Inside the safe was a paper envelope, stuffed thick. Shol took it out and placed it on the table between them.
“I think you’ll find it’s all there.”
Once the Tiger had checked the contents, he set the package on the floor and sat back.
Shol smiled.
“You’ve done much here,” the Tiger said, gesturing around the room. “It’s impressive.”
Shol smiled, puffed up by the compliment. “I’ve been blessed many times.”
“Not just blessed. You’ve been busy. You are clever, I can tell.”
“It’s true. Between the legislature and my businesses, there’s little time for other things.”
“Travel,” the Tiger said. “Meetings day and night? And your family, of course.”
Shol nodded, clearly enjoying that the subject was him. “Yes, yes. On most days.”
“Saying things you shouldn’t. Putting your loved ones at risk.”
The nodding stopped. Shol seemed to forget that he was afraid of looking the Tiger in the eye, and did it now. “No,” he said. “Truly. I’ve not talked about my business dealings with you, or anyone else.”
“Yes,” said the Tiger, without moving. “Truly. You have. You know a reporter—a woman? Adanne Tansi?” He reached up with one finger and tipped open his collar an inch. He spoke into a microphone.
“Rock da house! Now, Rocket. Spare no one. Make an example of them.”
Chapter 77
A FEW SECONDS later, the entire greenhouse reverberated with a half dozen or more gun blasts coming from outside. And then bursts of machine-gun clatter.
Mohammed Shol tried to get up, but the Tiger was fast and agile and already had his hands around the man’s throat and was choking him. He slammed Shol into the far wall and a spiderweb pattern blossomed in the glass.
“Do you hear that?” the Tiger shouted at the top of his voice. “You hear it? All your fault!”
There was more gunfire. Then screams—women first, followed quickly by boys, their voices high and pitiful.
“That,” the Tiger told him, “is the sound of your mistakes, your greed, your stupidity.”
Shol grappled with both hands at the Tiger’s huge and unmovable wrists. His eyes reddened and veins appeared ready to burst at his temples. The Tiger watched, fascinated. It was possible, he’d learned, to bring a man to the edge of death, and then keep him there for as long as he liked. He liked this because he despised Shol and his kind.
The greenhouse door shattered as two bodyguards arrived to rescue their employer. “Come in!” shouted the Tiger. In one motion, he spun Mohammed Shol around and pulled a pistol from the paddle holster at his ankle. He charged forward, Shol in front as a shield, firing as he came!
One bodyguard went down with a nine-millimeter hole in the throat. The other sent a bullet through his employer’s outstretched hand, then into his shoulder.
Shol screamed, even as the Tiger launched him the last several feet across the floor, where he crashed into the guard. Both men went down. Then the Tiger shot the second bodyguard in the face.
“Oga!” Rocket said as he appeared in the empty doorway. Oga meant “chief” in Lagos street parlance. The Tiger liked the designation, and it came naturally to his young soldiers.
The screaming had all but stopped in the house, but there were still sounds of breakage and gunfire as his boys let off the last of their venom and steam.
“There was a tutor. Children being taught.”
“Taken care of,” said Rocket.
“Good.” The Tiger watched as Shol struggled to stand. He fired once into his leg. “You’ll need a tourniquet or you’ll die,” he said to the businessman.
Then he turned to Rocket. “Tie Mr. Shol up. Then put this in his mouth. Or up his ass, if you like.”