From Cape Town with Love

by Blair Underwood

  My heart tumbled.

  “More than one,” I whispered to Roman.

  “He’s at nine o’clock. Got my eye on the booth, too.”

  I pulled out my P226 slow as a snail, ejected the magazine, and raised it above my head. I tossed the magazine right, the gun about ten yards left. Roman threw down his nine, too, but he didn’t reach down to give up the little .38 Special he kept strapped to his ankle. I envied him for his hidden weapon, but I hoped it wouldn’t haunt us later.

  “Keep your hands raised high. Both of you,”

  We complied. Standing still with your arms raised when you just gave up your weapon isn’t as easy as it looks, but we did it. My teeth were locked, expecting gunfire.

  Footsteps. Three or four men were approaching us from different directions; they’d been hidden in the bleachers.

  “Now . . . open the bags, please,” the voice said. The politeness was reassuring.

  Roman unzipped his bag, and I unzipped mine. The sound of the zippers ricocheted through the empty stadium.

  “Show me the money,” Megaphone said.

  “Where’s Nandi?” I called out.

  CLICK. Our guns were gone, but three guns were on us.

  My palms went cold, and wet. I heard whispered cursing, and realized it was mine. Roman and I both grabbed wrapped stacks from the bags and held them up high.

  “There’s the money!” Roman said. “No tricks. No bullshit. We just want the little girl.”

  In the endless beat of silence, I suddenly felt certain that Nandi was already dead. I mapped my flight in case any shooting started—I would run zigzag back to the gate. Stick to the shadows.

  “Put the money down and step away from the bags,” Megaphone said. “Go to the track on the opposite side of the field. The visitors’ side.” They wanted to send us away from the money so they could retrieve it. But then what?

  “Sorry for being an asshole,” Roman said, “but we need Nandi first.”

  My tone was gentle as I backed up Roman. “You asked for five mil, right? Well, here it is. Just bring us the little girl. She’s a baby, man. Let’s end this thing for everybody.”

  “DO IT!” Megaphone shouted.

  I couldn’t see Roman’s eyes because he’d put his goggles back on, but I heard something that might have been a growl. I didn’t like the sound of it, but I understood. The longer we were here with no sign of Nandi, the slimmer the chances that we would leave—with or without her. Why hadn’t I called Chela and Dad from the car when I’d had the chance?

  We were at the fifty-yard line, only a few feet from the sidelines, so we crossed to the other side of the field. After each step, I was amazed we were still both breathing and upright.

  “This ain’t gonna happen,” Roman muttered.

  It could have been a prediction, but it sounded more like a vow.

  A child’s cry from somewhere above made my neck snap up. Blackness. I fumbled to put my goggles back on, and I saw her: Nandi’s tiny pale shape standing at the very top of the steps in the bleachers on the visitors’ side, almost in the exact center. Alone and crying, afraid. Nandi was holding a child’s cup in one hand, swaying back and forth as she cried. The stairs in front of her would break her neck with one slip.

  I wanted to shout out to Nandi, but neither one of us did. She would try to come to us, and that would mean disaster. We forgot about the Englishman, or the men and their guns. We ran toward Nandi.

  I ran up the endless stadium steps two at a time, Roman at my heels. When I dared to take my eyes off Nandi, I saw the four men swarming the field around our money bags, also dressed in dark clothes. “Hurry!” one of the men on the field hissed.

  For one perfect moment, everything was going according to plan.

  “Her ankle’s tied to the bleacher,” Roman said, the same time I realized it. I couldn’t see what was binding her, but Nandi was struggling against it. I was glad they’d taken precautions so Nandi wouldn’t fall. We might survive this, I thought. Jinx.

  Twenty yards. Thirty more steps.

  “Five million my ass,” I heard Roman say.

  “What?” With Nandi in sight, I had forgotten the money.

  “You grab Nandi,” Roman said. “Get her to the car.”

  Sudden motion as Roman tried to pivot away. Instinct made me shoot out my arm toward him, trying to grab his shirt to pull him back. My fingertips got his sleeve, but Roman yanked away, hard. Then he dove behind the bleachers, gone. Vanished in the dark.

  “Man, come on!” I whispered sharply. “Don’t get us killed over some damn paper.”

  I couldn’t stop Roman. I’ll have the rest of my life to wonder how the night would have gone differently if I had, but I had to keep my eyes on Nandi, who was stamping her feet with agitation. Even with the ankle restraint, she could fall and injure herself on the concrete. She saw me coming and seemed frightened, crying out.

  What the FUCK is he doing?

  “Nandi, don’t move!” I shouted to her. “It’s Mister Ten! Stay right there, honey!”

  “Mister Ten?” Nandi called back, delighted. Her sobs stopped cold.

  Then I was touching Nandi’s hot face, wiping her tears and nose with my T-shirt. No one had combed her hair, which looked like a bird’s nest of dark curls, but she was clean, and her matching plain red shorts and shirt were new. My heartbeat and adrenaline made my hands shake. I cradled Nandi’s head against my shoulder, stroking her matted hair. Her tiny heart swatted at my chest, looking for safety.

  As soon as Nandi was in my arms, I knew I couldn’t live with myself if I let her go.

  “Shhhhh, sweetheart . . . We’re gonna take you home to Mommy. It’s okay now.”

  Silence from the dark field far below, except for grunts as the men tried to lift their load.

  “Roman? I got her!” I whispered, praying Roman had fought off the memories of missions gone bad.

  I fumbled with Nandi’s ankle restraint. Nandi had been tied only with a nylon stocking, but the knot was tight against her tiny ankle, with no wriggle room. The other end was knotted around a metal bar beneath the bleacher. I whipped out my miniature penknife. Not much of a weapon, but perfect for cutting nylon.

  POW. A gunshot! And something that sounded like an Apache war cry. Roman’s voice.

  Frenzied shouting came from the field, and a howl of pain. Had that been Roman, too?

  The world stood still for a moment, meaningless, before I remembered myself. My breath caught—Oh jesus jesus jesus jesus NOT NOW—and I sliced the stocking. Nandi’s weight fell against me, a warm ball of cotton in my arms.

  I whispered to her, crouching behind the bleachers. “Be real, real quiet, okay?”

  While Nandi whimpered on my chest, I flipped on my goggles to look at the football field, where my future was being decided. A dark silhouette lay writhing on the field, two feet from one of the bags. Not Roman.

  “Come on . . . where are you, man?” I whispered.

  I found the huddle near the closest sideline, a group of four men in a circle. Roman was backing away from someone, disarmed. The man lunged at Roman with a knife that flared like a Fourth of July sparkler in my goggles. Roman stood in a nervous wrestling stance, rocking from side to side. The man with the knife squared off with him, his arms moving like an optical illusion.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  The knife was blurry, part ice pick, part pneumatic drill. The rapid fluidity of the motion was a bad dream unfolding. The man’s body weaved as he chopped at the air with his knife, dicing it. I could run down to help Roman, or I could try to save Nandi.

  Nandi’s whimpers gave me only one choice.

  “Shhhhh . . . ,” I said, desperate for her to stay quiet.

  Sticking close to the far wall of the stadium behind the stands, I ran toward the stairs on the west end, closer to the main gate. God, if you give me this . . . I’ll finally believe you’re real.

  Below us, Roman screamed. I pressed my palms against Nandi’s ear
s. Her whimpers were getting louder, bordering on sobs.

  “It’s okay, Nandi . . . ,” I whispered, and faked a laugh. “They’re playing a game.”

  My laugh fooled her. “A game?” she said. Her smile startled me.

  The scream stopped in midnote, but there was no time to mourn. Right away, powerful flashlight beams strobed up and down the stands, looking for us. I dove down to hide, banging my knee into the sharp corner of a bench. No sound. I swallowed my cry.

  “Find them!” the Englishman said.

  Heels thundered below us as the men ran up the bleacher steps, closing in. My heartbeat shook my body. Hiding wouldn’t work. On to plan C.

  I peeked around to get my bearings: We were only twenty yards from the gate, a straight run at a sharp descent. The gate was closed, but it might not be locked. From there, a winding sidewalk would take me back down to ground level.

  A little luck might get us out of the stadium. Luck, and my new BFF, God.

  “Are you playing a game?” Nandi whispered.

  “Yeah, sweetie. We run really fast.”

  “Really fast?” Nandi whispered, grinning.

  Hope to God, I thought.

  “Stay quiet—or we lose,” I whispered, and Nandi nodded like she understood.

  I ran. My knee pulsed with fresh pain, but I ran. I landed cat quiet and ran as fast as I could without tumbling down. I crisscrossed my arms to hold Nandi firmly in place, supporting the back of her head with my palms so I wouldn’t jounce her. I held her as if she were made of eggshells.

  I dodged the flashlight beams, using my goggles to guide me to the gate I shouldn’t have been able to see—but could, thanks to Roman. I smelled freedom wafting from the parking lot.

  And then I stopped. Everything stopped. God went back to sleep.

  Five yards ahead, a man was in my path.

  The gunman was masked in black from head to toe. Even his eyes were hidden behind black nylon. He was an apparition.

  But his gun was real. Through my goggles, his gun glittered so brightly in the moonlight that I thought it was a muzzle flash. I thought we were already dead.

  I stopped running so abruptly that I almost pitched myself down headfirst. The soles of my shoes whined against the concrete.

  He could have shot me already, so maybe he didn’t want to.

  “You really don’t want to take another step,” the Englishman said.

  The one voice I hadn’t wanted to hear. The devil was taking his turn with us.

  “He’s mean,” Nandi whispered.

  “Man, don’t.” He wasn’t as tall as I was, with a thick neck and shoulders. I was well within his shooting range, but he was too far for me to disarm him. And how could I? Holding Nandi was as hobbling as missing limbs, or eyes. Any move I considered was too risky. She made me defenseless.

  “Five million dollars—it’s yours!” I told him. “Just walk away.”

  “Put the girl down,” he said.

  Nandi squirmed. She didn’t like the way the game was going.

  I stepped back. “I didn’t see a thing. We’re all done here, man.”

  Three other sets of footsteps were approaching from all sides. I sidled toward the gate, a six-foot fence penning me in. I hadn’t seen the chain and padlock when I was running, but I would climb over if I had to. If he was going to shoot me, maybe he would have already. All the while I made plans, I never felt so much like I was in a cage. I flung my back against the gate, testing it. The chain clanked, but didn’t yield.

  Trapped. My heartbeat shook the stadium.

  “No need to die like your friend,” the Englishman said. “Put her down. Gently.”

  “Please let her go,” I said. “Don’t do this.”

  The gunman aimed lower, at my feet. Picking a spot clear of Nandi. My toes itched.

  “When your boss asks you what went wrong . . . ,” he began, “. . . and she will ask . . .”

  “You got what you came for! Do you have kids? Do you have a mother? Take me, not this kid. Be the hero now—let her go.”

  The silence from the other waiting men made me wonder if they were on my side.

  The Englishman went on calmly: “. . . report to her that now we will need another five million, just like the first five. That’s my fee for my man getting shot in the leg, for breaking trust.” His voice shook, betraying his outrage. It wasn’t business anymore: It was personal. “We’ll be back in touch.”

  I smelled stale cigarette smoke as the knife fighter slipped behind the Englishman, his blood-stained blade ready at his side, breath a little irregular, but no other evident reaction from killing Roman. He, too, was masked in what looked like a bodysuit. He was about five-seven and small boned, only slightly taller than the Englishman, but with an arrhythmic, angular quality that made my hindbrain scream Danger!

  I tried to hide Nandi’s eyes, but she pulled her face away from my palm.

  I hoped she didn’t see the blood. I hoped she wouldn’t see mine.

  “We can do this with crying and screaming,” the Englishman said cheerfully, “or you can give Nandi a smile and tell her you’ll see her soon.”

  A CLICK from the gun; his round was chambered, his mind made up. If I pissed him off like Roman, he would shoot me in the foot first, then probably shoot me in the head as soon as they had Nandi. Or leave me to his friend with the knife.

  I lowered myself down to my throbbing knee so I could face Nandi at eye level when I set her down. I stroked her unkempt mop of hair. Nandi’s wide eyes waited for me to explain.

  “So . . . the game’s over, and guess what?” I said, struggling to keep my voice light. “You won! Now we switch off, and you get to go have fun with your new friends.”

  “I don’t wanna.” She wasn’t crying, but she was close. “He’s mean!”

  “No, no, it’s okay. See?” I smiled for Nandi, just as I’d been instructed. My face hurt from the lie, but my smile didn’t show a sign of trouble.

  Still, Nandi gave a wail that crushed my chest. “I want my mommeeee!”

  The men were behind me, closing in, but I didn’t break away from Nandi’s eyes or abandon my smile. My smile was the only thing I could give her. “You’ll see your mommy soon. Hear me? I’ll come back and take you to your mommy. That’s a promise.”

  I was close enough to see the quick spark in her eye: not a smile, but she believed me.

  The sound of sirens rose in the night sky like an hallucination, too far to help.

  While one man pulled me back, another swept Nandi up high. I yanked myself free, ready to fight, but somebody suckered me with the butt of a gun to the back of my head. I staggered, the world swimming.

  I yelled out, my last resort for Nandi’s sake: “HELP! CALL 911—” A flock of birds nesting in a nearby tree took flight. My anguish flew for miles.

  I waited for the knife. The gunshot.

  Instead, bright light flared all around. Dazzling white pain. I felt myself falling, pulled down into the depths of myself. I was drowning under the weight of Nandi’s heavy absence. Crushed by the burden of her trust.

  FOURTEEN

  TUESDAY

  1:30 A.M.

  My head was a throbbing mess, but most of it wasn’t from the pistol whipping that had left a walnut-size knot on the back of my head.

  At the football stadium, I’d awakened in time to see Roman’s body loaded into the coroner’s ambulance. Nandi, gone. The money, gone. Vast, empty nothingness from end to end, except for the red lights of Hell flaring from the police cars and ambulances.

  Two hours later, in an interview room in LAPD’s Robbery-Homicide division, I remembered the index card in my back pocket. I still had my cell phone, so I dialed. I couldn’t rehearse what to say. I wanted to tell her in person, but I wasn’t free for a visit.

  The phone picked up after one ring, anxious, silent waiting instead of a greeting.

  “Is this Wendy?” I said, consulting the card. “Roman’s wife?”

  The
woman’s breaths fractured. “Tennyson Hardwick?”

  He had told her I might call. What would I say if she asked me if he’d suffered?

  Roman’s wife coaxed me past my grim silence. “Please. Just tell me.”

  “I’m sorry to call with news like this . . .” I heard her suck in her breath, waiting for what she already knew. Each word was a labor greater than the last. “Roman was . . . killed tonight during our assignment for Sofia Maitlin. It happened fast, Wendy. He was trying to—”

  Only a deep gasp told me she had heard. A pause, followed by a whispered question. “Did you get Nandi?”

  My mind flashed on Nandi’s anxious, wondering face. I closed my eyes.

  “No, ma’am.” My throat was seared raw. “They want more payment.”

  “God,” she said. “Oh, God.”

  She repeated her prayer for the rest of our call, excusing herself when she lost her voice. I heard a child in the background, and remembered Roman’s kids on the pirate ship. I was grateful when the line clicked dead.

  Lieutenant Nelson was standing in the open doorway, at a polite distance. After I put away my telephone, he came in with a packet of extrastrength Tylenol and a cup of black coffee. I’d asked for the Tylenol, but I would have picked beer over caffeine. I was tired of being awake. Every time I blinked, I had to fight to open my eyes again.

  Nelson’s brow was severe, hiding his thoughts as he paced. He’d been roused from bed, and was dressed blandly in gray sweatpants and a USC sweatshirt. So far, he’d spared me the I-told-you-so tirade whirring behind his brow. Maybe he had a human streak.

  “He asked me to call her,” I said.

  Nelson shrugged. “I’ve got nothing to add to that conversation, Hardwick.”

  “I’d like to go home.”

  Nelson sat at the edge of the table. “Forget it. You’re in mighty deep waters—too far out for me to pull you in. I got you a few minutes to breathe, but that won’t last long.”

  I nodded. I’d figured as much, on all counts.

  “Can’t get worse,” I said, although we both knew that wasn’t true.