by Amarie Avant
“Good day, Mr. Johansson,” the computerized voice speaks. “Please allow me to provide you with my coordinates.” The map turns on, and a red dot comes up. “Third level… North entrance…” the automated voice begins to tell me where to go.
“Turn on engine,” I command.
As I run up the stairs, I determine just how I’m going to get out of the parking garage with my truck.
And nothing comes to mind.
I love my truck. It means the world to me. But it’s the end of the line for us. The engine guns to life. What a beautiful roar. I can hear choppers surrounding and the sound of a loud engine…. The SWAT team is here. Impeccable timing.
I run across the lot, in the opposite direction of my truck.
“Drive,” I make the command into my cell phone. The truck begins to pull out of the parking space. “Faster.”
“Understood, Mr. Johansson. Down or up?”
“Up,” I crouch low, near the cement railing, on the west side of the third level. The truck moves at 25 km now, following the path higher into the parking structure.
The sound of choppers has lessened. I calculate the time it takes the helicopter to complete a 360, coming right around back to me, as I hear it hovering at the South entrance.
The engine of the SWAT vehicle is closing in on me. I need them to either come now, and continue ascending before the helicopter makes it back to me…
Or I have problems. Big problems. I have to save Mikayla.
The helicopter is at the east entrance now… I’m at the North.
Heavy footsteps resound against the cement walls. The SWAT team is not only traveling with its tactical bus but on foot, as well. They’re conducting a slow sweep upward.
The helicopter hovers over my side. My heartbeat booms in my ears as the footsteps increase.
They’re closing in…
The helicopter continues to circle around. I ease up from my crouched position, seeing the helmet of three SWAT members as they move, with caution, up the incline. I grip the cement banister and lift up, turning my hips until my front is against the railing. I let go. Down to level two. My hands hurt like hell as they grip the cement railing.
I let go again.
I’m hearing the sound of choppers, again, just as my feet hit the pavement.
***
I’m at McCarran International Airport by 2:00 p.m. Mikayla has been gone for hours, and my heart feels like it’s ready to leap from my throat. Can’t be love, although that might have been a minor accelerant to my current situation, when I mentioned as much to Ava. Could’ve been my small act of rebellion in response to her temper tantrum or…no. It just can’t be love. I’m unlovable.
But what I am is convicted. I’m a caged animal, and I’d never forgive myself if something were to happen to Mikayla. I reach up to tug at my hair, but it’s pulled into a bun, and a cap is slung low over my head. Aviators mask my eyes. And I’ve stolen a cargo jacket, which was mildly suspicious due to the warm weather. But now I’m seated in the blasting air conditioning, at a table for two, on the outskirts of a busy Starbucks.
Across the way, patrons are leaving. In addition, TSA is conducting the first clearance of patrons, with rollaways and carts of luggage, for the Concourse Airlines, which includes American West Air, Champion Air, and most importantly, British Airways.
My gaze narrows toward the entrance of the place, and my jaw tenses at once. I force myself to continue chewing the ham and Swiss cheese sandwich because Trick looks like a fucking idiot.
He always looks like an idiot. All I can do is rub the pulsating throb at my temple as he moves the penguin tail of his suit to sit down at the table across from me. He resembles a British aristocrat from a cheap historical romance.
“You want attention, don’t you?”
“On the contrary, mate, it is I who belongs and you who looks like someone who just robbed a bloody bank.” He grabs the extra coffee and drinks. “How about you remove the hat and let down those golden locks of yours.”
I lean forward. “Our crew has their own satellites, they can tap into any recording in the world, and you think I’m the dumb one. Why did I agree to meet with you here?”
“First of all, don’t piss me off, Juggernaut. I’ve got a little something in my pocket,” he pats his left pec, no doubt he has a knife with some sort of venomous blade inside.
“If it were any other day than today, I’d fight you to the death here, Trick.”
“But the rules have all changed. Jag, you’re the guy who doesn’t mind dying. Excuse me, you didn’t mind dying. I was dead long ago. Do you know what I’d do to change seats with you, to go fighting for Mikayla, fighting for …” he rubs a hand across his face and beard.
Trick is a weird one. He’s a seasoned assassin. I’ve already mentioned that vets in the X Member organization receive the hand selected good shit. The marks with treasures over their heads.
Trick takes anything. The cheap, dangerous crap.
Some say he’s begging to die.
Shit, he just confirmed as much.
But most believe that he takes anything because Trick has his trinkets. Like me, with my engines, Trick makes money by modifying tactical gear. My life was saved this morning due to the shirt he upgraded for me. Unlike myself, I prefer not to be bothered. I’ve had requests to chop down motorcycles and whatnot. I just say, I’m out for myself, it’s a little thing I learned after my mother gave me the metaphoric ‘fuck you, son.’ I’m a selfish loner. On the other hand, Trick makes money from what he does. So most people believe he prefers altering suits to terminating a profile for X Member.
I on the other hand have crossed paths with Trick on an assignment a few times. In some of those instances, I’ve saved his life, in others, he’s saved mine. Currently, I’m winning in regard to playing savior, so I know a thing or two about Trick’s lifestyle.
“Alright, so I’m going to London?” I arch an eyebrow.
“And you will receive a ride from my sister and niece.” He nods.
I shake my head slowly letting it all sink in. “I really appreciate it.”
He grunts. “My niece is already aware. She cried a little, but she agreed that you have to save the princess.”
“I’ll make it up to her…”
“I think the only way to make it up to her is if I move home to stay, mate. No more wishing that someone bests me for good,” he clicks his tongue. “But she expects you and Mikayla at one of her soccer matches in the future, and her mum said she’d Facetime me during the game tomorrow night, any who, so you and I are what? One life to go?”
“We’re even.” I reply taking the monthly plane ticket he uses to go see his niece. My voice lowers again, “Now, what’s the trick, Trick? How do I get through that? The Aria has my photo and it’s already on the news.”
“Yes, but the cops are the least of your concern. That and the photos they have were altered. I met Mikayla, I’m invested in her livelihood. So the photos of you have darker hair, and I’ve fattened you up some.”
I nod. “Alright, But TSA has increased security twofold during my cup of coffee. And I don’t look shit like you.”
“They have. But there’s a gorgeous agent by the name of Tina Glass who will scan you in.”
“I can’t be scanned in,” I grit out, “our organization is tapped into all government cameras and recordings, didn’t we just review this?”
He chuckles and sips his coffee leisurely. “Tell me, Jag, where are you going once you make it to London. My sis will drive you to a private plane which will get you to South Africa, but are you going to the Zihulan Nation or Nivea?”
My face tenses in confusion. “How do you know exactly…”
“Why do I take a job no matter the price?” he arches an eyebrow, knowing good and well that I’m unable to answer that. “I take a mark for a king's ransom or I take one for peanuts because it places me in the most danger, Jagger. I go to see my niece every month to remind me of wh
at it’s like to be alive, around friends. And then before I get on that plane to return to my life of isolation, I torture myself further by visiting the site where my wife died, Jagger. I’m waiting for the day someone bests me. And so, when you came into my establishment with a woman, I would have surely murdered the two of you had she been a true mark because the golden rule is you don’t screw your marks, Jagger.”
“That’s true…”
“Mikayla is not your mark, Jagger. You will go to the Nivean land because her uncle, Qaaim Mthembu, has finally sent for her. The Zihula’s had no hand in this, there is no quest for the king, or any prince to marry Mikayla. In fact, the price of the profile is exactly the amount Mthembu has in his bank account. He was extending his funds in order to appear richer.”
“Shit, the only time a man offers his entire bank account for a mark is when he has nothing to live for,” I mumble, wishing I had paid more attention to the variables outlining the profile, instead of drooling at Mikayla’s photo. There are a select few times when we get cases like this. Most time they’re weeded out, if a person is attempting to offer their entire life savings for vengeance. People like that aren’t to be trusted.
“See, the X Members can play God if they want to. Looking through the FBI, CIA, fucking TSA’s security systems and photos for anyone. But X Member is not looking for you, Jagger. The kill-head on your head is tosh.”
I’m floored as I listen to him.
“Mthembu’s request was weeded out, as some are. The initial request was to just bring her to him. X Member Organization has some political stances about certain things, such as their awareness that Mthembu most likely wanted to murder an innocent, his young royal niece. And a year ago, when she turned 21, they passed on his request. For over a year, however, your Ava Sinclair has been searching the denied profiles for babysitting females. She’s spent hours peering through various requests.”
“And you know this how?”
“Bugger me, can’t you tell I’m like those barmy blokes who search for aliens. Instead I search for the deadliest missions, Jagger. And when I’m bored, and nothing compels me, I see what everyone else is taking. Hence, when you brought Mikayla in, I knew she wasn’t a mark, and so I didn’t murder you on the spot,” he whispers harshly. “But if our organization is still in the vetting process, I might have a hand in being given an assignment instead of the person with the most qualifications. I’m on a mission to die. Thus, I have been watching Ava, she’s searched the cases, like I just said. It was either Mikayla or this German girl with a beastly jaw.”
My jaw clenches. Though our voices have been lowered this entire time, I snap, “Why!”
The place is loud with orders being shouted out, and nobody cares.
“Bollocks, Jagger, have you never broken a woman’s heart? My wife,” he manages to get the word out, “used to ask if I thought a certain woman was beautiful or gorgeous when I talked to them too long. She was playful, but easily jealous. If I could go back and tell her I became blind the moment she came into my life, I would. Ava’s played a childish game with you. Like dangling a hot piece of ass before your face to see if you’re faithful.”
And still I’m fucking baffled. “I’ve never given that bitch a sign that anything with us was more than sex.”
“It takes marriage to learn what and how women think. And, dash it, I still don’t know it all.”
I sit back in my chair. How did the conversation turn to women? We’ve always kept it strictly business and mayhem. But Trick is giving up his plane ticket to see his niece and to go place flowers at the grave of his dead wife.
Shit, were more than even. I owe him.
Mikayla
When we were young, we had our own language. Before we could talk, Abayomi and I were friends. We were three, maybe four, running through the yard with Lulami attempting to keep up, and his father, warning him that too much fun was bad for a warrior. But then he’d tickle his son, and Abayomi would laugh this infectious laugh. And my father, the most handsome man in the world, would scoop me up. I felt like I was high in the sky in his arms as he’d kiss my neck and blow.
My dad still mixed up Xhosa with his native tongue, kind of like the West Coast culture of Spanglish.
“Put her down, she is no baby,” Abayomi’s father said as we headed toward the watering hole. They were telling me that elephants were good. Hippopotamus not so much. Even in my young age, I remembered when we were down in the outskirts of the village and encountered an angry hippo. My father and the warriors had to ‘put him down.’ Abayomi held me closely, so I couldn’t see and never understood what they meant.
Now, my father stopped at the water trough, and he started to let me go. I clamped my legs around him.
“If your mother were here, she’d say a princess shouldn’t act in such a manner,” He admonished, his words flipping back and forth from the clicks of the Xhosa language to speaking Malagasy, the language of his people.
He put me down and my legs shook like a spindle. Abayomi took my hand.
“Is this our future king,” my father asked his.
The warrior grunted a response but there was pride in his broad shoulders as my best friend led me to where baby elephants were frolicking in the water.
“Hayi!” I shook my head no.
Abayomi’s response was a bright smile and then he clucked at me before telling me that he was a warrior. My lips tensed. I didn’t care. He was the skinniest of all his father’s sons! He was no warrior. He pulled a peach out of his pocket and handed it to me, before I could bite into it he laughed.
“Indlovu,” he nudged his chin to the elephant.
There were two, one so huge my breathing came at quick pants, and another, much smaller one. Not small like me, but small enough. I stood at the edge of the water and reached out my hand, my entire arm shook.
“Eze…” I thought of the words, oftentimes mixing my parents languages together. “Eze aphe nceda—come here, please.”
“You are a princess, do not fear anything,” The warrior told me.
My dad placed a hand on my shoulder as the baby elephant arose onto its sturdy legs. I shook even more, until a funny feeling took over. His wet trunk touched my palm and sucked in the peach making my palm tickle.
“Name him,” my father smiled at me.
“Abayomi…”
“No, name him,” my friend giggled.
“His name is Abayomi, too.”
At this point in my dream I realize that Abayomi is dead and I can feel myself crying in my sleep.
“Mikayla,” my name is being called. My mother’s is calling out to me. I start to turn around, ready to run into her arms, to see her beautiful, forgotten face, but I’m dashed from the dream and into darkness.
“Take me back!” I shout.
“Do you want to remember?” The words echo into my ears.
There’s a churning in my stomach. The darkness is so thick that I have to rely on sound to know I’m weeping. I’m no longer a toddler, but a grown woman, swallowed in fear.
“LET ME SEE MY MOTHER!” I scream. I know when I wake up, I won’t recall this dream of the past. But I swear, that I’ve had it before and that all the other dreams I’ve had, I’ve only seen my mother’s face in one instance. I’ll forget the face of both my parents, but there’s a small seed of contentment from my father in my dreams. But not when it comes to my mother. I’ve seen her during one circumstance while sleeping and I’m afraid just thinking about it.
“LET ME SEE MY MOTHER!” My shouting is drowned into darkness until a thumping sound begins and I’m planted into my childhood home with Joyce and Earl.
I was nine years old, and I had woken up, my bed was wet from urination, and my skin felt like fire.
“Baby, sweetheart, talk to me,” Joyce said as she kneeled on the floor beside my bed.
Earl stood at the door, his eyes were a mask of worry.
“What happened?” She asked.
“Nothing mo
m,” I choked out the words, although in truth I recalled my birth mother being murdered before my eyes.
“Tell me, beautiful. Please, I just want to help you.”
“I’ll stop, I’ll stop, I’ll stop…” I continued to murmur, meditating on the words. I had to stop these dreams, had to stop remembering them, so this family who took me in wouldn’t grow tired of me…
Then I’m plunged into the same darkness again. Once more, I’m asked if I would like to remember. And I shout, ‘no!’
I feel myself falling, falling, falling… I’ve had this dream before. Although I’ll forget, I have learned that the falling is okay. Because at least, I will forget my mother’s death.
I feel like sleeping beauty without a prince, because for one, the princess wasn’t given a tranquilizer and stolen. Two, I’ve woken up again and Jagger, my … dark knight, hasn’t saved me.
Before I can assess my surroundings, tears blur my vision. I miss my entire family, even my little nieces and nephews that always beg me into adding brandy to their eggnog. I miss crying with my mom while watching an old movie.
I miss Jagger’s very strong arms, arms that have put me in danger, and yet kept me safe throughout our time together.
Jesus, you said you wouldn’t tempt me beyond what I’m able to handle! Let’s agree that I’ve already stepped outside the realm of my capabilities.
At the sound of a door creaking, I bolt up into a seated position. I’m on a pillow-soft four poster bed. The room is fit for a princess.
It’s fit for me…
I glance around. The only thing different is the bed. There are banana leaves strung together and around the room. Of course, my gut is telling me they aren’t the same ones, but they belong. There are elephant figurines all over, wooden ones, gold ones, and ones with tanzanite eyes.
I burst into another round of tears. Jagger has the same color eyes.
A feminine voice speaks up, saying words I cannot understand, and the door opens more.
“Oh, you don’t recall Xhosa?” The woman has short cropped hair which brings my gaze to her warm, beautiful smile.
