I Am Justice Read online

  Chapter 12

  After Justice and Sandesh had checked into their hotel, they made their way across Jordan to Zaatari. Their transportation, an old pickup truck, drove alongside the Zaatari refugee camp. Layered with sand and trash and plastered with Arabic graffiti, Zaatari sprawled across the desert in a seemingly endless expansion.

  The city-camp was sloppy and beautiful in places. Well tended and ignored. Serene and damning. Crude and artistic. And inside, a hundred thousand minds worked and reworked the tragedies, pressures, boredom, and inequalities of mounting displacement. Metal trailers used to house people, homemade shacks, and rectangular buildings with sheeted windows pressed up against miles of fencing topped with barbwire.

  Above all of it stood the trunks of electrical poles, brown, skeletal fingers draped in black wires, crisscrossing dry roads that connected districts housing refugees, fatigued fighters, aid workers, and camp organizers.

  To Justice, it all looked like a threat. She’d been told they needed to pass through security to get into the camp, but on this long, dry road, she could see many open places to enter and leave. A thousand porous places to take advantage of people already victimized by circumstance.

  Feeling too much like a war tourist, she turned her eyes away as the old pickup bounced along the road. Warm air rushed through, pushed strands of hair from her ponytail and fluttered it across her face.

  The cab of the old pickup smelled like figs and antiseptic. Stuffed into the back seat between Sandesh and a box of figs, Justice readjusted her legs with a swoosh from her cargo pants. Sandesh readjusted as well.

  Good to see she wasn’t the only hyperaware one. Because, really, could there be any man more suited to wearing sunglasses? Doubtful. The desert wasn’t the only thing hot around here.

  Add to that desert-sand sweatpants that rode low on his lean hips and accented his, uhm, very nice equipment. A dark-blue shirt tight against his chest, sleeves rolled up on biceps that didn’t need to flex to be flexed. And sexy, almost-a-beard stubble. A girl couldn’t help wanting to fan herself.

  His sunglasses blocked the sun and her curious stares, but she could see his nerves. See the soldier coming out as they drove the road parting this bleak, impoverished desert. Their Jordanian contact, Salma, had already explained that there were gangs inside and very dangerous areas within the twelve districts.

  And that explained Sandesh’s weird rules thing on the plane.

  She wasn’t mad. She got it. He thought she did PR for a living. And badly at that. Besides, it worked for her. She didn’t want to be tied to his mission. Ultimately, she needed to be at the hotel—not the hotel she and Sandesh had booked rooms at. No, the hotel where the Brothers Grim were staying. Sandesh’s rules had given her the opportunity she’d needed to make an appearance at the camp and move on.

  But he probably thought she was pissed. She might be if she wasn’t planning on blatantly ignoring his warnings. And if she didn’t feel so damn guilty.

  Guilty for using him. Guilty for involving him. Guilty for kissing him when she knew she was using him, the IPT, and Salma. But he’d just been so damn cute. Wanting to take care of her. As if she needed him to. So funny. Well, he had good intentions.

  And damn, what right did Sandesh have to smell so good in this heat? The musk of him made her want to lean closer. Lick.

  That might get a bit awkward. Especially with Salma—the Jordanian woman who’d created Salma’s Gems—and their driver, her teenage grandson, in the front seat.

  Things were awkward enough. No one really spoke as the dry desert air whooshed through the windows. Sandesh was busy texting his partner at the IPT, a guy named Victor. There had been a flood in the Midwest of the United States and Victor was organizing volunteers and aid, already working with local centers to supply water and clothing.

  The IPT seemed incredibly well organized. Which was the point Sandesh had first made when they’d met. It was easier to organize military personnel used to hitting the road at a moment’s notice.

  She put her hand on the seat to steady herself as the truck bounced to a halt at the inspection station outside of Zaatari Refugee Camp. About time. How would Sandesh make that drive every day? Although, really, it probably wouldn’t be every day. The mission would have Sandesh traveling to different areas. Throw a stone in Jordan, and you were likely to hit a Syrian refugee.

  Her heart tapped Morse code against her chest at the sight of the guards, even though she’d been told not to worry about getting herself and her gun inside.

  Entering legally meant a lot of rules, but there were a lot of ways around those rules. Money, basically.

  Many men paid to enter illegally to look for girls they’d “marry” and then discard when they were done. Or “marry” off into sexual slavery.

  That was why scum like Aamir and Walid were here, to take advantage. It was so huge. No wonder so many women and orphaned girls fell through the cracks, despite the monumental effort of aid organizations, Syrian vigilante groups, and the Jordanians.

  After Salma spoke with a guard, they were waved through. Justice relaxed. Let out a breath. Both she and Sandesh were armed. She watched Sandesh’s hand, which had been fisted at his side, release.

  They bounced into the camp and proceeded slowly down rangy streets and past flapping tents, trailers, and individually constructed buildings, nailed together with sheets of metal and topped with corrugated scraps.

  The white-and-tan UN Refugee Agency tents, trailers, and buildings were dusted with sand, but her eyes caught the bright garments and splashes of colors along these duller patches.

  Color was everywhere. It was in the laundry drying on lines. Splashes of red and blue in hanging painted wooden signs. The trailers themselves had been painted bright and bold. Different colors in the fruit at produce stands, in the awnings of market trailers, in pink rows of plastic sandals on display, and the elaborately colored women’s veils.

  They turned right and traveled down a wide dirt road with people slow to get out of their way. As he drove, Salma’s grandson called out to a few people in greeting. You simply did not rush in a desert.

  Now that the truck had slowed, allowing conversation, Salma turned toward Justice and Sandesh. She was a small woman, bent forward, as if fighting against an unseen wind. She had brown eyes and a white hijab tucked around her face, and a traditional dark-blue dress or abaya.

  She pointed out where the French had set up a hospital on a bustling street filled with one-story buildings, trailers turned into stores, and open fruit stands. “The aid workers call this the Champs-Élysées, like the street in Paris, but most who live here call it simply Market Street.”

  Market Street. Big difference from the one in Philly. This one smelled like humans and cooked zucchini, not car exhaust and steel. People milled about on the long dirt road. Most paid no attention to the truck until it was nearly upon them. Then they moved out of the way with a casual, almost disinterested stride.

  Wires hung in snarled knots and strands on electrical poles were awkwardly congested in places. Atop some of the trailer homes sat satellite dishes.

  Besides the slam of hammers on metal from repairs and construction, the wind made the most noise as it blew through the open truck windows. “I thought it would be noisier.”

  Salma laughed. “You expected bombs? Gunshots and screams?”

  Actually, she had. Salma shook her head. “You will hear those things. And laughter. And prayer. And songs of joy and wails of grief. You will see streaks of aircraft across the blue sky. And plumes of distant smoke. There are many good people here stuck in a very bad situation. People who not too long ago lived a much different life.”

  Justice nodded and looked out at the tents and trailers and briskly erected buildings that stretched for miles. Sandesh seemed to take it all in, asking relevant questions about the organization and the needs of the women i
n Salma’s care.

  A few streets over, through the rows of trailers, she glimpsed children playing soccer.

  Others filled water jugs from a huge red tank, and still others played along the street. A girl, no older than nine, carried a baby on her hip. “There are so many kids here. Kids caring for kids.”

  Salma’s almond-brown eyes flicked down, adjusted something in the front seat as the driver steered past people. “Yes. Many orphans. Which makes it easier for those who wish to take them.”

  A sick sort of anger fisted in Justice’s stomach. Trying to save the women and girls was one thing, but stopping the hands—at least one of the biggest ones—that kept snatching them away was another. She wouldn’t fail. She would not.

  Which meant she had to snap some photos here, interview a couple of women, and make her excuses, because—as Momma would undoubtedly remind her—reconnaissance always comes first.

  Chapter 13

  Inside the trailer that housed Salma’s operation, Sandesh watched Justice interact with the dozen women being taught to do the screen printing for the T-shirts, while others were taught to sew pajama pants and robes. Although, being taught screen printing was a stretch. They had three sewing machines to teach on, but for now only a manual for the screen-printing equipment.

  Still, all the women were eager and attentive. And full of a lightness and purpose that Justice had instantly found her way into the middle of. She sat crossed-legged among the women on the floor, asked questions about the simple pattern they would be using, and joked in Arabic.

  How did she know Arabic? Strange. This woman continued to surprise him. One minute she seemed as tough as nails. Putting him and all men in the world down. The next moment, she was showing him she was both tender and understanding. Sharing secrets with him on the plane, even though he could tell how very much giving those secrets away cost her.

  Here she was, again revealing herself among these women, interacting, engaging, and becoming part of them in the amount of time it would take children to make friends.

  It was like some of the things Justice had shown him, the anger and distance, was all a front. But here was the real Justice. Unblocked by walls. She cared a hell of a lot more than she wanted anyone to know. It was touching.

  And confusing.

  Not because of that kiss, so scorching hot he got hard whenever he thought of it. But because, despite her obvious concern for these women, she’d already begun to distance herself from the operation. And it had started on the plane, even before that kiss, with her telling him she’d spend most of her time at the hotel organizing PR.

  So why come to Jordan? Why not organize PR from the States? That would’ve made more sense, considering the attitude about the structure of the IPT she’d shown in her mother’s office.

  It shouldn’t bother him, but it was almost like she was a war tourist. Here to look around. Or like she was patting him and Salma on the head, saying “Good job” while getting to what she thought was the real work. But that made no sense.

  He watched Justice as she knelt on the floor in the trailer beside a young woman with one arm. The woman showed her designs that would be used for the shirts once they had the equipment. She’d drawn the designs herself. Justice praised her, genuinely praised her, because the woman drew stunning designs.

  Justice cared. He could see that she cared.

  “You have got to stop staring at me.”

  Sandesh’s skin heated as Justice turned those join-me-in-the-dark eyes on him. A few of the English-speaking women laughed at her teasing.

  Sandesh held Justice’s gaze. Mostly because he could think of no way to force himself to stop looking. “Can I have your camera?”

  She raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. She put one hand on her thigh, steadied herself, and took the camera from around her neck. She held the camera out to him. He took it.

  “I mean, if I’m going to stare, I should at least do something a little useful.”

  She eyed him skeptically, but the woman who’d been showing her the designs took the initiative. She moved closer to Justice and put her arm around Justice’s shoulders. And the two of them smiled. He snapped photos as the other women around them showed an interest and posed for the shots.

  The moment seemed full of promise. These women, who’d been through so much, lost so much, even of themselves, had a deep strength. They were ready to take their pain and create a new future.

  But Justice? He couldn’t figure her out.

  Chapter 14

  The Four Seasons in Amman really played up the whole desert aspect. Desert-tan marble floors, walls, ceiling, chairs, and even the uniforms on some of the staff were tan. It made Justice, dressed in all black, stick out like a sore thumb.

  Good thing only her eyes showed.

  She wore the traditional niqab and abaya. A burka, with its mesh screen for the eyes, would’ve made her stand out more here. Most of the Jordanian women wore only the hijab head scarf, nothing over their faces, and had some style going on with jeans or fashionable clothes. She’d opted for an abaya, an all-black, bland, loose-fitting dress.

  Nice thing about the regional customs was a woman assassin didn’t have to work too hard to go undercover. Just pop in a couple of blue contacts and ghost around.

  She sat in a lounge area off to the side of the check-in desk with an open book of Sufi poetry. She didn’t feel even close to poetic. She felt fidgety.

  The Brothers Grim were staying here in a two-bedroom suite for two weeks. Only two weeks. They usually met every two years for at least a month, but had changed plans. They were being awfully cautious. Which made Momma’s paranoid delusions seem that much less paranoid.

  Distress winged up and brushed frantic feathers against Justice’s breastbone. Her meeting with Momma before she’d come here had been damning.

  Not one of her own. Please not that.

  She couldn’t imagine facing a day without one of her four closest siblings.

  But right now, that wasn’t something she could think about. She had other things to worry about. The patched-together plan wasn’t foolproof.

  Sure, Momma had placed a reliable connection at the hotel. A former rescue, who’d get Justice a key to the suite and ID, but not a weapon.

  And Justice couldn’t get a gun past hotel screening, and surely not past whatever security Walid and Aamir would have at the room.

  So she’d be going with plan B. Poison.

  Not too difficult to get a good poison when one of your twenty-eight siblings was a leading chemist at one of the top chemical manufacturers in the world, a.k.a. Parish Group Holdings.

  But it also meant Justice would be vulnerable. She’d have to go in when the Brothers were scheduled to go out. She’d need to get a uniform. She’d have to sneak in for turndown service with nothing but some mints in her pocket. She’d appear harmless. She wouldn’t even have cleaning solution on her.

  Just a little pouch containing a substance that would first make the Brothers sick, like a bad case of food poisoning, and then kill them.

  The poison had been developed from a cyanide derivative. She’d have to put it somewhere the Brothers alone were guaranteed to use. Toothbrush seemed the best option. Momma had said, “It works remarkably fast.”

  It better.

  She just hoped the Brothers’ security thugs wouldn’t find the pouch on her. It wasn’t huge, but large enough to create a bump that could be felt by the guards. And suspicious-looking enough that if she’d had to carry it onto a public plane, she would’ve been sweating bullets. Every assassin should have their own plane.

  Having the pouch and knowing all that could go wrong with poison made her the most nervous. She wished she could’ve had something a little more direct. More deadly. Beggars can’t be choosers. Hotel security was strict. Another reason she’d checked into this hotel under a false i
dentity. That gave her a reason to sit here, scanning the hotel.

  Her eyes perked up as she spotted her prey.

  One of the Brothers. Not Aamir, the slick one who dressed like a GQ model, but the younger one, Walid. Early forties, lanky with the start of a belly; dark-black hair; sharp, brown eyes; and a scar that looked like a rope burn along his neck.

  She watched him sweep across the lobby and near an elevator surrounded by a two-man security detail. His guards seemed casual. Almost too casual. That could work in her favor.

  Walid changed course abruptly. His guards stayed at the elevator, holding it open. What the hell?

  Walid marched directly past Justice’s alcove to get to the concierge. He smelled like expensive cologne.

  Fuckedy fuck. He was so close. She nearly dropped her book and attacked.

  She held steady as Walid, with his raspy voice and oh-so-coy British accent, asked the concierge to change his dinner reservation for tomorrow night, moving it up one hour.

  The concierge didn’t miss a beat interpreting the language. He looked at his watch, as if seeing into the future. “I will do so right away.”

  Walid thanked him, turned on his shiny, black loafer, and went back to the elevator.

  Luck of the Irish or luck of the draw; if there were a deity dedicated to saving women’s lives, that deity had clocked in for Justice.

  Yeah, it meant moving the timeline up on her assassination plan. Ignoring Momma’s reconnaissance-first rule, but this was too good of an opportunity—both Brothers wouldn’t be in their room. If all went according to plan, the Brothers would be dead within forty-eight hours.

  Chapter 15

  Inside his spacious hotel suite, one of Walid’s guards handed a suit for dry cleaning to the hotel staff. It wasn’t until the staffer moved off and the guard kept the door open that Walid noticed him.

  Looking like a Bollywood film star in his buffalo-leather racing jacket over a white V-neck, with his black beard trimmed tight against his sharp jawline, his brown eyes alight with mischief, Aamir strolled into the suite. And brought with him the sun.