The sun is perfectly warm. Guards are flanked at the four corners of the room surrounding him. The king is seated on a golden bench, holding a mask to his mouth. Around him are women with golden orbs, which diffuse incense so fragrant and refreshing that it’s hard not to fill my lungs to the brink with oxygen. It’s the essence of intoxication.
Forget your worries.
Stay here awhile.
I could lay out here with King Damba, earphones in, streaming the romance audiobook, The Good Mistress. It was my first encounter with Africa while growing up in Long Beach and having my memories repressed, although I was more compelled to read it for the sex scenes, I was pleasantly surprised that the main character was born in Somalia and raised in Ethiopia.
The king removes the mask from his face. He grips at a stick, bedazzled with jewels, but is too weak to stand. He’s a few inches from the seat when he falls. With lightning speed, Fari hefts him about the arms, helping him reclaim his seat.
“Father,” he chides, no longer the smooth operator that can’t take his eyes off me. There’s true sincerity in his gaze. “You are not quite ready to take the world by storm again.”
“Again.” The king lets out half a snigger before coughing more. “I only require to be well enough to prepare and attend your coronation.”
“Father—”
“We have a mutual understanding of pride!” Though King Damba’s voice booms, his dark brown eyes warm over. First with sympathy and then lust when he takes me in. “A coronation and another marriage . . .”
Oh, hell no! When Jagger thought King Damba had sent for him—while we were unaware that my uncle Qaaim was indeed the culprit—I learned about the king’s sweet tooth.
“Hey, you may deny King Damba now. But you could happily keep your white boy, with him aware that the old man, your husband, cannot get it up.” Anathi attempts a joke to which I ignore.
“I do love attending a wedding.” I play into his statement.
“As the bride?”
“I’m in love with someone at the moment,” I murmur the truth, though my gaze involuntarily lands on Prince Fari.
Anathi! I shout at her.
“Just a small testament to what I am learning to accomplish, Mikayla. Earlier, you thought that I was growing stronger. This is further evidence.”
King Damba grunts. “Well, with a queen of such fine ancestry at my side, there would have never been the need to conquer more wives.”
The moment that Anathi forced Fari and I to have passes. His gaze flickers with anger. He is the first son of many, and I can tell he has a great deal of respect for his father, but this is a gray area. I keep silent, perceiving that King Damba’s record more than precedes him. And it has hurt the relationship he has with his son.
* * *
Forty-nine hours later—and trust me, I’ve counted every second of it—Fari and I, escorted by his closest guards and my own, venture away from the Sandals Resort of a palace. My bare feet pad on the soothing, warm sand. I rub a hand over my abdomen feeling exposed in a golden bathing suit and sheer white wrap that Kmota was told that I should wear today. The turquoise waters softly dance along the shore. The scene is perfect, all I need is the right man.
“So . . .MamNonstikelelo,” I murmur, eyebrow perked.
Fari does a display of pulling off his buttoned linen shirt. “She lives over there.” His accent thickens, magnifying his charisma. “Let’s see if you can swim first.”
The muscles in his limbs move agile and leisurely like a jaguar as he stalks closer to me. For the past two days, I’ve fled his pursuit. “I don’t swim.”
“You don’t?” He wets his lips, glancing at mine before reaching down to undo the button of his linen pants, coming out of them like a stripper.
I place my hand on my hip.
“You aren’t so playful today, Mikayla.”
Yup. And I expected Anathi to strike already.
“Oh no, play hard to get. That’s not only the makings of a virtuous queen, but he’ll love you more.”
Biting down on my lip, I stop myself from retorting that her head games aren’t love.
“May I interest you in a walk at the very least?” Fari’s hand plays against the broad plane of his chest. “You’ve refused the jewels of—”
“Long as we head toward your diviner.” As he saddles up beside me, he grabs my hand. I add, “I-I should show Zihula my respect by greeting her. Honestly, I should’ve stopped by on day one.”
Walking slowly, Fari studies me. “When you first arrived in South Africa months ago, I did not believe you could be a like us—forgive me of that. Now, you’re reminding me of my mother.”
By the way he stares, I believe that’s a good thing. Meandering toward MamNonstikelelo, I glance over my shoulder at Denso. He and the others have kept a discreet pace. The tip of his chin is faint. We’d discussed the dynamics of crossing paths with the Zihula diviner. Though both our memories are hazy, he also recalled MamLalumi utilizing incense prior to allowing me into her home. All I can expect, hope for, is that MamNonstikelelo sees me and hops into action.
Off in the distance, a hut on long, water-beaten stilts comes into view. The front door faces the ocean, stairs descending before it. Green foliage and vines trickle closer to the rear of what I assume is MamNonstikelelo’s home. A few of the plants remind me of what MamLalumi currently grows behind her place.
Down the stairs, a silver-haired woman, moves painstakingly slow. We’re over forty yards out, gaining on her, and my pace quickens. Her shirt is brown, dropping to her skinny knees, and her tiny breasts hang all the way down to her waist, exactly where her puffy braid stops. Skin worn, soft and leathery, with smile crinkles and other wrinkles woven in and out of those, she smiles as we stop before her.
Where’s the incense, the sage, the leery expression MamLalumi offered? Becoming a principal healer is held by a delegation. One doesn’t simply bless and appoint themselves, but I’m about to ask her for visible proof—like a friggen diploma or certificate or something—when she speaks.
“You are the daughter of the late, great Bannan Andry Rakoto and Queen Makuachukwa Mthembu Rakoto.” Her weathered skin shuffles into a smile.
Nodding deliberately, I bite my tongue from just blurting out “save me.”
“Perhaps, our Nivean traditions are more advanced. Or consider this truth.” Anathi responds, tone soothing to my inner, reckless turmoil. “MamLalumi tricked you into believing I’m the enemy, Queen Mikayla. You do not recall the process she completed on your body, do you? She may have been attempting to silence me because I am good, and unbeknown to the rest of the nation, she has changed. She is bad. Are you ready to comprehend my honest intentions for you, for our nation?”
“Mikayla?”
I blink.
Who said that?
Denso has stepped closer. Fari’s fingers are splayed across my cheek. Shit, I forgot the length of time my internal discussions pull me away from the present.
Her tone sours, reverting to the norm. “Now, do not embarrass Nivean, or you’ll regret it.”
“MamNonstikelelo, I need your—” Teeth gritted, the words slam back down my throat. The flesh of my skin is drenched in invisible lava. Pain, surpassing unbearable, surges through my body while the diviner stares straight through me..
28
Jagger
I jolt out of sleep. Expensive one-thousand thread count sheets are bunched down around my legs. My palm is at the steel grip of my .357 Magnum and pointed at the door. The textured silver walls of the luxurious hotel room, which has become my home for almost a month, engulf me instantly. But there’s a sole thought screaming in my head like a bloodhound running through the gates of hell.
Mikayla!
Quickly, I scramble out of the bed, muscles fatigued from the exertion of the night’s run that helped me through being without her so long. I pick up my jeans from the floor, grab my phone from the pocket, and call her number.
Ju
st as sure as the call connects, I spout off, “Are you okay?”
“Jag? Babe, what’s wrong?” Her tone is groggy, mirroring the fatigue I had, which washed away the second I was plagued with worry. Worry for her. This shit is new. I might as well be lightyears away, and even though I’m over six feet tall and over two hundred pounds of solid muscle, but I’m helpless where it counts—keeping my woman safe. “Jagger,” she purrs softly, “What’s wrong?”
“That’s what I’m asking you,” I growl. “Where are you?”
“Visiting friends in the Zihula nation. I thought I told you that the other night. Give me just a second.” She does something with the phone, leaving me calling her name in a haze of uncertainty.
I rub a hand over the back of my head, bulky shoulders heaving. Thoughts alternate from light to darkness—stay, find Yakiv, murder the motherfucker in the worst of ways—leave and return to Mikayla then deal with the kill-head later.
I never had a kill-head until I met the girl. Saw a few. Took the opportunity to expire some hitmen that worked my last nerves. Hey, when all bets are off, I let nature take its course. Not with a woman like, Kayla, though. She doesn’t understand the bloodthirst.
There’s movement coming from the receiver, and then Mikayla says, “Sorry, baby, talk to me. What’s going on?
“Uthando, do you need me?” I stare at myself in the mirror. I look like a disheveled barbarian who couldn’t give one single fuck about anything but his claim. “Mikayla, I asked you the other day and I’m asking you one last time—do you need me?”
“Mmmm,” she groans. “I need you to channel all of those notions that I can’t take care of myself into something more mutually beneficial.”
I grunt.
“Like, what you’re going to do to me the next time I see you . . .”
Moving toward the blackout curtains, I push them aside. It’s too late for city night life. The sky is rendering color for early morning. The chains clinching at my abdomen break at the teasingly erotic sound of her voice. Can’t focus on her fuck voice, need to be on guard.
“Just tell me that you’re okay. I need to know you’re okay, or there goes my fucking patience, Mikayla.”
“Is this about the bullshit I said to you the other night? The appearing to be available?”
“No.” Maybe.
“Jagger, you prefer that I’m confident, not fearful or worrisome. Right now, I’m . . . attempting to have some resilience in what might as well be an alternate universe. But guess what, Jag, you have my heart. Get your job done, you big bully, come home to me.”
When we hang up, I press my forehead against the cold glass of the floor-to-ceiling window, issuing a deep breath. Mikayla is safe, and I’m just a dysfunctional fuck who’s accustomed to the people I love dying.
“But Kayla is safe,” I grumble to myself, needing the words to calm the tension in my abdomen.
* * *
The X-Member Organization has access to government security clearances, though officials are not aware of such things. Those amenities were handed to those simple Vitality hitmen fucks. The softies who have yet to learn the beauty of what they do—murder.
While the Vitality Organization says their more “civilized” in their endeavors, we X-Members on the other hand are shitting on their heads with the intelligence that we funnel straight through their computers. They can play the freedom card when it comes to the cops, sporting their immunity, and what not, but there’s a certain freedom that comes from being able to ghost. We’re lone wolfs. We don’t call in to a 1-800 number and a customer service representative on the other line tells you more about your mark. How easy they have it. Viola, shit just happens. No, an X-Member gets it done one way or another. Most often the hard way, which equates to more opportunities to learn.
There’s been gossip that the two organizations split apart when a couple of associates became enemies. Hence the name, X-member, the disassociation, the cunning fucks like myself who put work over everything.
Dominic Johnson, he left Vitality for X-Member once that understanding triggered in his mind. He slinks down onto the barstool next to me. Eyes forward, ordering the Ukrainian vodka that I have yet to stomach. Dominic is darker than Mikayla. He still has the clean look like those Vitality hitmen—suit, sporting a fade—but the sneer got harder after all the years he put into being in X-Member.
“I see you’re still working that same gig.” He chuckles, shooting back the double. The hard shot glass slams onto the counter, and he gestures toward the bartender. “Inshyy—another.”
“You’ve been in this area for a while now.” I turn toward him in the seat, trigger finger pointing to the counter. This one isn’t scuffed up like that tiny hole in the wall that should’ve become Yakiv’s coffin. We’re a little closer to the city. “See anything I should know?”
“Yup.”
“You had a bunch of friends turning on you a few years ago, Dom.” I discreetly mention the kill-head that was on him when he did not finish a gig in the allotted time. There’s another difference between Vitality and X-Members. Those pussys give back their gigs if they can’t handle the heat. We become the target, pending which ever one of us in our organization is interested in the original hit’s price—kill the primary hitman, take the assignment, expire the mark. Not only does that person receive the money for the gig, our organization gives bonuses.
Shit’s like Christmas.
“Heh.” Another shot goes to the head, he grits the burn and then says, “You have a couple of days left.”
Should’ve known not to seek out Dominic. I could say it a hundred times, X-Members don’t usually fraternize unless it’s for drinks or fucks. The relationship that I have with Trick is all on account of Mikayla. But when it comes to Dominic, I guess he’s been hitting it hard in Ukraine so long, he must’ve been jealous that I got Yakiv, and he didn’t.
“So, Jag, the way I figure, your time runs out. I bump you off. That fuck becomes my—”
My hand grips the back of his neck, forcing his face down onto the glossed cherrywood counter. His blood mingles in with the gloss.
Dominic sits up, snaps his nose back into place and chuckles.
“Don’t flatter yourself, pup.” I stand then wink. “From day one, I was X-Member. What the fuck were you?”
That shuts him up just right. And here I thought me arguing like a pussy wouldn’t get under his skin. But the sneer accounts for nothing, he still reeks of innocence like those Vitality guys.
29
Jagger
Four days later . . .
Tick tock. In twelve hours, the exclusive rights that I have to expire Yakiv will revert back to X-Member, right along with the commencement of another kill-head hanging over me. Pushing the sleeves of my thermal back over my meaty biceps, I drive alongside a choppy river. Junk and ice fragments rush along it. The sun is tossed in the sky but has been useless the entire day. Up ahead, a thicket of trees loom covered in snow.
Switching gears, I navigate the passageway, jaw set in a sneer. Twenty-seven days. Twenty-seven fucking days have passed since I’ve gone home. Up until recently, only an assignment sporting a massive paycheck would coerce me to return to South Africa. Now, I have a reason, and that gorgeous reason of mine hasn’t seen me in ages.
In another hour, I’ve pulled onto a snow-dusted, unpaved road. An old building emerges to the left. If my satellite surveillance of the area proves accurate, then beneath the shitty shanty is a nuclear bomb bunker where Yakiv can scream until he’s drowning in his own blood and nobody in the world will hear him.
I set my timer for ten hours and forty-eight minutes. I jump out of the driver’s side and walk toward the bed of the truck, opening the latch. Yakiv lurches up into a seated position. Duct tape masks his mouth and eyes and binds his hands and legs. His fingers are bloody from scratching the inside of the truck bed. Gripping his neck, I yank out one-hundred and fifty pounds of weasel, forcing him out with ease. While I lock up the b
ed of the truck, Yakiv rolls around, confined. His teeth chattering, long nose reminiscent of Rudolph’s, he pushes his face from the snow. He rolls over again, and I grip the back of his neck, dragging him toward the door of the shanty.
Inside, the dank, dusty room it is just as chilly. My breath continues to muddle out before me as I give Yakiv a kick and his body falls down the cement stairs. Pressing the door closed behind me, I start down the steps, feel around for the door. It’s unlocked, surprisingly. Rodents scatter, and Yakiv’s muffled groan is stunted once more as I kick his stomach in. The crack of a few ribs reverberates off the cement walls. I pull the flashlight from my utility belt, flip it on, and head for a lantern. Lighting a fire with a match, there’s enough illumination in the room to see every sort of vermin dropping. I push Yakiv onto the table, grip the tape on his temple, and yank with no mercy.
“Grmmmmm,” he cries.
“You have an enemy that wants you dead, Yakiv,” I say, fingers gripping his jaw. “But I’m not about to make anyone happy anytime soon.”
A gleam of hope flashes in his eyes, followed by a fleeting shock of confusion, before my fist rams into his belly. I pull out my cellphone, switch it to the timer. “Ten hours and thirty-nine minutes, that’s how long you’re going to fucking scream your head off, Yakiv.”
His begging comes out loud and clear. “Pleeee . . .”
“I’ll send the final expiration at the last possible second!” My fist again rams into his stomach, targeting his liver and spleen.
Thumping his forehead with my index finger, I growl, “I told my woman I’d be home in three weeks. I knew you were a slimy little fuck off, so I anticipated three weeks. Now you went and made a liar out of me.”
He coughs up blood, head lowered, eyes closing. I reach down, grab his bound wrists, loop them around a rope, and then loop it around a beam on the ceiling.
Black Queen, Dark Knight II Page 20
