6. Nairobi Crawford
I was going to kill that bitch.
I didn’t know how or when, but when Parker took her last breath, my face would be the last thing she saw. And I was going to enjoy doing it.
She kept trying to butter me up, and the whole time she was fucking around with Fontaine.
I never told her we were dealing with each other, but I didn’t have to.
Handlers at the Agency were very good at their jobs.
Parker knew the particulars of my life, even the shit I left out.
I was good at killing, and she was good at collecting information.
She owed me no loyalty. But this was intentional—she wanted me to know she’d had Fontaine, just to prove she could take anything of mine whenever she felt like it.
I was glad I trusted my gut and kept her at arm’s length. Had she actually been a friend, I would’ve been hurt.
I was just pissed at her audacity.
I thought about calling Olivia, the other contractor Parker handled, but what could I say?
“Hey, Parker is fucking around with a guy I used to mess with? Wanna help me kill her?”
I let out a dry chuckle. I was back at my condo after helping Kenya plan the arrangements for my father’s memorial service.
That whole ordeal was draining and took longer than it should’ve because she kept breaking down every ten minutes.
I don’t think she cared that he was dead, but that she finally realized how alone she was.
Her whole life revolved around him, and now he was gone.
My phone vibrated on the coffee table. I glanced at it, debating whether to answer, since it was an unknown number.
“Who’s this?” I answered.
“Why you ain’t call me when your pops died?” The deep rumble of Fontaine’s voice came from the other end.
I bit my lip. I hated the way my heart skipped a beat from hearing his voice—the same way it did when I saw him yesterday at Evita’s while I was out with Jasmine.
“How’d you get this number?”
Fontaine chuckled. “You already know the answer to that, Kitten.”
“Stop,” I gritted.
“My bad,” he said, but there was no real apology in his voice.
I closed my eyes, pressing my fingers against my temple. “Why are you calling me?”
“You know why I called.”
I moved over to the windows and stared down at the parking lot. From the seventh floor, I spotted his Wagoneer parked out front with its hazard lights on.
“You think coming up here’s a good idea?” I asked, noticing the smoke drifting from the moonroof.
“No,” he answered honestly. I heard him pull on the blunt through the phone. “But you need me. And before you say you don’t, I know you better than you care to admit. You need someone. I know shit with your pops was strained, but that doesn’t mean you’re not sad about it in your own way.”
I wiped away a tear that slipped down my cheek. “I appreciate you checking on me. But I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
I hung up before he could press any further. My phone buzzed in my hand.
(978) 555-4328
Call me when you’re done being a hard ass.
I’m not being a hard ass.
(978) 555-4328
Then let me up.
Bye, Fontaine.
I left the window and threw my phone on the couch.
He could come up here if he really wanted to.
He had a key to my apartment, just like I had one to his.
But we both knew nothing good would come from that.
We’d only fall back into our toxic cycle, and he’d end up hating me even more.
I didn’t need to make things more of a mess than I already had.
When I walked into my parents’ house a few days later, Kenya was in the sitting room, playing the perfect grieving widow—dressed in a black Donna Karan pantsuit with her hair slicked into a low bun and two-karat diamond studs sparkling in her ears.
Floral arrangements filled the room, and she sat with a few ladies from one of her social clubs.
I wish I could say I had fond memories from finally settling in Atlanta when I was sixteen.
But pleasantries weren’t a thing with a father like Sterling Crawford.
He ran our home like the military bases he was accustomed to—strict, cold, and no room for softness.
He taught me how to shoot a gun at thirteen.
By junior year, we’d moved on to sniping techniques and knife work.
“You need to know how to protect yourself,” he’d said.
Protect myself from who? We’d lived in quiet, upper-middle class neighborhoods surrounded by other military families.
There was never any looming enemy creeping around the corner, no threats to be wary of.
But he trained me like we were preparing for war—like the one summer he sent me to one of those boot camps for troubled teens “to build character”.
I wasn’t troubled. If anything, I was the opposite.
He’d molded me into his perfect soldier that always did what was expected of me.
I damn near graduated with a 4.0 average, but purposefully fell short ‘cause I had no interest in being valedictorian. I didn’t know them people, hadn’t grown up with them, and didn’t have more than surface level friendships with kids in my class.
I did well enough to keep my parents off my back, but not enough to outshine my peers.
Sterling’s training didn’t stop after graduation.
He allowed me to take some classes at the community college while he taught me how to blend in, disappear in crowds, read body language, and to take down a man twice my size.
Every lesson and skill had a purpose. He was preparing me for something—I was just too naive to see it.
He’d left the Marines with a pristine record and highly decorated.
After that, he told Kenya and me that he was picking up government contracts, sometimes overseas, which meant he could be gone for months at a time.
She never asked questions because he kept a roof over our heads, bought her nice things, and always made sure we had everything we needed.
It was easy to turn a blind eye when you were comfortable.
And I was too young and aloof to realize my father was anything but a hardworking man doing right by his family.
I was twenty when he handed me a file with a name, location, and a choice.
The file was thin—a simple manila folder with a few sheets of paper.
On top was a driver’s license photo with a name: Ronald Ford.
I flipped through the details, committing each one to memory—his last known address, a photocopy of his passport, employment records, and a couple notes scribbled in Sterling’s handwriting.
The man was nothing special, a Black man in his mid-to-late fifties with a receding hairline and tired eyes.
He looked like someone you’d pass on the street without a second glance.
The notes said that Ronald had stolen sensitive files from a defense contractor and was shopping them to the highest bidder. Not the brightest idea for a man with top-secret clearance.
“You don’t have to kill him,” my father said. He sat across from me, his face unreadable as always, hands wrapped around his mug of black coffee. “You can walk away from this. I won’t think any less of you.”
I scoffed, holding his gaze as I ran my thumb over the edge of the folder. It was supposed to be a choice, but we both knew it wasn’t. If I said no, I’d be letting him down. Proving I wasn’t strong or disciplined enough. That I wasn’t as good as him.
I read that file until my eyes burned—memorized his routine, his driving route, where he stopped to get coffee.
And I agreed.
A few days later I found myself lying flat on the rooftop of the Emery Hotel, watching Ronald through the scope of a sniper rifle. He was coming out of a late lunch and was handing his valet ticket to the attendant. I had five minutes, tops, before his car was brought around.
I’d been up there for two hours, my rifle trained at the restaurant entrance the entire time. I popped my gum, steadying my breathing. I could do this. I’d hit targets from further distances. But this wasn’t a can 400 meters away.
This was a man. He was someone’s husband and father.
I closed my eyes, noted the wind, and prayed it wouldn’t mess with the bullet's trajectory. When I opened them, I took a deep breath and pulled the trigger.
Through the scope, I watched Ronald’s head snap back just as the valet pulled up with his car.
His body crumpled to the pavement. I sat up and ignored the screams and chaos that ensued, moving quickly to break down my rifle.
There was a narrow window before the police showed up and shut everything down.
I slipped it into the case disguised as a tote bag and slung it over my shoulder.
I felt nothing as I went down the rooftop stairs and slipped through an emergency exit towards the elevators. By the time I reached the hotel lobby, no one gave me a second glance— they were too caught up with the commotion across the street.
A few blocks away, I climbed into my car, peeling off my gloves and wiping my sweaty palms on my pants. I pulled out my phone and dialed Sterling.
“It’s done.”
“Good,” he replied and hung up.
That was it. No praise. No congratulations.
I stared at my phone for a few minutes before tossing it on the passenger seat. I’d just proven myself, and it still wasn’t enough.
That was my first job for The Agency, my audition. Sterling had the connections and got me in with no questions asked.
“Nairobi.”
Kenya’s voice broke through my thoughts. I looked up to see her and her handful of friends in the sitting room, staring at me. She sniffed as she dabbed at her eyes.
“You just gonna stand there like a corpse and not say anything to anyone?”
I smiled tightly and walked into the room, not bothering to take off my shoes, knowing it’d annoy her.
Sterling would’ve hated this drama—all these women hovering around my mother, pretending they cared.
His will was clear: he wanted to be cremated, no church service, just a small memorial, and his burial flag next to the urn.
That’s it. All this other shit was for show, not for him.
Kenya gestured to the woman sitting closest to her. “You remember Mrs. Covington?”
“I don’t.”
Mrs. Covington gave me a soft, pitying smile. “It’s been almost twenty years, dear. I remember when you were still in high school.”
I nodded, giving her nothing else. I hoped my presence would make them uncomfortable enough to leave. I didn’t feel like sitting around for small talk.
Kenya cleared her throat and stood. “Let me walk you ladies out. Thank you all so much for coming by.”
The group murmured their condolences as they gathered their bags and coats. I stepped aside, watching as my mother exchanged cheek kisses and promised to do lunch soon. I waited with my arms folded until the door finally shut and Kenya leaned against it, letting out a long sigh.
“Lord, I thought they’d never leave,” she muttered.
I raised an eyebrow and flopped down on the couches. “You invited them.”
“People expect to sit with you when a man like your father dies. It’s just what’s done,” she said as she rolled her shoulders.
“They didn’t even know him like that.”
That earned me a sharp look, but she didn’t argue. She moved past me and into the kitchen and returned with two glasses of wine. She slid one across the coffee table toward me.
“So,” she said. “I assume you’ll want to go over the financials.”
I reached for my glass, sipped, and grimaced. Chardonnay. I hated Chardonnay. I set it down but tried to keep the irritation off my face. “What accounts do you know about?”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Bank accounts, Kenya. Safe deposit boxes, offshore accounts. Anything that had his name on it.”
She stared at me like I was speaking a foreign language. “Your father handled all of that,” she said, gesturing loosely with her wine glass. “He had a financial advisor—some man downtown. I never really paid much attention.”
“So, you have no idea where anything is?”
“I have the will, which you saw, and the deed to the house. There’s the joint account I used for groceries, and my personal things. That’s all I ever had access to.”
I ran my tongue over my teeth and chuckled. “So, basically, I’m gonna be here for weeks trying to figure this crap out.”
“You don’t have to make it sound like I’m incompetent,” she snapped, her brown cheeks flushing.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to. I can hear it in your tone.”
“You’re not a fool, Kenya,” I said as I rose from the couch. “You’ve just spent the past forty years with your head in the sand.”
By the way her lips thinned, I could tell I’d struck a nerve.
“Where are you going?” she called. I was already halfway down the hall toward Sterling’s office.
“His office.”
“Nairobi—”
I paused and turned to face her. “You want to keep all of this, right?” I gestured around. “Let me figure this out so I can get back to my life.”