It ends with knight nena.., p.1
It Ends with Knight (Nena Knight), page 1
PRAISE FOR YASMIN ANGOE
It Ends with Knight
“Nena Knight can cover Orphan X’s six o’clock any day! Stolen from her village in Ghana, Knight reinvents herself as an elite assassin capable of all orders of badassery. One of thrillerdom’s rising stars, Yasmin Angoe paints Knight with nuance, strength, and grace. These books burn hot and read fast.”
—Gregg Hurwitz, New York Times bestselling author of the Orphan X series
“It Ends with Knight finishes this trilogy every bit as heart pounding, soul-searching, and explosive as it started. Nena Knight now takes her place alongside crime fiction’s most unforgettable heroines.”
—Rachel Howzell Hall, New York Times bestselling author of We Lie Here and These Toxic Things
“Yasmin Angoe returns with both barrels blazing in It Ends with Knight. Nena Knight is such a well-crafted character, and Angoe’s writing is an absolute joy. You need some pretty strong writer mojo to get readers to root for an assassin, and Angoe pulls it off. I truly hope It Ends with Knight is not the end of this wonderful series.”
—Tracy Clark, bestselling author and winner of the Sue Grafton Memorial Award
They Come at Knight
“There’s nothing ho hum about Nena Knight, the killer at the heart of Yasmin Angoe’s They Come at Knight . . . In one blistering action scene after another, we get to see how good Nena is at what she does.”
—New York Times Book Review
“A second round of action-packed, high-casualty intrigue for professional assassin Nena Knight. A lethal tale of an all-but-superhero whose author promises that ‘in this story, there are no heroes.’”
—Kirkus Reviews
“This action-packed novel drives toward an explosive conclusion. Determined to survive devastating loss and mete out justice, Nena is a heroine readers will embrace.”
—Publishers Weekly
Her Name Is Knight
“This stunning debut . . . deftly balances action, interpersonal relationships, issues of trauma, and profound human questions in an unforgettable novel.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“A parable of reclaiming personal and tribal identity by seizing power at all costs.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Angoe expertly builds tension by shifting between her lead’s past and present lives. Thriller fans will cheer Aninyeh every step of the way.”
—Publishers Weekly
“An action-packed thriller you can lose yourself in.”
—PopSugar
“Memorable characters, drama, heart-pounding danger . . . this suspenseful novel has it all.”
—Woman’s World
“A crackerjack story with truly memorable characters. I can’t wait to see what Yasmin Angoe comes up with next.”
—David Baldacci, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“Yasmin Angoe’s debut novel, Her Name Is Knight, is an amazing, action-packed international thriller full of suspense, danger, and even romance. It’s like a John Wick prequel except John is a beautiful African woman with a particular set of skills.”
—S. A. Cosby, New York Times bestselling author of Razorblade Tears
“It’s hard to believe that Her Name Is Knight is Yasmin Angoe’s debut novel. This dual-timeline story about a highly trained Miami-based assassin who learns to reclaim her power after having her entire life ripped from her as a teenager in Ghana is equal parts love story, social commentary, and action thriller. Nena Knight will stay with you long after you’ve read the last word, and this is a must-read for fans of Lee Child and S. A. Cosby. I found myself crying in one chapter and cheering in the next. I couldn’t put it down!”
—Kellye Garrett, Anthony, Agatha, and Lefty Award–winning author
“This was a book I couldn’t put down. Yasmin Angoe does a brilliant job of inviting you into a world of espionage and revenge while giving her characters depth and backstory that pull the reader in even more. This story has depth, excitement, and heartbreaking loss all intertwined into an awesome debut. The spy thriller genre has a new name to look out for!”
—Matthew Farrell, bestselling author of Don’t Ever Forget
“This brave and profoundly gorgeous thriller takes readers to places they’ve never been, to challenges they’ve never faced, and to judgments that leave the strongest in tears. Her Name Is Knight is a stunning and important debut, and Yasmin Angoe is a fantastic new talent.”
—Hank Phillippi Ryan, USA Today bestselling author of Her Perfect Life
“Her Name Is Knight is a roundhouse kick of a novel—intense, evocative, and loaded with character and international intrigue. Nena Knight is a protagonist for the ages and one readers will not soon forget. Her Name Is Knight isn’t just thrills and action, either—the book lingers with you long after you’ve finished. More, please.”
—Alex Segura, acclaimed author of Star Wars Poe Dameron: Free Fall, Secret Identity, and Blackout
OTHER TITLES BY YASMIN ANGOE
They Come at Knight
Her Name Is Knight
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2023 by Yasmin Angoe
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781662508288 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 9781662508295 (paperback)
ISBN-13: 9781662508301 (digital)
Front cover design by Regina Wamba
Back cover design by Ray Lundgren
Cover image: © Mikael Damkier, © yurok, © Diana Indiana, © Beauty Stock, © RESTOCK images / Shutterstock; © Nikol Bartzoka / Trunk Archive
First edition
To all of my family—by birth, the ones I found, and the ones who found me.
CONTENTS
BEFORE
1
2
3
4
5
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BEFORE
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BEFORE
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EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BEFORE
My first sanctioned American dispatch comes soon after I have settled into my new home in my quaint little neighborhood of Citrus Grove in Miami. Though my older sister, Elin, lives not too far away, in an exquisite high-rise condo in the upscale area of Coconut, and our parents would prefer I reside with her now that she and I have moved here from England, I prefer the simplicity of Citrus Grove and the people who make the place a home.
Some weeks prior, Witt, my mentor and the head of the Dispatch team of the African Tribal Council, sent me intel on a broker set to arrive in Charleston, South Carolina, of all locations. Charleston is apparently a place of great import and export, and the broker is no longer an asset to the family by whom he is employed. He is about to sell valuable assets of theirs to competitors, ones who are not within the Tribe, so Witt has received dispatch orders, and I am to execute them.
I land at Charleston International in the afternoon and take a shuttle to the French Quarter Inn, where the mark will stay. He is due to arrive later that evening, if my intel is correct (and it normally is), and my plan is to be in the lobby to find out what room he will be assigned when he arrives.
Charleston is reminiscent of New Orleans. It is small and quaint. I learn it is full of old slave plantations and was a bustling port for the slave trade. It even has a marketplace in the center of downtown where the slaves were sold to the highest bidder. Now the market has been transformed to an open-air flea market. I decide to stay on a bit longer after my mission to tour this city that has been around since the start of this country and holds so much history. I am from the world from which the enslaved who ended up here were stolen. I am from where their last memories of Africa were of the doors closing behind them, and to be in a place where so many of my fellow Africans ended up weighs heavily on my soul. I know what it means to be stolen, to be ripped from all you once knew. I know something of their pain, and their fear. I should like very much to walk the grounds of one of the plantations that surround this city, imagining what life used to be like for them. Of how they suffered. And of how I have suffered as well.
But first, the job I must complete.
The hotel is beautiful. I check in quickly, keeping my sunglasses on in my attempt to be as invisible as possible. I do not cause any fuss, not like the woman before me, who complains that her room doesn’t have the best view of the city. She is obnoxious and loud, and dispatching her would be a bonus to the world. There is no reason to be rude to the people who work behind those desks. I am sure there is more money in one of my accounts than this woman has in all the world, this Bethany Davidson (her name and room number lock into my memory . . . for just in case), and yet I would never presume to think it gives me any right to mistreat or look down on others. What if I paid Bethany Davidson a visit later to remind her of such? Would that be so bad? She has caused quite a scene, and the concierge, a young Black girl with almond-shaped eyes glistening with water that threatens to fall as she endures the tirade, looks up at me like the weight of the world is on her shoulders. We are worlds apart, the girl and I, and yet we are unified in this moment of trauma, at being subjected to unprovoked harassment because of class. I do not cause any fuss, not like the White woman before me, who complains. Because of . . . whatever.
Her feelings are my own. When people treat you horribly, you wear it like a second skin. Never comes off and makes you question if you did something to deserve it in the first place. I offer the girl—Cynthia, her tag reads—kindness.
“I will take the room with the worst view,” I say. I am not there for the view anyway.
Cynthia’s eyes blink rapidly at me to rid themselves of their building tears.
“Ma’am?” Cynthia asks, trying to collect herself so she can continue providing the top-notch service that the French Quarter Inn is known for, or so their website tells me.
I break out into a grin. I am in character, and when in character, an occasional smile is required so that I am not off-putting. Being a Black woman who doesn’t smile is something people seem to remember, as outrageous as it sounds. One shouldn’t be forced to smile if not inclined to do so. But I want no one to remember me here, and for that to happen, I must assimilate as best I can.
Cynthia finally gets it and lets out a relieved laugh that actually moves me a bit. Making this young girl smile is a stark difference from the dark nature of my trip. And from that little bit of levity, I am upgraded to a suite even my sister Elin would find acceptable to her bougie nature. Better than Bethany’s; I check her room later, as she showers, to lift the hundreds she has in her purse to gift to Cynthia—for her troubles, of course. Consider that my Robin Hood act of kindness for the year. I won’t do that again.
When the mark arrives, I am in the lobby, sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs with a magazine and a cup of tea. I am close enough to hear the exchange at the counter and which room the mark will be in. He comes alone, as I knew he would. He is working in secret, so he will not want to let his employer know his whereabouts by traveling with his usual entourage.
It is not my intention to engage him. I want to make quick work of his demise so I can enjoy the rest of my mini vacation, as I have decided this to be.
“Where is a good bar around here?” the mark asks the new concierge at the counter. “I want to go get a drink.”
“We have a bar on-site, sir, or we can bring a drink to your room?”
The mark shakes his glistening bald head. “No, I would like to go to a bar. See the sights a bit and grab some dinner before my meeting tomorrow.” The concierge obliges, asking him what he is in the mood to eat.
“Seafood, I think,” the mark says.
“Maybe try Hyman’s. They are out of this world.”
Hyman’s it shall be.
I work alone, with neither Witt nor Elin in my ear providing overwatch as I run through my mission. There is no one to check in with, no team members to provide support or cover or to be my wingmen. Only me. It is both unsettling and exciting, and I wonder if this is what a baby bird feels like when it is ousted from the nest.
With my travel clothes changed to workout clothes—tight yoga pants, formfitting black hoodie, sneakers, hat, an earbud for my music, and honey-colored wig with hazel contacts—I am ready to take my run around the city. The mark should be dining at the same time.
The inn is on Church Street and the restaurant on Meeting. It is only a block and a half away, near the historic Charleston City Market, where the slaves were sold. While he gorges on surf and turf, drinks cognac, and flirts with the young college girls who work at the busy seafood restaurant, I get my exercise in and take the lay of the land.
The landscape of Charleston provides good cover. The buildings are densely packed and aged. There are plenty of alleyways and nooks and crannies to do what is needed without many eyes on you. I calculate any possible direction the mark may take. He will walk because he will want to take in the night air after so much eating and drinking. Plus, a two-minute cab ride back to the inn is just plain lazy.
I run, a form of exercise I do not particularly enjoy, and stop to stretch, checking for my mark. I can see him at his table signing the check and downing the last of his drink. I sit at the bench and stretch my legs some more. My music blares in my ear as I twist my neck left and right.
The mark says his goodbyes to the greeter and steps through the door the valet has opened for him into the cool night air. He rubs his hands together, checks his phone, then slips it back into the pocket of his pants. He turns right, away from me, and begins walking. He is taking the long way back to the hotel, probably wanting to see some sights before he heads in for the night. According to intel, he has a huge day tomorrow. One that will make him millions and cost the Tribe at least triple that in money, commodities, and respect.
He walks nearly out of my sight before I lift myself off the bench, stretch once more, and begin jogging slowly after him. His gait is unhurried, and he is well within my sight in a matter of seconds. There are people on the street—couples strolling hand in hand; giggling students from the College of Charleston, according to their hoodies; families on vacation, enjoying this fall evening. But the time is rather late, about ten o’clock, so the street isn’t as busy as it was an hour ago.
We pass closed boutiques and other businesses. A horse and carriage strolls by with a couple snuggling in the passenger seat. We approach Market Street, passing a side street, and my pace hastens. I break into a light run so the soles of my feet do not alert the mark before I am ready. He slows at the dark alley, and I hesitate, thinking he is on to me.
My right hand slips into the wide front pouch of my hoodie, where my gun with attached silencer rests. The bass from a hip-hop song thumps in one ear, but not so loudly that I am not keenly aware of what goes on around me with my other ear, where there is no earbud.
My hand grips the gun, pushing it through until its barrel just barely clears the other side of the pocket. The mark slows to a stop. He makes a quick sweep of his surroundings but doesn’t look behind him, where I still approach, but at a reduced pace.
I am just upon him, ready for the possibility that he has made me and will try to attack me from within the alley. I could stop and turn and take him down at the inn, but I like the inn and don’t want any commotion there or with Cynthia, who has that cash I took for her. No added heat will be needed there when Bethany starts screaming about her money. I should have thought about that before I stole from the repugnant to give to the kind, my own decreed punishment for Bethany Davidson’s misbehavior. With her, I am my own Council.
The mark steps into the alley, and just as I am about to pass it—to see if he awaits me, if I will have to engage or will have to abort, a failure—I hear him muttering, followed by light spatter. It is the sound of liquid hitting pavement. I hear a groan and realize with disdain that the mark is relieving himself. I swallow my disgust like a bad pill and push the barrel of my gun out farther from the pocket of my hoodie.
The hit will have to be precise because I am moving. I cannot stop, because if there are cameras I have missed—and there may be—I do not want them to see the jogging woman stop and pull out a gun. Maybe she can slow because she heard a noise that happened to be a businessman being assaulted, but she doesn’t stop. What woman jogging alone would?
