Black Queen, Dark Knight II Read online

  “Lights on,” I whisper. Throughout the smart house, every recessed light illuminates down on their transgressions.

  Standing at the second landing, I lean on my forearms over the railing into the living room. The man who was stung by the fish in the stream stops howling for a split second. Along with three other guys, he stares up at me in shock.

  “Let me guess, you’re here to vandalize my house? You’re breaking and entering. You all have the right to die now.”

  It’s all silence and shell-shocked gazes below. Without so much as aiming, I have put a bullet through the skull of the man who was stung by my fish.

  A man with a crowbar in his hand, shaking a little less in his boots, speaks up. “Wh-what have you done?”

  “Tell your boss at The Blue Cove resort,” I start down the stairs, fisting my gun, “that I do not take kindly to—”

  “We don’t—”

  Eye twitching, I cut in. “Not a fan of liars, not at all. Tell your boss, he does not want to fuck with me.” I wait. No one makes a move to leave. “You can go or join your dead friend!”

  While I’m slowly moving around to take in all of my unprepared enemies, an arm goes flying toward the back of my neck. I duck. The sorry excuse for a human’s hand goes into the chin of the man who was just before me. Reaching behind me, I shoot at the precise angle of his heart. He drops.

  Forking a hand through my hair, I give a hostile shout. “The rest of you wanna go home, right?”

  Now, I feel like an unhinged psycho while silence surrounds me. No, is the obvious answer when a crowbar goes flying toward my temple. I grab it with my left hand while letting off a shot into his torso from my right.

  There are a few more brains to go around than I initially assumed. Instead of attempting to take me on one at a time, three men charge at me. I shoot the one in the center execution style then the one to the right. The guy on the left, with a bulldog face, is the only one standing. He ninja chops my hand, blasting a bullet into the textured gray wallpaper. With my arm pushed across my chest, I bring my elbow up crushing the bridge of his nose.

  Placing my gun down on the coffee table, I crack my neck ready for the bulldog who had at least five inches on the rest of his now deceased comrades. He eyes the magnum. I give a smirk, eyes sparkling devilishly. Then the bulldog charges toward me. Hands fisted over my head, I bring them down on his spine, my knee into his face.

  Bulldog slinks down onto the floor. Blood gushes out of his nose, which was already been broken. I grip at his shirt, legs wide, punching him with all my might. My knuckles slam against his jaw, his spine rattling in his meat-headed body.

  “You want more or death?”

  Tiny splashes of crimson splatter across my forearm as he spits a reply. “Fuck you!”

  My fists torpedo across his face. Bulldog lays on the ground barely holding on to life as I continue to pummel just his face. An innate craving to leave his brain a bloody pulp roars through me, and I can’t stop.

  “Grrr . . .” I scream. Mikayla’s innocent smile flashes before my eyes. She’s in Nivean, and out of all the wealth I possess, I don’t own her.

  Warm, blood-painted hands were once a form of therapy for me. I stand up. Fat crimson drops fall from the tips of my large fingers and onto the ground. A few yards away is the stream of lionfish. Their clear water confines are becoming tainted with a pinkish tinge.

  Bulldog groans.

  From my peripheral, I watch as one of his eyes open, though I’m consumed with one thought—a fury of desire for Mikayla. She could’ve been in my bed tonight. Could’ve been using those medical skills to mend my throbbing knuckles once I carry my tired body to bed.

  But she’s not.

  A whistle-like breath funnels through Bulldog’s nose. He alternates to breathing out of his mouth as he rolls over to his stomach. He clambers against the white marble, using one forearm to slide across the ground, muddling the deep silver veins while heading toward the coffee table.

  Toward my beloved Magnum .357.

  Toward what he hopes will be the end of me.

  But he’s too fucking stupid.

  Brain’s too rattled in that fat ass head of his

  I’m quicker.

  I’m stronger.

  He’s broken.

  His fingers clasp the handle of my revolver. Breathing tapered, he turns around and does all the right things. He fists the gun perfectly and points it in my direction as I watch him with a dead, lazy glower. Slamming back the hammer, he offs the safety and places his shaky hand onto the trigger.

  Then . . . nothing.

  Not a damn thing happens because my weapons only work for my enjoyment.

  I hold my hand palm up, facing Bulldog and wiggle my red sullied fingers. “All this expensive shit around here ain’t worth as much as that gun in your hand. See, it only works with my fingerprints.”

  The one almost good eye of his widens in fright. His trigger finger continues to squeeze, but the lever won’t bend to his request.

  I remove the gun from his hand, grab his hair, and push his face back. “You got a lady?”

  “Fuck you—”

  “You could be home right now with the one you love.” I’m still far away from this situation, still missing Mikayla like crazy. Which is batshit irrational because I can’t fathom how I lived prior to her existing in my world.

  “Fuck—”

  I place the barrel of the gun into his mouth. “If I were you, my woman would be in my arms right now.”

  Bang.

  More blood, brain, and hair fragments mangled in blood go splattering everywhere. I stand up, wipe his filthy paws off my magnum, and place it into the back of my waistband. Sliding the cellphone from my pocket, I sift through my contacts for the X Member clean-up crew.

  Shit. My keen hearing and understanding of engines tell me that a cop car is traveling up the hill. So much for ridding myself of the bodies and cars. I do the next best thing. Dialing 10111—the American equivalency of 911.

  The emergency operator spouts off the proper greeting, ending with, “What’s your emergency?”

  “Intruders are in my house.”

  “Where are you, sir?”

  “Safe.” My lips hardly move.

  “Good. What is your address?”

  I provide the information. Before they can mention sending a squad car, I let them know one is on its way.

  “Are you sure, sir—”

  I hang up.

  Seconds later, there’s pounding on the door.

  Two South African male cops dressed in blue with police caps on their heads hold out their Glocks in my direction. The one with short cropped hair and a sneer is wearing a badge reading Totsi. Beady eyes, perfect for a crooked cop.

  “There were intruders.” I grit out, holding up my hands that they’re both eyeing. “I have cameras recording my entire house.” Hint, don’t fucking try to shoot me while I’m unarmed right now.

  The clean shaven one, Walkerah, lowers his gun a fraction, clearly the sane one of the two. “Mr. Johansson, what’s going on with your hands there? And where are the intruders now?”

  “They’re still inside my house. I resolved the issue as is my right. But I’m assuming you received a call from Jackson Peirce?” I cock a brow.

  Totsi’s eyes shoot daggers at me. I’m spot on. Peirce sent his minions to deface my property. He heard gunshots and called the cops.

  Walkerah speaks up. “We can’t divulge—”

  “His men are in my home. They broke in. They are now dead.” I fold my arms over. “As I’ve said, the camera footage I can show you will more than corroborate my story. I will not press charges against Peirce, due to the circumstances.”

  Skin burning with rage, Totsi stares at Walkerah who is still ruminating over my statement. They exchange glances. The dirty cop tells the clean one to look the other way. It’s all in the fire of his gaze.

  “Mr. Johansson, I must handcuff you.” Walkerah’s hands
shake as he removes the cuffs from his utility belt.

  “Do what you must. There is evidence of a break in.” I point to the door, which has tiny scrapes. No way in hell would they have been able to unlock my door—sans bomb—without me disabling the security code. I’ll let the cops think they’d jimmied it though.

  “Show us where you keep your security system, Mr. Johansson, and then you will sit out here and wait.” Walkerah orders.

  With steel manacles around my wrists, I gesture toward my pocket since they don’t need to know about my security room. “My cellphone in my pocket. Just put it up to my face, and I can guide you on how to bring up the camera access.”

  Totsi rolls his eyes. It takes a few minutes for me to walk the good cop through the process of accessing the cameras in my home. They watch the two cars pulling up into the driveway.

  “Why wasn’t your alarm system on?” Totsi growls.

  I smile softly. “Forgot.”

  He stares down at the phone. They sit me on the curb away from what Walkerah is now calling an active investigation, and I can hear the crashing of assets from the video. Not long after, two more cop cruisers pull up the hill.

  Totsi steps out of the house, meandering over with a sly grin on his face. “You look rather calm for a man who just defended himself?”

  Air funnels through my nostrils. “The perks of living by the sea.” I almost laugh. That’s the sort of bullshit that Trick would say.

  “Funny. Must be that recent vacation of yours, Mr. Johansson. You have never been funny in all of our years.”

  I stare at him, really get a good look, and recall that I’ve crossed paths with him before. Authorities are like the plague, so I steer clear of them usually. But a few times, Pierce has come snooping around to offer me money out the ass to move off this cliff. Totsi was the cop to accompany him but wearing street clothes. I wonder if his cop career was handed to him or if he turned into the man he is today with help from men like Pierce.

  “Yeah, it’s me.” His yellow teeth are barred into a deep sneer.

  “Fuck me, do we have a problem? Is it because I always forget to tip you like Pierce does?”

  He points a finger at me. “Tsk, tsk. Trying to get me to admit to bribery.”

  I sit there, unamused by his desire to chat.

  “Big and bad. You’re the fucking shit now, huh? Sweet little black,” he spits what is considered a derogatory term for an African, “piece of pussy you have, and she’s playing a game of thrones.”

  I pull my gaze away from the roaring, dark sea below to stare into his eyes, watching him dig his grave.

  Totsi chuckles. “My wife’s side of the family has some Nivean blood. Good thing they moved out of those little huts, eh. The nation hasn’t been the same since Makuachukwa married that Bannan fucker.”

  I mirror his smile. This man is dead. I can taste it.

  “Totsi.” One of the other officers calls him back toward the door. I stare at them. The man is going to tell him that there is no reason to keep me locked up. His lips move, and I read the words. Something was found in their cars. Something that points the dead fucks to billionaire Pierce. And since I already decided not to put that bastard’s name into play here, they want to sweep up these dead bodies and call it a night.

  Totsi turns around, stalking back over to me. The statement that his superior just made hasn’t sat well with him. Pointing his index finger to me like it’s a gun, he says stiffly, “Johansson, I am taking you—”

  “Call Zane Solarin.” I wink.

  “What do you know about Mr. Solarin?” Overhearing me, now the man in charge of Totsi and Walkerah stares at me with intrigue. He was ready to end this witch hunt, but I’m guessing I just showed my balls by mentioning a famous South African government official.

  “Call him.”

  About ten years ago, Solarin attempted to proposition me on behalf of Peirce. Though he did it for the bigger picture—more jobs for locals, etcetera—I didn’t cave. He respected my convictions. We made friends, as much as any hitman can be friends with another human being, which means we tolerate each other.

  Most recently, Solarin welcomed Mikayla into his home when we talked to him about the conspiracy against her parents’ lives. He was the one who uncovered the truths behind their deaths and headed the investigation to dethrone King Regent, Qaaim Mthembu, restoring the rightful rule to the Nivean throne.

  The boss stares at me and then nods his head to Totsi. “We will not be interrupting Mr. and Mrs. Solarin’s night. They are good people. Uncuff him. Mr. Johansson, Walkerah has taken your statement. We will need to take a few more photos of the crime scene, then we’ll bag ‘em and head out.”

  With an about-face, the detective heads back toward the front door of my house.

  Anger radiates off Totsi’s skin. Begrudgingly, he removes the key from his belt and begins to undo my handcuffs. “I hate everything about you. You come onto our land. Take away our identities. Make us Christian—”

  “That was my parents’ lifestyle not mine,” I grit out, angrier that Mikayla’s people will see it through the same lens.

  “And steal our women!” The lock clanks open.

  I grip his wrists now and ask, “You’re claiming Mikayla Mthembu now?”

  Totsi tugs his hands away from me.

  I step closer to the dead man, glaring straight into his eyes. He had his time to shine and prattle about his feelings, now it’s mine. “Totsi, we should grab a beer one day soon. Have us a little chat about disrespecting women.”

  “Heh, not with you.”

  “But we will, Totsi, we will.” I stand back as he moves with a little more haste back into my house.

  That mouth of his has become the death of him, and he doesn’t even know it yet. He will soon. Without Mikayla in my arms tonight, I’ll delight in my plan to kill him.

  16

  Mikayla

  Bannan’s handsome complexion wasn’t as darkly beautiful as my mother’s. While I was somewhere in the middle, I hadn’t noticed this until my chubby, tiny hand roamed lazily over the magnificent leopard skin that my father always wore, be it tribal or formal attire. Each spot, though unique, brought together in it such unity just like us.

  “This will be your brother’s Mikayla.” Bannan sunk down. Even crouching before me, the sun radiated power over his flesh as he removed the skin from my hands, placing it over his ropy left arm and shoulder. He wore a pair of cotton pants and leather sandals for quick feet while practicing with Abayomi’s father. “You have your tiara.”

  I sat on a fallen tree limb with my best friend. Our legs were so short that they dangled over the bank of a vibrant blue lake before us. Abayomi stopped watching his father strike fighter-stance poses that always left us in awe to listen in on our conversation.

  “I would rather be a warrior, utata,” I murmured.

  “You would?” My father had said. I know now from having relived this premonition over and over that he looked at me in a new light. He had always chided my mother for being the strict one when it came to my princessly duties, and even this morning, Abayomi helped me sneak out to watch our fathers’ practice.

  “Yes.” My chubby cheeks puffed in confidence. “I could be a warrior; I could be a boy!”

  Abayomi gawked, and a deep belly laugh came from my father. “Oh, are you sure, my daughter? I distinctively recall you crying when Abayomi’s father and I caught that jaguar.”

  “I know.” I was too young to counter that it took practice. In these reoccurring dreams of mine, I’m too busy studying my father’s face, instead of asking him for a morsel of current advice, though I sorely need it.

  My head fell since I had no response to give. His hand tipped my chin until it rose back to a confident level. “Stand your guard, my pretty princess.”

  I grinned at that. At my age, I had asked him a hundred times why he’d laugh at me for jumping to my feet after he said stand your guard. I still didn’t understand what he
meant if it didn’t mean physically standing. But this time, I squared my shoulders instead of rising from the tree stump and replied, “Lalumi and umama talked to me about it. You feed our people, you keep us warm when it rains.” I reached a hand out, my fingertips gliding over the leopard skin again while Abayomi’s father gestured that he was heading back toward the palace. “I would rather be a warrior than wear diamonds.”

  “We could be warriors together,” said this annoying squeak of a voice that I loved with all my heart.

  I glanced over. Abayomi, with ears almost as large as his head, held his shirt up as a vessel for the horde of fruit he always picked before we sat to watch a fight or hear a story. Nobody knew where the food went, he was scrawny as they came, but he had fruit stashed in his shirt for all entertainment. “King Bannan would you like—”

  “Not before my daughter,” Bannan assured. It was custom to ask the king and queen first. “I’m aware that you picked these for the girl and not the king.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  My father’s laugh became boisterous and stronger.

  “Abayomi.” I shook my head. “He’s only playing with you. My dad loves me more than he loves the crown on his head. Oh, utata, where is your crown?” I asked in the tone my mom would take on when Bannan didn’t have it on. She’d say his head was naked, and my best friend and I couldn’t stop laughing.

  Now, we were both laughing, and Abayomi fell back off the tree limb and into the rich soil. The fruit fell, vibrant colors everywhere, releasing smells that made me moan. “Yummy.” I locked my limbs around the branch, reached down, and plucked a gooseberry from the ground beside him. “Gooseberries, pawpaws, you really want to be my king one day.”

  A tinge of red burned beneath his dark skin, and he stopped laughing.

  “No,” Abayomi responded more to my father than me.

  The smile on Bannan’s face faltered as he glanced toward the land behind us. “You two, travel the river until you reach town then go feed a few to your elephant’s Mikayla. You cannot eat all of those sweets.”

  I stopped myself from clucking my tongue in response. Abayomi got up from the ground. I started to lace my leg around the opposite side of the branch, but my dad ushered me toward the cool waters. His large frame blocked the thicket of plum trees behind us. I didn’t understand why he wanted us to go that way. Though the lake took my breath away, we could cut through to the city. When Abayomi came to my side, his eyes stared straight forward.