The door to the club was open but there were no revelers inside.
One of the barmen was busy behind the bar setting things up for the night to come, checking bottles and polishing glasses. There was music playing, but it was quieter, and not the kind of wild meltdown that would be played later in the evening.
“Rakeem?” Danjuma asked.
“Downstairs,” the barmen nodded towards the cellar doorway, barely pausing in his work.
Danjuma came around the back of the bar and opened the door to the cellar. The light was already turned on, illuminating a stone staircase down. He half-expected to hear voices, but there was only silence down there.
He closed the door behind him.
He could no longer hear the music.
The isolation was that good. No sound made it down. No sound made it back up.
Unusually he’d find himself distracted by the racks of wine and rare spirits, the casks of imported beers, and other stuff in this treasure trove of debauchery, but today none of it held the least bit of interest for him.
He was focused solely on the door at the far end of the storage room. It was a large, imposing slab of metal that seemed so out of place against the more archaic racks of booze in the dusty cellar, like something in a meat storage locker. He took a breath before he reached out for the handle, then swung it open.
The man sat on a chair in the middle of the room.
His head was slumped down.
Danjuma didn’t need to see his face to know that he’d taken a beating.
He would have liked to have been there for it.
“He wasn’t keen on being tied up,” Rakeem observed, seeing the boss come in. Danjuma hadn’t registered his presence, despite knowing that he was in room. He was a wraith. Danjuma turned to see his red right hand leaning against the wall looking bored, like there was no fun in the torture anymore.
On the other side of the door stood the two men who had brought the American here.
They were no doubt responsible for the state of the man, though no doubt Rakeem had thrown a few punches for good measure.
Danjuma tipped his head towards the door. “Take a break,” he said. “You’ve done good.”
He saw the bucket in the corner but didn’t pick it up until the two men had left and closed the door behind them. He didn’t know if it was water or piss inside, and to be honest didn’t case. He threw the contents at the man, who came alert in a heartbeat, spitting and gasping for air.
“You’re lucky,” Danjuma said.
“Lucky?” The man spat.
“Oh yes, believe me,” Danjuma said as the man licked at his dry and cracked lips. “You could be dead already.”
“What’s this all about?” the man fronted.
“Don’t fuck with me,” Danjuma said, bluntly. “You’re not looking quite as cocky as the last time we met.”
“The last time?” The man said and looked at Danjuma, his swollen eyes struggling to focus. Then realization struck. He knew who he was looking at.
“You.”
“Me,” he agreed. “I’ve got your ex-partner, too. He’s in my spare bedroom waiting for me to decide what the fuck I’m going to do with the pair of you. I don’t like trouble, Mr. American. On the contrary, I am a big fan of a quiet life. So, what I need to decide is what course of action gives me the peace and quiet I crave.”
“Fuck,” the man in the chair said.
“Fuck indeed,” said Danjuma and glanced across at Rakeem. “What do you think we should do with him?”
Rakeem pulled a handgun out of the waistband of his jeans and held it up. “I have an idea.” The man in the chair glanced his way, a flash of fear in his eyes; and it was probably the first moment of real fear he’d betrayed, even during the beating. Rakeem pressed the barrel against the side of his head.
“Please,” the man said. “Just tell me what you want. Whatever it is, you want it, you’ve got it.”
Danjuma motioned with his head for Rakeem to step aside.
The man was frightened enough, push him too far and he would break down. It was all about keeping him on the right side of sheer terror, that place where he could still apply more pressure when it was needed.
“Tell me about the drugs,” Danjuma said.
“We bought them from you. Is that what you want? You want them back, you can have them, just let me go.”
“Don’t treat me like I’m stupid, just because of the color of my skin. I don’t like that. I won’t treat you like a stupid fuck if you don’t treat me like one. Besides, they aren’t yours to give back, I already have them. Now, let me explain your new reality to you. Rakeem here would be more than happy to put a bullet in your head, nice and quick. He is a pragmatic soul. It isn’t difficult to clean up blood. Easier than a lot of other messes, if you get what I mean.”
The man looked up again and this time there was something different in his eyes—a pleading had joined the fear.
If Danjuma promised him his freedom in return for him leaving this cellar, going to his own mother’s house and killing her, he would have done it, no question. The man was desperate.
“Tell me what you were going to do with the consignment you stole from your partner. I know you had no intention of honoring the deals your partner had put in place.”
The man shook his head, then winced, clearly regretting it. “No, I’d lined something up myself. It might not have been as much as the original deal, but then I wouldn’t have been splitting it with anyone else, so it was more in my pocket.”
“Well, you are an honest man, if not a smart one,” Danjuma said.
The man paused for a moment, looking Danjuma in the eyes.
Danjuma knew that he was weighing up his options, wondering if by telling him everything it would get him out of there, or just mean he got the bullet in the head that much quicker. It was exactly what Danjuma would have been thinking in his place. And then there was the second question, would betraying his new buyer in the old fortress get him killed even if he walked out of here?
“I haven’t got all fucking day,” Danjuma said, his voice steady and level, no trace of anger in it despite the profanity. He was facing a man who knew that he had lost everything.
“I had a buyer,” he said.
“I know you did. What is his name?”
The man shrugged. “They just call him Boss.”
“And where were you supposed to meet this Boss? Was he buying the stuff off you, or just helping you get it out of the country?”
“Buying it,” the man said. He tried to sit up a little straighter, but it wasn’t easy with his injuries.
“Where was the buy going down?”
“There’s some kind of settlement a few miles out of town, an old army base or something. I’ve got a map.”
Danjuma nodded. “And you were just supposed to drive up to the place, give Boss the stuff, and he’d give you your money? Is that how it was supposed to work?”
The man nodded. Another grimace.
“Okay, so tell me, what is stopping this Boss from putting a bullet in your brain, taking your consignment and burying you in the desert?”
“A contact vouched for him. Said he’d play it straight as long as I didn’t try to screw him over.”
“Who’s the contact?”
“A guy named Clint Eastwood. We were in the army together.”
Danjuma roared with laughter. “Clint muthafucking Eastwood? Are you shitting me, man?”
There was a moment of panic, with the man frantically, and painfully, shaking his head. “No, no, his real name is Norm… Norm Eastwood… we just called him Clint.”
“Clint fucking Eastwood.”
The man in the chair tried to join in on the laughter, but his was forced and hollow.
“And how does Clint know this Boss?” Danjuma asked.
“He did some kind of job for him, not sure what. Clint stays pretty tight-lipped when it comes to his work.”
“And what type of work does Clint do?”
“Private security,” the man said.
“Here, or in America?”
“All over the world,” he said, “but he’s worked over here a lot.”
“Ah, a mercenary,” Danjuma almost spat out the word. It wasn’t enough that men were killing each other in one country after another, they had to bring in foreigners to help with the job.
The man tried to shrug, as if forgetting that his arms were still restrained, and failed miserably. “He said that him and his men have some heavy weaponry.”
“And he was going to buy the drugs off you.” It was a statement, not a question, confirming that he had it clear in his head. “What else do you know about this man you were dealing with?”
The American licked his lips. He broke eye contact. “He said I could pick up some extra cash if I picked up a few young girls for him along the way.”
“Young girls? Just how young are we talking?” Danjuma felt his heart beating louder and faster, fear and anger threatening to spill over. There were many dark things in this world he would do, without a second thought, but there were others he would not tolerate.
“Ten, twelve, maybe a little older, but only if they look young.”
Danjuma felt his mouth dry up. It was hard to remain calm as he asked, “And what does he want them for?” when he already knew the answer.
The man looked up again. “He sells them overseas.”
The anger spilled over.
Danjuma swung his right hand, knuckles thundering into the man’s face. His head snapped back, spit and blood flying.
When the American finally looked back he appeared dazed, his eyes unable to focus. There was a deep cut on his cheek where Danjuma’s gold signet ring ripped through the flesh to the bone.
It wasn’t that Danjuma was angry with the man in front of him, but his rage had to go somewhere, and that somewhere was into the American’s face.
His daughter had fallen into the hands of sex traffickers.
The thought churned his gut.
He was ready to go to war, blazing with righteous fury.
He’d burn the whole fucking compound down and stand over the smoldering corpses making damned sure each and every one of the sick bastards melted in the flames.
He needed to get his little girl out of that place.
Every paternal instinct welled up, swarming through his mind, and robbing him of anything approaching sense.
He clenched his fist, ready to swing again.
He bit on the inside of his lip, tasting blood.
He unclenched his fist, stretching his fingers wide.
Force was a mistake when cunning would be far more effective. He needed to play to his strengths. There was a reason he had become king of Freetown and it wasn’t that he’d run headlong into fights without knowing the extent of the threat waiting for him.
“When are they expecting you?”
“Tomorrow, maybe the day after.”
“Which?” Danjuma demanded.
“Either,” the American said. “We left it vague to allow for unforeseen circumstances. The agreement was that I needed to drop it off at their door before the end of the month or the deal was off.”
“How will they know it’s you?”
“It’s not complicated. I just have to say who I am, give them Clint’s name, and they open the gate.”
Danjuma thought about it for a moment, considering the possibilities. “So, what’s stopping me from taking your place?”
“You want the truth?”
Danjuma nodded.
“Look at me, then look at yourself in the mirror, what’s the one thing that strikes you as different?”
“You are a white man.”