Huntsman, page 20
“I ain’t gotta do nothing but stay Black and die. And Michael Jackson and Jesus showed even those two are optional.” I curl my lip. “Besides, the only reason you don’t want me running up in there is because it’ll fuck up your plans to murder me. Am I right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, damn.” I jam my fists on my hips. “My pussy’s still curving to your dick and you’re out here talking ’bout murdering me. I’m just telling you right now: You want back in this good shit”—I point down between my legs—“you’re going to have to come with flowers, candy, or some new throwing knives. Something. I mean, serious groveling.”
“Sorry, olori. I don’t get off on crawling, and my dick doesn’t rule me. You and me? We still got business at the end of the day. And you got me fucked up if you think I’m just gonna stand by and let you roll up in there half-cocked because your conscience is playing goddamn footsie with your trigger finger.”
I grind my teeth together, and when I speak, I’m faintly surprised a cloud of molar dust doesn’t escape. “You can’t let me do shit. Me bouncing on your dick doesn’t make you my man or keeper. Now you can get out of my way, or I can put you out of my way. Those are the only choices I’m giving you. That’s me being nice since you got me all relaxed with orgasms. Consider yourself hashtag blessed.”
I don’t wait for him to release me but jerk free of his hold. Stepping back, I give him one last hard look. He meets mine with one of his own, those gray-blue eyes promising all sorts of retribution for my loose mouth. Under other circumstances, I would goad him to get just a little of what his gaze telegraphs, but I don’t have the time right now.
I got a date with Abena.
And I don’t wanna be late.
Tugging down my face mask again, I begin my half-mile trek through the woods toward the obodo. In ten minutes, I reach the edge, hunkered down in the shadows.
“Un-fucking-believable,” I mutter, narrowing my eyes. Other than the huge spotlights focused on the rear of the compound, there are no guards in sight. Not a soldier, not a guard, no infrared beams, nothing.
Either Abena’s negligent as hell or arrogant. Or both. Since she’s greedy as a muthafucka, I’m going with both.
Careless or egotistical she may be, but I still need to be careful if I’m going to infiltrate without being made. Scanning the yard, I note the only patch of shadows cast by the arsenal “shed,” and I dart in that direction. Only when I’m under its overhang do I straighten to my full height.
The side door to the main building stands only feet away. A fire escape climbs the side, but it only reaches the second floor, not the third, where Abena’s apartment lies. Another set of stairs leads to the basement level and security office, a huge training area, gym, and medical center. The door to the main level it’s going to be.
Swiftly crossing the dimly lit area, I pick the lock, and seconds later, it clicks. I silently scoff, twist the knob, and push the door open. In Ma’s time, there would’ve been alarms set on every door and window, and no one would’ve been able to breach the property, much less the house. How far we’ve devolved as a family is pathetic.
Rolling my lips, I bite the top one and quietly step inside. Silence greets me. As it should. Contrary to Malachi’s assumption, I’m not moving completely random. Though Abena is a chaos agent, she’s also a creature of habit. Doesn’t matter if she’s been partying, fucking, or sleeping like a baby, she has a cup of peppermint tea at 2:30 every morning. That’s my in. My opportunity to get to her.
I pause in the mudroom, listening for noise—voices, footsteps. Not hearing anything, I still reach into the same side pocket with my monocular and pull out a stick with a small circular mirror on it. I slowly hold it out and peek into the glass. No one appears in the reflection. Satisfied, I return it to my thigh. Carefully stepping out, I—
A big, unyielding hand clamps down on my shoulder, yanking me back behind the wall and into the dark shadows of the mudroom. My heart leaps for the base of my throat, and I send my elbow flying back into a rock-hard wall of abs. A familiar sensual scent infiltrates my nose a second later, and I pivot, meeting bright eyes through the rectangular hole in the dark ski mask.
“I don’t have time for this,” I snap lowly.
“I don’t either, but here we are. No plan. Your overemotional ass about to go off half-cocked so we can get killed. Or worse.”
I frown. “What’s worse than getting killed?” Well, aside from being kidnapped and trapped.
Like I said, all that’s visible are his eyes, but they’re giving, Bitch, I wish we had time for show-and-tell.
Before I can reply, he slides around me and disappears into the corridor.
“Shit,” I mutter, then quickly, lightly charge after him.
I know this place better than every feature on my face—nah, every feature on Malachi’s face. I’ve crawled, walked, scaled, run every inch since I was a baby. Just because I moved out once I hit eighteen and Abena couldn’t hold me here any longer doesn’t erase my memory. Or the love for it etched into my heart. My grandmother, my mother—our mothers before them—all lived and ruled here. This obodo is our history. And now history is about to repeat itself with me assassinating a ruling oba.
An almost-eerie calm settles over me as I follow Malachi up the curving staircase to the second level. We pause at the top, scan the floor, then continue on to the third floor. A part of me wants to balk at letting him take the lead. Especially when this is my mission, my aunt, my burden. But there’s also no one I’d trust more to head into war beside other than my Seven.
Then there’s the fact that, given he still wants to kill me—so he says—the smart thing to do would keep him in front of me rather than in back of me.
As Malachi’s foot hovers above the second-to-last step, I tap his shoulder. He halts and glances back at me. I shake my head and point down at the step. As long as I can remember, that step squeaked. It would possibly alert someone to our presence.
He nods, getting my message, and climbs over the step. I repeat the motion, and seconds later, he reaches the third landing with me right behind him. Malachi flattens his back to the wall and peeks around the corner. Without looking back at me, he holds up two fingers, relaying there are two soldiers standing guard.
After easing his hand to the sheath at his thighs, he removes one, then two knives. He pauses. Then, in a motion so fast that it’s damn near supernatural, he moves out and hurls them down the hall. I’m right behind him, running. And before the bodies can hit the ground, I catch one and he hooks the other. Carefully, we lay them down on either side of the door. Just as Malachi bends down and removes his weapons from the soldiers’ throats, the door at the end of the hall that leads to the kitchen opens, and a guy holding a tray and tea set steps out.
Shock flashes over his face. In the few seconds between him digesting that we’re standing in front of him and dropping the tray to go for the gun at his hip, I’m at his throat, my SIG jammed under his chin.
“Don’t even think about it. I’ll kill you and help your mama pick out the picture for the programs and the T-shirts. You get me?” He nods, his dark eyes narrowed, the tea set on the tray not betraying one rattle. Admiration for him trickles through me. Even with a gun trained on him, he’s not cowering. “You’re going to take that tea in to Abena like you usually do. Don’t go in there trying to be cute. I’m telling you now—if I even feel like you’re attempting to throw ol’ girl a lifeline, I’m blowing your shit back. Understood?”
He nods again, his attention flicking over my shoulder. That tea set still doesn’t rattle in his grip, but I don’t miss the flash of fear in his eyes. Can he tell who’s standing behind me? Malachi isn’t wearing his signature balaclava, but those eyes might be a giveaway.
I mentally shrug.
Won’t matter after tonight.
“Go.” I shift to the side and move in behind him, SIG pressed to his spine.
Malachi’s presence is a large protective wall at my back. I intended on carrying this out on my own. But in this moment, I’m … not mad that he’s here with me.
The server knocks on the door, and seconds later, Abena calls out.
“Come in, Marshall.”
Marshall glances over his shoulder at me, and I dip my head. His jaw flexes, and he releases a sigh as he twists the knob and opens the door. He doesn’t falter as he strides into the room, his gait easy, natural. Malachi and I hang back, letting him shield us until Marshall has made it halfway into the room. Abena, sitting up in her bed, her attention focused on the tablet on her lap rather than the man holding her tea, doesn’t notice when we slip in and close the door behind us.
“Evening, Abena,” I murmur.
Her head shoots up, her wide dark eyes slamming into mine. Shock loosens her lovely features, her lips slackening even as her body stiffens against the mountains of pillows at her back.
“What the fuck is this?” she rasps, her gaze swinging from me to Marshall, then back to me. I guess she hasn’t noticed Malachi yet. But then again, that’s his special talent.
I move forward, partially hiding Marshall behind me and keeping her attention centered on me and not the kid who did nothing but be in the wrong, shitty place at the wrong, shitty time. Still … I relieve him of his gun and toss it across the room.
“I believe they call it ‘chickens coming home to roost,’” I say. Abena dives for her bedside table and the alarm button that’s located right under the drawer, but I bury a bullet in the pillow not even an inch from her fingertips. The silencer compresses the blast of the gun, but she still flinches, cradling her hand as if I shot it instead of the bundle of down. “Aht, aht. We don’t need to involve any more people.”
“I always knew you were a traitorous bitch, Eshe,” Abena sneers. “I hope you didn’t really believe that little mask would hide who you are.” She laughs. “God, I should’ve smothered you in your sleep years ago and saved myself the trouble.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Auntie.” I roll my face covering up and offer her a feral smile. “I want you to know who’s taking your worthless, ain’t-shit life. And let’s be clear: You couldn’t kill me in your sleep, much less mine. That’s not what you do, how you’re built. You’d much rather have someone else do your dirty work. Guess you figured it worked with the mother, why not have a go again with the daughter, right?”
Rage gathers inside me like a tropical storm, gaining power and speed, threatening to tear everything down in its path. I’m set on destruction—Abena’s. And if I go down as a result, well, fuck it.
“Your mother, your mother. Aisha, Aisha. I’m so fucking sick and tired of hearing you whine about my goddamn sister. She was a cunt just like my mother. Just like you. And the best thing they ever did for this family was lie down and die like the bitches they were,” Abena snarls, hate twisting her features into a hard, ugly mask.
“You disrespectful piece of shit.”
She laughs, tipping her head back, and I can just imagine my knife going across her throat, splaying it open, and her blood coating me.
“No, Niece. That’s ‘you disrespectful piece of shit, oba.’ Your queen. A position you will never know. You will never sit on that throne. You will never be your precious Aisha.” She smiles, and if mine was feral, hers is savage. “You’re welcome.”
You’re welcome.
Yourewelcomeyourewelcomeyourewelcome.
A scream swirls in the pit of my stomach, and it surges upward, throwing blows against my ribs and heart, clawing at my throat. It howls in my brain, buzzing, buzzing. My vision goes red—
“Kill her. And let’s go.”
The cold, rational voice in my ear shoves the haze back a fraction so it’s a film, and the furious winds in my ears ease to quiet noise. Fury continues to have me in its grip, but I’m no longer a berserker on the edge of mass annihilation.
“You.” Accusation drips from Abena’s voice as she throws the covers back and swings her legs over the side of the bed. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
“Do it,” Malachi urges.
As if I need the encouragement.
“Do this, Eshe, and the full weight of this family will be on your—” Abena snaps.
“Shut the fuck up,” I growl, charging over to the bed and pistol-whipping her across the cheekbone.
Fierce satisfaction burns through me like the Olympic fucking torch when her skin breaks open and crimson blood sprays across my lips. I lick them. Behind me there’s a commotion, but I trust Malachi to handle it. Nothing’s going to stop me from this now that I’m so close, I can literally taste it. I press the SIG to Abena’s forehead and pull on the trigger …
“Eshe! Move!”
A gun blast nearly deafens me, and a pained grunt reaches my ear just before a solid body slams into mine. I roll, staring up into a bright blue pair of eyes—but not Malachi’s.
Ekon’s.
In a whir of motion, he vaults off me and grabs Abena from the bed. I jump to my feet, right behind him, but the closed door to her bedroom shudders, shouts coming from the other side.
“Fuck!” In the time I glance from her door, Ekon, with Abena cradled in his arms, disappears into one of the obodo’s many hidden passages. Some I know of and some I don’t. Helplessness and rage consume me as the wall beside the tall armoire slides shut. “Where did he come from?”
I spin around, scouring Abena’s bedroom, and Malachi, his fist wrapped around Marshall’s arm, points toward an open door on the other side of the room.
“What is that?” Malachi asks Marshall, who wipes blood from a gash on his forehead.
“An adjacent bedroom.” He pauses. “The Mirror just started using it.”
Malachi’s head turns to me. “You didn’t know that?”
Embarrassment rushes to my face because I hear the accusation in his tone. That Abena’s in the wind and we’re trapped here because I went in emotional without all the facts.
“Obviously not.” I look at Marshall. “Is there a way out of here? Another exit besides the hall?”
When he doesn’t immediately reply, Malachi lowers his arm toward his leg and the knife sheath there. Marshall shakes his head, holding up a hand.
“You don’t need to do all that shit, Huntsman. Yeah, I know who you are,” he says, his voice strong. He glances at me with a sigh. “I had to try and protect her. She’s my queen, and the title deserves my loyalty even if the person doesn’t.” The bedroom door makes an ominous crack, and the shouting gets louder. They’re close to breaking down the reinforced door. We don’t have much time. And from Marshall’s rushed tone, I assume he guesses it, too. “There’s a hidden exit in the Mirror’s room. The third brick to the right in the second row above the mantel. It’s false. Push it in, and it’ll open a door in the wall next to the fireplace. Once you get inside, there’s another brick right next to the opening, smooth and larger than the others. Press it and it’ll close the wall back. Now hit me.”
Neither I nor Malachi needs an explanation about the why of his last request. Malachi draws his arm back and punches him so hard, Marshall crumples to the floor, knocked out.
“Shit.” I try to go to him. Try to kneel and see if the kid is still alive, but Malachi grips my arm, preventing me.
“He’s fine. He’ll wake up with one hell of a headache, but he’ll live. Let’s go. We don’t have a lot of time before they come through that door. And we still don’t know where Abena and her fuck boy are.”
As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. I got us into this shit, and I can’t further risk our lives. Guilt swims inside me, threatening to drown me from the inside out. We bolt across the room, locking the adjoining door and hopefully granting us precious few moments.
“Over here.” I race ahead of Malachi to the fireplace, reciting Marshall’s directions. I locate and push the brick just like he said, and I hold my breath. “Damn.” I expected it, but God, relief streams through me like a swollen spring flood when the section of the wall seamlessly, noiselessly parts. “Malachi.”
I wave for him, and he nods, but pauses to shove a huge dresser in front of the door to slow down the onslaught from the other room. And good thing, too, because a loud crash and rush of thunderous feet shake the floor just as he finishes. My heart pounds against my chest wall like Thor’s hammer, and with each strike, two thoughts ricochet against my skull: If he dies, it’s your fault. You will never be your precious Aisha.
“Eshe, close the wall,” Malachi barks. He doesn’t wait, reaching past me and slamming his hand against the brick. Then he jerks my mask down, covering my face. “Let’s go. You have to lead since you’re more familiar with this building than I am. So, whatever’s going on in your head, get over that shit until later. We need to get out of here.”
I nod, though I only pack down the weight of my guilt, my shame, and my self-directed disgust. They’re already seeping into my blood, bones, and tissue like waste, and there’s no rooting them out. But he’s right. It’s my responsibility to get us out.
The one thing I didn’t think to bring was a flashlight, but as we quickly move, dim lights built along the walls blink to life, illuminating the way. Silently, I send up a prayer to my ancestors because I know damn good and well Abena’s ass didn’t implement this shit. Though I’ve never been in this passageway, it’s going down, and we’re in the east wing. Which means we’re closer to the side of the compound that butts up against the Charles River.
And the side that’s farthest away from the woods and my bike.
Goddamn.
“I’m not exactly sure where we’re going to end up at, but I think we won’t be far from the river. We’ll need to make a run or swim for it.”
He doesn’t answer, and I ignore the plummeting of my stomach and keep moving. At least fifteen minutes later, we arrive at a door, secured from the inside with a steel bar.
I reach for the bar, and he sets his hand over mine, stopping me.
“Ready?”
Not needing him to elaborate, I nod. Ready for whatever we might face on the other side. Ready to fight our way out. Ready to die.
