Aftershocks

by Mark Parragh

  By all reports, Yanis was completely unsuited to run a government department, but Patrice was used to getting what he wanted. When Georges's father had refused to play along and fake college transcripts, Patrice did what he always did. He put Georges's mother in the hospital. But this time the old tactics hadn’t worked. Georges's family had fled to America, and for whatever reason, Patrice had never managed to get Yanis into the regional government.

  Instead, Yanis had come to the capital with his father’s reputation and some money behind him. He’d gathered his own gang of hardened young men ready to do what it took to get ahead in Yaoundé, and he’d done what his father did. Yanis’s gang was well known among the city’s youth. They lived fast and high. They funded themselves through robbery and extortion. They charged through these lawless parts of the city with their elbows out, knocking over anyone who blundered into in their way.

  Georges's sister had chosen very dangerous prey. Now she was hunted herself, by both the police and Yanis’s gang of thugs, the Ibiza Boys. They had to find her first, in a teeming city that was new to Crane, but home turf for their adversaries. Hopefully Georges knew more about the grimier side of Yaoundé than Crane would have guessed.

  “Down here,” Georges said, taking a left onto a dirt packed side street. They glided slowly past a pack of children playing football. Houses lined both sides of the street, brightly painted cinder block structures surrounded by corrugated metal fencing. Ahead of them, someone fought a gate open and a car edged out.

  “My friend Ntone,” said Georges, pointing to a house. “He loved school. He was good at drawing. But…you know.”

  They pulled up in front of the house. As they got out a lanky teenage boy approached. He looked warily at Crane for a moment, then turned to Georges.

  “Watch your car, boss?”

  Georges flipped him a coin, then led Crane to a small gate beside the driveway gate. He pulled it open with a screech.

  “Ntone! It’s Georges. You home, man?”

  They crossed the narrow, dirt-packed yard and Georges knocked at the door.

  “Ntone?”

  The door opened, and a young man looked out. He was about Georges's age, with close cropped hair and a tank top that hung off his lean frame. He scowled out the narrow crack in the doorway and eyed Crane. His left hand held the door while his right was behind his back. Crane positioned himself to push Georges out of the way if it came to that.

  “Georges? I thought you went to America,” he said in French. His tone was more cautious than happy.

  “Yeah. First time back.”

  “So you got an American,” Ntone said, still eyeing Crane.

  “He’s okay,” said Georges.

  “What are you doing back here, Georges? You didn’t come all this way to see your old mate from school.”

  “No,” Georges agreed. “We need to talk to you. We need to buy some things.”

  Georges let that hang there for a moment, then added, “But it is good to see you Ntone. Too long.”

  Finally, Ntone nodded and his expression relaxed a bit. “Come in. Come in.”

  They entered a small, tidy living room. Charcoal sketches and paintings lined the wall. Ntone’s work, Crane assumed. Georges was right. He had talent. Ntone took a remote from a coffee table—a wooden platform laid atop a bulky metal trunk—and switched off the TV.

  “Your ma?” Georges asked.

  Ntone shook his head. “Just me now.”

  “Sorry, man.”

  They sat down, Ntone and Georges on the sofa, Crane on a chair to one side.

  “You got out,” said Ntone. “All the way to America.” He nodded toward Crane. “Who’s this? Your bodyguard?”

  “John Crane,” Georges said, turning to him and switching to English, “this is Ntone Esua. Ntone, my friend John Crane.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Crane said in English over a perfunctory handshake. He’d decided to let the man believe he didn’t speak French.

  “I guess you really made it, huh?” Ntone said to Georges. “You got white American friends now. Good for you.”

  “Ntone, have you heard anything from Romy?”

  “She’s back too?” Crane could see Ntone’s surprise. He hadn’t known she was here.

  “She’s in trouble. We’re trying to find her. I’ve been calling her old friends, but nobody knows anything. Some I can’t find.”

  “You’re back looking for her. What’s she doing…”

  Then Crane saw realization dawn across Ntone’s face. “Holy shit,” he murmured. “I heard some girl killed a couple of Kamkuma’s boys…Romy? Damn.”

  “They’re looking for her. And the police. I have to find her first.”

  “I can’t believe it,” said Ntone. “Little Romy. She was…damn. I can call a couple people from the old days. Word will spread, maybe make it back to them.”

  “They already know it’s her.”

  “Georges,” Crane said in English, “does he know where Kamkuma and his gang hang out?”

  Georges translated the question, and Ntone nodded. “They’re not hard to find. The Kamkumas have a place over in Bastos that they use. Some other hangouts too. You going after them with just your white American? Bad move, my friend.”

  “He’s more than you think,” said Georges. “But we’re going to need guns.”

  “Yeah, you got that right,” said Ntone. “You got money?”

  “We’ve got money.”

  Ntone stood up and took one end of the coffee table in both hands. “Okay, then. Help me move this off.”

  Chapter 40

  St. Petersburg, Russia

  The night air was heavy and damp, and the alley smelled of alcohol and piss. Einar Persson pressed himself into a niche beside a rack of overflowing trash cans, cold cement against his back, and waited.

  Einar put his hand into his thick overcoat pocket and felt the reassuring weight of the gun. He’d been here almost four hours now, waiting for Alexei Kuznetsov to return home. When he finally did, Einar would put two bullets in the back of his skull and then get the hell out of here. It wouldn’t be difficult. The apartment building had no security to speak of. The neighbors were either smart enough to mind their own business or too drunk to notice what was going on. He wasn’t assassinating a head of state, or some corporate titan with a bulletproof limousine and a flock of armed bodyguards. Alexei Kuznetsov was a grimy little nobody who had inherited a laundry service catering to corporate clients. For some reason his new masters wanted it, and Kuznetsov was too stupid to play ball.

  Einar spat on the pavement in disgust. This was what he was reduced to, all he’d been able to salvage from the old life that had collapsed beneath him. As head of security for Datafall, he’d had money, prestige, and authority. When he snapped his fingers, things happened. But Datafall was no more. At first, he thought he’d contained the brushfire incident, kept the company’s secrets safe. He’d told the board as much, and they’d believed him. But as time went on, and things started to come apart, it became clear that he’d been wrong.

  At least Einar was smart enough to see the writing on the wall early. He’d resigned his position in disgrace and gotten out before the government investigation got into full swing, and things got really bad. He was able to slip out of the country and disappear. He wasn’t in prison now, which was more than he could say for much of Datafall’s senior leadership.

  Eventually, out of money and traveling on a forged Danish passport, he’d washed up here. Einar didn’t like Russia. He didn’t like Russians. But he knew that here he would at least find someone ready to pay for his particular skills without asking questions. Einar didn’t mind killing people. He’d done it before. But starting over again at the bottom, that galled him.

  Einar checked his watch. It was after midnight. Where the hell was Kuznetsov? Out drinking, no doubt. When he got here—

  “Mr. Persson?”

  Einar’s heart rate leapt as he drew his pistol. The voice
had come from the darkness at the far end of the alley. Who knew he was here? Who knew his real name?

  “I know this is a surprise to you,” the voice said. It spoke in crisp Icelandic. “I know you’re armed and planning violence, so I want to assure you that I am not here to arrest or kill you.”

  Einar had some cover in the niche. If he moved out, he’d be silhouetted to someone at that end of the alley by the streetlights behind him.

  “I’ve brought you a small gift to show my good intentions,” the voice said. Something came flying out of the darkness and slapped against the pavement a few feet away. A wallet.

  “I will step into the light now to show myself.”

  A figure emerged from the darkness. A man in an overcoat, his arms out to his sides and hands empty. Einar leveled his pistol at him. He took a few more steps, until Einar could see his face in the dim light. He was Asian, perhaps thirty, an expensive suit beneath the equally expensive overcoat. He smiled and nodded toward the wallet.

  Einar glanced around the alley. No one else. He kept the pistol trained on the man as he edged out and crouched down to retrieve the wallet. He flipped it open. It was Kuznetsov’s.

  “You need not wait here in the cold any longer, Mr. Persson,” the man said. “Mr. Kuznetsov won’t be coming. Right now, he’s in his car at the bottom of the Neva.”

  “Why?”

  “As I said, as a show of good faith. I come with a proposition. We have a mutual enemy, Mr. Persson. I believe we can help each other.”

  Einar considered the situation for a long moment. If someone wanted to kill him, there were certainly less complicated ways to go about it. He put Kuznetsov’s wallet in his coat pocket and lowered the gun.

  “All right,” he said. “You know me. Who are you?”

  “I’m Andrew Choi. I represent a multinational business organization headquartered in China, but with operations around the world. These operations are, of course, not always legal.”

  “In other words, a triad.”

  “Not exactly. Though our business often requires us to deal with them.”

  “So why do you need me? It sounds like you have plenty of people who could do anything I can do.”

  Choi smiled. “I mentioned a mutual enemy. A man who penetrated Datafall Analytics’ supercomputing center and exposed damning information about the company’s activities. This led directly to the company’s downfall, and indirectly to your current reduced circumstances.”

  “You don’t need to remind me,” said Einar. Oh, he remembered the man well enough. He’d hunted him across Iceland before finally catching up to him at sea. The man had gotten the best of Einar and left him adrift in a small boat, but at least Einar had completed his mission and destroyed the stolen data. Or at least he’d thought so.

  “What did he do to you?” Einar asked.

  “Much the same as he did to you,” said Choi. “He disrupted an important operation that had been underway for nearly a year. We had finally tracked down and captured a high-value target and were returning him to China though covert channels. Somehow, this man managed to find and liberate him. This set us back greatly, as well as causing…considerable embarrassment in certain circles.”

  Choi reached slowly into his coat and took out an envelope.

  “This man has harmed us both. I’m sure you’d like to take revenge as much as we would.”

  He opened the envelope and handed Einar a photo. It was him. Einar remembered everything about that man—his face, his voice, the way he moved.

  “His name is John Crane,” said Choi. “We want him dead. And yes, we have people who can kill an enemy. But you are highly motivated. This envelope contains what we know about him, as well as travel and identity documents for you. We’ll provide transportation, weapons, whatever you need. We’ll put John Crane in front of you, and you won’t fail. When he’s dead, there will be other work more suited to your skills than this. Do we have an agreement, Mr. Persson?”

  Einar didn’t have to think about it. This was a way out of Russia, a step back up in the world, toward the spot on the ladder he’d lost. Maybe higher if he read this man correctly. And all he had to do was kill the one man in the world he most wanted to kill. John Crane. He ran the name back and forth in his mind. Oh yes, he would have killed John Crane for nothing. He didn’t have to think about it at all.

  “Yes, we do.”

  “Excellent,” said Choi. “Then let’s get out of this miserable alley and figure out what you’ll need for Central Africa.”

  Chapter 41

  Yaoundé, Cameroon

  Yanis Kamkumo had a well-earned reputation for sudden outbursts and fits of rage. His crew learned to read the signs and keep a safe distance. Yanis was not a happy man even at the best of times. This was not the best of times.

  Yanis sat in the back of his Land Cruiser as Bili drove. Bili was one of the newer recruits, relegated to driving Yanis around. There was no escaping his anger in the Land Cruiser, so the more senior members avoided the job. Bili sat quietly behind the wheel and steered carefully through the crowded streets. Yanis was in no mood for conversation today.

  His phone buzzed against his chest, and he pulled it from his shirt pocket.

  “Shit.”

  “Boss?” Bili ventured from the front.

  “Shit. Pull over here. And get out.”

  It was his father, Patrice, calling. He must have heard about the second death. Of course he had. His father was endlessly on his back. Even two hundred miles away in Adamawa, it was like he was right there.

  Bili found a place to stop on the side of the street and slipped out as Yanis answered the phone.

  “Hello, father.”

  “What the hell is going on down there, boy?” Patrice Kamkumo had always gotten what he wanted through bluster and intimidation, followed up with brutal violence if that didn’t work. Yanis had heard this tone from him every day growing up. It was the voice he used with incompetent underlings or those who tried to resist his will.

  “I’m on top of it.”

  “Oh! Oh, good! Because what I heard is one of your boys tried to screw some piece of fluff and got himself sliced up! And maybe it was her who killed the first one. So that would mean you’ve lost two of your men to a girl! I’m glad to hear that’s just gossip!”

  Yanis sighed.

  “At least we know that now,” said Yanis. “It’s not some other crew. There’s no war to fight.”

  “Better if it was,” Patrice snapped.

  “And I know who she is. It’s Romy Akema.”

  Patrice was silent on the other end. That was something he hadn’t known.

  “Akema?”

  “Yes, father. The old professor’s girl. Do you remember?”

  “Ah, yes. So it’s revenge,” said Patrice. “For the mother. How did you learn this?”

  “A friend recognized her. He wasn’t part of it. We made sure.”

  “Where’s this friend now?”

  “I’ve got eyes on him. We can bring him back in anytime.”

  “He’ll tell you who her other friends are. Track her down that way.”

  “I’m already doing it, father! I have names and numbers. I have men on the street. We’ll find her. If that doesn’t work, we’ll bring her to us.”

  “Oh?”

  “If she wants to kill us, she has to come to us,” said Yanis. “She tries again, we’ll be ready for her.”

  “Not good enough!” Patrice snapped. “If she knows you’re after her now, she’ll run. It’s not enough. If she just vanishes, then she killed two of your men and got away with it. It makes you look weak—makes us look weak! Word gets around, even back here. You have to get this under control fast, or I’ll do it myself, do you hear me?”

  Yanis put a hand over the mouthpiece and let out an exasperated sigh. As if his father was going to come down to the capital and magically point her out among more than a million people. He’d been yelling to get what he wanted for so long
, it seemed he thought yelling could accomplish anything.

  “We’re going to throw a party,” said Yanis. “A big one, public invited. Booze and girls. Show everyone we’re not afraid.”

  “Yes, that’s good,” Patrice admitted.

  “She’ll come, and we’ll catch her.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  Yanis remembered Michel’s body splayed out across the bed in his hotel room, hacked apart and soaked in blood. Yanis had seen violence before. He’d dished out plenty of it himself when it was called for. He’d seen dead men who died badly. Michel’s killing had been up there with the worst of them.

  Neither Michel nor Sam would have been easy to kill, especially for a young girl. The safe way would be from a distance, with a gun. But she didn’t do that. She got close. She butchered them like goats. She kept slashing away well after she’d killed them. She must have been bathed in their blood—so much blood she’d had to wash herself off in the room’s shower before she left. She hated them enough to do all that. But she’d smiled and flirted, let them touch her, kiss her, feel her up. She did what it took to get their guard down, and then she struck.

  If she could do all that, then her revenge had to be a cold fire burning away her heart, burning itself into the deep corners of her soul. She was driven by it, consumed by it. She wasn’t going to stop.

  “Trust me,” Yanis told his father. “She’ll come.”

  Chapter 42

  High school was pretty much high school anywhere in the world, Crane thought as they headed across town to find the next name on Georges's list. Romy Akema had been part of a circle of girlfriends who shared everything. They dated the same gaggle of boys and kept each other’s secrets. They helped each other deal with the thousand little hurdles of adolescence. Shared challenges forged friendships that they swore would last forever.

  Then they graduated, and all went their separate ways. No longer yoked together in the narrow track of high school, their differences suddenly emerged. The old ties faded, and they spun off into individual lives.