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He flung himself back against the seat. “You know, an eye for an eye eventually leaves the whole world blind. It’s stupid. Like your stunt tonight. We don’t bust into a place like some eighties Schwarzenegger movie. You think this won’t get back to them? Raise suspicions?”
He had her there. The League of Warrior Women wasn’t just smash and grab or brute strength. It was the velvet hammer—negotiations, forums, and charities that supported women. And the chain saw of assassination, deceit, and violence.
Sometimes things just get messy. “Sorry, Tone. Really.”
He made a sound of dismissal, stripped off his dark jacket and bulletproof vest. His tight muscle shirt showed off a navy-blue tattoo on his right arm. Half of the family motto: “One for all.”
The other half, “All for one,” was tattooed on his ribs, over his heart. Hey, let a bunch of kids choose the family motto and you were bound to get something plagiarized.
Justice swung up to the dark country road where Tony had parked. “Come on, let it go. We saved the lives of eleven people. Tomorrow they’ll wake up in a warm place, with good food, and no one will treat them like that space between their legs is all that matters.”
Tony’s eyebrows rose. He flashed wide, pearly teeth that looked like they belonged in an ad for braces. “Guess that’s why you have so many boyfriends, because you talk so sexy. Oh, Justice, tell me more about that space between your legs. What do you call it? The vortex of doom?”
Boyfriends? Like after what her father had done she’d ever trust any man outside of the League.
She leaned across him and opened the door. “Get out.”
He did. Still laughing.
Chapter 2
Dust and debris from the explosion laced the hot, oppressive Syrian air and clung to Sandesh almost as thickly as the village mud to his combat boots.
His eyes watered. His ears rang from the blast of the barrel bomb, but he held steady—or at least held his arms steady to protect the child. It didn’t help. She let out small, injured sounds as more of her skin sloughed off against his Special Forces uniform.
The barrel bomb had been filled with chemicals and had inflicted burns reminiscent of napalm. Her once-healthy skin was red and raw.
One of his Rangers pointed his rifle toward the sky. “Heads up, Sandman.”
Sandesh raised eyes toward the muffled—to his ears anyway—whir of an approaching Black Hawk. His foot caught in a muddy depression. His knee buckled.
The child in his arms cried out, her eyes springing open. He whispered soothing words. Hopeless. The small, delicate body stiffened. Her head tipped back.
His heart tightened in his chest, a fist of hard anger. The Syrian government had attacked its own citizens, injuring bodies, hoping to also injure minds. It would probably work. Violence usually did.
It was only a coincidence—at least he hoped it was—that he and his Rangers had been in the area. They weren’t technically supposed to be here. Their mission was outside of Syria, supporting the Free Syrian Army with training and weapons. But someone higher up had wanted a better take on Assad’s chemical profile, so they’d come into the country.
Guess they’d found out.
Behind him he could smell the chemical fire, even with the water someone had turned on to douse the victims. His stomach lurched. At least nineteen girls had been injured. Some shuffled forward like the walking dead, skin and clothes in tatters.
The helo landed. He got up carefully, but the child trembled. Fuck mission parameters. They needed to do something.
The girl in his arms stirred. “Please, Poppa.” She knew English? “Don’t be angry.”
He looked into her face, expecting to see confusion and delirium. Her dark eyes stared directly at him, into him. Her raw hand rose to his chest, touched his heart. “There is more.”
An awed gasp whooshed from her mouth. Her hand dropped. She stilled.
Sandesh had seen people die, seen how the body suddenly looked less real, less full. But this was different. It was as if he could feel the soul sink from the body, feel the tendrils of spirit wrap around his heart and whisper, “Poppa. Don’t be angry. There is more.”
Sandesh woke up sweating and hacking. He grabbed blindly for the lifeline. The phone that had woken him. He clicked Accept and brought the cell to his ear. “Yeah?”
“Sandesh Julian Ross, head of the IPT?”
“That’s me.” This guy sounded like he’d had too much tequila last night. And every night of his life. What time was it? He checked the clock on his nightstand. Five a.m.? “Who’s calling?”
“My name is Leland Day. I work for Parish Industries, specifically Mukta Parish. We’ve been told your charity, the IPT, works along the Jordan–Syrian border.”
Sandesh blinked the sleep and fog from his eyes and mind. “No. I mean… Sort of.” He’d given the speech so often to media and at luncheons the words came by rote. “The International Peace Team aligns with organizations around the world. But yes, we’ve aligned with Salma’s Gems in the Middle East.”
“Yes. I read about you online. HuffPost called you a complex combination of righteous anger, surfer-boy looks, and gritty naïveté.”
Sandesh cringed. That didn’t sound anywhere near a compliment. And sure wouldn’t help him secure the funding he so desperately needed.
He sat up, flicked on the light in his bedroom. The essentials only—bed, nightstand, and lamp—snapped into focus. “Why are you calling?” To harass me about my pretty-boy media image?
“I’m calling to set up an appointment between you and Mukta Parish. She’s starting an initiative to expand global philanthropy. You’ve no doubt heard of Parish Industries and the Mantua Academy for Girls?”
Of course he had. Mukta Parish, hell the entire Parish clan was mega-wealth. A global powerhouse, they also ran an exclusive boarding school for wealthy families. The elite campus was home to Mukta Parish’s It’s a Small World clan. She’d adopted girls from all over the world. “This isn’t camp. We’re run and staffed by former soldiers for a reason.”
Leland cleared his throat. “I understand. But we’d mostly be a financial support system. Completely at your disposal.”
Sandesh swung his legs out of bed. Guy had just offered him exactly what the IPT wanted, needed: funding, a tie to a big name, and complete autonomy. It sounded too good to be true. “What exactly would I have to do to warrant this kind of support?”
“We’d like to discuss that. Are you available to come to our Center City office?”
“Sure. When?”
“Is this morning at seven doable?”
Sandesh was already up and moving toward his shower. “Make it eight.”
Chapter 3
Bucks County, Pennsylvania
Deep inside the stone-and-spire main building of the 160-acre campus of the Mantua Academy for Girls, Justice’s determined footsteps resounded across gleaming marble floors.
She knew the thing that sucked most about a family business. The family part.
She reached her sister’s office…door? Great. Bridget had followed through on her promise to have the door removed.
She rapped on the wood framing the empty doorway. Inside, Bridget sat cross-legged on her mesh, Ergohuman office chair, eyes closed. Her frizzy, dark hair stabbed with a silver comb drooped lopsidedly, like a hairy modern art sculpture.
Justice smiled. This was so perfectly Bridget it almost deserved its own word, like freaktacular or weirdiful.
Justice knocked again. “Bridge?”
Bridget’s eyes fluttered open and locked on her. Justice instantly felt seen. As in seen below the skin—all her small, broken secrets, fear of suffocating, and her dislike of the color blue. She fidgeted.
Shiva, uhm, Bridget quirked an eyebrow. “What can I do for you, Justice?”
“I need
to talk to you about the yoga class. Is it true you have the girls chanting in Sanskrit?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure of your question. I submitted the yoga for approval through the director’s office.”
Justice walked into the office and plopped into a chair. She took off her right flat and rubbed her sweaty toes on the shag throw rug. “You got approval for yoga, She-pak Chopra. Not to have the girls chanting in Sanskrit. This isn’t good PR. And that’s bad for me. Means I have to do work.”
Bridget rested her hands on the desk. “I will limit my teaching to poses and centering music.”
Justice smiled. “Dammit, Bridge, you’re so easy. Why can’t I have more sisters like you?”
