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Yeah, that’s like saying Bill Gates has money. “Can you see what you can dig up on Mukta Parish, the Mantua Academy, and four of the Parish family?”
I begin to write down the names of Justice’s suspect siblings with Gracie at the top of the list. That woman has good reason to be angry, is secretive, and doesn’t trust anyone. Seems like the traits of someone who can’t be trusted.
Victor raises a hand to take the list, but I pull it back. “Can you make that five?” Though he isn’t a sibling, Leland of the we’re-watching-you phone calls goes on the list, too. I’m still annoyed by his threats.
Victor takes the paper and reads the names. “Easy enough, I know someone, former NSA. She owes me a favor or six.”
Victor has contacts because Victor did top-secret, undercover work for years while in Special Forces. After that, before the IPT, he worked as a private contractor with a global security firm. “You ever miss it, man?”
He raises his head, shrugs. “Do I miss danger, near misses, starving my ass off in the middle of nowhere? Hell, yes. But that was a high. It’s not satisfying to me the way this job is.”
That, I get. “What have you heard from Salma?”
“With the big bucks you got us, we were able to settle them in Jordan.”
“That’s good to hear.” Turns out Syrians don’t give up easy. “I’m glad they’re okay at the warehouse.”
“Doing great. I’m not sure what else you have going on with Mukta Parish, but she’s done right by us. She helped shut down and evacuate Salma’s entire operation, then she rented a warehouse in Amman under the guise of a bakery. But how’d you get kicked out of Za’atari?”
Hearing this should make me feel better, but the weight of this entanglement settles heavy against my chest. We’ve been organizing for over a year, and though we have no problem with volunteers or organizations to partner with, funding has been a big issue. Until now… but this gift horse could screw everything else up.
I go with the half-truth, telling him about the mission Salma and I put together because he has to be aware of what’s out there. I’m hopingthatawareness is where his knowledge of this stops.
33
JUSTICE
Elevator X slides to a stop on 4A. Gym, firing range, and lots of secret society classrooms. Pretty much my favorite floor.
I step out into the processed-air-and-show-your-pores-bright corridor. Tinted glass runs along the hall as I walk toward the gym. Even though they’re tinted, I can still make out one of my siblings and people from Internal at the firing range. Their shots are muffled by the thick glass walls.
After my morning with Gracie, I changed into workout clothes, black leggings and sleeveless tee—dark clothes to match my mood. And, also, to make it easier to move during my training session.
My cross-trainers squeak, echoing in the high-ceiling hallway, as I walk the floor. Feels good to be home. Would feel better if I weren’t trying to figure out which of my siblings betrayed me.
Next up, Tony.
A sensor at these gym doors reads my upraised wrist, and, with a lowclick, theywhooshopen.
My shoulders tighten. Odd. Being tracked hadn’t bothered me before. Now, I feel exposed.
Still, my heart lightens when I step inside. The gym is fully-equipped, state-of-the-art, and huge. No lie. It easily accommodates treadmills, weight machines, trampolines, punching dummies, dojo, boxing ring, and, at the farthest end—shudder—the Devil’s Gauntlet. The DG employs balance obstacles, a salmon ladder, cargo net, warp wall, spider climb, and impossible ledges and agility leaps. I hate that thing.
The grunts, slaps, clank of weights, and treadmillthuds echo along the huge space with its thirty-foot ceiling. I skirt the training mats until the speaker system announces my and Tony’s sparring session.
Right on time.
Shirtless, shoeless, wearing only his well-worn white gi pants, Tony does a double backflip off the trampoline, landing in the sparing arena with an eager smile.
What a showoff. Normally, I’d be all about shutting him down and shutting him up, but not today. The best time to talk with Tony is while fighting him. He loosens up. So damn loose and talkative. It’s like trying to hit a cross between Stretch Armstrong and Elmo.
I slip off my shoes. We meet in the center of the yellow mat, one of four colored mats where people spar. Usually, we run through pattern practice, a series of training skills, and then do a bit of free sparring. But, today, I think it’s best to get right to the fun stuff.
Stretching out my arms—a distraction—I say, “Tony. How’s my favorite sister?” and send a spin kick at his ribs.
Tony dodges the strike like water sliding across ice.
My toes skim his skin.
