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"I swear," he sputtered. "I told you what I know. It was only about Namadi."
Namadi Obazuaye. Esteemed Nigerian businessman. My boss. I was his bodyguard, but it was me who had picked him rather than the other way around. His was a rags-to-riches story, and I needed a foot in this world. I clung to him, protected him, and rode his good fortune all the way to America. He'd found great success with the small African community here. And my work had been easy. To date I'd only needed to threaten a Haitian gangbanger or two. Kid stuff. At least until this guy.
"What is Namadi to you?" I demanded.
"I told you."
My voice went low. "Tell me again."
He took a few stuttered breaths and nodded. He'd given me the story before, but he didn't mind a repeat performance; it was either story time or sharp metal teeth.
"We just wanted your boss to clean our money through his businesses."
"Legitimate businesses," I reminded. "You wanted your filthy drug money to come through the esteemed Nigerian community."
The drugs were something I had expected from Miami. International port of call for the Caribbean and Latin America. This man certainly fit the bill. South American with a heavy accent. Bronzed skin, wild hair.
"Wrecking Namadi's storefronts. My storefronts."
I paced a lap around him so he had to spin on the line to keep sight of me. He gritted his teeth with the effort. The man's shadow encompassed me on his far side. I lingered there just long enough to make him wonder what I was doing. Just long enough to let his imagination do the torture for me.
I emerged from the darkness, but turned and addressed the black corner. "I wonder what he planned to do with us?" I curled my lip and laughed at the ensuing silence. "I have an idea. He was gonna shove us around a little. Piss all over our people, like we wronged him."
I caught the glint of light from my teeth in the reflection of his eyes.
"Who are you talking to?" he asked.
I waited a laborious breath. "I bet you were gonna offer us a way out. A way to get on your good side. After your boss declared war on us, you were gonna have us make it up to you by laundering your cash at rock-bottom rates. You were gonna make it seem like you were doing us a favor while we took a ridiculously low percentage for our trouble."
"The terms are negotiable," he said with a hint of hope in his voice.
That was disappointing. That meant I hadn't broken him yet.
"Not with you," I countered. "It would be your boss we'd be negotiating with, no?"
"S-sure."
More pitiful hope.
I snarled. "How do you expect me to do that without telling me who he is?"
The mage flinched away from me. His eyes blinked quickly as he pondered his words. "H-he . . . doesn't have a name."
I didn't move. I waited for Marco to retract his statement. To read my face and realize he made a
mistake. But the man just stood there on his tiptoes, sticking to his story. A line of blood trailed down his arm from a cut on his wrist.
"You know what I hate?" I asked placidly. I leaned in so the wavering light illuminated my face. Black eyes. Sweaty skin the color of bark. I pulled my lips clear of my metal fangs. "Tough guys," I said.
"It's true--it's true."
I turned to the dark attic corner again. Clenched my jaw in a scowl. "He would have us believe his boss is a ghost. As incorporeal as the spirits he channels for his spellcraft."
The man's eyes darted to the dark area.
I walked to the opposite wall and stopped with my back to him. I hefted two hooked blades. Near-complete loops of sharp metal, perfectly balanced with a small handle. One for each hand. With his eyes on my back, I scraped the knives together. Metal on metal. There's something visceral about that sound. Primal.
I took my time, too. That's one thing he had, at least. Not the kind of time to enjoy a long, fulfilling life. But enough to reflect on his predicament. To come clean. Enough for me to not misstep in haste. So I used that time to sharpen the blades against each other and let them do the talking for me.
