6°32'44.6"N 6°06'00.5"W

  Sassandra-Marahoué, C?te d’Ivoire

  18.05.2024 - 16.00 UTC +00.00

  I had first laid my eyes on these six pouches lying on a table in a hotel suite in Monrovia. All six of us had received a convincing upfront payment just to show up there. Our employer paid a hefty fee for leaving many details redacted, and I was happy to execute one final mission that would easily arrange my financials for the foreseeable future. Marin and I had shown up last in the room, while the rest were looking at the grim warning on the table with the pouches.

  A hand, not rotten, but well preserved, cleanly cut at the wrist, holding a card sealed with a lion insignia, with a rather straightforward message:

  YOU EACH TAKE ONE.

  DO NOT UNSEAL.

  ONLY ONE IS THE MISSION.

  6°37'08"N 6°02'52"W

  18 MAY 2024, MIDNIGHT

  It did not take long to figure out the pouches’ implied purpose. They were identically crafted and enchanted especially for the mission. They were supposed to be a provision that none of us would betray the rest and run away with the loot, which was bound to be invaluable. Considering all the trouble the employer had gone to transport it across borders, this was the only explanation.

  It did gnaw at my mind, though, so I could understand Rox’s curiosity.

  “You are right. If the assignment was random,” I said eventually. “Marin and I would have the brightest targets on our backs. Perhaps they opted to place the object away from us, the Cursed.”

  Each pouch had a name tag on it. Mine read SPIDER, written in Latin characters, but in Kru. The local dialect. Marin was DICE.

  Another lump in my stomach.

  I had lamented Marin’s death enough in the past days. I was trying to come to terms with it and failing. And every time I mentioned or thought of him, I felt a lump in my stomach.

  After crossing half of Liberia, we had quickly found ourselves pursued by state forces. Someone or something had warned them as we were exiting the Sapo Forest, and the following days were hell. It was a constant hide and seek within Eastern Liberia, until we managed to make a break for it and reach the area near the border to C?te d’Ivoire. Thinking they had lost our tracks, we had dumped our truck in a village near the Cavalla River, the natural border between the two countries.

  We knew they wouldn’t dare to cross into the Coast’s border. The governments did not get well enough to risk an international incident, only for the sake of chasing some Cursed mercenaries. I remembered Marin’s optimism when Akissi, climbing atop a tree, spotted Cavalla’s waters. It would have been a couple of hours, and then this part of the chase would be over.

  “Maybe the money from this will convince Efua to join us again,” Marin had said, excited at the prospect of the insane amount of loot promised to us. I had reluctantly agreed, but a part of me hoped maybe we would retire like Efua.

  He had been completely wrong. A bullet was bound to end his optimism, and he never saw the riverside. He bled out in Guarin’s arms, while Kouadio had killed the last of our assailants.

  “After this, you can retire. Go find him, you don’t have to remain Cursed for your entire life,” Marin had told me, in the last of his moments.

  “Shut up. I can fix this. I should be able to fix this,” I had begged him, hoping that my Curse would reveal a way to reverse the damage. But it was impossible, we both knew that. Before long, my only friend in this group was gone. We were forced to leave his body to rot by the riverside in Liberia, and Kouadio volunteered to carry his pouch as well. I had only taken his small dagger. To remember him by.

  Crossing Cavalla, knowing I had lost Marin, it felt like crossing into the afterlife. Maybe that was what this trip was, what all my missions were: a long and arduous trip to the afterlife, before I regrettably meet my ancestors.

  If only they would listen and end my miserable torture…

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “So, you say, the pouches held by you two Cursed could be decoys,” Rox said, pulling me out of my haunted memories and into the equally uncertain present, “that means the right pouch could be mine.”

  I observed Rox as she tried to theorize the uncertainties of our mission. I knew she was smart, although not so outspoken as Guarin. I had heard her speak many languages: French, English, Maninka, and Baoulé. I did not know where she was from, but she must have been from the West. Maybe from Sierra Leone. She was shorter than I was, but she had expressed her cunning nature many times. It was under her guidance that we crossed Cavalla successfully after Marin was shot.

  “But then again, it could always have been mine.” She looked down at the muddy ground as she talked to herself.

  “It matters not, in the end,” I said, “we will have to hand all of them over. All six pouches.”

  “I wonder why they told us, though,” Rox mumbled.

  “Told us what?”

  “Shh,” Guarin interrupted us. We all stood still, silent. I couldn’t hear anything besides the critters in the surrounding bushes and the rustling of the leaves.

  “A car,” Rox said, and then I heard it too. An exhaust fired a burst of gases. And then another one. Far into the road ahead, a car. It was not close to us, but it would be soon.

  “To the side,” Guarin said.

  He, Kouadio, and Akissi slid into the overgrowth next to the road, on their right. I jumped to the left, as I had already rehearsed in my mind, into a bush of very tall grass.

  I slid downhill, grabbed onto the muddy ground, and remained hidden. Rox did the same and landed in a thorny bush beside me.

  We lay in wait for a good five minutes until, finally, an off-road metal-plated car approached our part of the road. They had their radio on, blasting directions and commands. Maybe from their headquarters or their companions – it did not matter. I could hear it before they even reached us.

  I tasted the saltiness of my sweat dripping on my lips.

  I needed the vehicle to come close enough before I decided how to act. Normally, I would not be so scared, nor hesitant. But the exhaustion was physical as well as mental at this point. I closed my eyes as I tried to tap into my remaining reserve of energy. I tried the breathing exercise that Marin always recommended to keep myself calm.

  The vehicle reached the range of my Bloodsensing.

  For a brief moment, I could picture them as ants walking cluelessly into a big, white, silken web—each move they made forward taunted the spider that had spun it.

  I touched my arm and tried to feel my pulse, knowing I could not. I held my breath and closed my eyes: my pulse was replaced by my enemies, and I could hear them clearly, in loud rhythmic beats. Their hearts, pumping blood and sending ripples across the air for Cursed like me to pick up.

  Cursed like me. I mentally tripped, losing focus. I lost my breathing rhythm, and with it, their pulse.

  “Fuck,” I swore as silently as I could. Had I really been so weakened during this mission? I had to focus. Go deeper into my thoughts. I let my eyes drift onto the ground, getting wet from my dripping sweat.

  When was the last time I felt so tired?

  Right, Loma Mountains. In Sierra Leone, the summer of 2021. Even then, I had not crossed so many borders, not dealt with so many different governments and militaries. Plus, my posse would be with me instead of these strangers. Correction: my ex-posse.

  Adama and Mamadu, linked to their homeland and each other via their Curse, I had lost all contact with them after Mamadu’s injury, and they retreated to the mountains. Efua, a great friend, had retired to Yamoussoukro. What would she always say? “If it did not get shitty, it would not pay well.” She knew what she was talking about. She had lost one too many people before she made the call to retire. The right call. Only Marin had stuck with me for the odd job across borders. Smuggling, mostly.

  And then he died.

  I turned and looked at Rox, crouching like a mountain cat next to me.

  When things went south, she had my back in Liberia. She would have it still, I believed. For Akissi, perhaps she would let me die first before taking my pouch. Guarin… I was not sure how much he would risk for my sake. Kouadio would just follow the majority’s lead, I thought. He would not cower before a fight, but would avoid it if not for the right prize.

  This was no posse, but it was what I had.

  My breathing became steadier, and my thoughts less frantic. The wet ground’s patterns were repetitive enough, and memories of past danger soothed my panic. And as if on cue, I was present again. I could hear the pulses of the people in the car approaching again, clear as day.

  There were six of them. Young, na?ve, not even scared while patrolling the territory. These were not mercenaries; these were young soldiers.

  Did the Liberian authorities alert the Ivorians? Perhaps these young ones were from the local government, then.

  My mind knew they were not the ones who had killed Marin, but my rage was still very much burning. They were easy pickings, and maybe a trail of bodies in our wake would deter more from following. Plus, they were going to prove important resources if it came to…

  “Demi girl, no.”

  Rox’s voice. I turned to my left, and I met her eyes locked right at me. She shook her head side to side, tilting it slightly backwards. Her lips tried to mouth a word I could not tell; I did not need to. She disapproved. I knew the idea had crossed her mind, or maybe she had seen how I looked at them, ready to prowl from the bush.

  She was wise enough to ground me.