California Dreamin’—The Mamas and the Papas (Apple)
I’m wearing goggles, so I can look down into the bright blue water, illuminated with pot lights from below. I see a dark shape down in the corner of the pool, and I wonder if somebody dropped something down there—a gym bag or maybe a canvas bag of towels.
Turning over, I lay on my back and look up at the glass ceiling. It reminds me of a Victorian greenhouse—the glass bisected by a latticework of metal. Beyond the glass I see the black sky, and the pale, shimmering disc of a nearly-full moon.
As I’m looking up, something locks around my throat and drags me down under the water.
It pulls me down, down, all the way down to the bottom of the pool, heavy as an anchor.
The shock of something grabbing me from below made me let out a shriek, and now there’s almost no air in my lungs. I kick and struggle against this thing that’s caught hold of me. I claw at the thing wrapped around my throat, feeling spongy “skin” with hard flesh beneath.
My lungs are screaming for air. They feel flat and deflated, the pressure of the pool pressing against my eardrums and my chest. I twist around just a little and see black flippers kicking by my feet, and two arms in a wetsuit wrapped tightly around me.
I hear the exhale of a respirator next to my right ear. It’s a scuba diver—a man in a scuba suit is trying to drown me.
I try to kick and hit him, but he’s got me pinned with both his arms constricting me like an anaconda. The water slows the force of any blow I aim at him.
Black sparks burst in front of my eyes. I’m running out of air. My lungs scream at me to take in a breath, but I know if I do, only chlorinated water will pour into my throat.
I reach behind me and grab what I hope is his respirator. I yank it as hard as I can, pulling it out of his mouth. A stream of silvery bubbles pours up next to me. I hoped that would force him to let go, but he doesn’t even try to replace it. He knows he’s got more air in his lungs than I do. He can hold out while I drown.
I feel my chest heaving, as my body tries to take a breath with or without my consent.
In one last, desperate motion, I yank the hairpin out of my bun. I twist around and stab it into the man’s neck, right where the neck meets the shoulder.
I see his dark, furious eyes through his scuba mask.
And I feel his grip relax around me, just for a split-second, as he flinches with shock and pain.
I pull my knees up to my chest and kick at his body, as hard as I can. I shove myself away from him, rocketing upward to the surface.
My face breaks the surface and I take a huge, desperate gasp of air. I’ve never tasted anything more delicious. It’s almost painful how much air I drag into my lungs.
I swim for the edge of the pool, stroking with all my might, praying that I won’t feel his hand closing around my ankle as he drags me back down again.
I grab the rim of the pool and shove myself out. Not stopping to grab my phone, not even sparing a glance behind me, I sprint across the slippery tiles to the exit.
There’s two ways down from the roof—the elevator or the stairs. I take the latter, not wanting to risk a black-clad hand shoving itself between the elevator doors right as they’re about to close. Instead, I run down two flights of stairs and then I dash back out into the carpeted hallway, hammering on apartment doors until somebody opens up.
I shove my way into the stranger’s apartment, slamming his door behind me and locking it.
“Hey, what the hell?!” he cries.
He’s a man of about sixty, overweight and bespectacled, still wearing office clothes, but with a fluffy pair of slippers on his feet instead of shoes.
He goggles at my swimsuit and the water I’m dripping on his carpet, too confused to form words.
When I look over at the living room couch, I see a woman of about the same age midway through eating a bowl of ice cream, with her spoon paused at the entrance of her mouth. On the television screen, a blonde girl sobs over her chances of getting a rose or being sent home that night.
“What—what’s happening?” the man stammers, not angry now that he’s realized something is wrong. “Should I call the police?”
“No,” I say automatically.
The Griffins don’t call the police when we have a problem. In fact, we’ll do anything we can to avoid contact with the cops.
I’m waiting, heart pounding, too scared to even look out the peephole in case the diver has followed me, and he’s waiting outside the door. Waiting for my eye to cross the lens so he can fire a bullet right through it.
“If I can use your phone, I’ll call my brother,” I say.
2
Raylan
I lay very still in the false bottom of the cart. I can feel it bumping and jolting over the dirt road, then pausing outside the gates of the Boko Haram compound.
The insurgents have been holed up in here for a week, after taking control of this patch of land close to Lake Chad. We’ve got intel that Yusuf Nur drove into the compound last night. He’ll only be staying here for twelve hours, before heading out again.
I hear Kambar arguing with the guards over the wagon full of rice he’s brought. He’s dickering with them over price, demanding that they pay the full 66,000 Naira they offered, and not a kobo less.
I’d like to strangle him for making such a fuss about it, but I know it would probably look more suspicious if he didn’t haggle. Still, as the argument drags on and on, and he threatens to turn around and take his sacks of Basmati back home, I have to stop myself from giving the boards overhead a thump, to remind him that getting inside is more important than getting his money.
Finally, the guards agree to a price just a little lower than Kambar wants, and I feel the wagon lurch as we drive inside the compound.
I hate being cooped up in here. It’s hotter than hell, and I feel vulnerable, even though Bomber and I are both armed to the teeth. Somebody could douse this cart in gasoline and set it ablaze before we could shoot our way out. If Kambar betrayed us.
We’ve been working with him on and off for two years. So I’d like to think I can trust the guy. But I also know he’ll do a lot of things for the right price. He’s done a lot of things for me, when I scrounged up a good bribe.
Luckily, we pass into the compound without incident. Kambar drives the cart over to what I assume is the kitchen area, then starts unloading his rice.
“I hope that smell is the cow, and not you,” Bomber hisses at me.
For almost three hours now, we’ve been crammed in here together, like two lovers in one coffin. It’s definitely a lot more intimate with Bomber than I ever hoped to experience.
He’s not a bad guy—a little bit stupid, a little bit sexist, and pretty fuckin’ awful at telling jokes. But he’s a hard worker, and I can count on him to follow the plan.
We’ve been hired to kill Nur, the leader of this particular cell of Boko Haram. He’s been running rampant over Northeastern Nigeria, trying to block democratic elections and install his own theocratic state. With him at the head, of course.
He’s taken hundreds of hostages, then murdered them when towns refused to open their gates to him or pay the outrageous ransoms he demands.