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We break into action. The leader issues orders to his soldiers, who jump off the sides, drop the truck tailgate, and start helping the women out.
I rush over and assist each woman into our pickup. I wish we’d had access to or time to get a covered van or truck. This isn’t a great way for them to travel.
Realizing this, Salma gives the women—I count eight of them—instructions to get in and keep low.
I do a double take on seeing a very pregnant woman waddling toward me. I grab her hand and gently guide her toward the truck’s cab. The moment I open the door, a series of pops and clangs strike the door. The pregnant woman cries out. I shift next to her, shielding her.
Gunfire erupts as the FSA begins returning fire. Lifting the pregnant woman into the cab, I feel wet warmth on my hand. Her blood saturates my palm. My throat grows tight. “Salma, she’s injured!”
Moving at a pace I didn’t know she could muster, Salma darts over and slides into the backseat next to the woman.
Everything starts happening fast and not fast enough.
I close the tailgate on our truck, warn the women to stay down, then bring my weapon about to reinforce the soldiers.
“Yadhhabi! Go!” the leader yells at me in both Arabic and English.
His direction shocks me from what I was doing. Almost on autopilot, I’d begun to engage the enemy. That’s not my job here.
Sprinting to the driver’s side, I jump into the cab and peel out, heading for the escape route I’d mapped earlier.
16
JUSTICE
In the sixteen hours since Sandesh rightfully ditched me at the bar, I’ve been keeping busy. Mostly by worrying. Going to the Brothers Grim’s room without backup has me missing my team more than ever.
If I had access to Gracie’s cyber skills, I could’ve had her tap into the hotel cameras and watched the brothers’ movements. If Tony were here, he could’ve watched the restaurant. The best I could do was call the restaurant and confirm dinner for two. This is all so damn risky, but worth it for the payout.It’s almost done, Hope.
The stiff smell of starch from my crisp white uniform blouse overpowers even the flowers I carry between my white-gloved hands. The fact that Walid ordered flowers for his turn-down service somehow comforts my nerves. I hold the bouquet of Jordanian black irises—which I’m pretty sure are dyed, considering the rarity of them—like a shield.
Though this floor has a limited number of exclusive suites, even if I hadn’t had the room number, I could’ve identified it by the two brooding bodyguards stationed outside. I keep a smile plastered to my face, grateful for the prosthetics that make my nose and chin larger, and the honey-brown contacts that cover the scorn in my black eyes.
I blink down my rage and put myself into an appropriate frame of mind. Just maid service here to shut the curtains and turn down the beds.
Thewhoosh, whooshof blood in my ears reminds me to take a few steadying breaths.
The guards appear bigger and more interested as I draw near. Both are armed. Obviously, getting guns into the hotel is easier for some than others.
I recognize these guys. They work for Walid, so says the intel Dada’s contact supplied. The smaller guard is Dmitri. He’d been hired by Walid a few months ago after an issue with his security. The other one is… I can’t remember his damn name.
Nameless speaks to me in Spanish-accented English. “Give me the flowers and hold out your arms.”
I nod, hand him the flowers, then hold up my arms. Dmitri scans the flowers with a wand, then hands the same wand to Nameless, who runs it over my body.
“Where are the chocolates?” Dmitri asks in a thick Russian accent.
I point to the pocket of my black vest and the obvious candy bump. He frowns at me. “Why aren’t you talking?”
Tilting my head, I open my braces-covered teeth and point into my mouth, displaying a badly damaged tongue.
“Disgusting,” Dmitri says. “Shut it.”
They exchange a look of unease. As well they should; that bit of F/X hurts like hell. The steel wires holding down my actual tongue pinch my gums at the metal braces attached to my teeth. Still, it doesn’t hurt as badly as the obvious American accent on my Arabic.
Practicing every calming method I’ve ever been trained in, I remain still as Nameless goes from using the wand to patting me down, smoothing his hands along my hijab, black vest, pants, and up the V of my crotch. In some countries, and probably this one, this pat-down would be enough to consider us married.
When Nameless is done, Dmitri hands me the flowers and waves me toward the door. “Go. And don’t forget ice water by the bed and chocolates on the pillow. Those are Boss’s favorite.”
