I go through Weapons Training, learning how to handle guns of various sizes and weights, finally opting for a sleek black 9 mm Glock 17 with a suppressor as my personal sidearm. I love the way it feels in my hands. I am already well versed with sharp objects, but now I learn the art of knife fighting: how to hold them, making them extensions of my hands and fingers.
Eventually, I will possess many knives in my private arsenal in my little blue home in Freedom City, Miami, my favorite being a military-grade tactical blade I house in either a side sling or blade holsters. Or, if I’m on a big job or in a remote location, a tactical backpack or go bag. My two little secret push knives are hidden within fashionable-brand belts （thanks to Elin）。 These are short, tiny T-shaped blades that sit at either hip bone, can go unnoticed by metal detectors, and come in extremely convenient during hand-to-hand combat. These are proximity weapons I never leave home without. I like to call them my utensils.
In Interrogation Training, both giving and receiving, I learn all I need to know, and it is still not enough.
“Interrogation goes hand in hand with Escape and Evasion,” Rand, his long-roped dreads twisted into one long, swaying, beautiful braid, begins. He is from Jamaica, and maybe one day I’ll visit. “The key here is to use your E-and-E training before you are ever in a position to be interrogated.
“There are three main goals you must have when pumping anyone for information,” Rand continues. From his usual perch, Witt watches. “What is their weakness? Once you figure that out, how do you exploit it? And what is the best way to extract that information from them? Sometimes, the method of extraction might have to be forceful.”
“Torture,” I volunteer.
Rand nods.
I look at him. “And what if I’m the one being interrogated?”
He sits backward in his chair, propping his arms over the back. “You better stay free or die trying.”
His words are supposed to be a joke, but his meaning is horrifyingly clear. It is in my best interest to never get caught.
65
AFTER
Elin finally set her sights back on Nena. She firmed her shoulders, fighting to keep her voice level but failing miserably. “What you’re suggesting . . .”
With Nena, there was no hiding.
“What you’re suggesting is that Oliver, my Oliver, is a willing participant in Paul’s master plan?” She glowered at Nena while waving off a refill of her drink from the server.
Nena swallowed. Her hands were damp from the nervousness coiling through her body, twisting her intestines like a snake. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt her sister, undermine her authority, or go against Elin in any way. Their father had told them to always stand together no matter what. But there was no way Oliver did not know. That wasn’t how Paul worked with his inner circle.
“It is my belief, yes.”
Elin snapped at her, “A belief, but not a fact.” She lowered her voice. “I can’t accept this. You have no proof.”
“You’re right. I don’t.”
“We don’t deal in maybes and beliefs, Nena,” Elin hissed. “You know this. We deal with absolutes because we can have no reversals.”
“It’s a guess,” Nena concurred. “But it is probable.”
“It’s a fucking guess,” Elin scoffed, sitting back in her chair. Her eyes flashed anger, but there was something else, too, a sliver of fear that maybe Nena was right, a plea that Nena was wrong.
Nena rarely asked for anything. Never questioned Elin’s judgment or her ability to cut through bullshit and do what she needed to do. But now, when Elin had finally found someone she loved and saw a future with, Nena was asking for too much.
“It’s how Paul works. His inner circle will always know his motives and plans.”
“Oliver is his son. Did you ever consider maybe Paul would shield him from that?” Elin reasoned. “Look, you got a pass on the Attah thing. You took out Kwabena. But now? Now, you’re going too far, Nena. Dad is in the hospital. Mum is sick with worry. We don’t need any more shit right now.”
“I know.”
“Then take Paul out, but leave Oliver alone.”
Nena couldn’t stand the way Elin was staring at her intently, pleading again. She felt herself giving in. Maybe she was wrong.
“Oliver had nothing to do with what happened to you,” Elin reaffirmed. “He couldn’t.”
It was as if Nena’s own heart was breaking. “I know.”
Elin’s eyes pleaded with Nena. Her voice was thick with emotion. “If what you’re suggesting is true, then it means I have compromised the Tribe—that Dad and the Council have compromised the Tribe. It means I allowed my feelings to take over common sense, that I’m unfit to lead.”