Xandra

  First Published in Great Britain in 2020 by

  LOVE AFRICA PRESS

  103 Reaver House, 12 East Street, Epsom KT17 1HX

  www.loveafricapress.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  The right of Kiru Taye to be identified as authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 9781005656799

  Also available as paperback

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I want to give a special mention to Oluwakemi. You made this story happen. Thank you.

  And thank you to Edits by Modus for your help.

  DEDICATION

  To Nma Bekee,

  When I think of badass women I know, you are one of them. In my next life, I choose you as my sister again. Love you.

  PART ONE

  ONE

  THE TARGET stepped out of the car. The door was held open by one of the bodyguards while the other stood by the front door of the white two-storey mansion.

  The glow from the floor-level spotlights accentuated the deep lines on the man’s umber-hued face, making him appear older than in the photograph. His gaze swept along the driveway as if he sensed something out of place.

  Back pressed against the rough wall, Xandra remained frozen where the shadows swallowed her in the alcove between the brick perimeter fence and the hibiscus hedge. She wore nothing that would reflect the light—dark clothes, a hood over her head and a mask shielding her face. The morning was wet, cold, and dark, dawn still a few hours away. Her gaze stayed on him as she mentally confirmed he was the man she wanted.

  Dimi Yahya. Forty-nine years old. Six feet tall. Eighty-five kilos. Grey hair grew at the sides of his neatly cut, short dark hair. His facial hair was shaved off, although a shadow showed on his chin. He dressed in an expensive, opaque, fitted suit that would’ve been made especially for him and his polished shoes shone under the streetlamp.

  From this distance, his eye colour wasn’t visible, but it would be brown—she’d seen it in the photograph sent over with his file.

  Yahya walked down the narrow path.

  Xandra waited. The car door obscured her line of fire.

  The bodyguard shut it, giving her an opening.

  She squeezed the trigger of the FN Five-seveN with a smooth, even pressure.

  Fat drops of rain splattered on the pavement masking the p-taff p-taff of the suppressed gunshots. The man slumped against the side of the car with a dull thud, hit twice in the sternum in rapid succession.

  The bodyguard by the front door let out a low curse as he spotted his colleague falling and ran towards Yahya, hand reaching inside his jacket.

  Xandra squeezed out another couple of rounds of low-powered, subsonic 5.7mm bullets. The copper-enclosed lead tore through the skin of his back and neck. He collapsed forward, hitting the ground with a muted thunk, arm outstretched toward his boss.

  Yahya froze in a crouch behind the car, eyes sweeping the area as he pulled out his handgun and held it ready to shoot. “Who are you? Be a man. Show yourself!”

  Melting out of the darkness, Xandra took a measured step forward.

  Yahya’s eyes widened as soon as he saw her. It seemed he recognised her. That would be impossible considering she was covered from head to toes.

  He understood her purpose, though—his death—and straightened confidently, the rain plastering wet clothes to his body.

  “I’ll pay you double—no—triple whatever he’s paying you to kill me,” he offered.

  Her response was to squeeze the trigger of the FN Five-seveN in her hand and put a bullet through Yahya. He collapsed to his knees, a hole in his chest, right of his breastbone. She fired another shot into his head, right between the eyes just to be sure. In this job, there was no room for mistakes.

  The expended cartridges clinked on the stones and rolled into a forming puddle shimmering with dull orange light.

  He fell back onto the paved driveway, his mouth slackened as he expelled his last breath. Perhaps from surprise that she hadn’t accepted his bribe. Maybe one of his men would have taken the money, and he would’ve done the same.

  However, her survival so far depended on fulfilling the terms of a contract once accepted. In a cutthroat and ruthless business, agreements were binding. There to be honoured and delivered.

  Any person on her hit-list was as good as dead. She had never reneged on a contract before. Wouldn’t start now. Not for money. Not for anything.

  She took the time to observe the area. It was still early for anyone to be out and about in the quiet, neighbourhood of detached houses surrounded by high fences on a cul-de-sac. No lights or movement flickered in any of the nearby windows. Even if someone was out there, they would only see an unidentifiable person in a dark outfit in the rain.

  Yahya’s mansion stood on a secluded corner. The tall hedges and wall surrounding the house meant no one would see the dead men on the ground. No one would have heard the gunshots. Not with the subsonic ammunition, a suppressor, and the added benefit of the splattering raindrops.

  Not seeing anyone else, she squatted and picked the cartridges. She checked the FN’s magazine. Fourteen left. Checking was part of her routine for staying alive. She always had to know how many bullets she had available. Even the spares.

  Losing count was only an invitation to death.

  She pocketed the cold, wet items, unscrewed the suppressor and placed it inside the pocket of her hooded top.

  Squatting, she heaved Yahya’s body over her shoulder. Then she jogged up the stairs into the already opened front door. The hallway light was on, but she flicked it off. Having studied the blueprint for the house, she knew exactly where to go.

  Inside the office, she strode to a Rembrandt painting hung on the wall. She lowered Yahya, glad to be rid of the eighty-five-kilogram deadweight. Searching the side, she found a switch and clicked it. The painting slid along a rail and revealed a safe. Propping Yahya to stand in front of her, she held his head up with her left hand. Once the retinal scanner beeped, she placed his right hand on the palm reader. Another beeping sound and the safe door popped open. An internal white light displayed the content—bundles of cash, passports, and a small black flash drive.

  Yahya’s body slid to the floor as she reached into the safe. Pushing the bundles of cash aside, she took the flash drive and slipped it into her pocket. It barely seemed enough reason to have a man killed. But the contract had been specific. Kill Yahya and retrieve a flash drive from his safe.

  She wasn’t here to analyse the reasons why one man should live, or another should die.

  Neither did she care about the contents of the flash drive.

  Job done. She headed outside, but not to the front entrance.

  She strode down the hall to the large kitchen. In the dark, she still made out spotless surfaces and expensive gadgets as she unlocked the side door. Slipping out quietly, she hurried across the garden, staying on the winding, stone path, avoiding the blue, glimmering pool. A small gate stood at the back wall. The men had already disarmed the alarm, so it didn’t go off as she shifted the lock and pulled the metal panel open.

  Back on the pavement, her gaze swept the area again for signs of exposure, but there were no people or cars in sight, no footsteps to be heard. The rain had slowed to a drizzle.

&n
bsp; With a steady pace and ensuring her heart rate was slow, she walked two streets down to where she parked her car, making sure she wasn’t followed. Inside it, she pressed the button for the ignition, checked the mirrors and pulled out onto the road. A half-moon sat in the dark sky as she drove the two hours to her apartment in Jokogi. Halfway there, she stopped at a lay-by and changed the fake number plates of the car over before removing her mask and pushing the hood down from her head.

  The sky was tinting grey of dawn as she rolled up the drive of her two-level Bauhaus style house and clicked the remote to open the garage door electronically. She drove in and waited for the garage door to close before getting out of the car. The space was large enough for two vehicles and painted white. There was no place for an intruder to hide.

  Punching the code for the door, she unlocked it, strode into the house, and made sure the panel shut behind her. She went through each room, checking that none of the intruder alert seals she’d put in place had been dislodged.

  The windows were designed to allow sunlight in but remained obscured from the outside as well as being bulletproof. She had invested in solar energy which meant she didn’t have to depend on the national grid for steady electricity supply. Once satisfied no one had gotten in or was currently lurking anywhere in the house, she strode into the bedroom.

  Pulling the flash drive out of her pocket, she slipped it into a white, opaque plastic pill bottle, stuffed cotton wool around it and sealed it. To anyone else, it looked like an ordinary bottle of painkillers. She strode into the bathroom and put it among the other items in the cabinet above the sink. In there, it looked even more unremarkable.

  Perhaps that’s what Yahya should have done instead of hiding it inside a high-tech safe. Technologies designed by humans were hackable by other humans. She used gadgets because they made life more comfortable, but she always had a backup.

  Stripping down, she stepped into the shower cubicle. Under the warm spray, an image of Yahya slumped on the paving stone returned. His brown eyes seemed filled with accusation.

  Her chest tightened, making it difficult to breathe for a few seconds. She turned off the faucet before stepping out. With a white towel slung around her chest, she reached into the discarded black trousers and pulled out her phone. Leaning on the counter, she drew in a long breath and typed out a short, encrypted note.

  Need to confess.

  The constriction in her chest eased when she pressed the send button. She tossed the phone on the counter and went about tidying up. She picked the clothes she'd taken off and walked across to the laundry room. Then she loaded the machine, continuing the routine that restored her life to normalcy after a kill.

  Grabbing a water bottle from the fridge in the kitchen, she returned to the bedroom just as her phone beeped. Her heart rate sped up as she hurried to retrieve the gadget from the bathroom counter. She read the message.

  Arufin. 10 pm.

  Closing her eyes, she exhaled in relief even as a spike of adrenaline rushed through her. She had over twelve hours to kill. Time to catch up on sleep. She wouldn’t get much of it tonight if everything went to plan.

  TWO

  ‘YOU HAVEN’T lived until you’ve been to Arufin.’

  The actual quote was 'You haven't lived until you've lived in Lori Osa.' But the phrase could be applied to the club.

  Lori Osa was an overcrowded megacity that accommodated the spectrum of humanity from the richest to the poorest.

  One of the best things to have sprouted out of the largest city in the region was Club Arufin. Like the name, the place was for misfits and renegades. But most of all, it was a pleasure club. Whatever you desired could be acquired at Arufin—sex, drinks, drugs, even rock ‘n’ roll. It had it all. For the right price, of course.

  It had been a while since Xandra had been here.

  In her line of work, she could never trust anyone enough to fully relax in their company. Here, she was anonymous. It didn’t mean she could drop her guard. But she’d found an equilibrium that provided what she needed and still maintained a level of caution.

  Outside the charcoal-walled, brick building, she didn’t wait to queue in the line snaking around the block. Instead, she strode to the discreet side entrance tucked in an alleyway and tapped on the black door. A burly man opened it three seconds later and waved her in when she raised the black card with Arufin embossed in gold across the top. Her host had couriered the card over when she'd sent the request to meet up.

  She walked into the dimly lit foyer where a man in a grey shirt sat behind the glass screen.

  “Good evening. Welcome to Arufin. Card, please.”

  She placed the card on a small electronic machine. It beeped as the man watched the screen before he nodded.

  “Please take the lift to the top floor and go to the blue room. You’ll need to swipe the card on the panel to gain entrance.” The man smiled as he looked up at her.

  “Thank you,” she replied before heading to the private lift.

  The floor beneath her sneakers vibrated from the bass thumping in the club. She looked longingly at the doors leading to the main arena. Sometimes she yearned for the freedom that would allow her to get lost in the crowd of revellers. Unfortunately, she couldn’t afford such an indulgence.

  Shaking her head, she pressed the button to call the boxcar. Her host had a few rules if she wanted his company.

  First. Anonymity. Going into the dance hall would mean others would be aware of her presence. The fewer people who knew her whereabouts, the better.

  Second. No alcohol. He'd refuse to play if she had one drop of liquor. Water was the only drink permitted while she was upstairs with him.

  Both rules worked fine for her. Intoxicants dulled the senses and slowed reflexes. Also, entering the building undetected aside from security, provided anonymity.

  At the top floor, she stepped out of the metal box into the well-lit hallway. The place looked like a luxury hotel—expensive silver brocade wallpaper, the plush grey carpets and the crystal chandeliers.

  Striding to the door with the word ‘Blue’ written in gold cursive on a black plaque, she inserted the card into the slot, and the lock clicked open. Pushing the slab, she entered the studio.

  This was the most basic and functional of the rooms at Arufin. She’d seen the other suites before she’d chosen this one. Named ‘Blue’ for the colour of the walls and coordinated furniture. There was a large titanium grey metal frame bed with a thick mattress covered in cerulean sheets at one corner. A small table and matching armchair stood next to it.

  At the other end, a swing, nylon straps and metal chains hung from a hook in the white ceiling.

  A navy wooden St Andrew’s cross leaned on a wall. Similar coloured shelving units with rows of drawers beneath stood further down.

  On the shelves were a range of floggers, whips, canes and paddles. In the drawers would be ropes, ties, cuffs, collars, clamps, plugs and other items. She’d seen them before.

  She took her jacket off and hung it in the wardrobe, patting the inside pocket as routine to make sure the FN Five-seveN pistol and suppressor were in place. Being without her weapons of choice made her feel naked more than taking her clothes off did.

  It couldn’t be helped in this situation. The rules meant being totally bare for what would come next.

  In any case, the process of stripping down was therapeutic, clearing her mind and stripping away any lingering concerns.

  Stepping back, she toed off her shoes and spread the socks on top, lining them up at the bottom of the closet. Methodically, she undid the steel cufflinks, which doubled as poisoned darts when uncapped. Unbuttoned the stylish tunic with slits at the sides for smooth movement and weighted hems for concealing weapons. Then she placed the links in the top drawer and hung the shirt in the closet. Finally, she removed the chemise, trousers and panties.

  Naked, she walked over to the box in a corner and sat on the narrow wooden bench. A sound outside the room made h
er straighten, body tensed and alert.

  She’d done this several times. Still, a part of her worried about being found out. About being weak and open to attack.

  A few seconds later, the door to the suite opened. A man walked in wearing a long black priest robe with the stiff white collar. The black leather boots beneath indicated this wasn’t a real priest before she saw his face.

  He was at least ten years older than her. Thick dark hair on his head, a dash of grey interspersed the neatly trimmed stubble on his chin. His weathered skin indicated a man who enjoyed the outdoors. With robust, asymmetrical features and a tall, rigid frame, he commanded attention in any space he occupied.

  Some of the tension left her body, muscles relaxed.

  He was Osagie Peters. Businessman. Powerful. Dangerous.

  She was Xandra Gowon. Assassin. Powerful. Dangerous.

  They were a match. Not in the way people might expect.

  Their arrangement was contractual. Theatrical, almost. A play of sorts.

  He provided what she needed and, conversely, she served him, only within these walls. Silently, he approached the other side of the latticed screen and sat in the chair.

  They’d played this game a few times before. Anticipation made her hands tremble. Being in a vulnerable situation and displaying herself to him made her breathless, considering he was a ruthless man. He could have a weapon hidden beneath the flowing robe.

  Their first meeting had been in Arufin. She’d come looking for something to take the edge off the weight threatening to crush her.

  A week earlier, she’d executed a job involving a politician, his wife and their bodyguard.

  Afterwards, she’d become restless.

  As a child growing up in an orphanage where the nuns flogged the badly behaved children, she had learned to associate the atonement of wrongdoing with the pain of corporal punishment.