by RR Haywood
‘Is that girl okay?’
‘Which one? Ria?’ Safa asks.
‘I don’t know her name,’ Tango Two lies. ‘She was crying when we came through . . . Her mother?’
‘Yeah, her mum got stuck in the house,’ Safa says, quite emotionlessly too, which is also noted. ‘I think she’s okay. Her and Bertie aren’t here now. Miri took them somewhere after you were sedated.’
‘Oh,’ Tango Two says, amazed at the information flow.
‘And that twat’s gone too.’
‘Er, who, sorry?’ Tango Two asks.
‘Roland.’
‘Oh, right, not a nice man then?’
‘He’s an idiot,’ Safa scoffs. ‘Did you see him run past his own kids and wife trying to get out? Complete coward, and totally out of his depth with all this.’
Tango Two pauses for a split second at the information coming from Safa. She considers a counter-bluff. That Safa is giving what she has been told to give. It doesn’t feel like that. It feels normal. Like chatting. ‘Roland is Bertram’s and Ria’s dad? Is that right?’
‘Bertie. He doesn’t like being called Bertram. Anyway, stop cultivating me.’
‘Sorry, I was just . . .’
‘Yeah, he is their dad. I’m glad he’s gone, personally. Ben is too. Miri is cool. That’s the last of the fruit anyway. Miri and the doc are going out for supplies later. You allergic to anything?’
‘Er, no. No, I don’t think I am.’
‘Not peanuts? I can get some peanut soup if you are.’
Tango Two smiles, sensing the joke within the threat. ‘Er, no . . . but, er . . .’
‘What?’ Safa asks as the agent trails off.
‘I am allergic to strawberries. Fresh strawberries.’
‘Are you?’ Safa asks, amazed that anyone could be allergic to strawberries.
‘Oh, yes,’ Tango Two says seriously. ‘Really very allergic. Especially when they are served with fresh cream . . . and chocolate. I’m very allergic to chocolate.’
‘Dick,’ Safa tuts, shaking her head, but smiling all the same.
‘Strawberries,’ she chuckles to herself as she walks down the corridor back to the main room. She hasn’t had either for a long time. Safa isn’t bothered about food, and only really views it for the nutritional content, but right now she really wants some strawberries and chocolate. She considers the prospect that she has been cultivated, and dismisses it almost instantly. She couldn’t give a shit if she is cultivated. She’d beat the shit out of the woman without blinking.
She pushes in to see everyone standing round one of the tables and Miri holding the notepad that now seems to be glued to her hand.
‘We should get strawberries,’ Safa says, lifting an eyebrow at Ben and Harry who both turn to look at her.
‘Strawberries?’ Ben asks.
‘Yeah, and chocolate. Prisoner just said about strawberries and chocolate, and now I really want them.’
‘Not cultivated then?’ Ben asks.
‘You didn’t even know what cultivated meant until Miri explained it to you,’ Safa says, walking over to dump the tray on the big table. ‘We’re running out of stuff, Miri.’
Miri pauses from writing on the pad to look up.
‘Just saying,’ Safa says, joining them at the table loaded with belt kits, holsters, pistols, magazines and new radios with earpieces. ‘We should just get Malc and Kon back. They were good at getting the pens.’
‘We cannot get them back,’ Miri says, placing the notepad down. She lifts one of the belts up and loops it round her hips, ready to fasten.
‘Why not?’ Safa asks, taking her own belt that she starts feeding through the loops on her trousers.
‘I have told you why not,’ Miri says.
‘No, you went waffle waffle, blah blah while Ben looked all serious and creamed his pants.’
‘Safa,’ Ben laughs, his belt secured on his waist. He takes a pistol and starts checking it through, ignoring the looks from Safa and Harry. ‘How is our prisoner anyway?’
‘Malc and Kon, Miri,’ Safa says, ignoring Ben.
‘No.’
‘We’ll get them back. I’ll do it. Outside the warehouse, right? I’ll be back in, like, five minutes . . . How do you use that thing?’
‘No.’
‘The encrypted thing,’ Safa says.
‘No.’
‘The tablet thing,’ Safa says, looking at Miri with a smile. She takes a pistol and starts the same checks that she taught Ben.
Miri speaks slowly. ‘M and K do not have a suitable point at which they can be extracted. Taking them from any point will take them away from you before I arrived, and taking them from outside the warehouse doesn’t happen because it would have happened and it did not happen.’
Safa nods, narrows her eyes and makes a sound, as though in agreement. ‘That a no then?’
‘It’s a no.’
‘We can’t just leave them dead,’ Safa says, pushing a magazine into her pistol. ‘I bet they’re bored shitless.’
‘What?’ Doctor Watson asks, looking over the table after watching them all getting ready.
‘Me and Harry were bored shitless when we were dead,’ Safa continues. ‘Weren’t we, Harry?’
‘Aye.’
‘You’re in a good mood,’ Ben remarks.
‘Yep. I am. So we’ll get them back,’ Safa says confidently. ‘You and Ben work it out, and me and Harry’ll go get ’em. Anyway, why were they trying to kill her? You figured it out yet? And where are we going?’
‘Multiple questions elicit multiple answers,’ Miri says. ‘A police officer should know that.’
‘A police officer should know that,’ Ben says, smiling at Safa.
‘I’ve told you, I was a shit copper.’
Miri sighs, checks her pistol, fits the magazine, pushes the weapon into the holster and looks at Safa with a glint in her cold grey eyes. ‘Do you know what smurfs are, Miss Patel?’
‘Smurfs? The little blue things?’
Thirteen
‘ARE YOU A SMURF?’ Safa demands, twisting the grip on his wrist harder. He yelps and cries out. Pleading in his eyes. ‘I SAID, ARE YOU A SMURF?’
Organised crime works on many levels. Prostitution. Drugs. Gambling. Craps games in basements. But all of those things generate cash. Some is put through business to be laundered. Some is spent. The vast bulk is paid into domestic accounts, then moved to offshore accounts in countries that don’t ask questions.
‘What?’ the man says, stammering in fright.
America is an advanced country. Even in 1998, the banking system will trigger if consistent large cash deposits are made.
‘Don’t what me. Are you a fucking smurf?’
‘My arm, man . . . Come on, dude . . . What the . . .’
The smurfs are used to deposit cash. They meet in busy places like mall car parks. The head smurf hands the money out and the smurfs go banking.
‘I asked twice. Bored now. I’ll break your arm off and shove it up your arse . . .’
The man stares up in horror, unable to comprehend why this beautiful woman with a bruised face and an English accent is beating him up.
A good smurf can deposit one hundred K in one working day. We find a smurf and follow him back to smurf HQ. We will stay discreet. We will remain covert. We will not show out or do anything to draw attention.
‘Safa!’ Miri’s voice in her ear.
‘Hang on,’ Safa tells the man, adding another twist that makes him gasp in pain, ‘I think I got one,’ she says, pushing the button on the wire threaded under her shirt.
‘What did you not understand about the word discreet?’ Miri asks, her voice for once showing some emotion – pissed-off emotion, but emotion nonetheless.
‘What the fuck?’ A deep voice speaks out. Safa snatches her head up to see a big man walking slowly into the alley. ‘What’choo doin’?’ he asks.
‘Piss off,’ Safa says, squeezing harder on the wrist in her g
rip as the man yelps again.
The big man walks slow. His eyes taking in the scene in front of him. A woman holding Lucas by the wrist. He cocks his head, showing mild concern.
‘You’re a big boy,’ Safa says, taking his size in.
‘You a cop?’ the big man asks, his voice deep and rumbling. His shoulders wide. His arms thick and bulging with muscle. A thick gold necklace round his neck. Gold rings on his fingers. Gold teeth glinting in the dirty rays of the Los Angeles sun filtering through the skyscrapers and made foul by the millions of cars, trucks and people.
‘Er,’ Safa hesitates, ‘sort of . . . Used to be . . . Best say no, not now.’
‘Not a cop?’ The big man is still walking towards her.
‘Maurice?’ Lucas yelps as a look of relief washes over his face. ‘Get this crazy bitch off me . . .’
‘Morris?’ Safa asks, chuckling to herself. ‘Nice name.’
‘My granddaddy name, and it’s Maureece,’ Maurice says with a hard glare.
‘Oh,’ Safa says, offering a shrug. ‘I don’t care. Fuck off.’
‘You British?’ Maurice asks. His instincts tell him she looks like a cop.
‘Are we bezzer mates now?’ Safa asks. ‘Fancy coming to mine for a pizza? Fuck off. ARE YOU A SMURF?’ she asks Lucas again, going back to the arm-twisting.
‘SAFA!’
‘Fuck’s sake . . .’ Safa mutters. ‘Yep, go ahead, Miri.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Some filthy, stinking, dirty-arse alley with my new best friend, Morris. He’s coming round for pizza later.’
‘What?’ Miri asks.
‘What?’ Maurice asks.
‘Bloody Yanks are deaf,’ Safa mutters. ‘Right, one more time, then I start breaking things,’ she tells Lucas. ‘Are you a smurf? Actually, I think you are, so just tell me where the smurf house is and stop pissing about.’
He moves fast for a big man. Safa is beautiful and a woman, but Maurice will mess her up the same as anyone else. Rules are rules, and no one touches his crew.
Safa smiles. Her dark eyes twinkling as she offers a prayer of thanks to the gods of back-alley fights. She pauses, holding Lucas’s arm to let Maurice close the distance, and in so doing she gauges speed, motion and how he conveys himself into a fight. By the time Maurice has taken five steps, she knows he is used to dominating by his size alone.
He swings. She ducks, and comes up showing him a middle finger, having dropped the wrist she was holding. Maurice swings out. She weaves, back-stepping and still holding the middle finger up at him. Goading his temper to explode. Maurice’s eyes glare with rage. His pride dented. He lunges fast and angry. Safa goes to move back to draw him on, then closes in with her right knee into his groin. That right leg comes down to the floor to reposition, then flies up to strike into the side of his knee. The flat of her left hand hits Maurice’s right ear, bursting his ear drum. The flat of her right hand hits his left ear, doing the same again. She stamps down, breaking several toes, and simply steps away as he topples from the points of agony blooming in his body.
Ben runs past the alley, stops and runs back to look down at Safa standing over two bodies. ‘What the fuck?’
‘Hey,’ Safa says, smiling at him. ‘Got two. You get any?’
‘What?’ Ben asks, coming to a stop as Harry does the same and first runs past, stops then runs back into the alley.
‘Smurfs. You get any?’ Safa asks.
‘We’re not fishing, Safa,’ Ben says, looking at Lucas then at Maurice.
‘Big lad,’ Harry says, stopping to look down at Maurice.
‘Miss Patel,’ Miri says, striding down the alley.
‘Oh, I’m in the shit.’
‘Discreet. Covert,’ Miri says, looking with distaste at the groaning Maurice and the too-terrified-to-run-away Lucas.
‘Yep,’ Safa says. ‘Thought we were catching them. Misunderstood. Apologies.’
Miri goes to reply, but spots the earnest look on Safa’s face and the wry smiles of Ben and Harry. She should chastise. She should berate and give punishment. Orders are to be followed. Anything less is a loss of discipline. Then again, this is the game and they are in it, and this game has no rules. To play at this level means needing people like Safa. People who can do this. Damn. She wishes she had had Safa when she was active.
‘Good work,’ Miri says instead, noting the surprise in Safa’s face.
‘Eh?’ Safa asks.
‘Please follow my orders in future, but good work,’ Miri says curtly.
‘Fucking freaks, man,’ Lucas wails, looking up in horror.
‘Harry, get him up,’ Miri says.
‘Roger that, ma’am,’ Harry says, stepping towards Lucas.
‘I am sorry, Miri,’ Safa says, feeling strangely repentant. There’s something about Miri that makes her want to earn her respect and thanks.
‘He’s up,’ Harry says, holding Lucas by the scruff of the neck, the poor man now on tiptoe as he stares at the group around him, seeing the bruises, cuts and swollen eyes from the fight in the house two days ago.
‘I will ask you once,’ Miri says, fixing him with her cold grey eyes. ‘Where?’
‘Where what?’ Lucas asks meekly. ‘Ma’am,’ he adds with a weak smile.
‘All yours,’ Miri tells Safa, turning away.
‘NO!’ Lucas bleats. ‘No, no, no . . . I can’t say anything – they’ll kill me.’
Miri slowly turns to look upon the young man. ‘So will we,’ she says with absolute conviction.
Ben starts going through the big man’s pockets, pulling out wads of banknotes.
‘I can’t,’ Lucas says, his voice trembling with fear.
Ben stands up, holding the thick wedge of cash. ‘Can’t what?’ he asks mildly, nicely. Harry lowers Lucas, sensing the new approach. He even reaches out to adjust Lucas’s clothes, pulling them gently back to order with a friendly smile. ‘Mate, what’s your name?’ Ben asks.
‘Lucas.’
‘Okay, listen, Lucas. We’re not going to hurt you, okay? You need the money, right? We get that. There’s got to be a few thousand here.’ Ben offers the cash over, holding it in front of Lucas. ‘Yours,’ he says. ‘Go somewhere else.’ Lucas looks at the money, then up to Harry, who smiles again and nods at him, reassuring and pleasant in manner. ‘We’re going to take their money,’ Ben says, looking at Lucas. ‘All of it. We need it more than they do. Where is it, mate?’
Lucas blinks a few times, his hands reaching for the money held by Ben. Lucas handles tens of thousands of dollars every day. He banks it for them, but Maurice always knows exactly where he is. This is different. Maurice is down. He can go. He can get out of LA. Go east. He licks his lips, his eyes furtive and cunning.
‘Tell you what,’ Ben says, smiling kindly. ‘Show us where it is, and we’ll cut you in. How about that?’ That does it. Ben spots the flash of greed in the street hustler’s eyes. ‘How much they got?’
‘Millions,’ Lucas whispers.
‘Have you seen it?’
Lucas nods, staring at Ben.
‘Is it in a house?’
Lucas nods, still staring at Ben.
‘Where in the house?’
‘Bedroom at the back. Just stacked up. Like, massive, man. Like, so much of it . . . They got men though, loads . . . Guns ’n’ shit.’
‘We got guns,’ Ben says, ‘and shit. What’s the address?’
‘Cut me in, yeah, man?’
‘Cut you in,’ Ben says.
‘I don’t gotta go in though . . .’
‘Nope, we’ll do that.’
Fourteen
‘Tell me what happened that led you to being here,’ Miri says, the notepad on her lap. She looks at Tango Two, absorbing, analysing, examining, assessing and knowing fully well the same is being done in return.
Tango Two recounts what she said before. She stays basic. Offering fact but not opinion. She speaks calmly, politely. Holding eye contact where it should be held,
and looking away when it is right to do so. When she finishes, the room falls into silence. She does not fill it with sound or speech.
‘What is your codename?’ Miri asks.
‘Tango Two,’ Tango Two says.
‘Thank you,’ Miri says, closing the notepad and standing up.
Something is different. Tango Two can sense it.
‘Safa will be back soon,’ Miri says, closing the door as she goes out. Tango Two stares at the door closing and hears the scrape of metal that she has now seen is a thick pin going into a clasp. That’s it. No bolts, no padlocks, no keys. Remarkably simple, yet also remarkably effective.
She prowls the room. Thinking furiously. Why isn’t Miri asking me more questions? Does Miri know why Mother ordered them to kill me? Why isn’t the questioning more intense? Tango Two cannot see the angle. It doesn’t feel right. Safa brought food yesterday afternoon and could barely hide the grin on her face. Energy was pouring off her too. She was playful and joking. A guard should not be playful and joking. It takes months or even years for that level of relationship to grow.
She avoids going near the window because the view is so spectacular it makes her stand for hours and forget everything else. She is also sleeping soundly at night. She thought she must have been drugged to be sleeping so deeply, but she wakes naturally, feeling alert and refreshed.
The whole of it plays on her mind. Questions going round and round. Frustration showing.
‘You decent?’
Tango Two immediately changes to that passive-submissive appearance of feet together and her hands held in front. ‘I am, yes,’ she says. She expected Safa to come later, but Miri has only been gone half an hour.
‘Hi,’ Safa says, pushing the door open to grin at Tango Two.
‘Hi,’ Tango Two says. She spots the huge smile and frowns, still wondering what’s happened that feels different.
‘Want some air? Miri said you can go outside, and the doc seems happy with your injuries.’
‘I’d love some, thank you,’ Tango Two says, offering that polite smile, while feeling a thrum of excitement inside. Her senses sharpen. Her eyes hardening as she follows Safa out the door to see her set of rooms are at the end of a long corridor lined with metal doors, all the same as hers. It feels empty and somehow new. She can’t say why, but she listens to what her senses are telling her.
