123B Moreno Drive, October 25
Dante's graceful silhouette appeared in the door frame, his voice echoing off the bathroom tiles as he and Sylvia murmured between themselves.
I tossed my head around me, scanning the bathroom like a host checking that everything was neat and tidy for a fussy houseguest. The state of the once-beautiful bathroom made my breath catch again.
Blood all over Sylvia's pristine bathroom floor. Blood all over the wall. Blood all over me. So much blood.
Sylvia peeked from behind Dante like he was her shield, twin foreheads furrowed. I uncurled on the blood-spattered bath mat. I was in my underwear, shards of glass from Sylvia's antique bathroom mirror littering the floor around me. It must have looked bad.
Defiant, I swatted away tears. Maybe it didn't look all that bad.
I opted for a nonchalant tone, like the whole fucking world wasn't torn down, burned, ruined. The words came out as choked whimpers all the same. " I broke your mirror. Sorry."
Dante dragged me up and nudged me into the living room. "I'll fix your hand."
A towel appeared around my shoulders. Another slid under me. Kind hands eased me onto the sofa. The kettle roared in the kitchen until the smell of tea and the night-time quiet of the house lulled me. My sobs petered out leaving my throat parched and dry like the Rub'al Khali itself.
Dante wound a bandage over and over my hand, the tenderest, softest fingers working the gauze open and spreading it over the pain. He seemed kinda lulled by it too; when the end of the spool of bandage ran through his fingers he looked up, as if suddenly realizing where he was.
He pinned the bandage, but didn't let me go. He just knelt there next to me in silence, cradling my hand, huge eyes unfocused. I guessed that I'd taken him back to the night he'd lost Steph, and he was reliving it all again somewhere inside his head.
Eventually my tears dried up and Dante led me to my room, guiding me into bed with his quiet-calm precision. He and Sylvia talked in hushed voices in the kitchen while I lay, my mind's eye wandering between memories of Mamá's room from when I was a kid. The worn furniture, the kawaii little ornaments, the clingy clothes that she always wore.
I guessed that Debs had told everyone at María PD the details. That they'd all read the police report about Ana María Torres García, her shitty life, and her shitty death.
Narrowly catching myself from a tumble, I willed my aching sweaty hide onward. I shouldn't have been climbing, but I needed to think. I needed my favorite spot.
The short traverse to the clock tower platform seemed longer than ever. I staggered down onto the stonework, almost slipping off the ledge. Familiar slim fingers grabbed my wrist and hauled me backward.
I looked up into Dante's face, his beauty somehow heightened by his wide-eyed concern, his hand still latched onto my wrist with a death-grip.
"It's barely seven AM. You need to rest, not climb."
He sat back against a gargoyle and wedged his wooden box under its stone claw. His evening had been ruined by me going crazy and smashing Sylvia's mirror, and now I'd interrupted his little morning ritual of looking at Steph's engagement ring.
"Sorry you had to...deal with my shit yesterday." I sat heavily on the platform and kicked my legs out in front of me, no less reckless even after almost tumbling off the side of the tower. "Can't rest. You try resting with four scared cats. They hate me."
Dante smiled that heart-stopping smile of his. "You just gotta keep calm around them."
"Of course, you're amazing with cats. Is there anything you're not good at?" I slid my palms down my face, itching at stubble. "Sorry. I'm just tired."
"I'm tired too." Dante stretched his arms above his head, vertebrae clicking, his green T-shirt rising to offer me a tantalizing sliver of olive-and-tea, and a tangle of hair. "Sylvia's bed is too soft."
I'd been pissed that he'd insisted on sleeping at Sylvia's place, probably to check that I didn't smash my fist through any more of her priceless furniture during the night. But ten seconds in Dante Russo's quiet-calm presence had soothed me, and I'd fallen into a deep sleep.
"You should take a few days off work. Get some rest."
I threw Dante a little smile. "Don't see you resting, Mr Workaholic. Besides, I can't rest. They gotta pay for what they did to my Mom."
"What do you mean?" Dante turned to me, his face pained. "You're implying that the...overdose wasn't the cause of death?"
"My Mom took prescription drugs, and she drank too much. But she never did illegal shit. Never woulda done coke. Ever. I don't believe that's what killed her, whatever the post mortem says."
I'd expected comforting words from Dante, a few not-so-subtle hints that I was paranoid, kind appeals to me to get some rest. But he simply nodded.
His words were written on his face, like he'd felt the same sense of urgency when Alcor had taken Steph from him fourteen months earlier. He'd been driven to act, to find out who, what, when, how. He hadn't taken time off work. He hadn't rested. So why would I?
Alcor had killed Mamá. She had done it. She'd taken Mamá in revenge because I'd cooperated with the American police.
Ever since I'd started working with Sylvia, I'd been waiting for Alcor to label me a traitor and put a bullet in me. I'd been at peace with the idea of my own death. But I'd been so stupid. She knew that death woulda been too lenient a punishment for my betrayal. She knew what drove me, what hurt me, and what would be an infinitely worse punishment for me. She'd taken from me the only person I loved.
She couldn't use her usual brutal methods in the States; a sniper shooting Mamá in the head woulda pointed the finger directly at Alcor. But a flimsy coke overdose cover story was just enough for the police to ignore it all, and just enough to let me know that she'd taken her revenge.
A new mission arose from the maelstrom of Mamá's death. Firstly, I needed to kill whatever fucked up trade deal Alcor had with Vogel. Her first big international project for years, and I was gonna wreck it. Secondly, I was gonna get money, and it didn't matter how. A thousand dollars or so, to get to Riyadh and buy cheap weapons. Then I'd stalk into Alcor's compound. I'd find her. I'd kill her. She'd feel my revenge.
For the past three years I'd been terrified of myself. Terrified of waking up covered in the blood of men I'd killed against my will. All these years I'd hated every disgusting vile murderous cell in my body. But now, I wanted to commit murder. I needed to. I fucking relished the thought of ending her life. Of snapping her neck while she lay sated and warm in my arms. And I'd gloat over her corpse.
She'd taken from me what I loved the most. Now, not even the Demon itself would protect her from my revenge.
María Police Department, October 25
Rayan clicked through video after video of truck beds being crane-loaded with containers on María's eerie pre-dawn wharves.
"Two Vogel employees in these videos match the access-card data that you and Dante stole from Casper Vogel's Hotel. We can only get facial recognition for one of them, the other one is always facing away from the camera. But we know he started working for Vogel only a month ago according to his access-card data, and Dante's earlier intel."
The man with the confirmed facial ID was ideal for Dante; direct evidence that Vogel were evading tax when paying their drivers for picking up Alcor deliveries. Dante was welcome to him.
But the other dude was mine. His face hidden in shadows, the grainy footage of his bulky frame seemed familiar somehow; perhaps he was an Alcor operative I'd seen in passing. The plan was simple: I'd find him, beat the unholy fuck outta him until he told me whatever he knew about Alcor's trade deal with Vogel, updates on operations in Riyadh, new Alcor security protocols. The mysterious driver was my way back into Alcor.
"Hey, man." Rayan pressed a hand to my shoulder. "This is all too soon. You need to grieve for your Mom. Now isn't the time to be...reactionary."
"This isn't about her." I tried a shrug, but my eyes fogged up with tears all the same. "You know, she wasn't even talking to me. Said I was a disgrace when I started running with Don Genovese. And when I went to Alcor, she told me not to come back. Said I'd lost her respect. Like she knew fucking anything about respect. Drinking when she was pregnant with me. Couldn't even respect me back then."
"At least she gestated you. Mine didn't even do that."
"What?"
"My mother... She got a surrogate to carry me. She didn't wanna ruin her figure, or breastfeed or...touch me. She said it was a waste of her time spending a year at home with a newborn." Rayan heaved a breath and leaned back in his chair. "It was fine. I had nannies and teachers and trainers. Kinda glad that I only saw my mother once a month, if that." He took in a breath, held it, breathed it out again. "Sorry. I'm making this about me. Ignore me."
I couldn't believe my ears. Mamá had always been a disaster. But I knew she loved me. Even after everything, I knew she'd eventually forgive me. We'd forgive each other. But Rayan's mother? I'd never heard of a Saudi woman leading a smuggling ring, let alone one who'd kept her son like a pet, an object. The thought that Rayan had been so utterly alone as a kid had my insides heaving.
"Why didn't your Dad help you?"
"When I was ten I tried to find out who he was. I managed to contact him. Asked him to get me out of Saudi. He did. I'm not in contact with my mother anymore. My Dad and Sylvia have been so patient with me. Helping me to become...normal."
"Your Dad and Sylvia?"
Rayan straightened his keyboard and set his mouse neatly next to it. "Sylvia's my Dad's girlfriend. Fiancée."
I shoulda guessed it from how Sylvia fussed around Rayan, and from their age difference. So, Sylvia's investment banker meat-head boyfriend was Rayan's Dad.
"Whoever he is, your Dad has awesome taste in Italian suits."
"Jay," Rayan murmured into his knotted fingers, "my Dad's Hamish McCloud."
"Hamish McCloud? Yeah, right."
My chuckle was cut short by Rayan's expression. He suddenly looked every inch the sheltered, protected young billionaire he was, and ashamed of it too.
I understood how it musta felt for him to see me, Dante, even Gabi, day-in day-out at María PD, watching us leap around the city while he sat doing searches and filing reports from behind his keyboard.
But, after his mother's neglect, I was glad that Hamish McCloud and Sylvia babied him a little, showed him that he was safe, loved. When I'd gotten over the shock of it, I fumbled for words to ease Rayan's obvious shame at his rich-boy privilege, but nothing came out.
"I know what you're thinking," he hissed, but it was all hurt, no heat. "Sylvia's letting me play cops for a year before Daddy gets me a job in his office."
So what if Rayan's Dad was a white billionaire industrialist, and not some rough-and-ready Saudi dude I could smoke a shisha and lament the modern world with? At worst, I'd expected Hamish McCloud to be tied up with Vogel and Alcor somehow. At best, I'd expected him to give zero fucks about anyone other than himself. Saving his secret kid from a Saudi criminal mother musta called for one hell of a rescue operation, insane PR skills, and a whole lotta love. Explained why the guy was so reclusive; his son's safety was his top priority. And, after everything, Hamish McCloud seemed to have raised a sweet kid, not the spoiled precious baby-billionaire brat that Rayan coulda so easily been. And, of course, I was a total sucker for Rayan's bug-eyed-kid stare.
"I don't think that, wallah," I whispered. "And I don't care who your parents are."
"I'm here for the same reason you are, Jason. I want to find out who murdered Steph. And now, maybe your mother too. I don't do fieldwork, but," he circled an arm that took in his computer and the wobbly stack of police reports at his elbow, "if you need my expertise, ask me."
"I don't think I can work with the police anymore, man. I got my own plans to take down Alcor."
Rayan's look of terror sent chills through me. "No way, Jay. I know it hurts to lose your Mom. If we get evidence that Alcor harmed her, then María PD will act on your behalf. But we can't protect you if you go rogue. Just keep working with Dante, collecting evidence for this Alcor-Vogel trade deal, and we'll get there in the end. Please."
"It's gonna take too long! Dante's been working like crazy for a year and got nothing! I need to end Alcor now." I leaned into Rayan, my only hope. "I need money, man. To get to Riyadh. And I need weapons. Just give me whatever's in the confiscation box, OK? Nobody needs to know."
"No way!" Rayan shot back in his chair and sprang up, sending the chair swiveling across the room. "Whatever you're gonna do, don't tell me. Please don't do anything stupid, Jay."
No big loss. I didn't need Rayan's help. I'd handled worse.
Wharf Ten, Estrella Wharves, María, October 26
Midnight. The port-side edge of the city was quiet, the occasional late shift docker trudging past me toward the subway. Cranes and levers formed knots of black steel against the dim lights illuminating the wharves.
Crouched behind a tower of crates, I waited for the familiar orange cab of a Vogel truck. A driver emerged, sharing a joint and a joke with a docker while a crane slid a scratched-up container onto the truck bed.
Too far away to hear his voice, I kept to the shadows, climbing gantries and chain-link fences until I was level with the cab. A short leap, and I landed on the cab's roof, teetering on the slope of the wind deflector.
The docker melted into the shadows, his black figure retreating into the distance along a pontoon before disappearing into the hulking blackness of a cargo ship. The driver secured the container on the truck bed and jumped back into the cab, leaving the door wide open while he fumbled smaller cargo packages onto the seat.
No time like the present.
I swung down into the cab, slamming the door on my way in.
A lunge and a twist, and my arm was looped around the driver's neck, silencing him with an elbow at his windpipe before he knew what was happening. He wriggled beneath me like a fish, his hands clawing at my arm.
Familiar hands, broad with busted knuckles, pounded against me. It couldn't be.
His scent was familiar too. His neck, his hair, his skin, all exuded a warmth I knew.
Fuck.
Releasing the driver with a snap of my wrists, I threw myself backward against the cab door, scrambling for my phone's flashlight.
A familiar face peeked out from between raised fists. He looked better than when I'd last seen him, though his knuckles still bore the odd scab from his endless fights with other inmates. Robby 'Falling Star' Nez.
Double-fuck.
Translations:
Rub'al Khali - Arabic, "The Empty Quarter", the desert in the southern part of the Arabian peninsula
Wallah - Arabic, "I swear to God"