Scarlett Undercover (11 page)

B
y 12:20 Tuesday afternoon, I was in the middle of the Baker Street Bridge, standing on the pedestrian walkway with a plywood construction barrier between me and six lanes of car-clogged asphalt. Whitecaps danced over Las Almas Bay 824 feet below. The wind off the water was strong enough to knock me backward into the barrier like a warning. And since the Baker had hosted more than its fair share of deaths—intentional and otherwise—it was a warning I’d do well to heed.

My stomach flopped like a one-winged gull as I peeked over the rail. I didn’t do heights. Never had.

I whispered a prayer for Quinn into the wind and dialed Emmet.

“Finally got yourself in enough trouble to call, huh?” He sounded playful.

I stepped back from the rail, curled my hand over the mouthpiece to shield it from the wind. “Nah. Still working on it.”

The warmth in Emmet’s chuckle spread through me like a tonic.

“Listen,” I said, “I need to know more about the papers that walked out during the last Archer Construction break-in. Are there any details you forgot to mention the other day?”

Emmet was folding his lip. I knew it like I knew I didn’t want to be on that bridge.

“What makes you ask?”

I looked left, saw a cyclist in full racing gear coming toward me.

“I talked with Quinn Johnson’s brother,” I said. “He mentioned that Quinn started acting different after the insider break-in. Scared.”

“What else did he say?” Emmet asked. The cyclist was getting close.

“Not much. He’s just a kid. He’s upset.”

“Not much isn’t nothing.”

I did some lip folding of my own.

“He wants me to prove his brother didn’t kill himself.”

Emmet let out a low whistle. “That’s a big ask.”

“It’s why I need your help. Did the cops tell Quinn’s family what he said to the woman before he jumped? About Sam being safe?”

“No one knows except the woman and us,” Emmet said. “The higher-ups decided it would complicate things if word spread, and since the coroner ruled his death a suicide, that’s how they want to keep it.”

The cyclist was thirty yards away. I reached into my bag, fastened the blackjack’s strap over my good wrist.

“You should tell them, Emmet. They deserve to know.”

The cyclist whizzed past. A heavy gust of wind hit, whistling across the phone’s mouthpiece, lifting my hair toward the steel cables overhead.

“Where are you?” Emmet said. “A wind tunnel?”

Suddenly, more than anything else in the world, I needed for him to know where I was. At least that way, if I died, they’d know to drag the bay for my body.

“I’m on the Baker,” I said.

“What?” he shouted. “Why the hell are you out there?”

“Tell me who the unopened envelope was from. The one stolen from the construction trailer.”

A hooded figure with a familiar stride was jogging straight at me on my right.

Blondie.

“Scarlett, what’s going on?”

I tightened my grip on the blackjack again. “Tell me who sent the letter, Emmet.”

Another jogger was coming on my left. This one was big. Tall big. Thick big.

“Get yourself off of there first,” Emmet said. “It’s too windy for anyone to be out on that walkway today!”

I hitched the straps of my backpack over both shoulders.

“Emmet?”

“All right, all right,” he muttered.

I heard papers shuffling, felt my heart pound in my ears like the waves back onshore.

“That’s weird,” he said. “The envelope was from Hammett House. The secretary remembered because she couldn’t figure why anyone in juvy would bother writing to a big-deal architect.”

“Thanks, Emmet. I owe you.”

Blondie had gotten too close to keep talking.

“Scarlett, don’t you…”

I hung up. Shoved my phone into the outside pocket of my backpack. And hoped like hell I’d live long enough for Emmet to give me the bawling out I deserved.

I took off toward Blondie at a run. She froze, feet leaden on the walkway. Tensed. Then she turned tail and ran. I pumped my legs harder, cursed myself for going so light on muay Thai sessions in the past few months. My muscles burned. My lungs fought for air. Still, I was catching up to her.

Halfway back to land, I pulled close enough to take her out. My blackjack landed solid across her hamstrings. She pitched forward into the outside guardrail. Skull met metal. A funny squeak flew out of her as she hit the ground. She lay still.

One down.

The man behind me was closing in fast, looking nasty as shit on a shoe. Six foot and then some, he had the lumpy nose and thick, hard body of a retired boxer.

Him I did not want to fight.

I jumped over Blondie’s crumpled limbs and ran at
an all-out sprint. It was no use; the Goon had me beat, and when he tackled me from behind, it felt like I’d been hit by a mile-long train on an open throttle. My knees smashed into asphalt, then my head. I flipped over just before the Goon came down and crushed the air out of my lungs. The
Shubaak
replica from Manny’s dug into my back. I jerked my arms out from underneath his chest and rammed my thumbs into his eyes. He roared, tried to shake me off. I pressed harder. A ham-sized fist swung blindly toward my head. I ducked it, pulled in my knee, and forced just enough space under his tree trunk torso to nail him in the crotch. He let out a roar, jerked back, curled up in agony.

I dragged myself up to standing and crouched in a fighting stance, blackjack cocked.

“Walk away,” I said. “And we’ll call it a draw.”

He rolled to all fours.

“I don’t care what Iblis wants,” he growled. “I’m gonna kill you and that little brat, too.” His eyes were muddy brown. Not a speck of gold in sight.

“Gemma…” Her name slipped through my lips before I could catch it.

The Goon sneered. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it hurts real bad for both of you.”

He came at me. My right leg swung up and around, high enough for my shin to nail him in the ear. With the same leg, I aimed a heel strike at his nose. I’d hoped to send bits of skull into the back of his head, but ended up with my foot locked in one of his massive hands instead. He pushed forward, driving me into the guardrail so hard there must have been cartoon stars and birdies circling my head.

“You know how to fly, bitch?” The Goon pressed his forearm into my throat, lifting until I was on the tips of my toes. My backpack caught the rail. The Goon pushed harder, cutting off my air completely. No matter how hard I jerked my head side to side, the pressure against my windpipe wouldn’t let up. In a few seconds I’d tap out, and the Goon would toss me into the bay.

Only I wasn’t ready to die.

With the last of my strength, I hammered my blackjack into his temple. His arm sagged. I sucked in a breath and rammed my fist into the soft tissue under his chin. His head jerked back. I threw an elbow that opened up a razor-thin gash on his cheekbone. Threw another. Blood spurted as his flesh split wide.

From the look on his face, I knew the Goon wasn’t used to seeing his own blood in a fight. It surprised him
so much I had time to lash out with another kick. His kneecap gave under my heel. He stumbled, dropped his head like a mad bull elephant. My blackjack arched through the air and crunched into the side of his skull. His eyes clouded over. His face drooped. And then he sank into a pile at my feet.

“Not as tough as you look, are you?” I wheezed, wiping blood from the corner of my mouth. Every part of me hurt. I wobbled. Caught myself. Spit a mouthful of blood onto the ground beside him.

“Just remember, pal, you got your ass handed to you by a girl.”

Behind us, Blondie was gone. I pulled off my backpack, checked to make sure everything inside it had survived.
Abbi
’s decoy
Shubaak
was in the big compartment, undamaged. Quinn’s phone was there, too, along with mine. More importantly, the safe deposit box key I’d stolen from Reem’s
hijab
drawer that morning hadn’t come out of my jeans pocket where I’d stashed it. Its ridged edge was a comfort against my palm. I put it back, closed the bag up tight, knelt beside the Goon.

He was still breathing. So I stood and walked away, weak as a prom night chastity pledge, but hell-bent on getting Gemma out of her brother’s mess alive.

O
utbound cars lined up bumper to bumper at the Baker’s entrance. I stumbled past them, crossing at the first light. Pain stabbed like a dagger behind my eyes. Diesel fumes and blood mingled in my stomach. I swallowed back the acid in my throat and kept going.

“Get in.”

I recognized the voice coming through the rolled-down window of an old VW Bug beside me.

“Get. In.”

“Mook?” My voice sounded far away. The passenger door swung open. “We need to go,
akht
,” he said. “You aren’t safe here.”

Cars behind us fired warning shots with their horns.

“I’ll be damned,” I said.

Mook shook his head. “Not on my watch, you won’t.”

I got in and slammed the door behind me. Mook hit the gas.

“How did you know where I was?” I asked. My body shivered from the shock of it all.

“I am your
mu’aqqibat
.” Mook’s eyes flicked back and forth between the road and his mirrors. He looked dangerously close to being nervous.

“Sure. My guardian angel. How could I forget?”

Mook must have noticed my teeth chattering. He turned a knob on the dash, and a cloud of dust and tepid air chuffed out of the car’s vents. “Takes a few minutes to warm up,” he muttered.

I shivered some more. Took out my phone and dialed Gemma’s number. She didn’t answer once. Twice. The third time I left a message for her to call me, hoping like hell she could.

“I think they took her, Mook,” I said. “Those psychos kidnapped my client.”

His eyes were in constant motion. Nervous energy clung to his movements like bad cologne.

“Hand me a cigarette.” He pointed his chin toward the crumpled pack on the dashboard.

“Take me to her aunt’s,” I said. “I need to make sure she’s not there.”

“No.”

I slumped in my seat.

“Please,
akht
. A cigarette.”

I shook out one of the cigarettes and punched down the old car’s lighter. Put the cigarette in my mouth. Touched the hot orange coil to its end. Inhaled and got a queasy nicotine buzz. “Here.” I handed it over.

“Thank you.” Mook took a long drag.

“The same people who killed
Abbi
are after me,” I said. “Did you know that?”

His eyes lingered in the rearview. “They are not people.”

“Do you know about Solomon’s ring and the
Shubaak
?”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe they’re magic?”

He took another drag and blew it out.

“Of course you do,” I said, frustrated. “You think you’re an angel.”

Mook downshifted and stopped at a red light. “One need not believe in something for it to be true,” he said.

“The only thing I believe right now is that I need to find Gemma. They’re going to hurt her, Mook, just like they hurt
Abbi
.”

The light turned green. He put the car in first and popped the clutch.

“The girl’s
Qadar
is her own.”

“
I’m
part of her fate,” I said, getting angry. “And it’s starting to look like she’s part of mine. I’m supposed to help her, Mook!”

“
You
are an
Abd al-Malik
,” he countered. “It is my duty to keep you safe.”

I tightened my grip on my backpack strap. I had no idea how he knew all he did, but I was past caring. At the next red light, I was going to bail.

“Don’t,” he said, looking at me through a haze of cigarette smoke. The light ahead of us went yellow. The car slowed. And then things went bad all over again.

“
Ya Allah!
” Mook shouted. “Duck!”

I dropped to the floor just in time to hear a hollow-edged
tink
overhead. When I looked up, there was a
dart lodged against the front of my headrest, still quivering from the impact.

“What the…?” I popped my head up to look out the window. A gray sedan fishtailed in front of us, but Mook’s eyes were still on his rearview. He was hunched over the wheel, knuckles white on the gearshift. “Iblis,” he barked. “Get down!”

I dropped as low as I could, wedged myself tight against the seat, and curled into a ball. The car swerved, throwing my sore head against the door. My guts heaved. Mook took a corner in second gear so fast I smelled burnt rubber.

“Is he gone?”

Mook didn’t answer. He accelerated, turned hard to the right, harder back to the left. Then we did the same thing all over again. And again. Once more, and he motioned for me to get up.

“Take that thing out and wipe down the headrest.” He pointed to the dart. “There are rags in the backseat.”

My hands shook as I pulled the dart out and swiped a greasy square of old T-shirt across the pinprick hole it left.

“Where’d you learn to drive like that?” I said shakily.

“Mumbai.”

He didn’t elaborate. I let it slide and held up the dart. “What should I do with this?”

“Wrap it in the rag, and don’t touch the tip. It would be most inconsiderate of you to die after all the traffic violations I just committed to keep you alive.”

I bound the dart up tight and set it on the floor of the backseat. Mook’s cigarette was down to the filter, making him squint against the smoke in his eyes. I pulled the stub out of his mouth and lit a new one from it.

“Poison darts?” I said.

Mook took a long drag.

“Perhaps.”

“Like the one that killed
Abbi
.”

“Yes.”

Warehouses and abandoned piers flashed by as we drove along the river.

“And that was Iblis behind us?”

Mook nodded.

“As in Iblis the jinn?”

He shrugged. “Iblis takes many forms.”

Mook was back to being cryptic. It made me feel better.

“You’re not going to help me find Gemma, are you?” I asked.

“No.”

“Then at least take me to get the
Shubaak
. As an
Abd al-Malik
, I’m entitled to that.”

He tucked his cigarette into the corner of his mouth and put both hands on the steering wheel. At the next light, he pushed the turn signal down and headed inland. “Where is it?”

“Las Almas Teachers Credit Union,” I said. “Central branch.”

“Very well.”

“Thanks, Mook,” I said after we’d driven awhile. “For everything.”

“I do as I must,” he answered.

“Don’t we all,” I said.

“Don’t we all.”