” Oliver said, as if he weren’t waging war against them. Nena could hear wind whooshing in the background. Car. But how far had he gone? And was he alone?
“Where is she?”
“With me.” He laughed, his words wreaking havoc on her system. “She’s a spitfire and can hit like a motherfucker.”
Nena weighed her words carefully, trying to keep her emotions in check as if she were on the job. But this wasn’t any job. This was personal.
“What do you want?”
“You to come alone.”
“This has nothing to do with you.”
Oliver ignored her, rattling off an address Nena committed to memory.
“And come alone,” he finished seriously. “No team. No Elin. No one but you, or—”
Dread squeezed the air from her throat. “Or?”
“Or history repeats itself. I’d say it’s time for a little family reunion, don’t you agree?”
The line went dead before she could get her question out. What did he mean, family reunion? Wordlessly, Nena returned the phone to Elin. She sat back on her haunches. Ice-cold tentacles of fear wound their way through every nerve in her body. Nena cursed herself for not knowing what to do next. It was her job to know. But everything was coming up blank.
Cort wheezed, “What about Peach?”
The question woke her up.
Nena wiped at her eyes and looked down at her fingers, surprised they came away damp. Now was not the time to sift through the tumult of feelings, not when there was work to do. “They have her,” she said, getting to her feet.
Cort’s eyes widened at seeing a gun in her hands. “Nena, what the hell?”
“I need to go after them before it’s too late.”
Elin tore her gaze away from the floor. Her face was riddled with guilt and shame, eyes rimmed with tears as infrequent to her as they were to Nena. “I am so sorry,” Elin whispered, the enormity of the situation threatening to split her in two. “I should have known. I’ve failed.”
“You haven’t.”
“I can’t lead the Tribe if I can’t trust my own instincts, my judgment of character. I can’t. I fucked up.” The tears pooling in her eyes spilled, failure consuming her.
Nena glanced at her watch. She looked away, thinking. Looked back at her sister, conflicted. What was the appropriate thing to do? For the second time that night, she chose to comfort someone else.
“We are a team,” Nena said.
Cort interjected. “We need to call the cops.”
“No cops,” both women said automatically.
Elin tore her gaze away from him, her face wrought with worry and guilt and terror.
“I need to go.” Nena turned to leave.
Elin scrambled to her feet, her outstretched hand stopping Nena. “Let me go with you. I can reason with Oliver. Maybe I can offer him whatever he wants.”
Nena shook her head. “It’s not about what Oliver wants. It’s always been about what Paul wants, and it’s nothing you can provide.”
“Nena,” Cort said again from the floor. He struggled to get up, but the wound in his side was too severe, had weakened him faster than they’d anticipated. The dark area of his shirt had grown larger. He crumpled back down, falling into unconsciousness.
Nena fought the urge to tend to him, to touch him. She thought of the night they’d spent dancing and being a normal couple. But she knew if she stopped a second to be the Nena he knew and not the Echo she needed to be, she wouldn’t leave his side. And she had to, to save Georgia and end this thing with Paul.
To Elin, she whispered, “Get him medical attention. This time you actually do have to call the cops, if a neighbor hasn’t already. Come up with a story for them. When I find Georgia, I’ll bring her home.”
Elin pointed at Cort. Leaning toward Nena, she asked, “And him? What do I tell him?”
“Tell him whatever it takes to get him on board. Tell him”—Nena looked down at him as well, wondering how he’d feel once he knew who she really was—“tell him he can ask me anything he wants, and I will answer when I return.”
Elin’s lips quivered. “If that little girl dies because of me . . .” She was unable to finish.
“Whatever happens will not be because of you.” Nena hesitated. “And it will not be because of me either. Everything that’s happened—is happening—is because of Paul.”
70
BEFORE
Several months after I purchase my little house, two things happen: my home is renovated and fitted to suit my needs, and my parents come to visit, meeting Keigel.
My house is a calming sea-blue color, reminding me of the oceans of the tropics. It has a security system fit for a bank, complete with motion sensors that could detect an ant traipsing over a blade of grass. There are hidden cameras everywhere. A privacy fence closes off my backyard, so I can sit out there in my oasis without the worry of spectators. The carport is now a fully enclosed garage.
In what I call my office or command center, there is a high-level communication setup and a hidden pantry-like room behind my closet wall, which houses my weapons arsenal, passports, and other accoutrements needed for my dispatch work. It slides open when activated by my palm print. The palm must be warm, with a beating pulse. The second room, my guest room, is for appearances only, because I don’t intend to entertain overnight guests.
When my parents pull up in their black Escalade with their driver, Keigel is next to me on the sidewalk. He is there as a show of unity, to let the neighborhood know anyone who comes to my home is under his protection—laughable because he has no idea that he is under my protection now. He will know soon enough. When I introduce him to Delphine and Noble Knight, if they accept him, the options for Keigel will be limitless. He could have whatever his heart desires, and he’ll have the support of me and the Tribe . . . if he plays his cards right and my parents accept him.
The driver, well armed, and another bodyguard exit the SUV. Behind them, another car, a silver Mustang, rolls to a stop, and more guards pile out. They all look around, no doubt wondering why a Knight daughter lives here.
Keigel whistles as the guards pile out. He begins searching the ground.
“What are you doing?” I say. The man has lost his senses.
“Looking for the rose petals and African drums.” He grins. “I mean, the king of Zamunda has arrived, right?”
All I can do is look at him. Perhaps this meeting was not my best idea.
“Zamunda?” Keigel repeats slowly, his eyes incredulous that I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Coming to America? Come on now, Eddie Murphy? Arsenio Hall?”
I shake my head as if clueless.
To increase my horror, Keigel breaks out in song. “Just let your soul-l-l glo-o-o.” His voice cracks, but his smile is wide and proud.
“Is that a religious sect?” I ask. The nearest guard overhears us, and his shoulders shake from his laughter.
“Sexual chocolate!” Keigel blurts suddenly, startling me. I’m beginning to worry he is unwell.
I frown. “Is what? A new candy bar?” I say, pretending I don’t understand.
The guard turns quickly, sneaking a peek at Keigel, whose face drains of all hope. It’s official: Keigel is indeed unwell.
“Okay,” Keigel says, taking a deep breath. “James Earl Jones was the king.”
&nbs
p; A light bulb. “Ah,” I say, relieved we’ve gotten somewhere. “Yes, him I know.”
He expels a breath of air, shaking his hand in victory. “Finally. Finally!”
“James Earl Jones was Mufasa in The Lion King.”
Despair replaces Keigel’s brief relief, and by now, more guards are laughing at his misery. The name “akata” is mingled with their muted comments. The name is one we call Black Americans when we feel they are beneath us, a name I’ve never approved of and one I am disappointed the guards thought was okay to say. No one is beneath anyone, especially Keigel.
In a sharp voice and in Ewe, I tell the chuckling guards, “If you value your life, never again let me hear you call him that name.” I tilt my head toward Keigel, murmuring, “You know there is no country of Zamunda in Africa.”
He rolls his eyes at me. “Shit, I know that, but one can hope, right?”
As Keigel’s lanky body shrinks from disappointment, my nostrils flare as I try to remain serious. Later I’ll tell him Coming to America is one of my favorite movies. Lion King as well.
Keigel says, more serious than I’ve seen him before, “You know what gets me by each day I see one of my boys dead or watch all this crazy political shit going on? Knowing there is a real place out there. Knowing that Africa, in its entirety, is an amalgamation of Zamunda and Wakanda, and I can always go there if I need it.”
His words are the most profound and beautiful I have ever heard. They make me view those fictional idealizations of Africa in a new light, as well as Keigel, because he used the word amalgamation. And that is impressive.
When my parents complain that I live in a place they feel is unsafe, it is laughable, considering our line of business.
“This neighborhood and its people remind me of home,” I explain.
“Del, my dear, let her be,” Dad says. She sucks her teeth at him, and I know he will hear it during the car ride back to their flat. He follows Mum into their auto but calls over his shoulder to me. “Just make sure Network conducts several sweeps of this area, yes?”