Chapter 27
Crouched inside the cab of a rusted truck that, judging by its rounded grill and the holes in the floorboard, had been around since the fifties, Justice checked her ammo. Three rounds.
She was going to die.
She was going to die in a truck that smelled like goats.
She was going to die in a truck that smelled like goats on the Jordan–Syria border after failing her most important mission.
Who had betrayed her? Gracie, Tony, Dada, or Bridget? She didn’t want to die without knowing. Which meant, she wasn’t going to die today.
She threw out her senses, tried to hear beyond her little bit of street. There was only one way they could be tracking her. They were in direct contact with someone who knew exactly where she was. And the only way to know that was by the GPS in her wrist.
She’d take it out, but it required hands much steadier than the ones she now possessed.
Plus, kind of useless now. The group of men hunkered down outside the truck knew where she was.
Of course, they’d wait her out. Walid wanted her more than just dead. He wanted her in pain. She’d taken the one person the man actually cared about.
She knew the Brothers’ story. Two boys, orphaned on the streets of India—granted they’d made themselves orphans—and afterward they’d been trafficked to a man in England. They’d killed him too and taken over his business. Together. Two brothers with equally evil souls.
Now one was dead. And the other wanted her in pain. Normally she’d think of that as a bad thing, but now it meant opportunity. When they came for her, she’d have a chance to distract, deceive, and deliver her own special brand of justice.
Shit. She was really losing it. She hated puns that involved her name.
One of the men called out to her in Arabic, “Come now. You are endangering the people here. Come out. We will take you some place to talk.”
Oh. They just wanted to talk. Silly of her to think otherwise.
“How’s Aamir?” she called back. “Did I break his heart?”
They began to fire at the truck.
Chapter 28
Sandesh couldn’t allow himself to think of Justice in any way but as a target that needed to be acquired. He rolled down the truck’s window. She had to be close. Things were quiet here.
Most nights, men patrolled, but women and children had learned not to be outside after dark.
Tonight, with the gunshots, it seemed no one walked the dirt roads. He drove around with his lights off. The moon and some lights in the camp let him see enough.
He swung Salma’s old pickup around a corner.
His heart clenched with regret. He shouldn’t have let her go. He’d been so angry. And, he hated to admit, hurt. She’d lied to him. And so had Mukta.
Her mother had to know. It was the only thing that made sense. Or did it?
If Justice had people, if her mother knew, why wasn’t anyone coming for her?
There. Gunshots. He drove between tents and parked. He got out, scanned the area, and crept forward.
He stuck his head around the corner of a metal trailer.
The bam bam of gunfire. He ducked, though the fire hadn’t been directed at him. It had been directed at the rusty truck sitting twenty feet to his right.
He had no doubt Justice was in that truck.
What was it Salma had said about destiny? He could have gotten closer to where Justice hid only if he’d been airlifted in.
Justice didn’t fire back. Probably had low ammo. That might be a good thing. It was a huge city, where gunshots didn’t usually bring authorities, but a firefight might draw them over.
He doubted Justice or the IPT could afford whatever exposure came from messing with the Jordanians.
Weapon drawn, he belly-crawled along sandy dirt, dug his elbows into the gritty soil.
The crunch of tires on sand drew his head up, and the flash of headlights dropped it down. The truck rolled down the dirt street. Reinforcements or the authorities? Or some gang here to clear their territory?
A spotlight came on and began to sweep the area. The authorities. The light hit the men crouched on the other side of the street. With gun in hand, someone got out of the truck and called to the men.
This was his chance. And apparently that was exactly what Justice had been thinking.
She swung out of the cab. Crouched, she darted his way. He got to his feet, held up his hands. “It’s me. Me, Justice.”
She pulled up short, lowered her gun. Wordlessly, they ran.
He leaned closer to her. “Salma’s truck. There.”
They turned the corner in sync. He jumped into the driver’s seat and she into the passenger’s.
He backed up. The truck with the authorities swung around the corner; the spotlight landed on them.
He turned the wheel, threw the car into drive. Bam. The back window erupted.
Justice jerked and looked down. Tear gas began to pour into the cab. Before he could tell her what to do, she picked up the canister and tossed it out the open window.
They both started to hack. He wiped at his nose, tilted the wheel, and swung the truck down a side street. It was nearly impossible to hide here. The whole thing was a grid.
When she held out her hand for his weapon, he passed it to her. She fired through the back window. Once. Twice.
There was a crash, and the spotlight winked out. Nice shot.
Sinuses burning, he tore down the road. His eyes strained to make out any movement.
This was a shitty place to try and escape. Penned in like a damn prisoner on all sides, where people could pop out anywhere, and the boundaries of who worked for the government and who worked for themselves were murky. So said the fact that the authorities had joined with the others and were now chasing them.
Justice bent over, clawed at her eyes, took out her contacts, and flung them away. She spit into her hands and rubbed her eyes. “We can’t go out the main gate.”
“No shit.” He’d just rescued her ass. A little respect or “thank you” would be nice. He shook himself. Christ, he was still that guy.
With less bite but louder, since the wind whipped about them, he said, “How did you get inside?”
“Under the fence. I can show you.”
“Okay. Let’s ditch the car.”
She nodded, slid to her window, turned, and aimed her gun. After a moment, she coughed, spit, and said, “Slow down. They’re not following.”
He slowed and pulled over. “Why not?”
She bit her lip near in half, then, nodding to herself, held up her wrist. “I think…I think they’re pretty confident they can get me outside of this place. They’re tracking me. There’s a device under my skin.”
She picked up a penknife lying in a cup holder, along with a small woodcarving. He grabbed her hand. “Don’t. Let’s think about this for a minute.”
“Think about it? What’s there to think about?”
He rubbed a hand across his face. Tears and snot. Beautiful. He couldn’t believe he was about to say this. “Could they have ties to whoever put that thing in your arm?”
“Maybe. I think. Maybe. Someone betrayed me.”
“Someone? How did it get in your arm?”
She stiffened. “I was born with it. Like an electronic birthmark.”
He’d expected the lie and the sarcasm. “Okay, well, not telling me gets you nothing. And that someone might have betrayed you is not really the answer either of us is looking for. Someone is betraying you. Present tense. Someone is, at this moment, tracking you and reporting the information to whoever is chasing you.”
She flinched. Nodded. She looked shaken for the first time. “So we destroy it. We take it out. Toss it.”
“Not so fast. Let’s take a guess on what would happen. If you dest
royed that thing or took it out, the bad guys would go straight to the Mantua Home.”
She flinched, brought a hand to her heart, clasped something under her abaya. “Suggestion?”
“We could set up an ambush.”