“That’s when I realized that part of me, the boy who’d tried to save the life of a dying bird, who thought that being a hero didn’t mean crossing lines, needed…” He paused for a moment. He released a breath and maybe some anger. “Does it make sense to you if I said he needed air?”
Oh. Man. Yeah. It made perfect sense. Her childhood self, the one that had stood by helplessly, needed air too. “Yeah. It makes sense. But that’s exactly what my anger needed, what Hope was denied: air. It was choking me.”
“And that’s your choice. I’m not judging. But I’m done with that chapter. I’m done walking through each day with my hands balled in fists. I’m done questioning when the violence I did helped, when it hurt, when it made a difference, when it fucked things up, fucked me up, saved people, or let people down. I’m done with that.” He paused. “Or I thought I was.”
He didn’t say it accusingly, didn’t even glance her way, but Justice felt remorse like a hot brand against her chest.
She wanted to tell him that she’d do everything to make it right and get him back to where he should be. But she thought the promise would sound hollow. And that wasn’t how it felt to her. “I’m so sorry, Sandesh.”
He looked over at her. Something in him seemed to soften. “Do you feel better now? Less angry?”
If he had said it with an ounce of sarcasm, she wouldn’t have answered, but he hadn’t. He was sincerely interested. Which made her think about the question.
A cold chill worked its way up her back. “No.” She placed her head against the window. “But I’ve never been this tired before.”
Her body gave out in a rush. She was so damn tired, but she heard Sandesh whisper as sleep overcame her, “It’s the adrenaline backfire. Murder does that.”
Chapter 30
The abandoned village in Syria was more ruins than town. Crumbling structures of stone so deteriorated they seemed to be dissolving into sand.
The truck rocked and jolted as Sandesh maneuvered it inside the remains of a bombed-out building that had only three sides. He parked with the truck’s grill pointed out the open back, making it easier to start up and get going.
The building provided some cover but did nothing for the cold. Downright chilly. After they’d arrived and prepared the area, Sandesh had announced he’d keep watch. So Justice had curled up in the back of the truck to try and get some sleep.
But it was too damn cold to sleep. She sat up in the back seat. Pain tapped and jerked muscles in her side. She’d thought it hurt last night. Turned out that was just the opening act. She climbed out of the truck cab. Stretched. Ouch.
Stationed in a high stone window in the front wall, Sandesh scanned the darkness with night vision goggles.
This was the big test. If Walid’s thugs showed up, it could only be because they’d followed her GPS.
She and Sandesh would fight as hard as they could against any danger that showed up, but nothing could stop the pain of knowing one of her beloved siblings had betrayed her. And wanted her dead.
She moved around the front of the truck and over to Sandesh. Stiffness locked his shoulders at her approach. She hadn’t been going for stealth, but she was still impressed with his awareness.
He turned to her. She handed him up a water bottle. “I can watch if you want to get some rest.”
He drank, wiped his chin with the back of his hand, handed the bottle back. “I’ll sleep when we’re in Israel.”
She took the bottle without challenging his statement. She could feel the storm of determination he built with every passing hour. He wanted what she wanted. To end this here. Tonight.
Walking away, she checked the bandage on her wrist where Sandesh had taken out the tracker. No matter what happened tonight, these men wouldn’t be able to follow her farther than this village. Sandesh had some skill. Her wrist didn’t hurt near as bad as her damn side. Not shot? Really?
They’d left the tracker in a building across from them. Though she doubted they’d be able to pinpoint exactly which building—or maybe they could; the cell service here was surprisingly good, and that building was the logical place for people to hide. It was the most intact.
“Justice?”
She felt his voice in her body, a hook that seemed to latch on to her, pull her toward him. She looked over her shoulder.
“Can I ask you to take that off?”
Her eyes must’ve widened, because he smiled. She didn’t even have the heart to flirt. She tugged at the abaya. She’d forgotten she’d had it on. “I don’t have anything else to wear.”
He shifted against the window, and small rocks tumbled down. He lifted himself onto the balls of his feet, rifle across his lap, reached down, and brushed stones from under his fine ass. “Check the side pocket of the weapons bag. There are clothes. And a bulletproof vest.”
She shook her head. “You wear the vest.”
“No. You’ll be the one out in the open. Put it on.”
She didn’t bother to argue. His tone said it would be useless. She hated that tone.
She wobbled back across the rocks and demolished concrete. Her ankles twisted in her rubber-soled shoes, and she righted herself with a quick step.
Back at the truck, she opened the door—they’d disabled the light inside, so it stayed dark. She lifted off the abaya and pushed it into the back seat. She groped around and pulled out the weapons bag with a jerk. Her stitched side yelped in protest. She sucked in a breath.
Sandesh’s head whipped toward her. Without even seeing him, she could tell he watched her scantily clad ass through his night vision goggles. When she’d hauled the bag into the back of the truck, she heard him turn back to his job.
She took out and put on a too-big shirt and rolled the sleeves up as tight as fists. Over the top of that, she added the bulletproof vest, then slipped on the much-too-big pants. She rolled the pants at the ankles and then folded them twice over at the waist. She took the KA-BAR combat knife from the bag. Whoever had packed the bag had thought ahead. She cut a series of holes underneath the rolled-up waist.
When she was done—grateful she hadn’t stabbed herself by the yellow moonlight—she used the knife to tear a strip off her head scarf, then threaded the strip through the holes she’d created.
She tied the strip tightly, making the pants snug enough that she’d be able to run without them falling off. Then she made sure her beggars-can’t-be-choosers Glock 20—hello, future carpal tunnel—had a full clip.
She heard the movement on the road a split-second before Sandesh’s warning. “They’re coming.”
She’d expected it. Of course, she’d expected it. So why did it hurt so badly? Why did it feel like one of her siblings had just stabbed her in the back?
Lights from the approaching vehicle bounced between the gaps of stone. She ducked around the truck. Sandesh slid from the window. He held up two fingers. Two cars.
She crept forward and crouched beside him. They watched the scene through broken gaps in the wall.
The cars slid to a stop, one behind the other. The first blocking the second from their sight line. That made things difficult.
The four men in the first car exited and went toward the building. The men in the second—impossible to tell how many—stayed put. Cautious fuckers.
Justice leaned toward Sandesh. He smelled like action, as if the molecules under his skin had bounced off each other, flung outward, and coated the air in an excited combination of sweat and intent.
She flicked her head to the side. He nodded.
Taking a breath, she slipped away, past the truck, out and around the building. Outside, she crouched, kept to the path she’d cleared earlier. She stopped by a mountain of debris that dammed the entire street. The barricade had been erected at some point in this country’s sad history.
She gave Walid’s men time to get deep into t
he building. Controlling her breath, she took out Sandesh’s cell and punched the number. They’d rigged her burner phone to the explosives they’d found.
That was the good thing about being in a war zone: abandoned ordinance. This place had a small stockpile.
Something was wrong. She held her breath, put in the number again. Come on. Nothing. Okay. Stay calm. Backup plan.
As she ducked down, her heart refused calm like a bull refusing a rider. She sprinted forward and wove down the barrier of blasted cement and stone.
Her feet teetered over rocks and debris. She kept her balance only because she’d practiced the route. Once across the street, she paused. Sweat rolled into her eyes.
The second car was diagonal to her position. They had their front windows down. One of the men inside the car used what was probably night vision to scan the remains of the building Sandesh hid inside.
Two of the men who’d gotten out of the first car watched the rigged building. How many had gone inside?
Shit. Not enough.
Snake-on-a-hot-road fast, she scurried to the wired building. Swiping the sweat from her eyes, she crouched so her back—and this so didn’t feel right—was to the men in the cars. Fingers shaking, she pulled out the lighter Sandesh had given her. Her heart squawked and clucked like a chicken sensing a fox.
She jammed her hand into the fire hole she’d made. It was deep, but she still covered the area with her hand and her body.
Her hand shook as the small, orange light met the sharp point of the fuse. The fuse hissed and spit.
Rolling away, she looked around the side of the building. She heard the men talking, heard them say something about checking the side of the building. One of them came toward her position.
She broke cover, firing, because it was a short fuse, and things were going to explode.
Her eyes tracked poorly in the dark, but she kept firing until she made the relative safety of the barrier. She skidded down behind it, then loped forward like a spastic hairy Muppet. Hotfooting it over the rocks, her ankles screaming with each unexpected loss of balance.
Gunshots hit the top of the debris barrier. It erupted in tiny explosions of sand, grit, and powdered stone. Bits of stone pelted her.
From his place, she heard Sandesh return fire. The gunfire above her ceased, but she heard a car start up. Rev.
Fuck.
Blow up, already!
The explosives detonated.
A plume of smoke and dust and an ominous moan, like from an ancient warrior who’d taken one too many arrows. She hit the ground. A wave of heat pounced over the barrier, bringing a hot spray of gravel that clawed at any exposed skin.
Dust and grit steamrolled the air, embedded into every pore, coated her lashes, rushed into her throat, and clung to her esophagus. She coughed and hacked and crawled forward. Blind. Blinking. Eyes tearing. Her ears rang. Her head spun.
Smoke and gray dust meshed with the air, keeping her from seeing the headlights until they crashed over the barrier and nearly on top of her.
Gravel and debris landsliding down. She pinched her eyes shut, then cracked one eye open enough to see the wheels of the car spinning. The car rocked at the top of the barrier, vacillating like a seesaw, front wheels beating against air. Two blurry shapes flung themselves out.
She pointed her gun. Shooting with one squinty eye. She heard bullets hitting metal. She fired again as she ran.
Chapter 31
Crouched by the small sniper hole, Sandesh fired at one of the two men who’d flung themselves from the car. He hit him in the gut. The guy tumbled down the barrier. The other guy dove back behind the car.
Damn. His sight line was blocked. He kept up cover fire, shooting at the car to keep the man down.
A spray of bullets hit near his hole, and he flung himself backward.
Justice tore from around the building, motioned to him, and climbed into the truck cab. He put the tip of his rifle through the cement wall and fired to disguise the truck starting.
He ran, threw himself into the driver’s side of the truck, hit the gas, and sped forward while breaking the bad news. “Five. Likely six left.”
She shook her head. “No fucking way. I killed more than that.”
She wasn’t lacking in the self-confidence department.
The moment the front of the truck came around the building, they took fire. Bullets ricocheted and dinged into the steel hull. He jammed the gas.
“Left, hard left,” Justice shouted.
He spun the wheel. She turned, aimed, shot. Boom, boom, boom. “Got one.”
Got who? A shot like that, in motion, no way. He floored it down the street, dodged a chunk of concrete. The second car came out of nowhere.
Sandesh banked. Justice had her arm hooked around the headrest as she took out the pin on a grenade, leaned out, and tossed it wild-thing style.
Ba-boom. He gripped the wheel. The truck jerked forward. Through his rearview, he spotted the car lit by orange flames.
He looked over at her. “You hit them.”
She leaned back against the seat, black eyes slick with velvet confidence. “They weren’t that far away.”
Chapter 32
Seated at the desk within his Mexican compound, Walid clicked off his phone. The ache in his lower back—which had started at the hotel when he’d been flung down to avoid the assassin—screamed. And outside, the rain came down in buckets. Thunder cracked against the sky. Lightning painted the mountains with white streaks.
Walid needed a voice like thunder, needed to shake the world from its axis.
Whoever was behind his brother’s murder had sent a woman.
A woman.
It would not stand. For this woman’s actions, many other women would suffer. He would dedicate his life to putting them in their place. To overturning the imbalance. The awful imbalance where a great man, with vision and courage and beauty, could be destroyed by a creature that history knew aligned with snakes.
He slammed his fist on his desk again and again and again. Pens shifted. The computer password screen flashed on. His phone bounced along the blotter. His back barked with pain.
He welcomed the pain. The anger. He needed his rage to distract him. He would grieve later. After everyone responsible, especially the one most responsible for his brother’s death, were brought to him.
A knock sounded against his door.
Walid adjusted himself in his seat. “Enter.”
Dusty, former FBI and his current right-hand man, walked into the office. Typically American, he wore a baseball cap emblazoned with USA. He was a big, broad-shouldered man with a confident stride and an almost brutally handsome face under a field of wavy brown hair.
Despite his casual smile and the lilt of his Southern accent, Dusty was a complete professional, a man who inspired loyalty from his men. A skill Walid had treasured along with his many other skills.
Dusty nodded as he came forward. “These new guys you’ve brought in are a real pain in the ass.”
Walid’s eyes swept over Dusty and the two “pain in the ass” men who had searched Dusty and followed him inside. Aamir’s men, the very ones who’d saved Walid. Men so devoted to his brother that their loyalty had passed to Walid like an inheritance.
So the American thought of the addition of the men as an insult. Good.
It had been Dusty’s men, the ones he’d hired, who’d allowed the assassin to enter Aamir’s suite. If he had the energy, he’d explain to Dusty how lucky he was to be alive.
“What word do you have of my brother’s killer?”
“The supplier in Jordan has tracked the stolen product back to a charity at a refugee camp. The same one that sewed up our assassin. It’s run by a Jordanian woman, a doctor. She has ties to an American charity run by a soldier, former Special Forces.”
This pierced the rage-armor, but only for a moment.
“Name?”
“Sandesh Ross.”
Walid leaned forward. His back complained. “Are you saying this man, this Special Forces soldier, uses a charity to funnel women? Could he be the one who sent the original warning to us, who told us to come to Jordan?”
Had they walked into a trap?
Dusty tipped back his baseball hat. “We don’t know that. We don’t know what the woman, Salma, knows. She’s shut down operations. And he’s disappeared.”
“She knows something, if these women have scattered like roaches. She could tell you who has taken my brother’s”—he almost choked on the word—“wife.”
“Probably.” Dusty cursed. “We’ll find out. Just give us some time on that.”
Walid’s head snapped up. He could barely contain his rage. But he kept his voice very soft. “We do not know where the stolen women went. We do not know who sent us the warning. We do not know what role this Special Forces man played. We do not know who the leak is among your men. Enough. I need answers.”
Dusty rolled his shoulders. His expression said he was fighting hard to stay in control. “It has to be someone outside of camp personnel. Someone not directly tied to us. There is no other explanation.”
Walid considered, seriously considered, killing Dusty. But. No. He still needed the man. Dusty was the one who had the loyalty of the men here. And until Walid could focus his attention away from his brother’s killer, he needed Dusty.
“I think it’s time we assign this task to another.” He motioned to Aamir’s man. The man nodded. And Walid felt mollified by the instant agreement and by the way Dusty took obvious affront. To drive home the point of his demotion, Walid directed Dusty, “Take the guard down to the cellar. The one who let the assassin into Aamir’s room. I want to see what he remembers.”
Chapter 33
Justice sat on the edge of the lumpy bed, crossing and uncrossing her legs as she kept the recently acquired burner cell pressed to her ear. The headache-inducing scent of overly bleached sheets didn’t help her nerves. She couldn’t even pace inside the claustrophobic Israeli hotel room.
I Am Justice Page 10
