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Tony keeps his arm against the guard’s chest and says, “Walid, if you want what I have to give you, if you want your brother’s murderer, you will stay the fuck away from my sister.”
Walid licks his lips. Other than that, he stays utterly composed. A man who’s faced a thousand tense situations, a thousand desperate moments, and survived them all.
He waves his hand to indicate his guard should withdraw.
Anger flashes across the guard’s face as he steps back.
“You see,” Walid says, “nothing means as much to me as getting my hands on my brother’s true killer, Mukta Parish.”
56
JUSTICE
The heavy smell of shell casings coats the air as I’m marched through Walid’s compound surrounded by four armed men. Walid and Tony, like long-lost friends, lead this pack as we walk past the stables toward the house in the distance.
My hands are raised, my jaw so tight I can practically hear my molars grinding.
Tony.
Tony who knew what it was like to be used; Tony whom I love, who I begged Momma to adopt, has conspired with Walid against me, against our family, and against Sandesh—who wants nothing more than to help people.
It’s a good thing armed guards surround me. If not, I’d jump on Tony’s back and pound his face into the piles of horse dung saturating my nostrils. Then pounce on Walid.
Oblivious to my rage—or ignoring it—Tony walks side-by-side with Walid like a confidant. A brother.
We pass onto the porch of the main house, an expensive villa with a dry fountain and a thousand ruined lives paying for every spectacular piece of architecture, each handcrafted item of furniture, with enough luxury to satisfy a tycoon.
We go through a set of arches, down a redbrick-lined corridor, then into an expansive office, and all the while I’m plotting how to get loose and kill Walid.
The brightly lit room we enter has a Tuscan ranch feel with terra-cotta tile flooring, exposed beams, leather couches, and heavy, parchment-colored drapes.
One of the guards—he seems in charge—orders two of the others to go help someone named Dusty.
They turn and head out, and the other two stern-faced guards left accompany me, Tony, and Walid into the room.
Completely at ease, Walid sits on one of the two red-leather couches.
A little awkwardly, Tony sits beside him.
Sure, let’s all get comfy. Fuckers.
I stand, surveying the room, the layout and possible escape routes.
Walid’s two personal guards position themselves to keep me in line. The first one, the in-charge man, who has a thick forehead and matching neck, stands opposite of me, directly behind Walid and Tony on the couch.
The second man, sporting cold, steel-blue eyes, stands behind the other unoccupied couch with his gun raised in my direction. His eyes say he won’t hesitate to shoot, and he’s far enough back that he’d be able to shoot me long before I could make it to him.
Plan B? Create time to make a plan B.
“So, Tone,” I say. “You’re friends with human traffickers now?”
He cringes, looks away. “Not so much friends as enemies with a common interest.”
Something in my spine snaps to attention. My hands fist at my sides. My bones fuse into one giant club of anger. “Which is?”
Tony meets my eyes again and, this time, there is no regret. Only rage. “Stopping Mukta Parish so that she never warps another child’s mind. Never takes another kid from the streets and turns them into a killer, into someone who can never be good enough. Someone allowed only two emotions—anger or shame. Someone forced to hate his own gender.”
My heart lurches, splits, and breaks in half. Unbelievable, stunning vibrations of pain shoot through me. I double over.
