left.
When the wave of nausea had passed, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and stood. The clock was still ticking, and time wasn’t her friend.
She closed the computer, tucked it under her arm, and moved to the stairs. After a final look around, she climbed up without looking back, listening with ringing ears for any sound of new arrivals.
Upstairs, she retrieved her bag and donned the soaking wet burka with numb fingers, putting the laptop in its place in the duffel, which she then zipped closed. The rain was hammering on the windows, the last of the storm pummeling the house, and she could only hope that it would slow any patrol sent to investigate the shooting – assuming anyone had reported it. Her weapon was suppressed, but the imam’s men’s weapons hadn’t been.
Then again, in the depths of a dangerous slum, it was possible that the denizens didn’t welcome the police for any reason, not wishing to visit grief upon themselves.
She’d know soon enough.
Maya pulled the front door open and stepped into the downpour. Muddy water stood in the yard at least two inches deep, and the wet ground squished as she walked quickly to the front gate. She unbolted it and eased out into the street, which was now a river of mud and effluence that carried trash and filth down the slight grade to the gutters many blocks away.
The only figure on the street was a three-legged dog, scrawny, its ribs jutting through its patchy fur, standing like a sentinel at the corner. Her eyes met the soaked animal’s and she picked up her pace, leaving the misery and ugliness of the imam’s torture chamber behind her, even though she knew the sight of Gil’s violated form would visit her nightmares forever.
Chapter 17
Manchester, England
Cliques of drunken fans yelled and cursed one another as they left the stadium after the match was over, Manchester having won by one point. Abreeq looked up from the sink where he was scrubbing pots and watched as the ill-behaved fools trudged to their cars, or to parties, or the local pubs, which would be packed with the louts until closing time.
The supervisor, Cliff, a particularly loathsome example of central English inbreeding, appeared by Abreeq’s side and snarled at him, as he’d been doing most of the night.
“An’ what do you think yer looking at, Omar?” he asked, his breath sour with halitosis. Cliff had been calling Abreeq ‘Omar’ all night, a not particularly clever slight he’d taken great pains to explain to Abreeq. “I don’t think any of those blokes would want one of your tents! Right, lads? Omar the tentmaker here best do his bloody job and stop poncing about, shirking, or he’s going to find himself out in the cold, isn’t he?”
Abreeq couldn’t afford even the faintest hint of rebellion or insult, so instead of ripping the buffoon’s throat out and beating him over the head with it as he died, he lowered his eyes and returned to his task. “Sorry, boss,” he mumbled softly.
“Well, don’t let it happen again, or I’ll dock you half the night’s pay, you laggard. I don’t want to be here till tomorrow. Hurry up and stop stalling.”
Abreeq renewed his attack on the pots, biting back the oath that sprang to his lips. Cliff was a bully, and like all bullies, reveled in being able to pick on those he supervised. In a position of power, a man like Cliff made up for every shortcoming he had by doling out misery.
Abreeq had known many bullies in his time, and he recognized the breed. There were hundreds in prison, and there they preyed on the young and defenseless.
Just like Cliff.
The man knew how hard it was to get steady work, and he knew that short of beating the members of his staff, they’d suck it up and take it, and not say a word to anyone. Nobody working to scrub slag from plates or mop up spillings or peel vegetables in the back of the house would dare complain. The outcome of protest was as preordained as their lowly stations
When the wave of nausea had passed, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and stood. The clock was still ticking, and time wasn’t her friend.
She closed the computer, tucked it under her arm, and moved to the stairs. After a final look around, she climbed up without looking back, listening with ringing ears for any sound of new arrivals.
Upstairs, she retrieved her bag and donned the soaking wet burka with numb fingers, putting the laptop in its place in the duffel, which she then zipped closed. The rain was hammering on the windows, the last of the storm pummeling the house, and she could only hope that it would slow any patrol sent to investigate the shooting – assuming anyone had reported it. Her weapon was suppressed, but the imam’s men’s weapons hadn’t been.
Then again, in the depths of a dangerous slum, it was possible that the denizens didn’t welcome the police for any reason, not wishing to visit grief upon themselves.
She’d know soon enough.
Maya pulled the front door open and stepped into the downpour. Muddy water stood in the yard at least two inches deep, and the wet ground squished as she walked quickly to the front gate. She unbolted it and eased out into the street, which was now a river of mud and effluence that carried trash and filth down the slight grade to the gutters many blocks away.
The only figure on the street was a three-legged dog, scrawny, its ribs jutting through its patchy fur, standing like a sentinel at the corner. Her eyes met the soaked animal’s and she picked up her pace, leaving the misery and ugliness of the imam’s torture chamber behind her, even though she knew the sight of Gil’s violated form would visit her nightmares forever.
Chapter 17
Manchester, England
Cliques of drunken fans yelled and cursed one another as they left the stadium after the match was over, Manchester having won by one point. Abreeq looked up from the sink where he was scrubbing pots and watched as the ill-behaved fools trudged to their cars, or to parties, or the local pubs, which would be packed with the louts until closing time.
The supervisor, Cliff, a particularly loathsome example of central English inbreeding, appeared by Abreeq’s side and snarled at him, as he’d been doing most of the night.
“An’ what do you think yer looking at, Omar?” he asked, his breath sour with halitosis. Cliff had been calling Abreeq ‘Omar’ all night, a not particularly clever slight he’d taken great pains to explain to Abreeq. “I don’t think any of those blokes would want one of your tents! Right, lads? Omar the tentmaker here best do his bloody job and stop poncing about, shirking, or he’s going to find himself out in the cold, isn’t he?”
Abreeq couldn’t afford even the faintest hint of rebellion or insult, so instead of ripping the buffoon’s throat out and beating him over the head with it as he died, he lowered his eyes and returned to his task. “Sorry, boss,” he mumbled softly.
“Well, don’t let it happen again, or I’ll dock you half the night’s pay, you laggard. I don’t want to be here till tomorrow. Hurry up and stop stalling.”
Abreeq renewed his attack on the pots, biting back the oath that sprang to his lips. Cliff was a bully, and like all bullies, reveled in being able to pick on those he supervised. In a position of power, a man like Cliff made up for every shortcoming he had by doling out misery.
Abreeq had known many bullies in his time, and he recognized the breed. There were hundreds in prison, and there they preyed on the young and defenseless.
Just like Cliff.
The man knew how hard it was to get steady work, and he knew that short of beating the members of his staff, they’d suck it up and take it, and not say a word to anyone. Nobody working to scrub slag from plates or mop up spillings or peel vegetables in the back of the house would dare complain. The outcome of protest was as preordained as their lowly stations
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