To them, she must’ve looked like a refugee—tired, hungry, and dirty. The hotel man moved toward her. She loosed her bladder. The urine soaked her feet and the cement of the loading dock. The driver’s face pinched in disgust. The hotel man jumped back and began to yell at her in Arabic.
He didn’t dare come at her, for fear of the urine. She jumped down from the dock and ran down the alley, holding her clothes in place against her stomach as if she were pregnant. He yelled curses after her.
Chapter 20
A dust-coated military truck, men with rifles hanging from its slat sides and a group of veiled women huddled inside, rumbled into the burned-out village.
The crumbling walls of abandoned buildings and large piles of debris dotted the landscape as the sun bowed against the blue-black edges of night and relented control of the sky. Sandesh and Salma had been here over fifteen hours. He’d mapped every inch of this place.
The truck pulled to a stop. The driver, a man in his twenties, jumped out and approached. His fellow freedom fighters kept their rifles pointed at the horizon.
Every hair on Sandesh’s neck stood on end. He kept his weapon pointed down. These were the good guys. Back when the war here had started and the resistance was made up of moderate rebels—the secular Free Syrian Army trying to overthrow the brutal dictator Bashar al-Assad—he and his team had armed and taught men like these. Men who’d defected from Assad’s own army, disgusted by his treatment of the Syrian people.
That was before the FSA had splintered and those with more radical views had decided Assad going wasn’t enough. They wanted a strict Islamic state. That gave ISIS the opening they needed. They joined with the rebels who were of like mind. Now the FSA, which served as an umbrella name for many moderate groups, fought ISIS and Assad. And too often Assad sat back and watched his enemies destroy each other.
Of course, Assad helped in their destruction. He bombed any hospitals and schools that the FSA or ISIS relied upon. He made no distinction between the two. And maybe the world had forgotten too.
Salma spoke with the man from the truck for a brief moment. They broke off. And then the man turned to the others in the truck and began issuing orders. The truck tailgate was dropped as men jumped off and began helping women out.
Salma turned to Sandesh, “We have to hurry. The traffickers pursue them.”
Sandesh went into action. He began to lead the women from the large military truck into the pickup.
He did a double take on seeing a pregnant woman. Salma saw his reaction and put a hand on his forearm. “No honor among thieves. This Yazidi girl was a favorite of an ISIS commander. His wife, a facilitator on this transaction, was jealous of her.”
Sandesh’s stomach soured.
He gently guided the pregnant woman to the passenger side of the truck’s cab. The moment he opened the door, there were a series of clangs. Bullets hitting steel.
They were under attack.
Sandesh rushed the pregnant woman into the front seat. She was bleeding. Salma climbed in after her. He slammed the door closed.
The other women ran past him and began to climb into the truck as the soldiers provided cover fire.
He pulled his gun from his holster and moved toward the back of the truck to reinforce the other men.
“Go. Go!” one of the Kurdish soldiers yelled.
He jolted, looked into the truck filled with women. What the hell had he been doing? He told the seated women to hold on and pushed closed the heavy steel tailgate. He jogged to the driver’s side, jumped into the cab, hit the gas, and took off.
Chapter 21
Justice arrived on the fourteenth floor shortly after Walid and Aamir’s scheduled dinner. She wore the crisp white shirt, black vest, white gloves, and sleek tie of a maid as she walked down the hallway lined with exclusive suites.
Even if she hadn’t had the room number, she’d have known the room. Two bodyguards stood outside the door.
Her heart sped up. She took in and let out a slow, controlled breath. She tried to appear harmless—just maid service here to shut the curtains and turn down the beds.
She plastered a smile on her face, grateful for the prosthetics that made her nose and chin larger. That, the change of eye color—she’d gone with Egyptian gold—and the addition of braces and wig made a decent disguise.
One of the guards waved her to stop. She noticed the bulk under his jacket. Both guards were armed. In Spanish-accented English, one asked her what she wanted.
She pointed to her mouth. She opened her mouth and showed them her braces and her damaged tongue. The men cringed.
As well they should; that bit of F/X hurt like hell. The steel wires holding down her tongue pinched her gums at the metal bracers attached to her teeth. Still, it didn’t hurt as badly as her Arabic. And even if she’d known they understood English, she wouldn’t have wanted to be remembered as someone who spoke English.
One of the guards commented to the other that it was “disgusting.”
The other guard nodded as he patted her down, thoroughly. In some countries, probably this one, that pat down would have been enough to consider them married.
He waved toward the door. “Go.”
Stepping forward, she used the key card Momma had provided.
One of the guards, touchy-feely, walked in behind her. Expected.
He called to the interior guard, and they exchanged information. The inside guard had a Russian accent. Okay. Did anyone in this country still speak Arabic? The hall guard exited.
The thin, angular interior guard watched her move across the central room, the living area. It was opulent, even by Parish standards. With thick velvet drapes that extended floor to ceiling, a large chandelier, velvet couches, a dining table, and a full bar.
She closed the drapes, found the engraved silver lighter behind the bar, and lit the candles along the dining table, then moved into the bedroom.
The guard didn’t follow her but told her to leave the door open. She did.
The guard’s interest flitted from her to the other bedroom and back to her. She turned down the bed, then, spotting a pair of brown shoes on the floor, she shook her head as if lamenting men and their barbarous ways. She walked the shoes into the closet.
Once inside, she reached under the wig and pulled out the slim packet that contained the poison. She handled the pod with care, though she knew it would take more than just squeezing it to open. It required something sharper.
She left the closet and slipped into the bathroom. Fiddling with her braces, she removed the metal wire. Her hands, covered with the traditional white gloves with rubber gloves underneath, began to shake.
Instinctively, she held her breath, though the poison needed to be ingested. She squeezed a small drop on the only toothbrush present. It seeped quickly into the bristles.
Now came the hard part. She palmed the wire and the packet and moved to the bedside table, careful to keep her back to the man. She finished turning down the bed.
One more.
She walked into the living area. The Russian guard now sat at the bar. He turned to her as she crossed to the other bedroom. “Be quick in there,” he said. She nodded.
It wasn’t until she was in the room that she realized why the guard wanted her to be quick.
The shower was on. It went off while she stood there. Justice’s heart lurched forward and began to pound. The bathroom door opened. Steam wafted out along with Aamir followed by a girl with long, damp, blond hair.
Hope?
No. Not Hope. Hope was dead. And the man who had killed her, who had raped and murdered her, stood here now. Naked.
And the girl. She couldn’t have been more than twelve. She was naked too. She shook, kept her eyes down. Aamir smiled when he saw Justice, smiled as if shame and evil didn’t really exist. He strutted past Justice and told the gi
rl, who hesitated at the bathroom doorway, to get into the bed. The girl made a small, despairing sound, then obeyed.
Aamir didn’t cover himself. Justice didn’t move. He raised one eyebrow. He passed close enough that she could see the water droplets on his eyebrows.
In Arabic, with his creepy British accent, he said, “It’s okay. We’re married.”
Mother. Fucker.
She grimaced. All teeth and temper.
Chapter 22
The glimmering restaurant was dull to Walid. The expensive meal, oysters heavy with cream and exotic truffles, tasted empty, like regret in his mouth. He was not proud of himself, not proud of his anger or of taking Aamir’s best men out of spite.
Although spite wasn’t the right word—more a need to validate, prove that, despite his dismissal, Aamir still cared for him.
It was Aamir’s rejection that stung.
He’d watched Aamir, watched the way he’d folded the girl’s hair over his hand, as if it were spun gold. And then noticed the distinctly annoyed tension at the corner of his brother’s eyes when Walid had asked him why he was not yet ready for dinner. “I am on my honeymoon, Walid. Surely, you have some appreciation for that?”
Walid had had to stop himself from stamping his feet like a child. “We have such a short time together. There is much to discuss.”
“We spent the day discussing things. We have seen to the shipment, met with the smugglers, and secured the routes.”
“I had hoped to discuss the threat to us.”
Amir smiled. “So your FBI man has come up with new information?”
Walid felt the sharp sting of retribution. “No. He is working on it. But he has yet to uncover any leak in my organization.”
“Then what is there to discuss? As you know, my men are closing in on the informant’s digital trail and will have more in a day or so. There is nothing we can do until then.”
Furious, Walid had slammed his hand against the doorway of his brother’s room and stormed out. He picked up his wallet and motioned to his men—two Colombians as out of place in Jordan as giraffes on ice skates.
Aamir had followed, his eyes shrewdly evaluating Walid’s guards. He’d already told Walid they were not well trained and would need to be replaced. So it shouldn’t have come as a surprise, or a relief, when Aamir, as was his way, took control.
“No.” He’d pointed to each of Walid’s two guards. “You and you stay with me.” He waved at two of his own loyal guards. “You two go with him.”
Angry about being made second to a whore, Walid had refused to acknowledge his brother’s kindness. He let the guards trail him.
As he’d passed out of the hotel suite doors, he’d heard Aamir tell his men, “Protect my brother as you would protect me. For if his heart were to stop beating, mine would as well.”
How was it that Aamir could make him feel so unworthy of his love? And so childish?
Perhaps because he had been childish. Perhaps that’s why Aamir’s guards, seated at a different table, huddled together. Were they discussing him?
Walid sipped his white wine. Aamir was a man with very specific tastes and desires. He accepted it. Thought he’d accepted it. The way Aamir accepted Walid’s own rough needs.
Enough. He would eat this. He would not let guilt ruin his night.
One of Aamir’s guards, they were practically the same man—big and disappointed-looking with hooded eyes—came over to the table. “We have news.”
Walid tossed his pronged fork onto the plate. He couldn’t eat anyway. “Go on.”
“The men we sent after the digital warning located the source. A man. Late forties. Early fifties.”
Walid sat up. “Contact my brother.”
“We’ve already tried. No answer.” Aamir too involved with his child bride. But this was good news. Worth going back upstairs to discuss with his brother. “Have they found anything out from him?”
“He wasn’t in the apartment. They found a computer there. It was tracking a GPS signal. We believe the signal is the assassin.”
The assassin? “Why would you think that?”
“Because the signal is in Jordan. Here. At this hotel.”
Walid stood. “Contact my guards immediately.” He lurched forward and whisked through the tables, out of the hotel restaurant, and toward the elevators. His heart wailed like a siren in his chest.
Chapter 23
An angry buzzing—like an alarm waking you to a hangover—built in Justice’s head. It was thick with memories and pain and hatred.
“Care to join us?” Aamir grinned at Justice with his oh-so-slick smile, his can’t-be-stopped surety, his nothing-you-can-do-about-it cockiness seeping from the pores of his skin that mocked Hope’s life. Justice adjusted the sharp thread of metal.
Not for nothing, as Tony would say. She stepped forward. He spread his arms out. Another invitation? She had no idea. She slammed the sharp wire up and through Aamir’s ribs. It pierced him like a dart. He jerked taller, as if someone had just woken him the fuck up.
Not enough. She smashed the pod into his mouth. He spit it out. But that much concentrated poison caused an instant reaction. Foam spilled from his lips as he lurched backward and fell halfway between the bedroom and bathroom. His head thudded against the marble bathroom floor with a wet slap.
Justice carefully rolled off the gloves and shoved them into the sealed pocket inside her vest.
The girl screamed. In warning. Or fear. Either way, it served as warning.
Justice pivoted and snapped a roundhouse against the guard’s neck. He staggered right.
She stepped forward, fisted his shirt, and kneed him in the balls. He tucked tail, dropped to his knees. She bent and grabbed his sidearm. Silencer. Nice. His eyes widened, hands came up. She smashed the gun against his skull, hard enough to crack sanity. His eyes rolled back. His body gave out.
The girl screamed again.
Fuck.
Justice removed her prosthetic tongue with a jerk that made her teeth hurt. In Arabic, she instructed the girl to stop screaming.
No go.
The girl, all bony knees, elbows, and long, blond hair slick against a skeletal back ran screaming into the main living area. Justice followed.
The suite door opened. One of the two exterior guards came inside unhurriedly. Little girls screaming? Just another day at the office.
He didn’t draw his weapon until he came far enough into the room to see his boss’s body.
Too late. Justice shot him in the head. Crack. He dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut. She ran over and pretended to be helping him, using his big body as cover. The second guard entered with weapon drawn. His eyes locked on her.
She shot. Hit him in the leg. He caught himself on the doorframe, kept his gun raised. There was a crack and the thuck of a bullet hitting the dead guard’s back, and a split-second later, the phone in dead guard’s pocket began to play Ritchie Valens’s “La Bamba.”
How typically inappropriate.
Justice crouched lower, sighted, squeezed the trigger again.
The bullet drove into the last guard’s chest. In almost a lazy, casual way—like a B-movie actor—the guard slumped against the door and slid to the floor.
Justice ran into Walid’s room, then slowly approached the girl. Since Justice’s Arabic sucked, a simple explanation would work best. “Women are fighting back. I am here to rescue you. I need you to get dressed. Fast.”
The girl swallowed. Her blue eyes filled with tears. She spoke English. “I’m Amal. I’m the one who prayed for you to come.”
* * *
With her throat tight with panic, Justice grasped the girl’s sweaty hand. Amal shook so hard the tremors in her hand felt like a mini earthquake. She squeezed tightly. Together, they moved out of the room and down the hallway.
The kid was as determined as she was scared. That made two of them. But the girl’s quick responses as she’d gotten ready and listened to the plan had given Justice a little more surety. Innocence was something only unused children got to keep.
At the end of the corridor, two hotel security guards waited by the elevators. They had their weapons out, but they were already looking past Justice. Amal did and said exactly what she was supposed to. She cried out for help, waved behind her. “The men are all dead. All dead.”
She began to sob. One of the hotel guards hustled Justice and the little girl behind them. He told her to stay and that others would come soon.
The two guards began down the hall. Justice knelt before Amal, blocked her from view, met her eyes. Justice hunched closer to the girl, tried to appear weak, small, a nonthreat to the reinforcements. The elevator dinged. Her mouth went dry. Her heart prepped for takeoff.
The elevator doors opened. She angled her head to see the men from the corner of her eye.
Not reinforcements.
Walid came out followed by two guards. The men spotted hotel security advancing and began to follow them down the hall.
They didn’t even register Justice and the girl. Or they had in some part of their brain that told them they were harmless.
Amal began to tremble. Her head and body leaned toward the open elevator.
Walid stood feet from them. Justice could shoot him. She could. Her gun was hidden. He was so close. But she’d risk Amal.
He followed his men down the hallway. The elevator began to close.
“Go.” Amal pushed Justice toward the closing elevator. “The elevator.”
Walid looked then. His eyes fell on Amal. His eyebrows rose. A few feet ahead of where he’d stopped, his guards turned too.
Justice yanked Amal by the arm and darted into the elevator, half dragging her.
The guards dove forward, dragged Walid down, covered him. One of them swung his gun toward Justice and shot. The elevator doors slid shut.
I Am Justice Page 7
