Page 52 of Deceive Me
“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 sibling. 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.
