City of Saints & Thieves(6)

I let out my breath.

“All clear,” he says.

I’m already moving. This way. Grand staircase. Up and then down the hall and to the left. I don’t even have to try to be quiet. The plush carpet muffles my feet. I slink down the halls, listening hard. For a second I think there’s a noise and I freeze. Through the earpiece I hear the clicking of Boyboy’s fingers on his keypad. I pull it away from my ear and continue listening. After a few seconds of stillness, I put the earpiece back in and creep on.

The hallway walls are covered in photographs of the Greyhills. You can’t help but notice, first of all, that he’s white, she’s Kenyan, and the kids between them are a perfect mix. A boy my age and a girl about Kiki’s. The second thing you notice is the wealth that practically drips off them. Mrs. Greyhill comes from a family of real estate moguls, and Mr. Greyhill’s mining wealth doesn’t hurt. They are posed on boats in pressed coral button-downs. Smiling from Land Cruisers on luxury safaris in the Serengeti. Gold watches, pearls, diamonds on wrists and ears. They are a poster family for what the coastal city is—a mix of colors and nationalities—and what it wants to be: rich.

But I’ve seen it all before. I have no time for them.

I am hunting.

I turn a corner and the dark is absolute. The air is cool and dry, processed. I’m getting closer. There are no more pictures on these walls, just dark wood panels. The farther I go, the more static I can hear through the earpiece. I hope the van isn’t too far away. One more turn, spiraling into the dead heart of the mansion.

And I’m there.

I stare at the heavy ebony door, my chest rising and falling. I try to slow my breath. My palms itch with sweat. I’m so close. I’ve been waiting for this moment practically my entire life. It feels like a thousand ants are crawling up and down my skin.

My hands tremble as I try the doorknob, which I know will be locked. No matter. I pull two bobby pins out of my hair and twist them into shape. Once I’m working, my hands stop shaking. I bite the plastic end off one pin so it makes a nice pick and bend the other into a hook. Then I slide in the hooked end and feel for tension. When it feels right, I insert my pick. I take the earpiece out again and hold it in my teeth so I can listen for the delicate sound of tumblers catching without being distracted. As expected, it takes less than a minute for the lock to yield.

I put the earpiece back on and glance down the hallway again. For a second I think I see the darkness waver and I squint.

“Get moving, Tiny,” Bug Eye says, his voice slightly startling in my ear. He must be looking over Boyboy’s shoulder at his computer.

I blink, but the darkness stays still. No one is there, I tell myself. Go in. You’re stalling.

Once inside, I lock the door behind me. If it was dark in the hall, it’s an ink pot in here. It could be high noon outside, but you’d never know. It feels like cheating, but I’m going to have to turn on a light. I double-check the door lock and flip the light switch, blinking into the sudden brightness.

The room is smaller than I remember it. A leather couch and two chairs sit in front of a fireplace. The couch is new, green instead of tan. I guess they couldn’t get the bloodstains out of the old one. A buffalo head and trio of tribal masks hang over the mantel. They seem to watch me as I move. On the far side of the room a desk the size of a small rhinoceros sprawls in front of flanking bookshelves. Between them, a golden-hilted sword hangs from the wall, mounted on red silk. It looks like it came from the hip of a sheikh, and it’s placed just above where Mr. G’s head would be if he were sitting at the desk. As I pad forward, I realize the placement is not accidental. Cross me at your own risk, the sword says to whoever is sitting in the chair opposite.

“In the desk,” Ketchup says. I can hear him, but his words cut in and out.

“I know,” I say.

“In the drawer.”

“Shut up,” Bug Eye tells Ketchup.

The Goonda brothers and Boyboy go quiet, but I can feel their energy. I slide behind the desk and sink into the chair. It smells of leather and tobacco. Like money. For a moment, I feel the power that Mr. G must feel every day. I stare at the sofa, and for a moment, I almost see her there, watching me.

“Tiny, stop messin’ around,” Bug Eye growls.

I don’t answer.

“What’s she doing?” Ketchup asks.

I take a deep breath. Focus, Tiny Girl. Dirt, money, blood.

I slide open the top desk drawer and lift out a slim laptop. Then I reach farther and close my hand around a metal box the size of a deck of cards and pull it out.

“That’s it,” Boyboy says breathlessly. “That’s got to be his hard drive.”

Ketchup shouts, “Yeah, boy!” in my ear, and Bug Eye again tells him to shut up.

“Now what?” I ask Boyboy.

“The hard drive is probably wireless. Put it next to the computer, then plug the USB adapter I gave you into the laptop.” Then he quickly adds, “But don’t turn anything on yet.”

I press the earpiece, trying to make sure I’m getting all of his instructions. Once I’ve done as he says, I hear the faint clicking of computer keys. It would be so much easier just to steal Mr. G’s external hard drive, get in and get out. That was the plan I proposed to Bwana Omoko originally. But the Goonda boss didn’t want to leave traces. He wanted me in and out. He thinks it’s better if Mr. G doesn’t know he’s been robbed until we’ve moved on to part two of the plan, money, and it’s too late.