Georgia scooped up the gun and held it awkwardly on the two adults in a deadlock.
“Don’t do it, girl,” he growled. “I’ll finish this one off; then I’ll come for you.”
“It’s okay, Georgia. Get out of here,” Nena eked out. “All the way out. Don’t stop.”
Georgia listened, and with one last, long look, she ran. Nena heard her feet pounding down the stairs.
When she was sure Georgia was clear, she lifted her head as much as she could and released it. The back of her head smashed into Paul’s chin and nose. His head snapped back against the floor. Simultaneously, she pulled her remaining knife from its holster and slammed it into Paul’s thigh like it was an epinephrine injector. He howled, loosening his noose enough for her to roll off him.
He grunted, breathing through the pain. She heard the knife clatter to the floor after he pulled it out.
She was out of weapons, her last having been firmly planted in Paul’s flesh, and she was dizzy and trying to crawl away. She could hear a high-pitched sound, like metal against a sharpening stone. Her heartbeat raced. If only she could get enough distance between them to regroup.
She chanced a glance over her shoulder. Paul had limped to his feet. With one hand clamped over his wound, he had managed to grab the machete.
“You like knives?” he asked, spitting blood and approaching her. “Well, so do I.”
She froze, staring at the machete as it scraped against the wood, making an awful, sickening sound. It wasn’t the same machete from years ago, but its symbolism was as potent as the original.
“Bit of nostalgia, eh, wudini?” Paul grinned, favoring his injured leg.
She rolled over on the floor, exhausted. She could get out of the way. She could run. But her ribs slowed her down; the stab wound in her side hurt like a bitch. Her head swam. And she didn’t trust her speed or her strength at the moment. She had no more time because Paul was coming at her, blade raised. But instead of running her through, he used the butt of its handle to strike her on the face.
He grabbed her shirt, hoisting her to her feet. With his forearm against her throat, he rammed her backward into the wall.
“Fuck a unified Africa. You think I’m the only one who feels this way? I’m going to dismantle everything Noble built. Eradicate the Knights like I did the Asyms,” he whispered in her ear.
“One thing I’ve learned about you,” Nena said, raising her arm and driving a palm strike right beneath his nose, “is that you’ve always talked too much.”
His head snapped back. Her hand made a claw, and she pulled it across his face, grabbing his cheek in her nails and spinning him to the wall, where she kneed him twice in his stomach. He doubled over.
He used the machete to hold himself up. He began to lift it, but Nena kicked her foot out, stomping on the handle and his hand gripping it. She backhanded him in the face, the impact of it flinging him backward. The machete clanged to the ground. She bent down to pick up the heavy weapon. It felt alien to her. It felt wrong.
With the tip of the blade, she pushed him until he was against the wall. And then she pushed the blade in farther, leaning in closely, their foreheads nearly touching. She watched Paul’s expression, how he winced in pain, the rounding of his eyes when shock hit him, the confusion at being bested. The blade’s tip punctured his flesh, sinking in as she put her body weight into it. She didn’t stop pushing until the wall stopped her.
Paul’s knees buckled. He sank down, and her with him, the machete protruding from him. She refused to take her eyes from him. She grasped the hilt of the long blade and yanked it out. Paul’s hands feebly reached for her, bloodied and weakened.
She shifted to the side of him, into position, curving her hands around the blade’s handle like a batter readying to hit the ball.
“You . . . can’t,” he wheezed. “I’m Council!”
She raised the machete high above her shoulder. “And by the African Tribal Council, you are sanctioned for dispatch.”
And with a whip through the air, she brought it down, separating Paul’s head from his body.
80
AFTER
Nena sat at the bottom of the staircase, battered, stabbed, bloody, and asking about Georgia, Cort, and Elin.
Witt replied through her phone, “At the hospital where the girl’s father was admitted. Your neighbor took the girl there.”
Her team member Alpha hovered nearby, keeping his eye on her and making sure every order was being followed per Witt’s instructions. The Cleaners had already been called, and Network was doing its thing to keep the whole affair as low profile as possible.