Chapter 14:SPAIN
1378 Words
But peace never lasts.
Not for us.
I woke up to knocking.
Not guns.
Not bounty hunters.
Just knuckles on wood.
Three times.
Soft.
Jacob’s knock.
Elias was already awake.
Gun in his hand.
Under the pillow.
He did not sleep deep anymore.
Not since the alley.
Not since the blood.
“Yeah,” he said.
Voice rough.
Morning voice.
Jacob opened the door.
Did not come in.
Respected boundaries.
“Boat’s ready,” he said.
“Tonight. Tangier to Tarifa. Fishing vessel. No names. No records.”
Spain.
Europe.
Farther from Vera.
Farther from 100 million naira.
“When?” I asked.
Sitting up.
Sheet around me.
“22:00,” Jacob said.
“Tonight.”
He looked at Elias.
At the cane by the bed.
“Can he make it?”
Elias stood.
Slow.
Gritted his teeth.
Did not use the cane.
Just to prove a point.
“Yeah,” he said.
“I can make it.”
Jacob nodded.
Once.
“I will be back at 21:00. Be ready.”
Then he was gone.
---
We packed again.
Two bags.
Same bags from Cape Town.
From Accra.
From Lagos.
Our whole life fit in them.
Elias moved slow.
Pain still there.
Under the skin.
Under the scar.
But he moved.
“Are you scared?” I asked.
Folding his shirt.
“Of Spain?”
“Of Vera.”
He stopped.
Looked at me.
Really looked.
“No,” he said.
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he said.
“Scared keeps you alive.”
He walked over.
Took my face in his hands.
Same hands that held a gun yesterday.
Same hands that held me last night.
Gentle.
“Rule 3,” he said.
“No one takes you from me.”
“Rule 5,” I said.
“We do not apologize for choosing each other.”
“Rule 7,” he said.
“We live.”
We kissed.
Slow.
Like we had time.
We did not.
But we stole it anyway.
---
21:00.
Jacob knocked.
We were ready.
Bags on.
Shoes on.
Guns hidden.
Elias’s cane in his hand.
Hated it.
Needed it.
“Car’s outside,” Jacob said.
No small talk.
No goodbyes.
Just movement.
We left the safe house.
Did not look back.
Never looked back.
Tangier port.
Night.
Fog.
Smell of salt and diesel and fish.
Dogs barking.
Men shouting in Arabic.
In Spanish.
In French.
A boat waited.
Small.
Not a cruise ship.
Fishing vessel.
*La Esperanza*.
The Hope.
Ironic.
A man stood by it.
Old.
Face like leather.
“No names,” he said to Jacob.
“No questions,” Jacob said.
He handed the man an envelope.
Thick.
Damian’s money.
The man nodded.
Pointed to the boat.
“Get on.”
We did.
Elias first.
Then me.
Then Jacob helped with the bags.
“Damian says good luck,” Jacob said.
Last thing.
Then he was gone.
Back into the fog.
Back into Casablanca.
It was just us now.
And the sea.
---
The boat left at 22:30.
Late.
Engine loud.
Waves high.
We stayed below deck.
Small room.
Two bunks.
Smelled like fish.
And puke.
Elias lay down.
Fast.
Pain hitting him.
From the walk.
From the stairs.
From pretending he was fine.
“Let me see,” I said.
Lifting his shirt.
Bandage was clean.
No new blood.
Good.
“I am fine,” he said.
Liar.
“You are not.”
“I will be.”
I laid next to him.
Small bunk.
Barely fit one.
We made it fit two.
My head on his chest.
His heart beating under my ear.
Strong.
Steady.
Alive.
The boat rocked.
I held on tighter.
---
Tarifa.
Spain.
3:00 AM.
Cold.
Different cold from Cape Town.
European cold.
Clean.
We got off the boat.
No customs.
No passports.
Just money.
And a nod.
“Where now?” I asked.
Street was empty.
Just us.
And the ocean behind us.
“Seville,” Elias said.
“Damian has a place. Jacob gave me the address.”
We walked.
Found a taxi.
Paid cash.
Driver did not ask questions.
Just drove.
Seville at dawn.
Orange trees.
Old buildings.
Beautiful.
If you were not running.
The apartment was small.
Third floor.
No elevator.
Elias hated the stairs.
Did not say it.
But I saw it.
In his jaw.
Inside was clean.
One bedroom.
One kitchen.
Windows that locked.
Door with three deadbolts.
Safe.
For now.
Elias collapsed on the bed.
Fully clothed.
Cane falling to the floor.
“Asleep?” I asked.
“No,” he mumbled.
“Dead.”
“Do not say that.”
He opened one eye.
Smiled.
“Too tired to die.”
I laid next to him.
Again.
Always again.
---
We slept for 14 hours.
No guns.
No dreams.
Just sleep.
Rule 6.
We stopped running.
For one day.
Day two, Elias was better.
Walking without the cane.
In the apartment.
Still used it outside.
Pride.
Day three, we went outside.
Together.
Hand in hand.
Like normal people.
Bought bread.
Bought fruit.
Ate on a bench.
Watched people.
No one knew us.
No one stared.
David and Amara Okeke.
Tourists.
Maybe.
It felt good.
To pretend.
Day four, the phone rang.
Not the clean phone.
We threw that in the ocean.
Off the boat.
New phone.
New number.
Only Damian had it.
Elias answered.
Listened.
Face went dark.
Not black.
Not like before.
Worse.
Empty.
He hung up.
Did not speak.
For a full minute.
“Elias?” I said.
Finally.
“What is it?”
He turned the TV on.
News.
Spanish.
I did not understand.
But I saw the picture.
Vera.
On screen.
Press conference.
Lagos.
Elias grabbed the remote.
Changed to CNN International.
English.
“...Akindele heiress releases video message to kidnappers,” the anchor said.
Then her.
Vera.
Black dress again.
No tears.
No acting.
Just rage.
Pure.
Cold.
“Elias,” she said.
Looking right at the camera.
Like she knew we were watching.
Like she was talking only to us.
“And Ava. I know you are in Spain. I know you are in Seville. You cannot hide from me.”
We froze.
“I am coming for you,” she said.
Voice low.
Promise.
Threat.
“Both of you. And when I find you, I will not be alone. My father is coming. His men are coming. All of Lagos is coming. You took everything from me. Now I will take everything from you.”
She leaned forward.
Closer to the camera.
Closer to us.
“Run,” she said.
Smiled.
No warmth.
All teeth.
“But you cannot run forever.”
Screen cut to anchor.
“Akindele Oil has doubled the reward to 200 million naira. Over 400,000 US dollars. For information leading to their location. The couple is considered armed and extremely dangerous.”
Elias turned the TV off.
Quiet.
Room was quiet.
Seville was quiet.
Too quiet.
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
200 million.
400,000 dollars.
Now every person in Spain was a bounty hunter.
“Rule 6 is over,” he said.
Voice flat.
“We run again.”
I nodded.
Not crying.
Not scared.
Just tired.
So tired.
He grabbed the bags.
From under the bed.
Always packed.
Always ready.
“Where?” I asked.
“Anywhere,” he said.
“Not here.”
We left Seville that night.
No note.
No goodbye.
Just hand in hand.
Out the door.
Into the streets.
Into Spain.
Into the dark.
Rule 3.
Rule 5.
Rule 7.
And Rule 8.
New one.
We made it up right there.
On the stairs.
“We end this,” Elias said.
“Vera. Her father. All of them.”
“How?” I asked.
“I do not know yet,” he said.
“But we end it.”
We stepped outside.
Seville was beautiful.
At night.
Lights.
Music.
People laughing.
We were not laughing.
We were running.
Again.
Always again.
But this time, we were running *toward* something.
Not away.
We were running toward the end.
And no one was taking us from each other.
Not Vera.
Not 200 million.
Not the whole damn world.
We ran.
And did not stop.
- Writer
