“Five million.”
They’re the first words I’ve spoken. She’s given me the target and a time limit; I don’t need anything else. I can get to work.
She glances to her left at the only person in the “throne room” besides us. The man stands nearly as tall as my own six-foot, six-inch height, with shoulders damn near as wide as the huge window behind him, and his pure white locs brush againsthis elbows as he bends his head over a device in his hands. Moments later, his blue eyes—even more brilliant against his umber skin—meet mine before he turns to Abena and gives her a small nod.
“The money should be in your account now. Remember, Huntsman. By the end of the week. And no failure.”
I don’t bother responding to that.
One, she might have just dumped five million in my untraceable account, but I don’t work for her. She doesn’t employ or own me. No one does.
And second, failure is never an option. And it hasn’t ever been an issue. What I set out to kill ceases to exist.
After turning, I stride across the room and leave without glancing back at the woman who issued a death warrant for her niece. From personal experience, I already knew this, but…
Family is a muthafucka.
I don’t stop as I leave the office building constructed of steel, glass, and bad intentions and shove out into the humanity teeming in the downtown streets, regardless of the late hour. It’s nearing one in the morning, but people crowd into the business sector as if it were the North End or the Theater District. This is Mwuaji territory though. Business never stops. Not while there are guns to run and stolen goods to import and export. The family, known for supplying most of the Eastern Seaboard with weapons and illegal goods from art to drugs, controls Boston Harbor and several other piers and docks in Massachusetts and western New York. Business and crime never sleep.
“We good?”
I don’t jerk at the sudden appearance of the tall, wiry, hooded figure next to me. I sensed Jamari several minutes ago when I exited the Mwuaji headquarters and he fell behind me, tailing me. Covering me. Even though I’ve ordered him to beat it several times.
But he’s stubborn. And sixteen.
He’s also lucky I don’t kill kids. But if he keeps fucking with me, as soon as he turns eighteen, he might be fair game.
“Yeah,” I say, my answer abrupt with a whole lot ofget the fuck on.
But as usual, Jamari ignores my tone and keeps pace with me. Even though he’s still a teen, he’s nearly as tall as me and his long legs easily eat up the ground.
“What’d she say?” He doesn’t wait for my reply… probably because he knows by now there won’t be one. “She wants you to off her niece, doesn’t she? Bet. I know she does,” he prattles on, at least keeping his voice down as we reach a corner and turn into the alley where I parked my restored, modified raven-black 1969 Pontiac GTO.
Slipping several bills to each of the kids I asked to look out for my car, I open the driver’s door and slide inside. A second later, Jamari drops on the passenger seat and slams his door shut, then lowers his hood, revealing his shoulder-length dark brown locs and damn-near-too-pretty profile.
“I’ve heard things, and it’s the worst-kept secret in Boston that she wants Eshe offed,” he continues, his fingers drumming a beat on the door panel and his leg jumping in an impatient rhythm. The kid is like a downed wire after a storm: Restless. Popping. Never still. “Shit, some of her own people even think she’s the one behind Aisha’s death. I know the Mwuaji are fucking killers, but taking out your own sister just so you can be queen and leaving your niece motherless? That’s some nasty work.”
Just shows how young and naïve he still is, even for someone who’s seen some of the worst shit humanity can do to one another and themselves. Nothing surprises me at this point. Greed and power are some of the tamest reasons for murder. Some of the sanest.
“Most people don’t pay attention to a kid,” Jamari says. I snort. Only the dumbest fucks don’t consider any- and everyone a potential threat to their lives. Age, sex, size… None of that measures up against desperation. “They say things,” hecontinues, fingers drumming faster, knee bouncing quicker, “and more than a few in that family would rather see Eshe as their queen. Feel it’s her rightful place. And if someone hadn’t gunned down her mother, she would be. If I overheard that talk, I’m pretty fucking sure Abena has.”
He’s not telling me anything I don’t already know. People kill not only to grab power but to keep it. And Eshe Diallo, whether she covets the role of queen or not, is a threat. Simply because others would like to see her there. Too many.
So she has to go.
And unluckily for her, it’s become my job to see that she’s no longer a threat… or competition.
It isn’t personal. It never is.
A faint pinch ofsomethingechoes behind my rib cage.
An image of Eshe Diallo flickers in my mind like a projector’s beam hitting a screen, and though I met the Mwuaji’s olori only one time, that visual is crystal clear, branded on my brain, my memory.
A stunning face that isn’t pretty—at least not in the classical sense. It’s too bold, the bone structure too severe, too strong for something as simpering and weak aspretty. She’sarresting. Those stark cheekbones, stubborn jawline, flared wide nose, piercing, oval-shaped hazel eyes, and fucking prurient offense of a mouth are like jigsaw pieces gathered from different puzzles but ones that somehow fit together to form a fierce, striking image. And then there’s that petite body with its deceptively soft-looking curves. The firm handful of her breasts. The flare of her hips, perfect for a bruising grip. The thickness of her gorgeous thighs.
Pretty? No.
Lethal and fuckable? Hell yeah.
