VOGEL TECHNOLOGIES, October 10
Halloween season, but the sun still burned like Riyadh.
Luckily the winding ribbon of shade under Vogel's colossal perimeter walls marked my patrol route. My white tie and collar chafed my neck. Too-tight boots slid with sweat. My dumb black hat with Vogel Security emblazoned across it added injury by itching my scalp, and insult by making me look like a fucking penguin.
Alcor Security had the right idea: red hoodie, kevlar vest, jeans. None of this penguin uniform shit. Before Alcor, Don Genovese had insisted I wear an Italian suit as his bodyguard. I'd hated it, but the number of women who'd loved peeling it off me at the end of the night had made it almost worth the discomfort.
The two-way crackled in my hand. "All quiet this side, over."
No fucking peace for me. I held the radio to my lips. "All quiet here too, Charity. We've walked the perimeter three times. You wanna get a soda? Over?"
What I thought was a buzz of static was Charity guffawing into her radio. "If you wanted an easy ride you shoulda begged your parole officer to give you Community Service with McCloud Technologies, not Vogel. That crazy lefty liberal Hamish McCloud takes in any criminal snowflakes who can't serve their sentence like real men."
"I'm not a...I didn't..."
This fucking woman.
"It's not Community Service, Charity. I'm a police witness. And I got a police interview at twelve," I lied. My interview wasn't until two, but Charity was killing me slowly, and I needed to get the fuck outta this uniform before I became a human tamale. "Over."
"Whatever, Torres. Just bring my radio back, over."
"Fucking copy that. And it's not Community Service. Over."
The joy at hanging up my penguin uniform lasted about three seconds before I realized that I had to don my old clothes. My unofficial Alcor uniform had been in storage at María Penitentiary for two months: red hoodie, now customized with a fraying bullet hole in the hood, threadbare red T-shirt, ripped jeans, beat-up Nikes.
Looking nothing like a police witness, and everything like felonious trash doing Community Service, I walked the grimy, sweaty, fucking beautiful streets of María Estrella del Mar. OK, so it was a crumbling rain-drenched shit-hole of a city, but it was my crumbling rain-drenched shit-hole. And I was walking the slippery sidewalks as a free man. Except that my freedom wasn't real, no matter which side of the bars I stood on. As soon as I stopped being useful to María PD, I was probably gonna be back in Mercedes, in a straitjacket next time. If Alcor didn't get to me first. Carmen's words—her words channeled through Carmen's mouth—screamed in my ears louder than the traffic on Fourteenth Street.
"You can't hide, Ahmar. The Demon Star is rising."
But Carmen's real words kept permeating the choking demon-fog, feeding me stupid hope. Maybe I could outrun Alcor. Maybe Sylvia Payne could shut them down before they took me.
Too many maybes cluttered my brain. I needed to think. Get my head straight before my police interview. I knew just the place. My favorite spot.
A quiet alleyway behind the cathedral led to mossy steps hidden by dumpsters. From the top step I leaped up the wall, catching an overhanging branch to haul me over. I was outta practice, but managed to hook my fingers onto the corroding rail of a fire escape. It took me up and up.
Eighteen floors high, I jumped the railing. Grasping hands almost didn't catch the faded highway sign. I dragged myself into a tangled morass of cell towers. From there it was a short run of underclings to the Cathedral's spire, and a drop down to my secret place: the top of María's gothic clock tower.
Rusty after three years in Riyadh, I'd been too confident. I slipped on a crenelation, only just catching myself, so close to falling and splattering onto Plaza de la Catedral a hundred meters below. I inched my way along the final gut-churning section of stonework, swinging up to the platform hidden high on the clock tower's side.
Once the adrenaline had ebbed, I basked in my favorite spot, just big enough for me to stretch my legs and gaze out at the skyscrapers opposite, and the winking lights of ships in the bay. I'd found the route up as a kid, back when I used to leave the house early and get home late to avoid whichever of Mamá's boyfriends was fucking her over at the time. A secret place just for me. After three years in Riyadh, my windswept platform on the side of the clock tower felt like coming home.
But something wasn't right. It wasn't my secret platform anymore. Someone else had found my secluded spot high above the city.
A delicate wooden box sat on the platform, wedged under a gargoyle's talon. The initials D.R. were neatly carved into the wood. Someone had stolen my secret place from me. They'd taken in my view over the bay. They'd put their own precious things in my space.
I snatched up the box. Who the fuck coulda known that this platform high above the city existed? More incredibly, who coulda made the near-impossible climb here?
It had taken me months to find the way up. I'd spent long hours mapping out myriad failed routes in the early days, only going farther when I was sure that I'd practised every finger-cling and every leaped gap safely. Even then, I'd had to conquer the terror of navigating the final treacherous meters, clinging to gargoyles and masonry for dear life.
A flick of the latch, and the box opened on well-oiled hinges. Inside nestled a golden ring with a little diamond set in it.
The teenage pickpocket in me awoke suddenly from a decade of slumber.
Besides wreaking vengeance on the agile asshole who'd commandeered my favorite spot, the diamond ring spelled endless wondrous possibilities for me: a few months' rent, an Italian suit, a used motorcycle. A convenient engagement ring to get Leila back. It wasn't the big gaudy diamond that she deserved, but it would do. I could slip the ring into my pocket and call Leila. I could become the man I once was.
The chill of shame chased goosebumps over my skin. I was the true interloper on the clock tower's windy platform, touching precious mementos that weren't mine.
I was tempted then to kick the box over the side, ring and all. I'd take back the spot that I'd trained so hard to reach. But I wasn't my triumphant sixteen-year-old self protecting my patch anymore. I was what everyone had expected me to be by twenty-seven: a haggard criminal, hunted by my old employers, pilfering a ring while I watched the final seconds of my life tick away.
I wedged the box back under the gargoyle's crumbling stone claw. Kudos to the person who'd found my spot. They were welcome to share it; Alcor would kill me soon anyway.
Sylvia pulled a red thread from my bullet-riddled hoodie. "Are you trying to look like a criminal? You're wearing the clothes they arrested you in."
"I rent a Vogel Technologies trailer with two other dudes. Who stink. I get paid shit, barely enough to cover rent, let alone food." I tugged at my sleeve. "How am I supposed to buy clothes? And how did you know I was arrested in these clothes?"
She prodded me along the corridor in reply. "I'll get you some groceries. And a phone. I'd rather not call Charity Graves too often. She said I was shrill."
She paused at the door to the interview room and pushed a bottle into my hand. Tiny brown pills.
No fucking way. Mamá's whole life was medication, sedation and prescriptions. No fucking way was I gonna follow in her footsteps, ever.
I shook the little bottle in front of Sylvia's nose. "None of this sedative shit is going in my body."
"It's not a sedative. The doctor said it would stop the blackouts, that's all. It won't affect you in any other way."
Fuck. Was my life gonna be perpetually taking the less shitty of two shitty choices? I stuffed the pills into my hoodie pocket as Sylvia swung the interview room's door open.
Except, it wasn't an interview room. It was an open-plan office. Full of cops. Like, totally fucking stuffed floor-to-ceiling with cops. All of them staring at me like I was a cockroach on a carpet.
My heart began to ratchet, my quads grinding with the instinct to run. I couldn't even rely on awesome hair for much-needed armor; I found myself nervously scratching at my buzz-cut, looking like the flea-ridden felon I was.
"This is Jason Torres. He's the—"
"As-salaam 'alekum." A little dude in the corner of the office swiveled his chair to assess me, slim and sharp-eyed. Classic Saudi kid. "Marhaba, Ghul Al'Ahmar."
"Wa'alekum as-salaam," I replied as graciously as I could while being stared down by six cops. "Marhaban bik."
"This is Rayan. He's interning for a couple of months."
A wiry Latina officer piped up. "Does Dante know that the Red Demon's here? No point anyone else interviewing him."
"Thank you, Gabi." Sylvia hurried me along the line of bemused cops. "Dante was called away to another job."
I scratched at the regrowth around my ears like a dog with lice. "Who's Dante?"
Gabi snatched up a copy of the María Times and started poring over the front page. "Dante's leading the Alcor case. If Dante's not gonna interview the Red Demon, I'm not gonna."
What the fuck was Sylvia doing bringing me here? The Alcor case was totally fucking moribund if the lead officer couldn't even be bothered to show up to interview the only living Alcor witness.
Sylvia breezed on past Gabi, dragging an office chair to Rayan's desk. "Maybe Rayan can interview you, then report to your parole officer."
Sylvia pressed a kiss to Rayan's forehead, straightened his sweater, and swept outta the office in a cloud of Chanel, hopefully to yell at Dante the intel guy for not gracing us with his presence.
Rayan eyeballed me as I sat spinning on the office chair. He was kind enough to throw me a bone. "If you're not useful to the Alcor case, I got a bunch of financial crime cases involving Saudi companies. Might need some pointers."
Gabi marched over and shoved a sticky note under Rayan's nose. "I need you to do a search, ese. Just gimme this guy's address and employment history."
"Yes, Ma'am." Rayan began to type the suspect's name into the Police Database, fingers blurring as they flew over the keys.
I was intrigued. "Does the Police Database hold information about...undocumented people?"
Rayan nodded, his eyes tracking back and forth against his computer screen. "Sure. The data's patchy, though."
I hung a nonchalant smile on my face. "Could you search for...Ana María Torres García?"
"Ya rab, I can't stalk random people. They gotta be relevant to the Alcor case."
"No big deal. Just asking, hypothetically."
Rayan looked me up and down. "You're pretty shredded, mashallah. You do karate?"
I knew it was a trap, but my dumb ego dragged me off the cliff before I had a chance to dig my heels in. "Started off boxing, then karate, aikido, krav maga. So, shall we do this interview?"
"Interview's done, man."
I chuckled. Figured they'd have me sussed within ten seconds. "What tea did I spill, Mr Detective?"
"You're worried about your undocumented mother. Boxing tells me that you started in either Genovese or Falcone crime families. Aikido and krav maga tell me that you were in Alcor Security." He patted me on the shoulder. "Looks like the Red Demon isn't Alcor's strategist after all."
Barely outta his teens, even the intern could run rings around me. There was me thinking that the police would hate me. They fucking pitied me.
Gabi strutted over with more paperwork. "Why'd Alcor hire an American just to put you in Security? Any Saudi can do Security. What's your real use to Alcor?"
"They put me in the ring with their best men, a combat test. I beat them. Three times. Plus, I knew a little Arabic from my girlfriend, which oiled the gears a little. Then a period of probation to test loyalty. After they were convinced I wasn't CIA or some vigilante cop, they figured I was worth it."
She figured I was worth it. The only one who could hold my own when sparring against her.
Rayan whistled. "You got a Saudi girlfriend?"
"Algerian."
Rayan's smile dropped. "Your ex? Sorry, man."
Fuck. My face truly was an open book.
"She's moved back to María now. I'm gonna give her a call. See if she wants to patch things up. Leila Abdelli, the lawyer."
"Leila Abdelli? Unbelievable! She's always on TV. She's fine as hell."
"Yeah. The smartest too."
"Hold fire, Romeo. Abdelli's in María Times today." Gabi threw the crumpled newspaper at Rayan's chest. Rayan scanned the centerfold, his face creasing as he read.
I held out a hand. "Lemme see."
Gabi wrestled the paper from Rayan and opened it with a flourish. "Leila Abdelli announces engagement to French billionaire Yves Faisant."
Rayan winced. "Too bad, Jason. But she'll dump him for you. Faisant is like super-old."
"He's forty-five. Plenty young enough." Gabi slapped the newspaper Leila-face-down onto her desk. "Forget her, Jason. Who wants to get with the one percent?"
"She won't stay with him," I growled. But it sounded weak, even to me. "She's got her own money. She's not into rich white dudes."
"Like you said, she might wanna patch things up." Rayan put a hand on my shoulder. "Shit's changed since you broke up, right?"
"Yeah," I breathed, unsure whether to laugh or scream. "I'm a convicted felon."
As I swooped between gargoyles and crawled along masonry, I found myself strangely chill with the fact that Leila had moved on. Good for her.
She'd been the high point of my life, my biggest achievement. But not because I'd earned her. Whatever enchantment I'd inadvertently cast over her—probably my dumb confidence mixed with her own need to rebel against her family—wasn't there anymore. Not that the spell had lasted long on her anyway.
Back then I'd thought I was a big man, running with the biggest out there, Don Genovese. Puffed up and power-drunk enough to think I deserved a goddess like Leila. Three years later, and my pitiful plan to get Leila back was just me clinging onto the man I used to be: arrogant, entitled, clawing at things I hadn't earned.
Now I was tired and broken, close to being taken by the Demon. I had nothing to offer Leila now.
All I truly needed was a few moments' peace before I succumbed to Alcor. To talk to Mamá. To savor those teenage days before I fucked it all up. But for now, the great climb to my favorite spot.
I swooped down from the cathedral spire and landed on hands and knees on the clock tower platform. I wasn't alone.
Two slender legs swung back and forth. I straightened, my eyes scrolling upward. A man with a gracile frame lounged on a headless gargoyle. Beat-up Nikes, ripped jeans. Just like me. Thinner than me, his densely-muscled arms poked outta his green T-shirt. Sinewy and lithe, he looked like he'd spent his entire life climbing the cornices and ramparts of the city. He gripped his wooden box tight in white-knuckled hands, like he was afraid I'd wrestle it from him. Was he D.R?
My eyes scanned ever-upward, settling at his face. My breath slid back inside me with a whimper.
I was staring at the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. Bright, black eyes. Black tufts of hair caught in the breeze, framing a sharp jaw peppered with stubble. His skin was as dark as mine, but more olive-and-tea than my caramel hue. The more I gazed, the more I saw. He wasn't simply handsome, or well-proportioned, or athletic. Every tiny thing about him was its own little masterpiece.
Inexplicably, the scar on my arm began to burn, hotter and hotter, until it raged in scalding bubbling agony.
I tore my eyes away from the man's face, to my scar. It looked like it always did, but the pain almost had me on my knees. I bit my lip to stifle a cry.
When I looked back up, the man was teetering off the platform. He glanced back, his face crawling with shock, fury. Terror.
I lunged to catch him, but I was too late. He leaped into thin air, a hundred meters above the square below. My heart shot up into my throat.
"No!" I dashed to the edge, arms flailing, only to see the man falling over the side.
Down and down. But he wasn't falling. The man was soaring. He turned in the air, gliding down to a nearby roof. Graceful feet planted, and he landed in an easy roll before leaping over the roof, catching a knot of power cables and swinging away across rooftops.
I couldn't fucking believe it. I'd expected the fall to kill him. Somehow he'd absorbed the impact into his dense little body and used the momentum to leap like a cat. I'd thought I was a good climber, a good fighter, a good athlete. But I was nothing compared to this machine of a man.
The throb of pain in my scar dimmed as I weaved between stonework and gargoyles back to ground-level. A new mission dwarfed all others: find the identity of this exquisite climber with a diamond ring.
Luckily, Rayan had a database to find him, and I had a huge clue: his initials were D.R.
Translations:
María Estrella del Mar - Spanish, longer name for the city of María (lit. "Mary, Star of the Sea", from the Latin "stella maris", an ancient epithet for Jesus's mother, Mary)
As-salaam 'alekum - Arabic equivalent to "hello"
Marhaba - Arabic, "welcome"
Ghul Al'Ahmar - Arabic, "Red Demon"
Ya rab - Arabic, "oh my God"