City of Saints & Thieves(4)

Boyboy is crazy good with tech stuff. He always has been, ever since I’ve known him. He told me when he was little the bigger boys would beat him up and call him a fairy, so he spent a lot of time in his room, taking phones and computers apart, putting them back together. His latest trick is hacking ATMs so they spit out crisp thousand-shilling notes.

He won’t join the Goondas, but he’ll work with me. He does his IT genius thing when I need him, and in exchange I lift fancy gadgets for him—computers, phones, the occasional designer handbag—whatever he needs. He says he’s the best hacker in East Africa, and from what I’ve seen, he’s telling the truth.

He’d better be. He’s about to break us into the most fortified home in the Ring.

? ? ?

The Ring is where you live if you can afford it. Lush, hilly, and green, it sits above Sangui City, peering down its nose at the rest of us. The houses squat on neatly clipped lawns behind fences and flame trees and barbed wire and dogs and ex-military guards with AK-47s. Fleets of Mercedes descend into the city in the mornings carrying the Big Men to work. We call these guys the WaBenzi: the tribe of the Mercedes-Benz. They come in all shapes, sizes, and colors, hail from all over the world, but speak a common language: money. When they return to their mansions in the Ring in the evening, they complain about traffic, drink imported scotch, and fall asleep early on soft cotton sheets. Their wives oversee small armies of servants and get delicate headaches when the African sun is too hot. Their kids play tennis. Their dogs have therapists.

At this time of night, the Ring is quiet except for frogs and insects. It’s rained up here, and the mist is thick. The eerily familiar tree-lined streets we drive are empty. The florist van doesn’t look too out of place. Maybe we have just come from a banquet. A power wedding.

I look out the window. We pass a break in the houses and trees, and I catch a glimpse of the dark Indian Ocean. Sangui: city-state on a hill, port to the world, and a fine bloody place to do business. You do the dirty work down there in town, and the Ring is where you retreat.

I should know. I’ve seen it all up close. I may live down in the dirt now, but once upon a time, a fortress in the Ring was my home.

? ? ?

Rule 4: Choose your target carefully.

Thief

Kauzi

Thegi

Voleur

Mwizi

Thief

It’s a magic word. Full of power.

Just saying it out loud on the street can get somebody killed. I’ve seen it happen. The police are worthless, so folks are disposed to make their own swift justice. And believe me, no one feels sorry for the thief when the dust settles and blood soaks into the ground. Better be sure no one’s raising a finger at you.

So listen up. Choose carefully. Choose the right target. Most of the time that means the easy target. If you’re pickpocketing, go for the drunks and people having arguments on their mobiles. If you’re robbing a house, make sure it’s the one where they hide the key on the doorjamb. You want to go for bank accounts? Try the old rich lady. Odds are her password is her dog’s name.

There are plenty to choose from. No sense in making it hard on yourself.

But for every rule, there is an exception.

Roland Greyhill’s home isn’t a natural target. His gates are locked and his guard is up. The man makes his living dealing with warlords and armies and vast amounts of cash. He knows he’s got enemies. He’s spent years watching his back. He trusts no one. There is nothing easy about him.

But make no mistake: Difficult or not, tonight he is the right target.

? ? ?

We’re getting close. I swallow the jangling feeling in my throat and roll down my window a little. The air is wet and smells like jasmine.

Boyboy is quiet beside me. I know he wants to ask how I’m feeling. Everyone else has been going over the plan all day, but I’ve been thinking about it for years. I’m not sure I would even know how to explain how I feel right now. Like I swallowed a hive of bees? Is that an emotion?

But Boyboy knows better than to ask me dumb questions.

When we’re two houses away, Ketchup turns the lights off and rolls to a stop.

“We’re here, Mr. Omoko,” Bug Eye says into his phone.

The mansion takes up twice the space of any other home on the street. Over the high wall, only the red tile roof is visible. What we can’t see are half a dozen dudes with AK-47s and two German shepherds prowling the grounds. But we know they’re there.

Everyone looks up at the house, dead silent. Even Ketchup.

Bug Eye rubs his hands together. “You ready, Tiny Girl?”

I touch the earpiece. It’s secure. I pop my shoulders and twist my back. It takes everything not to shout, I’m here. I’m doing this. This is my house.

“I’m ready,” I say, and slip out of the van.





FOUR


Rule 5: You have to have a plan.

Have a damn good plan. It should be simple. Detail it out. Commit it to memory. You need to know it backward and forward so you don’t freeze up when you’re standing there with Goondas breathing down your neck, looking up at that house you’re about to rob.

My plan has three parts: Dirt. Money. Blood.

It’s a good plan.

Tonight we start with dirt.

I have thought long and hard about this plan, looked at all the angles. I’ve been careful. I’ve tried to think of everything.