Breaking Locks

Three weeks of hiding, even in the most luxurious hotel the city of Buea had to offer did Marcelo Marchesa no good. He was a messenger. His job was to travel around the world. He was a neutral link to all the biggest and baddest cartels in the world; even the enemies. He had only one rule: stay neutral.

One rule by which he could have had the world at his feet. But because of some stupid greedy issues, he'd kicked out the golden life and now had to live like a refugee.

Normally a refugee like him would go to Singapore or Cancun or some fancy place for safety but because the Russian mafia weren't stupid bullshiters, he had to find the most discreet location he could. It would have never been his idea; it was his sister's: Serena, to seek refuge in the coast, west of Africa; precisely Cameroon.

True enough, no one was ever going to find him there. And it could only last till Damian Belikov was killed. Then his life could retake its track.

The Mountain club resort was a very enticing sight to see but for three weeks straight, it became a bore. Something Marcelo would burn to ashes if he saw it one more time. For that reason he kept only to his room for a couple of days till he got the call he'd been waiting for; for weeks.

"Faresti meglio a portare buone notizie, ragazza!" He spoke into the fix, pinching the bridge of his nose. (You better be bearing some good news for me kid)

"La costa è chiara. Puoi volare un uccellino ma stai attento! L'aquila è ancora a piede libero." A female voice said from the other line,

"Merda!" He cursed crushing his hand into a fist, "Grazie. Stavo per bruciare questa merda. Sta iniziando a soffocare me." He continued releasing his hold. From the other line the girl chuckled,

"Don't do anything irrational brother! Ciao!!!" and she hung up. Marcelo glanced at the clock on the wall and grimaced. It was too late to go out. Especially in an unknown place.

"Tomorrow, I'll paint this city white." He said out loud to himself. White was his favorite colour. With this, he slumped into his bed with a glass of wine in his hands.

Being a two of four children, the girl had grown to live by the norms by which she was raised. Her mother, a widow, was a strict pediatrician who spared her children no wrong doing. It was for this reason that her first son Jasper was a science professor in Boston, living a good, honest and happy life with his white wife and son.

As much as Geraldine wanted all her girls to be as successful as her boy, Jessie, her oldest was the one child God gave her to give her own mother a reason to say 'I told you so...'. Jessie was like her mother's karma. But as much trouble as she was, she knew and respected her limit. She played her game with caution. She was in her final year at the toughest Educational facility to be in Buea: UB (acronym for University of Buea). It was the place to be but only when you weren't there yet. High school seniors dreamt of it. Final year student fought internal nightmares about it. And so was life.

But, whatever Jessie lacked in building up the pride of her mother in public, Jasmine and Jenna made up for it. Jenna was thirteen and breaking the records of all the best students in Kingston Memorial Secondary School while Jasmine had just succeeded with flying colours in achieving her General Certificate of Education: Advanced Levels. Though she knew of the plans for her to further her studies abroad were in motion, for safety purposes, she still applied for admission into the University of Buea to double major in French and English, to become a translator.

A month before the new academic year began, Jasmine and five of her closest friends took a girl's day out to celebrate one of theirs: Micah's birthday and all the successes in their exams. They planned a pool party at, of course the best place they could have one; The Mountain hotel.

The day had started a pretty great as all her plans where falling in place.

Do the grocery shopping: check.

Take Jenna to the tailor for the measurement of her new uniform: check!

She had done all she needed to and next was-

"Time to parteeee!" She sang as she examined herself in the mirror. Her chestnut brown eyes in perfect harmony with leather skirt of the same colour over a white long sleeve top, with a crisscross design behind, tucked inside her skirt. Her coffee brown multiple braids were all held in a ponytail while her baby hairs clung to her forehead like a second skin; with the help of 'edge control' of course. She just slapped on some lip balm and decided,

"No makeup needed for swimming."

With all her needed stuff packed and ready to go, she grabbed her cell phone typed away:

"Leaving now! Meet you guys at the gate." And with a click, she sent it to one of her friends. One more look at her self in the mirror and she was out of the door.

They'd all excerpt for the birthday girl herself, met in front of the dull silver gates of the Mountain Hotel.

By the pool when they arrived, had already been set a small table with multiple snacks good for appetizers, drinks: of which comprised; a bottle of red wine, a bottle champagne, a few canned soft drinks and a cup of olives. Also on the table was a portable stereo, a mini speaker and a camera.

"Where's the cake?" Rhoda, one of Jasmine's friends, a slim, dark and busty shorty asked. Her natural hair was tainted gold at the edge and was carried proud in an afro.

"It's on the way!" Micah answered. She was the birthday girl and the fairest of them all; in skin tone that is. She was already in her 'Happy birthday Gallants' pink swim suit. 'Gallants' was a surname she, like a lot of other Cameroonian teenagers adopted for herself. She had a long Brazilian weave on and was lightly touched up to look like barbie.

"Chop chop! So if there's no cake you won't celebrate your friends birthday abi?" Ezinne, the curvy, plumpy one followed suit to Micah.

"If there was no cake, my ass would be in taxi to my boyfriends house. He would give me a different and better kind of cake." With this said, Rhoda sent Ezinne a wink and they all burst out laughing and joking about it.

First, Lena, a tall, and huge one of Jasmine's friends and Rhoda went into the change rooms and came back already in their almost similar swim suit. Next was Ezine and Jasmine who had been busy helping themselves from the table. Ezinne dressed up in her yellow skirt and bikini bra suit and left while Jasmine still struggled with the zipper of her sky blue jean shorts over a white bikini top. The design of her top was, strings crisscrossed from the upper spine, down around her waist, then tucked into her jeans. Music started playing and she knew, they had started the celebration. Once she was done, she briskly pushed the door to the dressing room open, hitting it against someone who seems to have been passing by. She was only alerted when she heard him curse (she imagined) in a foreign language,

"Figlio di puttana! Che cazzo? Sei cieco?" He had his palm on the bridge of his nose shading his eyes which were half closed from seeing her.

Jasmine, who's hand had gone up to shut herself up from screaming at all trouble she could be in, spoke while still holding her mouth,

"Oh my... I'm sorry Sir! I am so sorry! I didn't know or even think there could someone outside. I am so sorry."

It only took the soft croaky sound of her voice to kick the shitty anger out of him. He lowered his hands to look at the owner to the voice he'd just heard. She was gorgeous! Her chestnut brown eyes that glinted with fear but also simplicity, her small nose which one could believed had been contoured to look slightly pointy but was all natural. Her lips; oh God her lips! The bottom lips fuller than the top with the 'm' bridge than stood between her nose and mouth. She brought her hand up to touch his face but he immediately caught it,

"Non lo farei se fossi in te." He said in his husky, authoritative tone.

"What?" She asked unable to comprehend his language.

"Don't touch me!" He replied, his accent thick in each word. Something that first caught her attention.

"But you're bleedi..." She unable to finish her sentence as he stomped pass her. His hand still holding up to his nose.