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When she walked through her front door, she was no longer Echo, only Nena.
Alleged money launderer Dennis Smith was to be tried on RICO charges and witness intimidation.
“The Council wants Lucien Douglas, and Douglas wants Smith—for whatever reason—to remain prison-free. It’s easier to take the lawyer out and keep the man happy. And it’s cheaper and less time consuming than buying off a jury.”
She’d been dispatching for so long that taking lives, even corrupt ones, elicited no more emotion from her than firing off an email. She didn’t relish killing. Killing just . . . was. It was keeping order and advancing the Tribe’s cause.
Before I became Echo, before I was Nena, I was Aninyeh. And this is my story, my recounting.
Thus making me and my brothers a blend of all three great regions of Ghana: Ashanti, Fanti, and Ewe.
One of them threatened to rape the girl. Why was the first thing men resorted to exacting dominance over women through violation or defilement? Why did it always have to be rape? Because, Nena thought mirthlessly, that was all these types of males knew.
Georgia Baxter. Daughter of Cortland Baxter, the federal attorney who was about to try Dennis Smith. The same federal attorney who the African Tribal Council had marked for dispatch by Nena’s hands. If Nena were one for laughter, she’d do it now, because the chances of this meeting were a zillion to none.
“A female what? Elephant?” She hated when he—when any man—referred to women as females. She’d keep correcting him for as long as he kept speaking ignorantly.
There is only your before and your after. How many times have my brothers and I heard this and not known what Papa had meant? It is what you do after that matters.
