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We use a florist’s van to get there. Ketchup is driving, and Bug Eye keeps yelling at him to slow down and watch the road. It’s two in the morning and cops are just as likely to shake us down for cash as care that we’re running red lights, but still, better that no one remembers seeing a van full of kids dressed in black and obviously not florists. The closer we get, the more ready I am to be out and working. Ketchup’s constant prattle makes me nervous. He laughs his hyena laugh and says gross stuff about the twilight girls on the street corners we pass.
In the back, Boyboy and I are quiet, getting ready. I attach my earpiece and make sure the Bluetooth is connecting to my phone.
“Let’s see how the camera is feeding,” Boyboy says.
I look at him, aiming the micro-camera embedded in the earpiece. His face pops up on his laptop screen. “Good.” He watches himself pat his hair into place as he asks, “Mic check? Say something.”
I whisper, “Boyboy got no fashion sense,” and the little earpiece relays my words to my phone, and then to Boyboy’s computer, where I hear myself echo.
He flips me off seamlessly, between the adjustments he’s making to his equipment. “Can you hear me okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “You’re clear.”
“You have to keep your phone close to the earpiece. When you had it in your pocket on that last job, the connection was bad. Where are you putting it?”
I tuck my phone into my sports bra and wave my hands—ta-da.
“Cute.”
“Secure.”
“Put this one in your pocket,” he says, and hands me a tiny USB adapter. “It’s the key to the treasure box and I don’t want it getting lost in your cleavage.”
“Ha.” My chest is barely larger than my eleven-year-old sister’s. But I do as he asks.
Boyboy is crazy good with tech stuff. He always has been, ever since I’ve known him. He told me when he was little the bigger boys would beat him up and call him a fairy, so he spent a lot of time in his room, taking phones and computers apart, putting them back together. His latest trick is hacking ATMs so they spit out crisp thousand-shilling notes.
He won’t join the Goondas, but he’ll work with me. He does his IT genius thing when I need him, and in exchange I lift fancy gadgets for him—computers, phones, the occasional designer handbag—whatever he needs. He says he’s the best hacker in East Africa, and from what I’ve seen, he’s telling the truth.
He’d better be. He’s about to break us into the most fortified home in the Ring.
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The Ring is where you live if you can afford it. Lush, hilly, and green, it sits above Sangui City, peering down its nose at the rest of us. The houses squat on neatly clipped lawns behind fences and flame trees and barbed wire and dogs and ex-military guards with AK-47s. Fleets of Mercedes descend into the city in the mornings carrying the Big Men to work. We call these guys the WaBenzi: the tribe of the Mercedes-Benz. They come in all shapes, sizes, and colors, hail from all over the world, but speak a common language: money. When they return to their mansions in the Ring in the evening, they complain about traffic, drink imported scotch, and fall asleep early on soft cotton sheets. Their wives oversee small armies of servants and get delicate headaches when the African sun is too hot. Their kids play tennis. Their dogs have therapists.
At this time of night, the Ring is quiet except for frogs and insects. It’s rained up here, and the mist is thick. The eerily familiar tree-lined streets we drive are empty. The florist van doesn’t look too out of place. Maybe we have just come from a banquet. A power wedding.
I look out the window. We pass a break in the houses and trees, and I catch a glimpse of the dark Indian Ocean. Sangui: city-state on a hill, port to the world, and a fine bloody place to do business. You do the dirty work down there in town, and the Ring is where you retreat.
I should know. I’ve seen it all up close. I may live down in the dirt now, but once upon a time, a fortress in the Ring was my home.
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Rule 4: Choose your target carefully.
Thief
Kauzi
Thegi
Voleur
Mwizi
Thief
It’s a magic word. Full of power.
Just saying it out loud on the street can get somebody killed. I’ve seen it happen. The police are worthless, so folks are disposed to make their own swift justice. And believe me, no one feels sorry for the thief when the dust settles and blood soaks into the ground. Better be sure no one’s raising a finger at you.
So listen up. Choose carefully. Choose the right target. Most of the time that means the easy target. If you’re pickpocketing, go for the drunks and people having arguments on their mobiles. If you’re robbing a house, make sure it’s the one where they hide the key on the doorjamb. You want to go for bank accounts? Try the old rich lady. Odds are her password is her dog’s name.