“Promise,” Sam said, paying them. They ran off and he continued past the dilapidated buildings, most with rusty corrugated tin roofs. Not much of a secret, he thought, reading the sign over the door, its faded red paint peeling and flaking from the warped wood.
KALU & SONS
FURNITURE REPAIR
To the right was a broken window, the shattered glass glittering on the ground just below it. Checking the alley in both directions and seeing no one, Sam stepped up to the door, pounding on the frame.
No answer.
He pounded again, then waited. Reaching down, he turned the knob. It was unlocked and he stepped to the side and pushed it open, looking into a workroom piled high with broken chairs. Judging by the thick dust and cobwebs, he doubted anyone had attempted to repair anything there in years. “Kalu,” he shouted.
A boy, maybe a year or two younger than Nasha, poked his head out of a room near the end of a dim hall and ducked back when he saw Sam. A moment later, a man stepped out of a different room. He bore a striking resemblance to the Kalu brothers. He closed the distance between them, crossing his muscular arms as he towered over Sam. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice deep.
“Sam Fargo. I’m here for information.”
“If you were smart, Sam Fargo, you’d leave. I don’t invite strangers into my home.” Kambili seemed to be sizing him up. Apparently, Sam didn’t appear to be much of a threat because the guy didn’t draw the gun that was clearly in his waistband. His gaze flicked out the door, then back. “Who’s with you?”
“I came alone.”
“A shame.” He picked up the leg of a broken chair.
“Here, now,” Sam said, putting his hands out. “Just trying to have a civil conversation.”
Kambili leered. “I’m not the civil type.” He swung.
Sam jumped to one side as the club whistled past.
“Look,” Sam said, grabbing a broken chairback. “All I want is a little information—”
Kambili swung again. Sam lifted the back. The club bounced off the top and flew from Kambili’s grasp, clattering against the wall.
Eyes narrowing in anger, he reached for his gun.
Sam charged, ramming the broken chair into Kambili’s gut.
He doubled over, grabbing at the chair. Sam drove it up, smashing his jaw. As Kambili staggered back, Sam grabbed the man’s gun, then shoved him into an old desk chair on casters. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. I want information.”
Kambili glared at him. “I’ll kill you.”
“In the meantime,” Sam said, tossing the chair back onto the pile of broken furniture and pointing Kambili’s gun at him, “I need you to answer a few questions about a boy who used to work for you.”
“I have”—his voice came out as a rasp—“a lot of boys. In and out. Who can keep track?”
“A boy named Nash.”
“Thief.”
“Where did he come from?”
“I don’t know. A man who brought him and the others, just dumped them on the street.”
Sam reached over and picked up the fallen chair leg. “Let me jog your memory a little.”
“No, I swear.”
Sam took a step forward.
“Wait. There is someone. I just remembered. Chuk. One of the boys who arrived with Nash is from the same village.”
“Call him.”
“Chuk,” he shouted, never taking his eyes off Sam. “Get in here.”
A moment later, the same boy Sam had seen earlier walked into the room, his eyes widening at the sight of the oldest Kalu brother sitting in the chair, his face injured.
“Tell him,” Kambili ordered.
“Tell him what?” the boy asked, looking at Sam.
“Nash,” Sam said. “Do you know him?”
He nodded.
“Where’s he from?”
Chuk’s gaze flicked from Sam to Kambili, then back. “He lived with his uncle on a farm.”
“Where?”
He shrugged. “Near Maiha.”
Kambili gave a sharp tilt of his head and the boy ran off. “There. You got what you came for.”
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Sam said, backing toward the door.
“You ever show up in Jalingo again, I’ll kill you. My brothers will kill you.”
“Not likely.” Sam emptied the rounds from the man’s pistol, shoving them into his pocket along with the empty gun. “Is this a good time to offer condolences? Wait. You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“Your brothers are dead. If you’re wondering, it wasn’t me.”
Kambili stared, shocked. “Who?” he asked.
“Good question. You know a guy with a big scar running down his face? Drives a white pickup?”
Several seconds ticked by as Kambili just stared. “You lie. Why would Makao kill my brothers?”
“Apparently, they were squabbling over my supply truck. The second one, since your brothers stole the first.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“That your brothers stole my truck?”
“No. That Makao would. He wouldn’t waste his time. My brothers would know not to mess with him.”
“Not sure they got the memo. About this Makao—I killed two of his men. You think he’ll take that personally?”
Kambili gave a wary smile but the gleam in his eye was real. “I think he’ll kill you. Slowly.”
Sam drew his own gun and aimed at Kambili’s chest. He closed the distance between them. Sweat beaded on the man’s forehead. Sam lifted his foot onto the chair and shoved it back so hard, Kambili’s head slammed into the wall. Dust rained down from the ceiling. He sat there, too stunned to move.
Sam pushed open the door, then looked back at him. “By the way. If I ever hear that you hurt one of these boys, or any others, I’ll come back and smash every one of your fingers right before I kill you.”
* * *
—
“Did you find what you were looking for?” Renee asked after Sam returned to the car.
“I did,” he said, texting the information he’d learned to Selma. He checked the time. Lazlo was probably wondering where he was. “Let’s get you to the airport.” He pulled out into the street, noticing the kids were decidedly absent. Word traveled fast.