He smiled at her appalled reaction. “I guess that’s an obtuse question. Let’s get right to the point.”
Yes, lets.
* * *
Fear is more predictable than love. He’d had both and he reveled in the adrenaline produced by fear whereas with love, he’d loved and lost.
Her fear filled the air. Talib inhaled, filling his lungs and exhaled slowly. He hated having to result hitting her knowing that his mother would not approve. He allowed his gaze to fall to his lap as he waited for the memory of his mother to diminish.
He had a job to do and a livelihood to protect. As he watched Ashanta bring the glass to her lips, Talib knew he had to get her talking before she finished her drink.
Ashanta sat back on the couch.
“Sit up,” he barked. She tried to, but failed. He moved over to the couch and assisted her.
“Ashanta, I need to know what you did with my money.”
She laughed in a dreamy voice cupping his cheek. “I always thought you were so handsome.” Her eyes were heavily sliding closed.
Talib shook her, trying to keep her awake. “Open your eyes. I need you to sit up and tell me what you’ve done.” His voice was low and steady.
Ashanta’s eyes opened, her gaze was glossy. She began to mumble, but he couldn’t make out the words.
He put too much in her juice. Taking the glass from her hands, he used a cool towel and wiped it across her face. She opened her eyes.
“I thought you were my knight once. You saved me. I thought you cared for me.” Tears streamed down Ashanta’s face. He didn’t have time for this.
“Where is my money?!!”
The level of his voice startled them both. She’d hidden a half-million dollars and he wanted it. He knew she was responsible.
She began laugh softly and then she doubled over laughing. He stared at her in bewilderment. She pushed herself upright to a sitting position and continued to laugh for some unknown reason. He watched as her tears went from tears of pain and loss to tears of hilarity. She abruptly stopped and the room became still and quiet.
She looked him in the eyes and stated without a slur. “I will never tell you.”
She began to laugh again. Talib straddled her, gripping her throat and began to shake her violently.
“Tell me. Tell me or so help me I’ll kill you.”
“I’m already dead!” Ashanta screamed, fighting to untangle his hands from her throat.
He let her go and she tumbled to the floor gasping for air. He stood and paced the living room. She was right. She was dead, and in a couple of hours, she would draw her last breathe.
Talib reached in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. “Hey, get over here now. She has about an hour before the drug fully integrates in her system. We need to get what we can and get lost.”
He closed his phone and began to search the room. He’d start with the small office set up in the corner.
Less than an hour later, he heard a knock on the door. Two men joined him. Ashanta was asleep on the floor where he left her. The men began pulling out drawers, turning over her bed. They left a trail of chaos behind their every step.
The condo was a wreck and they were still empty handed. The men went through the apartment one last time. Suddenly, the ringing of Ashanta’s house phone startled them.
Talib entered the kitchen and found the phone sitting on the bar. The answering machine beeped. He heard Ashanta’s carefree tone instructing the caller to leave a message.
He felt twinge of guilt surfaced, but it left as fast as it came. He stopped feeling guilt or remorse years ago. It served no purpose.
“Shani, it’s me. I got your message. Where are you? You have me worried, girl.” A soft chuckle followed. “I will see you at work in the morning. Love you.”
Talib checked the caller ID. Camille Carmichael. He reached for his cell phone. “Hey, I didn’t find what I’m looking for. I’ll be ready to report in the morning.” He disconnected the call.
He sat on the floor next to Ashanta. He lifted her head and rested it on his lap. He had bumped into her, literally, almost fifteen years ago. She was running from some hoodlums not knowing she would regret the day that he saved her because he’d saved her only to take her life.
He ran his hand along her hair. What had he done? He could hear his men moving throughout her apartment. They would find what he needed at all cost.
Talib would find his money and return home. Unfortunately, Ashanta would never see her home country again.
* * *
Ashanta felt out of sorts. Her head was hurting and she wanted to sleep away the pain. She would ask for an aspirin, but she’d sleep first. She thought of her mother and Harold. She then said a prayer for Camille.
She hoped the contents of her package would not lead Camille to the same fate. Putting her regrets, sadness and pain aside, she snuggled closer to the pillow, wiggling, trying to find the right position. She opened her eyes and looked into his. They were distant and cold. She chided herself for her poor sense of judgment, yet again.
“I got you,” he whispered, brushing his index finger across the bruise emerging under her eye. He lifted her into his arms, cradling her like an infant.
She allowed her head to rest on his firm chest. It rivaled the softness of the pillow. Ashanta wanted to ask where he was taking her, but the need to sleep prevailed.
Chapter 9
Pounding the pavement, Camille carried her wandering mind and increasing apprehension to the road. She felt relief through her muscles while each stride dismissed her chaotic weekend.
Camille missed Ashanta’s call yesterday. She was anxious to see her this morning when they arrived at work. Leaning into the hill, Camille paced her strides. It reminded her of life because running uphill required a steady pace, level breathing, short strides, and you had to lean into the hill to prevent injury. She was in an uphill battle. Her case had gone from typical intelligence collection to potential homicide in a matter of days.
She stopped at the top of the hill. Bending over, she placed her hands on her knees catching her breathe. Standing, she looked around the landscape and could see the IJDC building. She began to stretch and noticed two cars in the parking lot.
The black Escalade belonged to Saul; however, she did not recognize the other. She quickly committed the license plate to memory, but she wanted to get a better look. She started on a slow jog to circle the building.
As she rounded the block, she was on the far side of the parking lot. Camille saw a black man walking with Saul as they both left the building. Neither noticed her. She hoped she would not be recognized.
She slowed her jog to an easy stride as she watched a foreign expression cross Saul’s face. Her best guess would peg it as fear, his posture was erect but his erratic hand movements were new to her.
The black gentleman seemed to tower over Saul. She sized him between six-foot-four and six-foot-six. His skin was nearly onyx black. She immediately concluded that his high cheekbones, broad nose, and full mouth meant he was of African ancestry. His expression was hard. Their eyes locked.
Camille nodded in a polite, neighborly gesture. He did not return the nod nor did he look away. Saul did not seem to notice his diverted attention. She approached the street that lead to her home. She stopped at the crosswalk at the end of the block and looked back. The stranger was still watching. She could feel his eyes on her.
She stole another glance at the license plate. The signal to walk glowed and she started her run back home, gradually increasing her speed. She would go try to find out the identity of Saul’s guest. Her list of tasks was growing.
Instead of thinking about Harold, Ashanta, Saul or Marc, she increased the volume on her iPod and aligned her mind and muscles to enjoy the run home knowing that her day would begin soon enough.
* * *
His waking thoughts were of Camille. She was beautiful, but something about her made him eager to learn more about the woma
n beneath that hardcore shell. He would have to tread lightly and not ruin his chances with her. After talking with Camille over dinner, he’d decided to make a quick trip back to Virginia. Something told him snooping into this case should be done in person.
Marc reached for his cell phone and dialed Camille’s number.
“Hello,” she answered sounding breathless. His body responded.
“Hey.” He wondered what she was doing and if she was alone. He turned his head to the side and coughed trying to formulate his thoughts. “It’s Marc, did I catch you at a bad time?” he asked.
“No, I just got in from my run. What can I do for you?”
Is that a trick question? He laughed.
“I don’t know if you’re prepared for me to answer that question. How about we start with ‘how are you this morning’?”
He sensed her hesitancy. “I’m good, and you?”
“I am fine. I’m heading to the airport. I thought I’d call and fill you in.” Marc told her of his plans to go to Virginia and return to Houston in a couple of days.
They sat in silence for a few moments. “Marc, I did not mean to blow up the other night. I just don’t plan to take any BS.”
“I understand, and again, I apologize. I would like to meet you for coffee before you go to work, if that’s possible. I want to understand where you are in the case. The more I know, the more helpful I can be. What do you say?”
He paused, hoping Camille would agree. He usually did not care that his straightforward delivery rubbed people the wrong way. It was who he was. Take it or leave it, but Marc cared that he’d hurt her feelings. He didn’t want to examine why. For now, he’d go with his gut feeling. His instincts told him that she was what he was looking for.
“I have to go in early. Can you just swing by here? I don’t want to risk being overheard or running into someone from work.”
“Sure. I can get there in about twenty minutes.”
* * *
Camille showered and dressed for work in her usual business suit. She stopped in front of the mirror, for the first time she noticed how unattractive she looked in her work clothes. The suit was a basic black pant and jacket. Today she selected a soft pink button up dress shirt with a pearl necklace and matching earrings.
Her face was just as plain. She rarely wore a full face of makeup; it was bare except for a coat of mascara and lip gloss. She rubbed her fingers across the freckles on the bridge of her nose. She immediately remembered the heat from his touch. Marc seemed fascinated with her.
He was not the type of man you toyed around with. Marc had a hard edge that was exciting, but he was not her speed. She liked predictability. She had enough excitement in her line of work. She wanted to come home to someone that was reliable and secure.
Moving to her file cabinet, she grabbed her cordless phone and stopped to dial Ashanta’s number. She listened to the phone ring while she gathered her notes and files. Again, no answer.
A knock on her door startled her. She gave herself a final once over. She smoothed her hands across her bun to ensure every hair was in place. Her feet were bare, but she was at home.
She opened the door to find him leaning against the door jam. He had on a pair of worn jeans, t-shirt and running shoes. She wondered if he was a runner too. She stepped back, giving him space to enter.
Once inside, he placed a chaste kiss on her check and moved towards the living room. She trailed behind him. He was beautifully made and he had a cute butt.
She giggled, causing him to glance at her over his shoulder. She stopped, sucking in her urge to reach out and give it a little squeeze.
“How’s everything?” he asked as one brow lifted with a soft smile on his full lips.
Camille cleared her throat. “Good. Would you like some coffee, juice, anything?”
“No, I’ll grab something at the airport.” He sat on the couch. He clapped his hands, rubbing them as if he was attempting to make a fire. “What do you have for me?”
If only you knew…
“Are you sure you’re all right?” He smiled as if knowing exactly what issue plagued her.
She couldn’t focus. “I’m fine. Here are some notes. Look them over while I grab a cup of coffee.”
She went to the kitchen, stopped and braced both hands on the counter. Camille allowed her head to drop as she took deep breathes. Her body was doing flip-flops. She turned and leaned against the counter with her head in her hands and groaned.
You can do this, he’s just a man, she thought. Her pep talk was not working. With her celibate body running amok, she groaned again.
Closing her eyes, she rolled her head from side to side loosing the tension in her neck. She opened her eyes ready to face him. She froze. He was standing in the entrance of the kitchen watching her.
Damn. Damn. Damn. This man is either going to get the wrong impression or think she’s crazy. She hit her head with the heel of her hand. He laughed. Camille shot him her best ‘Don’t try it!’ look. He laughed harder.
She straightened her back and walked past him into the living room. He was hot on her trail.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, trying to show concern.
She’d play dumb. It was safer. “Yes, I’m ready to talk about the case.”
He sat on the couch silent. She took that as her cue. Talking about work was safer than acknowledging or discussing the chemistry she was feeling for Mr. Hershey.
“How much do you know about conflict diamonds?” Her voice was steady. She was back in control. Exhaling, she waited for his response.
“Very little.” He stretched his arms out on either side of him, allowing them to rest on the back of the couch. His expression changed. He seemed focused despite his relaxed posture.
“In Africa, there is a large diamond industry. Its mines reportedly produce half of the world’s diamond supply. The exchange and trade of diamonds fuel the African economy by about seventy billion dollars a year.
“In the early sixties, the first rebel group reportedly confiscated a mine and began using the funds accumulated from selling the diamonds to fund their initiatives and the same is still practiced today. They take over the mine and pull the workers into slavery.
“It is a slavery that most people know little about. These miners, young and old, are required to find a minimum quota per day or they risk having a limb being cut off or even worse, death. This lead to the diamonds being pegged ‘blood diamonds’ in light of the bloodshed that supplies the diamond trade.
“As a result, these groups are earning millions of dollars under the radar, which leads to them seeking more workers and trying to find ways of distribute and sell the rough diamonds.
“There are reports of these groups taking over entire villages and forcing people into slavery. They rape the women and demoralize the people. They also seek relationships with buyers who are opportunists eager to purchase the diamonds at a lower market rate.
“Many people chose to over look the first issue in light of the second. These groups make millions of dollars from the exchange of these rough diamonds. Conspirators report that the government is making money as well, all at the cost of the many slaves working in the confiscated diamond mines.”
Camille paused not realizing he moved to sit next to her. Marc passed her a tissue. His arm was around her, and she liked the feel of it.
“International human rights organizations began to take notice. They began lobbying for higher accountability in the diamond industry. As a result, in the 1990s world leaders met and began creating The Kimberly Process.
“The process is meant to eliminate access to rough diamonds, since the money is largely used to finance wars against legitimate governments. However, in practice some believe it has done very little to control the trade of conflict diamonds, which brings us full circle to this case.”
She felt his body stiffen around her.
“What are you theories? And what does IJDC have to do with it?�
�
“My instincts tell me Saul has to know something. He is the president over the international division. He has the final say on new clients, suppliers, and basically anything regarding our international distribution channels. But so far I have been unable to find the evidence I need to substantiate it.”
“But you said you thought your promotion would change it. How so?”
She smiled. He did not miss a thing. “I believe my new promotion will give me access to the international records and distribution accounts, which means account contracts, contact names and numbers, and sales volume.”
Black Diamond Page 9