Page 31 of Gilded

LUKA

I slipped away from Malia while she was sleeping, and she’s been stoic and silent since. I sent the other men ahead in a different vehicle so we could talk.

“Tell me about this charity,” I say, breaking the silence.

“It’s one of the many schools for orphans in the area,” she says, her gaze out the window, the Lego rolling between her fingers. She took off her hoodie when we stepped out of the airplane, leaving her in a plain white T-shirt that clings to her body, distracting me.

“Thousands and thousands of children have been left without family, usually due to AIDS or war. A few have one parent or distant relatives, but no one who can provide for them. We’ve built a school and dorms with an industrial kitchen and brought in running water.

Last time we were here, we installed steel gates and concrete walls topped with spikes.

We’re always adding on to the school, and we’ve been talking about starting a trade school for kids who don’t want to or can’t go to university. ”

“Steel gates and spiked walls? What makes that necessary?”

“In these communities, word travels fast. Things this charity is receiving make others envious—books, school supplies, kitchen equipment, food, clothes. Some come to steal, others come to ruin. Many of the thieves are armed, and I don’t want the kids to get hurt.”

“Are the gates and walls enough?”

“They have been so far, but we staff two security guards at night for the dorms.”

“What are you planning this trip?”

“Just a quick talk with the leaders about the status of the basketball court and the baseball and soccer fields we’re putting in. We’ll go over the budget and make sure they have what they need. The rest of the time, I’ll just hang out with the kids.”

“And a press conference?”

“Right,” she says, less than enthusiastic. “And the press conference. Photographers and journalists are coming later today.”

“If nothing ever happens, why do you come with so much security? Four guards is a lot for one woman.”

“It’s not for me. It’s for my father, to keep me in line. To keep me quiet. Even if something did happen, I doubt those three would do anything to help me.”

“But you’re the money girl. That makes you important.”

“Someone should tell them that, I guess. They clearly have no interest in being here any more than I do in having them here.”

“Was any of this a problem before you found out about the trafficking?”

“No. He only sent one guard with me before that.”

The streets of Nairobi near the orphanage look much like the streets I inhabited most of my life—slums. The pavement is cracked and bumpy, if there is pavement at all. The people wear a familiar mask of desperation and fatigue.

“How does it make you feel, traveling through these slums to reach the charities?” I ask, wanting to know how she sees herself. As a savior? Superior to those she helps? Does she gain validation or self-worth by giving to the less fortunate? Her own version of Robin Hood?

She gives a one-shouldered shrug. “I feel all kinds of things—disgust, anger, pain, sadness. Sometimes hopelessness and defeat. The magnitude of the needs here overwhelms me. We can only help so many. At least when my father is spending most of the donations on enslaving people and breaking up families. We could help so much more if the charity was real. Was honest.”

She pauses, and her sadness is palpable. “I used to feel guilty for living with the wealth they needed.”

“And now?”

She shakes her head.

“Malia.”

“It’s stupid self-pity. Something I don’t deserve.”

“Tell me.”

She glances at me, then away again. “I have food, a roof over my head, and a basic education, but I pay a monumental tradeoff for those. Here, I see a life lacking material things but rich with love. Piecemeal families fighting to stay together. Strangers raising children as their own. This place radiates the love, hope, and happiness I don’t have. I’ve never had.”

The gates to the school open, and the driver starts through. Malia smiles at the sight of children running toward the car. “But if I have to be miserable, at least I can put that misery to work making others happy. Can you stop, please?”

When the driver stops the SUV, Malia steps out and is enveloped by smiling, cheering, laughing children. Her expression is one I’ve never seen on her before—joy. True, unadulterated joy.

Or is it? She’s a little on the syrupy side of altruistic for me. In my experience, if someone is trying that hard to paint one picture, it’s because they don’t want you to see the other one.

She’s still crouched, giving hugs and kisses, when I round the front of the vehicle.

It’s overcast but hot and humid. I scan the grounds, searching for threats, looking for weaknesses, seeking out the three men who should be here to see to Malia’s safety.

I’m intensely aware of the open gates at the back of the SUV and face that direction, my hand around the butt of my weapon at the small of my back until the vehicle backs out and the gates not only close but lock.

I’m breathing a little easier until I find James, Tim, and Michael sitting under an awning, being served by the staff like they’re on fucking vacation.

I wander toward the schoolhouse and slide off my suit jacket, toss it over a bench, and roll up my shirt sleeves.

The building is simple, but well-constructed of concrete block.

Spaces for windows are covered in louvers to allow airflow.

The supplies—desks, chairs, books, bookcases, and blackboard—are clean and well cared for.

I peer through the louvers toward the yard, where all the kids stand in a cluster around Malia, who’s still greeting children and staff.

I pull out my phone and call Jairo.

“Hey, boss,” he answers. “Slavic lives with a wife and two boys in the Bronx. He was in the army until he went out on disability after taking a round in the shoulder about a decade ago. Then the housing market crashed, and he was underwater in his house. Shortly after, his wife had a rough second pregnancy and birth that left them with a ton of medical bills. There aren’t many jobs that’ll pay well when you’ve got a bad shoulder. Probably why he was working for Tarik.”

“A man with a happy marriage and two kids doesn’t put himself at that kind of risk without expecting something in return.”

“I know we deal with the worst of the worst, but there are still good people in the world.”

I roll my eyes at the glass-half-full attitude. Jairo has a habit of seeing the best in people. I have a habit of seeing the worst. “How have you managed to stay alive so long?”

“I’ve got you on my side.”

“Where’s Diallo?”

“He’s there. I told him what you want, but I still think it’s chicken shit.”

Maybe, but given how many times she’s kept things from me… “Think what you want. I need to know what she’s really made of.” I scan the yard. “This is a good time.”

“I’ll tell him. Listen, even if she turns out to be a victim in all this, you need to remember her naivety is a huge risk to you and to this mission.

I doubt getting caught trying to escape was the fault of a man with military training and a family waiting at home.

If it were my guess, I’d say Malia did or said something that made Tarik, Zeiger, or the guards catch on.

“My point being that if you trust her with information she isn’t skilled enough to keep, you’ll be dead. And if you fuck up Zeiger’s marriage, you’ll also be dead. And you won’t be the only one on the losing end. If they suspect Malia’s betrayal, they’ll kill her in a heartbeat.”

“I hear you. Thanks, bro.”

I disconnect, set my stance, and cross my arms. From here, I can see everything—the dorm, the table where Malia is sitting, and the three idiots who are supposed to have a brain, but who are pissing all over each other.

I’m curious how Diallo will get the guy into the compound, but if anyone can find a way in—or out—it’s Diallo.

He was the one who spent months using a spoon to remove the grout in the stones at the work camp so we had an escape route.

All my guys are intense when it comes to business, but Diallo is someone I would never want against me.

It will also be good to know where the weaknesses are so the school can plug the holes. These kids deserve the peace they find here, regardless of who’s providing that peace.

But when the wily Black man crawls over the wall at Malia’s back, I know whatever spikes they’ve placed atop the wall need to be replaced with razor wire.

I step outside and stand in the shadow of the school.

In seconds, the man is slicing the air with a machete, yelling in Swahili. The kids scream. Most scatter while other adults shepherd them into the dorm. In the space of three heartbeats, Malia is alone in the yard with four kids.

James, Tim, and Michael are still sitting on their asses, watching like it’s a fucking play. Like the woman they should be protecting isn’t seconds away from death.

Malia pushes the kids behind her and yells at the man in Swahili. My Swahili is about as good as my Indonesian. I can only catch things like “We have no money” and “Take what you want. Don’t hurt them.”

Them . Don’t hurt them .

Not me. Them.

Yeah, it could have been a slip of the Swahilian tongue, but it still makes my heart kick with hope.

Then the man grabs the arm of one of the boys who has stepped out from behind Malia and yanks him forward. Malia instantly grabs him, screaming, “No!”

While they’re struggling, the other children run away, and now the man and Malia are playing tug of war with the kid.

The man raises the machete and yells something. Malia forcefully yanks the boy from his grasp and covers him with her body. If this were real, she would be dead by now, trying to shield a boy she barely knows.

I pull my weapon and fire over the wall as I move toward them. The sound makes others scream, and the intruder looks up.

“Stop!” I yell so loud, it echoes off the concrete walls.

The man scurries back over the wall, and Malia hurries the boy into the dorm. I turn my weapon on the men who should have been the ones to protect Malia.

As I walk toward them, James stands, wearing a belligerent what-are-you-going-to-do-about-it expression. When my weapon is pressed against his forehead, that expression shifts to fear. And that pleases the hell out of me.

“You can’t touch me,” James says with withering bravado. “Hugo would never forgive you.”

“Want to bet your life on that? Because right now, it’s easier to shoot you than it is not to.”

He doesn’t speak, and the other two don’t move.

It takes everything I have not to kill him. “ You’re. Fired. ” I cast a look at the other two, frozen in their seats. “All of you. Get the fuck out of here and find your own goddamned way back to New York.”

“You can’t fire us,” James says.

“Then I’ll just kill you. Your choice. You just watched as Soren’s prize pony came this close to getting chopped into little pieces. How do you think he’ll feel about that? Get the fuck out or die .”

Two of the men in the compound stand beside the gates, ready to open them.

James doesn’t reply, just stares at me, furious.

“Weapons,” I say. “All of you.”

The men belligerently part with their weapons and head toward the gate. I follow them, my Glock aimed at the back of James’s head until the gates close and lock behind them.

“Who works on this place?” I ask the men operating the gates, anger still raging. “Who does maintenance?”

“I do,” the taller and older man says.

“Razor wire,” I tell him. “Around the top of every fucking wall and both gates.”

“Oh, sir, we don’t have the budget for such a thing.”

I pull out my wallet and hand him everything I have, about two thousand dollars. “Do it. Now. If you need more, tell me.”