“Man!” He eyed her with something she could almost call appreciation. “You’re fast. You could hold me off for a while with those lightning kicks. Unfortunately, because I’m bigger, I can do this.” Before she even knew how it happened, he had hauled her to her feet and had her against a near-by tree. There was no way she could escape his weight, and his steely grip on her elbows tightened painfully if she even attempted to move.
“No, no!” she shrieked, feeling the rage of losing and the powerlessness of not being able to do a thing about it. Blame it on being an only child, but Wara hated losing. “Get off of me!” she grunted, and flung her head backwards just where she imagined Alejo’s eye socket should be. She actually saw a few white stars as her skull connected with his face, but the satisfaction of hearing him swear under his breath was more than worth it.
But that was her last move. The hold on her elbows tightened even more, and Alejo pressed her farther into the tree, his cheek plastered against hers. “Ok, you win,” she pronounced, speaking carefully since her lips were only centimeters from the tree bark.
“You did really well, though.” The hiss of Alejo’s breath in her ear was quite annoying. “I’ll show you how to do this hold I’ve got your arms in. Someday, I hope you’ll be able to kick my rear in a fight…well, at least if I have the flu.”
Wara glared, hoping he could see her scowl from the side as he pulled away from her and released the death hold on her arms.
A sharp crack sounded in the clearing.
Wara’s gaze jerked upward as a flurry of dust and bark rained down on her head with the dull whap of an object slamming into the tree above her.
“Down!” Alejo growled into her ear. Her knees buckled as his weight slammed into her and they crashed to the ground. Her first thought was: It’s a bullet. Someone is shooting at us!
Alejo remained on top of her, and she flipped her head towards the source of the sound, more than a little frantic. Surreally, Alejo had whipped out a gun and was in position to shoot anything that came into sight from behind the trees. But instead of another bullet, a low voice cut through the clearing.
“Get away from her, or you’re a dead man. Next time I won’t miss.”
Wara’s mind fuzzed over, unbelieving.
This could not be happening.
Alejo’s forearm tensed around the gun as a lanky man in a denim jacket appeared, half-sheltered behind a golden oak tree. His eyes narrowed and he trained an unwavering shotgun exactly at Alejo’s head.
“Don’t shoot!” Wara screamed at the man holding the gun. “It’s ok!! Don’t shoot!” She elbowed Alejo roughly, face sizzling with chagrin.
“Get off!” she gasped. “I can’t breathe! He won’t shoot us…It’s just my dad.”
2
Illegal Haircuts
Esfahan, Iran 2017
NEELAM SAMADI HAD ONLY JUST STEPPED OUT onto the crowded street, reluctant to leave behind the tranquil haven of modernity that was Joe’s Coffee Shop, when she saw them on the corner, surrounded by bearded religious vigilantes. Muttering to herself, Neelam stretched out one arm to stop her brother from taking another step forward. The sweet coolness of the cantaloupe smoothie she had just imbibed in Joe’s soured in her stomach.
Not again. Not even the day before the wedding can we have any peace.
She snatched her hand away from against her brother’s chest where she had been restraining him and motioned for the two of them to draw back into the shaded stone entryway of the popular coffee shop. God forbid the vigilantes should see Neelam touching her own brother in public.
“Great. We leave them to go have a smoothie for a second, and look what happens.” Neelam let her eyes flit away from the scene on the street towards the voice of her brother. Mirza’s sapphire blue eyes flashed angrily under dark lashes, and tight black curls framed his light skin, now flushed the color of raw salmon. These were no ordinary vigilantes; the bearded guys across the street were Ansar-e Hezbollah, the most strict paramilitary group of them all.
Neelam groaned. “They were probably giggling and carrying on in the street. What do you expect?” She rolled her eyes and flicked her little brother on the shoulder. “You want to flirt, don’t be surprised at what happens.”
“They’re getting married tomorrow!” Mirza glared. One round bicep flexed as he constrained himself from stalking over there and punching one of the vigilantes’ faces in. “This is ridiculous!”
“Of course it is. You’re just annoyed because you’ve spent too much time overseas. No one else in Iran even notices.”
“Now that’s a lie,” Mirza ground out. “Shh. What are they saying?”
Neelam bent her slight body out into the street. Ava was standing a good meter away from Rostam, of course. Neelam’s friend stared off defiantly in the opposite direction, shapely arms crossed angrily across the burnt orange of the stylish long manteau coat she wore. The matching gauze headscarf was tied too loosely over her glossy black bangs, and Neelam noted with amusement that the black jeans Ava wore were obviously much too tight.
I know you were talking to this man!” the crimson-faced vigilante challenged her. “We all saw you! And besides, you have bad hijab.”
Well, this morning it had seemed funny; Ava and Neelam had both dressed a little outlandishly today, even joking that they hoped they wouldn’t get yet another “bad hijab” ticket from the dour, black-robed morality policewomen for not wearing appropriate Muslim dress. But after all, it was the day before Ava’s wedding. They had to be a little festive. Didn’t they?
But now the situation was beginning to not be so humorous. Ava must have been caught talking with Rostam on the street, and now one of the Muslim vigilantes was gesticulating wildly, livid, intent on making a surly Ava confess that she was in public with a man who was not her relative. Rostam stood cool and composed in an orange and white striped Abercrombie polo and dark jeans, raising one skeptical eyebrow at the whole scene. His disgusted face radiated that he had never seen that orange-coated, bad hijab young woman before in his life.
Neelam sighed and rolled her eyes again, wishing fervently that the four of them could just disappear in thin air and reappear in some place where they could casually stroll around the mall and discuss the coming wedding’s plans in a normal fashion.
“So send a policewoman over to talk with me about my dress,” Neelam heard Ava snap from across the busy street. “I shouldn’t even be talking with you. Who are you to talk to me about my clothing? Is this appropriate?”
The lead vigilante’s face burned, and he motioned to one of his younger counterparts, who took a few steps toward Rostam. “You insist you do not know this young man, so I assume you won’t mind if I hit him, will you? You know, his hair cut is not in the catalog. Look at all that gel! That is just plain un-Islamic!”
Rostam rolled his eyes towards the sky. The official government catalog of approved, un-Western hair styles.
Behind Neelam, Mirza muttered a very bad word.
Ava’s cool gaze flitted over to the bearded man with disdain. She didn’t even grace Rostam with a glance. “Of course I don’t care. You may do to him whatever you like. And then, please, kindly leave me alone.”
“Oh man, not today…” Mirza covered his mouth with one hand.
A quick glance at her cell told Neelam that it was now around noon. Ava and Rostam’s wedding would be beginning at seven. They needed to hurry and finish their errands, because Neelam could only imagine how long finicky Ava was going to need at the beauty salon before the ceremony.
Two of the other Ansar-e Hezbollah members had grabbed Rostam’s spindly arms and the youngest wound up one large bicep and sent his fist swinging towards poor Rostam’s face. The flat crack was nearly swallowed up in the cacophony of traffic buzzing by on the street, and the majority of the passersby strolled past, speaking into their cell phones without missing a beat.
Wincing, Neelam peered around the crumbling plaster of the coffee shop, waiting anx
iously for the fat vigilante to step back so she could see the damage. Rostam’s face was hidden as he coughed up blood into his palms.
Ava flicked an invisible speck off a manicured peach nail and stared down the street, feigning interest in which bus was approaching.
“Still don’t know him?” the leader bellowed. “Maybe you should take another look.”
“Now you want me to stare at some strange man? I told you, you can do whatever you want to him. I don’t know him.”
With a fierce growl, the burly vigilante launched himself at Rostam, punching him in the stomach, then again in the temple. The blow sent Rostam reeling, bright blood splattered across his pale chin. Neelam cringed, fingers cold against the coffee shop stone.
“Crap.” Mirza’s nose crinkled. Neelam knew they were both thinking the same thing: the wedding pictures. Ava and Rostam had paid a fortune to one of Iran’s premier wedding photographers to capture their wedding for posterity, and the money they had paid down was nonrefundable.
“We should stop this,” Neelam slapped her brother’s arm crossly. “What if he starts bleeding worse?”
Mirza waved off her concern. “He’ll be fine. Since the transplant, he’s been beat up before.”
“Oh. Great.” Neelam rolled her eyes. Sure, the genetic disease he had, Fanconi’s anemia, hadn’t caused as many problems since the bone marrow transplant. But it’s not like Rostam was a terribly healthy guy.
“They’re gone,” Mirza stated the obvious. The paramilitary guys had stalked on down the street and disappeared in search of their next victims. “Go with Ava.” He touched his sister’s shoulder with a gentleness his square jaw belied. “I’ll take care of Rostam.”
Somehow, Rostam had managed to escape from Ansar-e Hezbollah with no further damage than a cut lip, aching abdominals, and a sore eye that was shaping up to be a pretty purple by nightfall. He slumped against a lamppost when Mirza wrapped his arm around him and flagged a taxi to take them back to Mirza’s aunties’ house. Maybe after the application of a little antibiotic cream and a nice cup of tea they could continue this exciting day of shopping and last-minute wedding preparations.
As Mirza stuffed Rostam into the beat-up taxi, he thought that really he would much rather practice his guitar.
Yeah, he knew he was selfish.
Rostam was giving the driver directions, lower lip puffy and rimmed in blood but otherwise cheerful. The young taxi driver wearing a cheap Abercrombie knock-off t-shirt was definitely under thirty, like 70% of the Iranian population. He turned his vehicle down a major cross street, then nearly swerved as he caught a better glimpse of his passengers in the rear view mirror.
“No way.”
Mirza was staring woodenly out the window, and let his gaze shift over to the image of the gaping taxi driver.
“You’re Mirza Samadi.”
Mirza could have thought of a dozen smart-aleck answers to that, but he just smiled and threw the driver a small wave. A wave that said, “Yep, you got it. Watch the road.”
“I can’t believe it,” the guy grinned, hands trembling on the steering wheel. For a second, Mirza actually expected him to stop the car and ask for an autograph right there on one of the gum wrappers wadded in the empty passenger seat. “Moneta Z is my favorite band. But duh. I mean, it’s everyone’s favorite. I like you guys even more than Ashavan.”
Thank God, in that moment Rostam, mashed-in face and all, showed why he earned his salary as Moneta Z’s concert manager. “Well, I should say you’re right,” he beamed back at the driver. “The kind of music Ashavan made can never be repeated. But we think Mirza and Neelam have a good thing going.” And Rostam winked, morphing the taxi driver’s pimpled face into an even larger grin.
All of Iran knew about Mirza and his sister Neelam, the coolest brother and sister rock band ever: Moneta Z.
And yeah, rock and roll was still illegal in Iran. In 2017. The censors could approve you, giving you permission to sell and perform your music legally.
And tomorrow, hell could freeze over.
For now, Moneta Z had gone underground, but still their secret concerts were always packed with throngs of adoring young Iranians. Trying to ignore the driver’s continued gawk, Mirza turned one shoulder towards him and faced Rostam.
“You’ve got to admire Ava’s cool,” he observed. “She is something special. Didn’t even flinch. You could have sworn she didn’t even know you, really didn’t even care that the dude just about smashed your face in…”
“Yes, I get the point,” Rostam cut Mirza off dryly, arms crossed in front of his stomach. “She was quite cool,” Rostam sighed, lovesick thoughts of beautiful Ava shining wistfully in his eyes. “She did the right thing. At least now we can hopefully be at our own wedding tonight, instead of sitting in jail.”
A shiny goose egg was already rising out of Rostam’s copper eyebrow, making the future groom look quite pitiful indeed. Early that morning, Mirza and Rostam had made a pre-wedding trip to the hair salon, where Mirza had directed his hair dresser to spruce up the groom’s hair into something appropriate for a married man. The gel-spiked ‘do Rostam had worn all year in his bronze locks was great for a teenager or an agent to rock stars, but not necessarily for a wedding.
Now Rostam slouched back into the ripped taxi seat sporting an apparently illegal cut that framed his face with sleek, wispy tresses.
Mirza himself could really care less about hair. His was wild and curly, and he barely ran a comb through it. The crazy girls still screamed when he sang, but he would like to think it was because of his musical talent. He refused to think about it any other way.
The hair coming down around the ears and forehead is actually going to be a good thing by tomorrow, Mirza realized with a scowl. Might cover up some of the ugly bruises our friend is going to have.
“I really only have time for a quick cup of tea, you know,” Rostam said as they pulled up in front of the condominium that had been Mirza’s home forever. “Do you think your aunties will let me get away with only drinking one? Because, you know, that guy is going to be waiting for us at two. To pick up the wine.”
Oh yeah. Mirza had nearly forgotten about those little boxes of contraband that were waiting with some friend of Heydar’s. Ava loved Italian food, and whatever Ava wanted at the wedding, Ava got. And what was a good plate of Italian without a glass of red wine?
“I’ll help you pick it up,” Mirza offered, ignoring his gut sensation to leave this whole wedding mess and just show up tonight with the band. “We can take my car.”
The sappy smile Rostam turned on him, split lip and all, almost, just almost, made Mirza feel like a nice guy.
3
The Wild, Wild West
YEARS OF PRACTICE DIE HARD. EVEN concentrated on keeping a squirming Wara confined against the oak tree, Alejo immediately recognized the high whine of the bullet as it sailed past his ear and collided with the bark. Under the resulting explosion of sawdust, he pulled Wara to his chest and went down on a bed of pine needles, sheltering her as he extracted the Glock from his ankle holster.
They needed to at least get behind the tree. He prepared to haul Wara up and send off a round towards the shooter when he heard Wara scream. And saw a tall man in a denim jacket emerge with a shotgun from the trees.
“Don’t shoot!” Wara was screeching from under his chest. “It’s ok! Don’t shoot!” A sharp elbow connected with his ribs from below. “Get off! I can’t breathe. He won’t shoot us. It’s just my dad.”
Alejo felt his heart do a nosedive to his belly.
Are you kidding me?
He exhaled loudly and rolled off Wara with a heavy thud, lowering the Glock harmlessly to his side.
I’m dead. So dead.
Fiery splotches of red painted Alejo’s cheekbones. He sat warily, facing the tall guy who still had the shotgun aimed firmly in Alejo’s direction. Wara moaned and grunted, trying to climb to her feet in a tangle of skirt and dry needles. “”Dad! What in t
he world?”
Of course Wara recognized her own father. Now even Alejo remembered the voice; it had answered the phone a few times when he’d called Wara during the last few months.
Somehow the fact that the shooter in the middle of the woods was Wara’s father didn’t dissipate the prickly fear stabbing at Alejo’s gut.
I can’t believe this. Wara’s dad thinks I’m assaulting his daughter here on his property.
Fuming silently, Alejo let the Glock drop to the dirt and held up his hands to show that they were empty.
This is all your fault, Rupert!
Rupert, the founder of CI who had been teaching Alejo how to make things right in his life since the mess in Bolivia, had ordered him to learn to be the man Wara loved, to take the place of Noah, who had died in the bus bombing because of Alejo.
As if that was ever going to happen. And it wasn’t really Rupert’s fault.
This is my fault, too. What is my problem, challenging Wara to a fight two minutes after I show up unannounced? Couldn’t we have just sat here on the bench and talked?
Alejo was definitely not used to polite conversation in the presence of women.
I panicked.
He clenched his jaw, all these thoughts flashing through his mind in the space of the three seconds it took Wara to crawl to her feet.
How are you going to talk yourself out of this one? Your great idea to come here and meet Wara’s parents is off to a truly wonderful start.
“Oh my gosh, Dad!” From where he sat dejectedly on the ground, Alejo could see that Wara was facing her father, hands on her hips. “What in the world are you doing? You scared me to death! Can you please put that thing away?”
Mr. Cadogan’s eyes narrowed as he eyed Alejo once more; then, with a sigh, he lowered the gun—a little. He still kept it pointed in the general direction of the stranger he had found on his ranch, pinning his daughter against a tree. Alejo didn’t really blame him.
Ten minutes at the Cadogans’, and I’ve already given Wara’s father a good reason to take a shot at me.
Reverb (Story of CI #2) Page 2
