After raising his right arm to his face and his finger against his left ear, the large man informs Marcelin that Akeem is armed in his native tongue. “Li gen de zam.”
“Pa gen pwoblem. Kite I antre,” flows into his ear and the man nods.
“You’re good. Follow me,” he says before moving his large body aside to allow Akeem in.
As soon as he’s inside, Akeem scans the entire lower level of the home. He immediately spots the armed and ready shooter to his right and another at the top of the curved staircase. On his face, Marcelin seems cautious, almost too cautious. According to Axton’s fact sheet, only two people live in the home, Marcelin and his woman.
Big Man leads Akeem through the great room that opens to a chef’s kitchen, past elegant living and dining rooms into a striking bar and temperature-controlled wine cellar. A shorter man, at least five inches below Akeem’s six-foot, three-inches frame, faces the bar holding a crystal glass half filled with fifteen-year-old Barbancourt rum. As a show of dominance, Marcelin remains facing the bar, giving his back to Akeem as he enters.
“Have a seat,” Marcelin says in his thick accent, still facing the bar.
“I’m good standing,” Akeem asserts. He’s dealt with men like this, who are only as strong as the muscle they surround themselves with, and Marcelin will have the same courtesy Akeem extended to those same men—none at all.
“Pierre, stay,” Marcelin tells his security, showing his weak hand and Akeem smirks. “Would you like a drink?” Marcelin offers.
“No. I don’t drink when handling business,” Akeem says.
“Admirable. I think rum is needed for business,” Marcelin says, then sniffs loudly. The remnants of his last hit of cocaine tickles his nose. His eight-ball-a-day habit has practically doubled since he’d lost his most mishandled yet prized possession. Although Marcelin pinches then wipes his nose before turning around, his habit is exposed when Akeem immediately notices traces of a white substance around Marcelin’s nostril. “Allergies,” Marcelin offers before loudly sniffing again. “You sure you don’t want to sit?”
“Yeah. I’m just anxious to handle business,” Akeem reveals, feeling his annoyance rising. He’s already been in this house two minutes too muthafuckin’ long.
Unlike Akeem, Marcelin sits in one of three plush leather chairs in the middle of the room. Their placement is odd in contrast to the rest of the room but only Akeem seems to notice. For some unknown reason, it sticks out to him, but in reality, this whole thing sticks out. And again, he has doubts about this job.
“Pierre, foto a,” Marcelin demands.
Without blinking, Pierre walks to the set of framed pictures staggered on the small mahogany table near the large window. He retrieves two and walks over to Marcelin. However, Marcelin waves him toward Akeem.
He hands Akeem the larger of the two photos first; it’s of a beauty. A brown skinned woman with perfectly arched brows, lash extensions that look like they grew from her lids, and flawlessly applied makeup that only enhances her gorgeous face. In the photo, she is standing in front of the very window in this room. Not one hair is out of place. Her beauty is astounding but Akeem is drawn to her eyes, beautiful but vacant. Those same eyes are in the second picture of her and Marcelin.
From the first contracted kill until the fourteenth, Akeem has strictly followed two rules: don’t ask why and never take contracts for women or children. He would not break a rule today, not even for a quarter million.
Without looking up from the pictures, Akeem says adamantly, “I don’t kill women.” He steps toward Marcelin and drops both pictures into his lap.
“I don’t want you to kill her. I just need her found so I can bring her home, to me,” Marcelin says.
“I’m not a tracker either. Ay, you got the wrong man,” Akeem insists.
“No. I have the right one. Your reputation says so. I want you to do everything you do to find your marks and find her; I just don’t want you to pull the trigger. You hold her, call me, and I’ll come get her.”
“I might consider that for an additional hundred K,” Akeem counters, picking a random number because this is truly a service outside of his wheelhouse. Yes, he tracks his marks, studies them, learns their patterns, then chooses the best time and place to take the shot, but he never approaches a mark, let alone kidnaps one.
“Done but she has to be unharmed. Not one hair out of place,” Marcelin insists because he is the only one who will hurt her and make her pay as soon as he has her back in his grasp.
Letting her slip out of his control and her escaping the hell he’s had her in for the last three years fucked with him for the past two months. He’s furious and wants her back in this house and locked in her room, the quicker the better. He’s searched all over Florida and sent the word out to his gang, but no one knows where she is. She’s somehow disappeared without a trace.
Three men lost their lives the evening he discovered she was gone and many more will when he finds out who helped her leave. His ego won’t let him accept that maybe she orchestrated her escape on her own. In his mind, she has no will, no confidence, and no ability to think on her own because he’s beat, raped, and degraded all of that from her.
Akeem stares down at the larger picture again.That look.Something in him has to know what caused the void in her light brown eyes and that something is the only thing even making him consider doing this shit.
“What’s her name?” Akeem asks.
“Tanjaya Willis. I have all of her info for you, even copies of her license. She’s not in Florida. I’ve checked and double checked. Her last foster mom was in Cali but she died monthsago. She’s all alone and only has me. I’m worried because she doesn’t know how to do much on her own. She’s spoiled.”
“Did she leave or is she missing?” Akeem asks, although the answer to his question lies in the disenchanted eyes on the pictures.She definitely left.
“I just need her back,” is all Marcelin offers. He refuses to tell the man who declined his offer to sit everything. Akeem’s arrogance is offensive enough. Marcelin refuses to give him any more leverage. Besides, Tanjaya is his bitch, his property. The truth behind her exit is between him and her.
“Then, I need half now and the other half when I find her. You have the account,” Akeem says, guided by his curiosity about her and those damn eyes.
