by Amarie Avant
They always did.
Except when my heart seemed to clutch in my chest, just as it did now, while I looked into Qaaim’s eyes.
He had our dark brown eyes. Although, instead of the windows to an enriched, fair soul, his were muddled, and black with rage.
“Just kill us both, little brother. Have all of Nivean,” she trembled with each word.
Qaaim slid a dagger into her heart.
I’ve had this dream many times before. Thankfully, I always forget prior to awakening, but I always try to tell myself to leave this dream. My brain continues to warn me that it’s time to wake up, time to forget what the spirits beg me to remember.
What I know will happen next, is Qaaim will drag my mother’s body down all those stairs we’d just ran up. As I dream this nightmare for the umpteenth time, I’ll wonder where our guards are, numerous times. Why the Nivean warriors haven’t saved us. Abayomi, my friend, is six, and he promises to be an even better warrior than his father. He’s just bullheaded enough to think he could take on Qaaim. He wouldn’t allow this to happen! I scream in my sleep, but it’s for nothing. Here it comes. The thumping sound begins.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. The palace was eerily silent except for my sobs and the sound of my umama’s head thumping on each step as Qaaim moved her down the stairs by her feet. Her eyes were open, there was a tear trickling down her cheek. I clung to my dead umama as my uncle, Qaaim, “the advisor,” promised all would be well.
Outside, my parent’s car was at the front of the lot. My father sat in the driver seat. His body dead, he’s now as at peace as my mother is.
Qaaim opened the door to the passenger seat. “Where they go, you cannot, I’m afraid, Mikayla. We must return to the celebration.”
I was drowning in tears with a throat too constricted to speak.
“Tomorrow, our nation will mourn the end of an era. They will cry rivers because your parents were good. You too, will go away for a while,” he grunted, hefting my umama up onto the floor of the car with my added weight, as I continued to hold for dear life. “When you return, the people who truly loved your parents and won’t love you anymore because you will be different. With your dress and speech, you will be an abomination to the Nivean nation.”
“Anithandi?” I sobbed, wiping my big brown eyes so that I could see him clearly.
“Yes, of course, I do love you, Princess Mikayla.” He tapped my nose with a smile. “Unfortunately, there’s something inside of me which craves what you have more than I love you. Your parents are about to die in a car crash, so I need you to keep a secret until we work out the plan of how to keep you safe…”
It wasn’t until I was an adolescent that in my dream, did I question the meaning of his words. I silently questioned it. My psychologist continued to bring up the words I muttered ‘umama ufile, umama ufile—mom is dead, mom is dead.’ A detective was waiting for a response that he’d never get. I’d mumbled ‘mom is dead’ so many times while silently wondering: How was my uncle keeping me safe if he had murdered my parents? Why not murder me, I understood that a king regent only performed certain duties and didn’t receive the same reverence that the true king and queen did. Qaaim could’ve murdered me ‘in a car crash’ that night as well.
Qaaim was the person I needed to be kept safe from!
***
“Vuka (wake up)… vuka…” A deep voice whispers into my ears in a language that was once as familiar to me as air. I moan, deciding that I’m still asleep. Though I do not understand the words, the voice sounds displaced.
This is different. The thought continues to roam through my mind that I must be dreaming. Nevertheless, this dream doesn’t follow the usual pattern.
I should be in the passenger seat of Qaaim’s Mercedes, legs hardly extending to the edge of the seat.
Of all the times I’ve shouted for my nightmare to end, this is the first time it’s actually interrupted when my shoulder is anxiously shaken.
“Vuka,” the male voice implores.
THIS IS REALITY. My eyes pop open to darkness. Either it’s still night or the blackout curtains have seeped up every bit of illumination.
His voice is steady, swift as he speaks. My eyes adjust to the darkness. The man before me is a few years older than myself, has a broad nose, piercing dark eyes and full lips. There’s a hesitance in how he holds his hand out as if he believes I’ll break if he touches me.
He’s wearing a tourist shirt from Circus Circus, cargo shorts, and flip flops.
Scurrying to the opposite side of the bed, I scream at the top of my lungs, “Jagg–”
“You call for him!” The man shouts in an African accent, finally using words I’m aware of. “You, my princess, call for the mtyholi (devil)?”
“Jagger!” I reach over and grab the phone. My potential weapon doesn’t yank from the wall! Instead, the force of my pull has the cord snatching back. The only hard object at my disposal falls to the floor.
All I have is pillows to hit him with, and I’ve managed to tangle myself into the blankets.
The man comes around to my side of the bed, picks up the phone and places it down. “You are an abomination to our people.” He starts to call me the name Jagger does, but spits it out in disgust. “Uthando lukaMtyholi (devil’s love)”
With me in the bed, it’s hard to fight. And the man, either Zihulan or Nivean has a physique that implies I won’t win the fight or inflict any pain
“Where’s Jagger?” My voice quivers.
His thick lips hardly move. “Dead or dying.”
“You’re lying.” I snap. He wouldn’t allow this. There was no commotion before I woke. No shouting or fighting. Something isn’t right… why would this man pick up the phone from the ground and place it back on the nightstand?
He doesn’t want there to be a sign of a struggle!
How much bad karma can one person have to deserve being abducted twice in less than a full week?
The nape of my neck sparks with pain as I break the designer necklace that complemented the outfit I wore last night.
The man offers a confused look as he pricks me with a syringe.
I slap out at him but my body freezes, and my hand flops down. The mattress feels ever so welcoming as I crumple into the sheets and into another nightmare from the past…
Jagger
An hour ago…
The phone is ringing. I mumble explicits about blue balls and an angry Mikayla while sitting up from the couch. It’s barely 6AM in Las Vegas, for the city that never sleeps, this would be the perfect time to do so.
“Yes,” I growl into the receiver.
“Good morning, Mr. Windhoek,” Harry says, “We are having a bit of an issue with your credit card.”
Well, that’s a first. “It’s a debit card, there’s more than enough…” I huff. “What do you need me to do, Harry?”
“At your earliest convenience, please come down to the private lobby in order to provide another form of funds, and I will also need to see an updated driver's license or Identification card. I know I have it on file, but it will need to be confirmed with the new card.”
“At my earliest convenience, huh? I believe you screwed that when calling me. I’ll be down there in ten.” I stop short of slamming the landline into the cradle. Not because Mikayla has smiled at the fucker since day one, but because I care about her more than she thinks. I care about her rest and all the crap people take for granted after a while…
Why do I give a fuck? It’s beyond me.
Jag, you’re your mother’s child, that’s why! I rub the back of my neck. After all these years, and the shit I’ve done to push myself away from my mother and her God due to her not loving me, here I am, considering another person over myself.
“Well, Dad. You’re looking down from … wherever and I am sure that all the surprising bullshit from your life doesn’t trump this.”
My neck hurts from sleeping awkwardly on the couch, so I’ll silently be a dick. But yeah
I care. Maybe the ‘we’d be a killer team’ was too soon?
With a frown, I shove into a pair of black jeans and pull my undershirt away from my chest.
I’m not a dog who requires pussy ever night, but damn it, there’s a perfectly good… perfect woman right within my grasp.
I’ve tasted her.
I’m not interested in anything else. So I’ll suffer now. My face is etched in a frown as I slip into my boots.
Ten minutes later, I’m at the private lobby and the attendant is offering me this sloppy, happy smile as she explains that my card is working.
“My apologies, Mr. Windhoek, we attempted to call you right back. But there are no issues with your card. Please allow the hotel to prepare your last meal before your departure.”
I salute her as response, tipping just the left side of my mouth so as not to be considered too rude. The faint sounds of slot machines pinging in the background. I head toward the private elevator for the suites floors.
I press the button, with a huff. I’ve had Makayla for five days. When we arrive in Zihula tomorrow, what’s to become of us?
“Nothing.” I mutter, pressing the elevator door.
It opens a few moments later, with a crowd of people who chose not to take advantage of the late check out perks.
There are three couples, one elderly couple, and two younger sets of minorities. They’re all holding hands. A dark-skinned man gets off last, carting a hefty rollaway. He looks touristy in a Circus Circus shirt.
My gaze tracks them all before I step on. I rub a hand over my face, as the doors begin to close.
“Hold it, please,” a man with salt and pepper hair and a suit that would put Trick’s collection to shame gets on.
I track the black man, whose rollaway appears to be bulging, but he’s chatting with the younger black couple, who look like they’ve come from Brooklyn. He’s the third wheel?
Up we go.
When I return to the suite, I quietly enter the bedroom, determined to take a shower before Mikayla wakes up. I’m not prepared for the inevitable… the end of us.
We’ll have the talk of her ritual with Prince Fari and how she was never mine from the start.
The room is dark inside, I start toward the bathroom, but in my peripheral, the bed is smoothly made. I take a few steps toward the blackout curtains and open them.
My heart slams into my stomach. I suppose it was my heart, this shit has never happened to me before.
No, not my abductee running away, but obviously that’s a first two.
But… Mikayla… is … gone.
I chuckle at myself. “Least she had the fucking decency to make up the bed.”
And then the false contentment transforms into hurt. Into rage.
I grab the mattress and toss it across the room. Next, I start with the left poster, slamming it against the glass wall. My chest is puffed up, my manhood is crushed.
All I wanted for us was murder and elation! Jesus Christ, you never give me anything!
Why can’t I have her!
The next wood poster splints from the wall, ripping the textured wallpaper with it.
“I feel exactly the same, Jagger.” A voice comes through the surround sound clear as crystal.
Ava Sinclair’s voice!
I stand stalk still, my eyes targeting each corner in the room for a potential wire.
“She’s a smart one; tore her necklace off. It’s somewhere between the mattress and the sliding glass door.”
“Where are you?” I shout through gritted teeth.
“Milan. I assumed shopping would lift my spirits but, no, watching you with a broken heart. Priceless, Jagger, fucking priceless. You can wear my fucking Manolo Blahnik’s now, metaphorically speaking.”
She’s thousands of miles away, so I focus on the built-in speaker at the left side of the room. “I’ve got two slugs for you, Sweetheart. Come to me.”
“No thank you, I value my life. You have excellent marksmanship. Although, you’re not focused as usual. We sweep our apartments and hotel rooms every morning and every night. I assumed I’d be found out on the second night, but I saw everything: You taking the princess’s virginity. You treating her with a kindness I’ve never received from you.”
My entire being is on fire at the thought of Ava watching Mikayla give me the best gift in the world. “Fuck You–”
“Much as I would’ve preferred it, she didn’t run away, Jagger. I decided prior to your death and hers, that she should know a few pertinent details about how you hurt…”
I tune out Ava and reach into the closet for my guns. This bitch is confused. I never professed my feelings for her. How could she be jealous if I never said I love you to her or made any promises?
I shove both Magnums into the waistband of my jeans. Next, I’m shoving my arms into a button up—hopefully, I’ll leave this hotel without having to use them. But if it’s necessary, I will. Mikayla can’t be collateral damage. Ava is out of her fucking mind if she thinks I’m going out like this. And to threaten someone who has never done her any harm–
“How about you move a few inches to the left? You die first, Jagger.”
At that, I drop to the ground. Glass shatters from the floor to ceiling windows. Shit, while opening the curtains, I became a target. Above my head, inches away from where I was just standing, is a hole as big as a fucking cantaloupe.
High caliber… Barrett sniper rifle. I grip one of the shells, stuff it into my pocket. My heart is beating into my ears.
Can’t stand up. That’ll be my entire head. This fuck has a better vantage point! I must get a good look at the sniper, whose life is now marked for screwing with me.
I reach over and open the box to a pair of Mikayla’s strappy shoes, grabbing one of them. Then I lay flat on my back, toss the shoe into the air.
The damn thing is shot to smithereens above my head as I sit up to take a quick look...
It’s a man, with a Dodgers cap masking too much of his face. Just as another shot POPs into the air, I’m lying flat once more.
My pride is dead as I crawl out of the bedroom.
“Don’t mind me,” Ava whines from the surround sound, “ a Kill-Head has been issued. Someone will get the job done before you even step one foot out of the state.”
I do what I do best.
Ignore her.
She’s already dead to me, and I’ll have the last word once her eyes shut for good.
“I love you, Jagger. Not some girl you just met less than a week ago! She’ll die soon, too. Why not grab one of your guns and do us ladies all a favor by ending your own life? You can’t love her!”
“Maybe I do!” It feels like I lost a piece of myself with Mikayla gone. The best piece. I’m at the door to the suite now. I turn the knob slowly. Ava wants me to go off, but I’m alert as the tip of a Beretta reaches in.
Amateur.
I grip the barrel of the gun to deflect his shot. A silenced bullet slams into the door frame. This must be a quiet fight. No alerting the authorities. Even the sniper’s rifle sounded like nothing but a firecracker.
I grab the lapel of the Asian’s suit and yank him inside. He grits his teeth, back slamming against the wall. He’s still holding desperately onto the gun. With one hand, I begin to yank at it. The other is balled into a fist, butchering his kidney with brut blows.
“Grrr…” he shouts.
The Asian kicks out a knee, I counteract it by lifting my knee. The crunch of our bones hitting causes him to lose control of the Beretta for a second. My hands grip his and I start to guide the gun toward his head.
“C’mon, Okowa, shoot him!” Ava growls through the receiver.
“Know your enemy,” I give him a last parting tip as our muscles shake. Okowa strains to reposition the gun. My index finger tucks on top of his.
“No!” he shouts, eyes popping out.
The bullet goes into the side of his mouth. At the upward angle, it leaves an exit wound at his temple. Okowa
slumps down to the floor. I toss the gun into his lap.
Ava tosses out sarcastically. “It’ll just get harder, Jagger.”
The last words I have to say will be during her death. I open the door, gaze sweeping up and down the luxurious pathway, and I start down the hall.
Under any other circumstances, I don’t mind collecting bodies. But to kill my fellow X Member, over a lie Ava told sets my jaw. Moving swiftly down the hall, I pull out my cell phone and toggle to the text messages.
X: Jagger Johansson. Kill-Head value $8 Million
The coordinates to Aria are at the bottom as my last known location. I grit my teeth. The organization has access to police records, government databases, they can tap into every security system in the inhabited earth. If Trick hadn’t manipulated my cellphone when we crossed paths during a gig in Bermuda, I’d have to dump the phone, and I wouldn’t even be aware of the company sending a text message about my Kill-Head. It isn’t the norm for the mass message to go to the intended mark.
Right now, I only have $20 grand in my wallet since X Member has a hand in depositing money into my bank accounts. They are aware of every false identity that I have!
How the fuck do I get out of the country with such little resources?
My phone pings a new text.
X: Location confirmed.
Either the sniper or Ava called it in.
With a grumble I place the phone back down and smash my thumb against the elevator button. Again. And again.
How many times have I preferred the adrenaline rush of doing shit the hard way?
Apprehending Mikayla could’ve been a whole lot easier.
Now I’m wishing for easy as the elevator doors open. There are nine people inside. For this to be a private elevator for suites only, it’s mighty crowded.
All males. One is wearing a stupid bachelor shirt.
All the guys are chatting about pussy and beer, except for the Latino in the back. For just a second’s assessment, I noticed he has on a Fedora and suit so he’s not celebrating the ending of this young man’s singlehood.