by Seeley James
I’d have to make sure I never pissed her off. She could deliver an epic rant.
I nodded to Carlos and we started backing out for a quick getaway. Somewhere in Tokyo there was a boy who needed rescue.
We made it halfway across the room before she screamed at us in Japanese. We froze.
She scurried to us, bowing as she came near, her head down. “So sorry. Off-duty patrolmen. We believe them first but some bother me about crime scene: you have no GSR. You right, you not bring chains. We see airport video and museum video. Mistake my fault, not Inspector Yoshida.”
She looked up at me with an apologetic expression that changed. She had something in her eye. A spark?
I felt one of those inexplicable connections that transcend race and culture and roles. She was the woman I’d been looking for all my life.
Definitely.
Maybe.
“Who were they working for?” I asked.
“He not say. Sticks to lies.”
I pulled the business card I’d found. “What does this say?”
She glanced at it then at me. “Low-see Deployment. First word not translate.”
I rolled her phonetic translation around in my aching head. It meant something to me. It was related to the guy in the overcoat who had my gun. And related to something back in the States. Whatever it meant was stuck in the back of my brain-damaged skull.
Shouting erupted outside the emergency room.
“Where’s the back door?” I asked.
She shook her head. “You not leave.”
Carlos was running through the space, opening doors, looking for a way out.
I pointed at the guy on the gurney as I ran to join my new best friend. “His pals are coming to make sure he doesn’t talk. I’ll call you.”
Carlos found something and waved me over before disappearing into a small door. I piled in after him.
It was an operating room with a whole lot of people in scrubs and masks. They looked up, surprised and angry.
The surgeon started bellowing in Japanese, waving his scalpel at us.
Gunshots popped loud and sharp outside the emergency room.
Every head swiveled in unison to face the wall that separated us from the noise. No one spoke for a full second, then a woman screamed in horror.
Carlos asked something in Japanese and they pointed to double doors beyond racks of equipment. I followed him into a short hall that ended at a T-intersection. We checked left and right.
He checked one end of the hall and I checked the other. My end was clear. I turned to summon my partner.
Carlos was running back, which I took as a bad sign.
We rounded my corner. I instinctively reached for a weapon that wasn’t there. Japan may have the lowest murder rate in the world and only eight gun-homicides in 2013 compared to the USA’s 14,196, but when someone is shooting at you—with a gun they stole from your house—being defenseless sucks.
Screams echoed from two directions and two guys ran from one side hall to another.
We rounded another corner and found a crowd of nurses huddled together.
Mercury stood in the hall, shaking his head. His god-squad leaned against each other, heads lolling side to side.
Mercury said, Go that way, second left, then left again. There’s an Uber driver just dropping someone off.
I said, Low-see, why is that word familiar to me?
Mercury said, Bro, you don’t have time for a Latin lesson. Move your ass.
“C’mon, this way.” I pulled Carlos and tried to get the Uber app while running.
We skidded to a side door as the detective rounded a corner and ran into me.
I caught her, arresting her momentum, and tried to keep us both upright. She was a perfect fit in my arms, as if we had been made for each other. She looked at me with love in her eyes.
Or fear. It could’ve been either.
Tears filled her eyes like any new recruit in her first battle. All those promotions had been for her intelligence, not bravery under fire. It was her first encounter with deadly weapons and all she brought to the gunfight was a business card.
I ushered her outside and opened the car door. She yelled at the driver and flashed her badge. He put his foot to the floor and pulled away while Carlos and I were still getting in.
When we reached the end of the parking lot, she buzzed down the window, leaned out, and puked her guts out.
I stroked her back.
The Major called me from headquarters and started talking the instant I clicked in. “We have a ransom demand for Flip Zola.”
“Already?” I asked. “Why did he call you?”
“You’re the ransom.” She paused. “I told him no.”
I looked out the back window to see if we were being followed but couldn’t see anything because Seven-Death and the monkey-god were sitting on the trunk, arms wrapped around each other, heads together. Mercury leaned in the window from outside, squeezing in over my detective’s shoulders.
Mercury said, Homie, do these losers think you’re going to give yourself up for some kid you’ve never even met? Kidnapping 101: ransom demands should be realistic.
“He killed Gottleib and Zola,” I told the Major. “I have an idea about who he is, but I don’t know why. Where and when is the exchange?”
“Haven’t gotten that far. He’s on the line.”
“Put him on.”
The detective, whose name I’d yet to learn, pulled back from the window, turned to me and wiped her face with her sleeve. “He shot all the men. He walk up, put gun on head. Bang. Six mens.” She leaned out for a dry heave, pulled back in, and ran her fingers through her hair. “Why he do that?”
I put the phone back to my ear and heard an electronically altered voice on the line saying something I didn’t care about.
“You kidnapped a teenager,” I said, my voice terse and bitter. “Get on your knees and pray to whatever god listens to scum like you—tell him you’re coming home.”
CHAPTER 27
Pia tightened the muscles in her shoulder, willing them to hold her arm in place and keep it attached as her momentum threatened to rip her apart. For the first few slow-motion milliseconds, Pia fell straight down. Then the cable hit the fulcrum of the Skyview’s roofline and swung her back toward the building. But she was facing out to sea, flying blindly backward with no idea how to find the window Tania had shot out.
As gravity took over her fate, Pia’s mind reached warp speed. From her many skydiving lessons, she had learned her terminal velocity was roughly 120 mph or 200 feet per second. Falling twenty feet would take a tenth of a second. Not enough time to turn around and control her landing. Despite a lifetime of athletic achievement based on her constant, diligent, and disciplined control of her regimen, she would either live or die based on physics that a chaos theoretician could not calculate in time to make a difference.
There wasn’t even enough time to pray.
Pia’s weight carried her inwards, toward the hotel. She sensed a bit of structure in her peripheral vision. Then, without warning, a large piece of cloth flew up, blocking her view of the sea. Her momentum reached the end of the swing and reversed direction. She heard someone yell something and the cloth smashed into her body firmly at the very moment she began to exit the broken window.
She let go of the wire and the cloth shot her into the hotel like a slingshot.
She crashed into a cocktail table, sending drinks and hors d’oeuvres flying in every direction. She crabbed around on the carpet until her feet were under her. She popped up and looked around quickly, slightly embarrassed about her awkward landing and half-hoping no one noticed.
Three pistols pressed to her face.
The good news: the pistols were in the hands of uniformed police officers. The bad news: they were unimpressed with her party crashing.
Then the pain kicked in. Her arm hurt from her socket to her fingertips. Her hip and butt where she hit the tables. Several other p
laces were swelling fast.
Near the window were two men in the act of dropping the tablecloth that had arrested her outward momentum. Next to them stood Tania, blood dripping from lacerations to her face and left shoulder where the glass had been unforgiving. An officer held a pistol to her forehead.
“Drop your weapon, please,” said a man beyond the immediate ring of officers. “You are under arrest.”
Late in the evening, after the statements were taken, and the security videos checked, and Tania’s lacerations bandaged, Dubai’s Director General of Criminal Investigation escorted Pia and Tania past workers patching bullet holes in the halls.
He stopped at her suite. “This is not house arrest. It is for your protection. Walid will remain at your door at all times. There are ten officers in the lobby, and one more on each floor. I assure you, this hotel is safe. You may receive visitors if you wish, but the government respectfully requests that you do not leave until the official inquiry concludes.”
Pia faced Walid, a uniformed officer, and pointed to the bloodstained carpet. She said, “L-O-C-I.”
Walid choked and looked at the Director General, who looked oblivious.
“Do we get our guns back?” Tania held out her hand.
“Regretfully, your permits have been temporarily revoked.”
“I’ll bet they have.” Tania gave him a once-over. “How many of those guys worked for you?”
Pia slid her card in the lock. When it clacked open, she dragged Tania inside.
The butler greeted them with pomegranate juice. He took stock of their bruises and cuts, bandaged roughly by a police medic, and brought ice packs and summoned a proper doctor.
Bianca buzzed her Skype app. Pia took the call and discovered Bianca had the feed displayed on several screens in the office. Grim congratulations were offered by her employees. They knew she survived an ordeal that was far from over. When all the prayers and wishes were offered, Bianca narrowed the session to the two of them.
“I traced 147 blog posts about the Mercenary Restrictions Act,” Bianca said. “The sites involved won’t divulge who wrote them but they all source content through Hummingbird Online.”
“Hummingbird is owned by Fuchs News?”
“Yes, ma’am. The posts on MRA were high-concentration posts that targeted only the congressional districts where a representative was fighting for his office and needed a new issue to champion.”
“Any idea who paid for them?” Pia asked.
“A social welfare group called Future Diversions 732. The group was approved a few weeks ago and opened with $6 million in cash. They don’t disclose funding, but I found their only named officer, Jago Seyton.”
“Jacob’s favorite lobbyist.”
“I found an odd list of nineteen names that included Müller, Suliman, and Taimur. Next to each name was a number, Taimur’s was 20. It looked like a key to a hidden ledger of donations.”
There was a brief lull as Pia thought through all the connections.
Bianca said, “I appreciate what you said the other day about coming out. Since you already figured out my sexuality, I’ll spare you my speech. I just wanted to say thank-you. It means a lot to me.”
“You’re welcome,” Pia said. “New topic. Can you track down a company called L-O-C-I? I don’t know if that’s a word or an abbreviation, so it won’t be easy.”
They clicked off.
The Post’s Emily Lunger texted. “FNC and Chronicle claim Jacob led a massacre in Tokyo. You guys are getting lots of bad press. Can I release those videos from France now?”
Pia texted back. “No.”
She exchanged texts with Jacob regarding LOCI. They had similar experiences but learned nothing conclusive.
Pia and Tania went to their rooms and spent a fitful night with ice packs and new bandages. The next morning was not a good deal different. Crashing through tempered glass takes a toll on a body.
In the afternoon, Tania came to Pia’s room and laid out the spare-parts kit. From it, they assembled two Glocks each.
“The killers carried MP5 rifles like ours,” Pia said. “Were they trying to frame Sabel Security?”
“Pakistan Ordinance Factories—POF—licenses the MP5 from Heckler & Koch and calls them SMG-PKs. It’s the standard-issue weapon for police in the Emirates. The US Army also sources them from time to time as part of the campaign to bolster commerce in the region.”
“You still think they were cops?” Pia looked at the phone she’d won during the fight. “Then who or what is LOCI?”
Pia clicked a magazine of Sabel Darts into one of her Glocks, and armor-piercing rounds in the other.
The butler stood at the door. “Prince Taimur of Oman to see you, ma’am.” He tried not to look at the contraband weapons a second time. “I’ve put him in the lounge as the living room is not yet finished.”
Pia and Tania exchanged glances.
“Did I schedule this?” Pia asked.
“He said you were not expecting him,” the butler said. “But in light of yesterday’s tragedy, he thought it best to accelerate an inevitable meeting.”
“Is anyone with him?”
“A bodyguard and his advisor, ma’am.”
“Tell his people to wait outside in the hall.”
The butler drew back in shock. “Begging your pardon ma’am, but he is a prince.”
“I jumped off the roof of this hotel yesterday. I’m not in the mood for unscheduled visitors, princes or paupers.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He turned to leave, paused, turned back. “May I offer a bit of cultural etiquette appropriate for this region?”
“Snub the monarchy at your peril?”
He tightened his lips, closed his eyes, and gave a slow nod. “A succinct synopsis, ma’am.”
“His people wait outside anyway. You can take them tea and cookies” Pia faced Tania. “Thank God for democracy.”
The butler bowed and left.
She waited out of sight at the top of the stairs, counting the number and direction of footsteps until the prince’s entourage had been escorted out. Then Pia descended.
Tania followed to the edge of the lounge where she paced out wide to the right.
Pia observed the man in the gold-trimmed black robe, black leather sandals, topped with a blue-and-red turban. With his neatly trimmed beard and piercing eyes, he had the handsome, polished look of a movie star. Behind the attractive face was an inquisitive look that appreciated her height and athleticism without objectifying her. She felt a strong warmth and re-heard the butler’s words: but he is a prince.
She took a deep breath, flipped her switch to professional mode, and stepped forward.
She said, “As-Salam-u-Alaikum wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh.” Peace be unto you and so may the mercy of Allah and his blessings. “How is your uncle, His Majesty, Sultan Qaboos bin Said?”
“I am concerned about the disturbance yesterday.” Prince Taimur’s accent was thick. He turned and walked to the window.
“I asked you a question.”
The prince spun back to her with angry eyes.
Pia crossed her arms.
“Ah, yes.” He wagged his index finger at her and closed the distance between them. “You have a reputation for being direct, but I was not prepared for impertinence. I am willing to overlook this—”
Pia pulled out her phone. “If you lecture me, I’ll cancel our contract and have my people return home tomorrow.”
The prince’s mouth dropped. “You can’t do that.”
“You hired my company to save your ass from an inevitable coup d’état led by your difficult cousin Haytham. No one can keep you safe like Sabel Security. You know it. I know it. So, don’t mess with me.”
The prince bowed to concede her point, though his gaze never left her. “His Majesty is in fine spirits and good health; praise be to Allah.”
“Why are you here?”
He opened his mouth, then backed up a step and glanced at Tania. “Why
does she stand so far from us?”
Pia said nothing.
Prince Taimur paced back to the window. “I’ve been told you have not yet donated my thirty million to the chosen campaigns. It was a source of embarrassment in recent conversations.”
Pia nodded at Tania. “She stands over there to make it more difficult for you to pull a gun and shoot us both.”
“Ah.” He smiled. “But I could get one of you.”
Pia shrugged. “You gave Koven thirty million? He gave me twenty.” She frowned. “No wonder he can afford all these castles and bodyguards. Anyway, I wired it back and he refused it. If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve brought it to you in cash.”
“Why?” The prince’s eyes opened wide. “That was the deal. That’s why we awarded the contract to Sabel Security.”
“No one has yet told me where the money came from or what it’s for.”
“To fund campaigns for three representatives and two senators.” He shrugged as if it were old news. “They were pre-selected and have already agreed to help.”
“Help what?” Pia motioned to a chair.
“I’m not at liberty to say.” He flourished his robe and took a seat.
She sat in a chair across from him. “Do you work with Samira Suliman or Lars Müller?”
“I’ve met them.” He shook his head. “We worked on the same politicians through DHK, but we have different interests.” He paused and looked away. “Very different.”
A muffled sound, like shuffling feet came from outside.
“Who knows you’re here now?” Pia asked.
“My staff,” he shrugged. “And DHK.”
Pia stood and gestured for him to follow. “How did you get here? Did you take the hotel’s Rolls service?”
Tania drew her Glock and tiptoed to the door. She waited for Pia’s signal with one hand on the knob.
“I have my bird on the roof,” he said. “Why are you acting so strangely?”
“Because someone has been dispatched to kill you.”
Pia waved off the butler, pointing him back to the kitchen. She drew her pistol, aimed at the door, gave Tania a nod.
