Lij Matata Okoro was happy to oblige.

Matata half stumbled toward Ishant before jerking upward, thrusting his right arm out. Ishant dodged the blow, but that gave Matata the room to do what he really wanted: draw a weapon from the folds of his Basotho blanket. Matata shifted to the left, locking his arm in a grip. His other hand removed his belt, a feint within a feint. With a flick, the length of the belt hardened into a doubled-edged panga the length of a staff.

Ishant dodged the savage arc of the blade’s swing. Without thinking, he leapt on Matata’s back, wrapped one arm around his neck and pressed his forearm against the back of his neck. Matata thrust the blade through Ishant’s side. Howling in pain, Ishant held on, cutting off the Lij’s airway. Matata bucked once, twice, trying to twist the panga edge upward through more vital organs, before his body finally stilled. Matata’s unconscious weight dropped to the ground, taking Ishant with him, the blade still lodged in his side. Ishant couldn’t risk their discovery. He didn’t know who his allies were and, more important, who Matata was here to meet. He activated the commlink.

“This is Ishant. Code Black / Eyes Only Uhlanga protocols.” He hoped citing a classified program would catch the attention of the right ears. “Triangulate on my signal. I have the package.”

A dull ache radiated from his side. He rolled over a little to ease the pressure. He was so tired. He needed to close his eyes for only a moment. Get just a little rest.

“Have a seat.” Jaha’s careful scrutiny tracked Ishant as he shuffled into the room and plopped onto the chair across from her. The chair’s high back didn’t change, though the rest of the seat adjusted to his body. A decanter waited on the table between them. After waving his hands about in a nonsensical gesture calling for her assent, Ishant began to pour a glass for each of them.

“What is it?” He glanced at the label.

“Old.” She took her glass. “And free, so what do you care?”

“Fair point.” The scotch burned with familiarity when it hit the back of his throat. Ishant closed his eyes and enjoyed the rush. “This tastes expensive. That can only mean you’re about to read me in on a complicated job.”

“Sweet baby.” She patted his arm. It had the comfort of his grandmother’s touch. “The most complicated you’ve ever had.”

Ishant poured another glass. “What’s the job?”

“You know the saying ‘All my skinfolk ain’t kinfolk’?

“Not really. I’ve heard people repeat it, but never really understood it.”

“Let’s just say that just having the right skin color is not a guarantee of anyone acting in the collective best interest of our people.”