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Elliot Smith left Walsh’s property just as Mansa had intended. Kivuli ordered his driver to follow her, first to JCL, then to her apartment, but she did not stay at either place, nor did she give them opportunity to approach without warning her. Instead she drove to a shopping center just west of her home. Kivuli watched as she exited the small black sports car she’d retrieved from the company garage and sauntered down the row of vehicles toward what appeared to be a combination bar and restaurant.
“What now?”
He glanced first to the driver, then to the two men in the rear seat, all three staring expectantly at him. They were of average intelligence, the requisite “muscle,” but not hunters. If they had been, they would know their prey had detected their presence.
He pointed to the man in the seat behind the driver. “Scout.”
The man flashed him a cold look, reluctantly opening his door. Before he could slam it shut, Kivuli warned, “Do not go near the woman, ja?”
The chill spread from his eyes to his mouth. “You’re the boss.”
Indeed he was, but he ignored the man’s insolence for now. If they considered Kivuli exacting, they did not know his employer well.
He returned his attention to Elliot Smith. The location she had chosen—a sports bar, his driver informed him—contained a traditional restaurant portion to one side, adjoining an area that resembled a garage, complete with garage door. The door was currently lifted to create an open-air patio. His prey entered the open area, weaved through multiple high tables to disappear at the back, then reappeared a few minutes later with two beers in hand. She settled at a table near the sidewalk.
Meeting someone?
No. Smith drank both beers, sitting in the sunshine, in plain sight of their SUV, surrounded by an ever-changing crowd that nonetheless did not ebb nor give them an opportunity to move closer.
Ja, Smith knew she was being stalked. She was taunting him.
The hunter in him rose to meet her challenge, peering from his eyes, scenting the air—the spirit of his ancestors saturating his bones. This was worthy prey, the spirits assured him; that was why she did not run. She had no need to. She was unafraid.
Not like Mansa’s other victims. The difference stirred a faint unease in his mind.
Their scout returned.
“Report,” Kivuli ordered.
The scout dared to roll his eyes at Kivuli’s command. “It’s—”
Aikona! Before the man could blink, the hand with which he gripped the driver’s seat was pinned in place by Kivuli’s knife. He opened his mouth to scream. Kivuli reached him first, laid a long finger against the man’s open lips. “We do not want to do that here, no?”
The man sucked in air, choking on his pain as he stared death in the eyes. “No.”
“Good.” Kivuli yanked his knife out. A thin red line between two metacarpals rapidly spilled blood, but Kivuli had ensured the man would still have use of his hand. “Now-now, describe the location to me while your friend wraps your wound.”
Tense silence filled the vehicle—the driver and third man deciding what they should do. Gradually the driver’s fists loosened on the steering wheel and the third man dug in the back for a first-aid kit. Kivuli’s stare never left his victim.
“It’s a typical strip mall,” the man said, voice breathy with pain. “Several large buildings, all one-story, lining the block. Alleys on either side of the sports bar, leading to a central loading area accessed from the rear of each building.”
“Very good.” He turned back to watch Smith enjoying her third beer.
The cell at his belt beeped, demanding his attention. He clicked to accept the call and silently brought the phone to his ear.
“Report.”
Kivuli listed Smith’s actions for his employer.
“Has she shown any awareness of you?”
“No.” Nothing he could pinpoint definitively.
Mansa grunted, in response to Kivuli’s denial or something else, he didn’t want to know. His employer’s...tastes...were repugnant.
“Flush her out,” Mansa commanded.
Kivuli didn’t agree, but neither did he argue. The cell beeped when he ended the call; he returned it to his belt. Next to him, the driver raised an eyebrow in inquiry.
“Are we still dripping?” Kivuli asked without glancing toward the backseat.
“No, sir.”
The words were firm. Good. Kivuli jerked his head toward Smith. “Let’s go.”
They exited the van. Kivuli gave each man a once-over before assigning their positions with a silent nod. Only when each one was in place did he make his approach down the long aisle, flanked by parked cars. He didn’t bother to hide; there was no need—the woman did not glance his way, nor did her body tense. She seemed unaware, but instinct, the spirits’ whispers in his ear, told him she was not. When he came to the end of the row and walked into the drive fronting the restaurant, and Smith swept the landscape, finally settling on him, he knew that the spirits were correct. Those eerie blue eyes caught him in their trap, absorbing how he moved, how he stared, the trajectory of his path. Recognition dawned, lit an eagerness for battle within him, an eagerness he could not surrender to.
Smith did not rush to flee. Instead she lifted her bottle and took a last long swallow of the amber liquid before setting it down precisely next to its siblings. She even took the time to place a tip beneath it, ensuring the bills would not blow away in the light wind. Only then did she slide from her seat and make her way unhurriedly toward a side door of the restaurant, at a right angle to his position.
Smart; he had sensed that. He had also planned for such a contingency.
She was small, he realized. In the surveillance photos she’d appeared delicate, but this close, in person, she looked too fragile for the kind of work she did. Perhaps her male teammates assisted more for a female than they would for each other. Such a small woman would bring out a man’s protective instincts, especially if she allowed them to fuck her.
Knowing two of his men were even now circling the building to flank the woman, he signaled the driver into the narrow alley Smith had entered. A lascivious grin stretched the man’s face, roughening his already hard features, his sharp eyes fastening onto Smith’s small form. Kivuli followed, barely able to see around the man’s thick neck, but he caught a glimpse of Smith pausing to glance over her shoulder, tracing his subordinate’s body first before meeting Kivuli’s eyes directly. Assessing her opponents.
Yes, she was nothing like Mansa’s usual victims, but then, she was Mansa’s offspring. Mansa was intelligent as well, though Kivuli suspected he had relied on other men to protect him for far too long. He was no longer sharp. This woman did not suffer the same problem.
Smith continued on. Kivuli’s subordinate picked up speed, but before he could reach her, the alley opened into a loading area. Plain walls with a series of doors, each store’s name clearly emblazoned, marched down the space. Smith beelined toward the opposite side, only coming up short when one of Kivuli’s men appeared directly in her path. A turn to the right, her last chance of escape, but his third man had already stepped from the next alley, blocking the final line of their triangle.
“It appears the time for our meeting is finally at hand, Ms. Smith.”
The woman turned to face him, backing rapidly until her spine met a wall. Kivuli and the driver were before her, one of his men closing in on each side, just in sight. Nowhere to run, though he had no doubt this bit of prey would surprise him.
He stepped forward.
“You know my name,” she said. Planting her feet in a fighter’s stance, Smith cocked her head to the side. “How about yours? Or should I just call you fuckhead?”
Her language was nothing like her father’s—she was hot, fierce. Anticipation set off the beat of ceremonial drums in his head, as close to a sexual high as Kivuli came. The spill of blood was what excited him most, the hunt. It had been long since such a worthy opponent had faced him.
“You should come with us, miss.”
Her mouth formed a slow oh. Her bow was half-formed, an insult more than a compliment. “The ghost, I presume.”
His solemn nod confirmed it, though he did not give her his name. Names had power.
“Well, ghost”—she took a sidling step away—“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
No, he did not expect that she would. A good hunter did not allow the prey to surprise him, but he did use all the weapons available to him.
A sharp gesture signaled his men to close in.
Smith lifted her hands as if to ward them off—a weak, feminine gesture. “Hey, wait, guys! I’ve got nothing against you.” She sidled along the wall again, placing her closer to the man who’d entered the loading area farther down. “Can’t we talk about this?”
Such succulent prey. The men couldn’t resist, and though Kivuli saw her intent clearly, he did not warn them. They would wear the woman down before Kivuli took her himself. These men were expendable, and if they were so easily drawn in, he knew Smith would agree that they deserved whatever she dished out, as they said here in America.
The closest man lunged forward, a hungry grin baring the depravity within him. Smith cowered back against the wall, making herself small, and then, with a block and swing that slipped right between the man’s reaching hands, landed a punch to his jaw, to one side of his chin—a knockout point. He dropped immediately to the ground, eyes closed, unmoving.
Smith shook out her fist. Fragility fell away as she turned to face her remaining opponents. “Down to two. Who’s next?”
Both remaining subordinates charged the woman. Kivuli stood back, watching, assessing, waiting for Smith to tire herself out with the fight. He’d expected a trained fighter but not a warrior, and a warrior she was. She kept the men lined up, one between her and the other at all times, paying no attention to Kivuli’s position off to the side—or at least, not appearing to. No doubt she surmised his intent to wear her down. Her size allowed her to get under strikes and move lightning-fast around her bigger, slower opponents. By the time they’d turned to find her, she’d already struck—a blow to the kidney or the base of the skull, a kick to the side of a knee or the ribs or, even worse, a too-close hand; Kivuli counted a half dozen broken fingers. One of his men hesitated a second too long, allowing Smith to whip around him, drop down, and deliver an uppercut to his unprotected groin from behind. He hit the concrete face-first, hands cupped over his most sensitive anatomy, and immediately began vomiting.
Smith’s laugh was filled with exhilaration, her expression more alive than he’d seen it before. A feeling of kinship rose inside him as he watched. A worthy opponent indeed.
After an incredulous look, Kivuli’s final subordinate took the bull’s approach and bore down on the woman, no doubt hoping to use his greater weight to control her. Instead she gripped his massive bicep between her small hands, flipped to put her back to his stomach, and dropped to her knees all in one movement. The man flipped over her head. He barely had time to groan before a boot to his jaw ended in a shattering sound that assured Kivuli the man would not be speaking anytime soon.
Smith rose to her feet. Pivoted to face him squarely. One delicate finger lifted to her mouth, to a thin trickle of blood, and swiped it clean, depositing the life-giving fluid on her own tongue. And then she smiled. The heart of a warrior, a predator, was in that smile. “That was short,” she said. “Too short. I’d’ve thought my father could afford better help.”
The insult meant nothing—Kivuli recognized it for what it was, just as he recognized the woman for what she was: a hunter who shared the spirit of the warrior within him. He would not crush that spirit, but he would prevail. Purpose settled in his breast as he stepped forward into battle.
Without warning, a door behind Smith slammed open. A large man, heavily bearded, carrying a full trash bag, took one step through, glanced up, and jerked to a stop at the sight of the bodies littering the ground. “What the hell?”
Kivuli reached for his waistband, for the knife he kept there. The hilt was between his fingers for no more than a second before he threw it.
Smith traced the faster-than-sight movement for a split second, then lunged toward the man, shoving him back. Kivuli’s knife slammed point-first into the door.
“Get inside!” Smith growled as the man instinctively fought her. “Call 911!” She shoved him once more, back far enough that she could slam the door shut. Shouts filtered out, assuring him he would not make it more than a foot inside the building.
His prey had outmaneuvered him.
It would not do for the American police to find and detain him here. He retrieved the keys from his unconscious driver and hurried back down the alley toward the van.