Her Name Is Knight(Nena Knight #1)(36)

The high fence walls surrounding the stucco cottage provided ample privacy and seclusion in her backyard oasis. Exotic trees, elephant-ear plants, and vibrant flowers fit for botanical gardens grew lush under her care when she was home and were well tended by the sprinkler system when she was on a job. Her serenity fountain with its gentle gurgles as water wound between white and brown rocks, dappled light, and bright-orange koi offered a peace Nena could never find beyond those walls. Here was where she could be most at ease.

Successive beeps alerted her to an incoming call on the secured laptop, and she slipped in the earpiece.

“Good evening,” she said. Her body automatically straightened at the video image of her longtime mentor and trainer.

“Evening.” The many years training and working Dispatch had kept Witt lean and fit. Only the increasing gray of his speckled goatee indicated he was older. Nena was never quite sure just how old—younger than Dad, maybe by ten years? Or less? They didn’t ask those types of questions.

She waited for him to begin, had been waiting for his initial contact since her botched job, but he’d bided his time, likely waiting to see what the Council would decree he should do with her.

When she couldn’t stand his speculative observation any longer, she blurted, “Say it.” Witt was the only one who could beat Nena at the waiting game. With him, she was always the sixteen-year-old trainee.

“This is the second time you detoured from the plan. Now I’m tasked with ensuring you’re still an asset to the team.”

“Sir, I absolutely am. The ‘detour’ you refer to—”

Anger flashed in his eyes. “Was not sanctioned. There were no directives to dispatch Smith.”

She watched her team lead rub his eyes. She hated disappointing him. Her respect for him was second only to her respect for Noble.

“Do you trust me?” Witt asked. “Are you still a member of Dispatch?”

“Without question.” None of what she’d done was about Witt or the team or the Tribe.

“Then tell me what is going on. The thing with the Cuban and the girl in his room . . . I get it, okay? The Council gave it a pass. But Dennis Smith was not the mark, yet he’s the one dead.”

She’d already heard this all before, from Dad, from Elin. She didn’t need to hear it again. What she needed was Witt’s help.

“Your parents are due to visit you and your sister in the next few days. There is a video conference scheduled for the Council members where they will be discussing you. Your father will need to assuage their discontent with your work, justify your actions.”

His thick eyebrows furrowed as he leaned in close, his bald head shining just a bit against his dark background. Was he home? She’d never been there. Maybe in an office at Network’s headquarters in London. She’d never been there either. Only Dispatch’s team lead got to go there.

“I can speak for myself.”

“You don’t run anything in the Tribe yet. You don’t get to speak to them. You just get to listen to them berate you.”

Lucky me.

“People get retired from Dispatch for detours.”

His words served as a reminder of one of her former teammates who’d botched a job and been excommunicated from the Tribe, or “retired”—she guessed the Council members thought it was a nicer word. And Witt was warning her that she wasn’t immune to the same punishment, even if she was the daughter of the High Council.

“I understand all about retirements.” Her little stab of insolence surprised them both. Quickly, she clamped her mouth shut.

They regarded each other before Nena again broke the standoff. “Witt . . .”

His face broke into a wry smile she rarely got to see. “Now I’m Witt.”

It was now or never. “Yes. I need some intel from you. I’d rather it be you than Elin because I don’t want her involved too deeply in something that may blow up in my face.”

“So I’m expendable, then.” Witt let out a laugh. “I taught you well.”

She took a cleansing breath and pushed on. “Smith was Paul Frempong’s number two, back then in N’nkakuwe. Do you remember who—”

“I remember.” His tone was sharp, his eyes like razors cutting into her. “Explain.”

“I’m concerned there are bad actors within the Tribe,” she said. “Someone lied and said Attah was dead when he was not. And maybe they’ve kept him alive all this time, been his benefactor.”

“For what purpose?”

Nena spread her hands. “Money, power, control of Africa’s commodities by using ruthless people to get it. Lucien Douglas could be the benefactor. Perhaps that’s why he wanted Attah alive and the attorney dead.”

This was what she treasured about Witt the most. He never interrupted her, not like Elin, allowing her to fully present her argument before he rendered his judgment.

“Or perhaps Lucien Douglas is also a pawn being used by someone else within the Tribe, someone who wants to ascend the ranks by any means necessary.”

Witt narrowed his eyes. “What you say is treasonous, Nena; be careful.” It wasn’t a warning. It was a plea, because Nena read the concern in Witt’s stormy dark eyes.

“Or what if”—she took another deep breath, because saying this scared her the most—“what if Paul is alive as well? And Kwabena? What if they all lived and were lying in wait all this time?”