Chapter 21

Justice arrived on the fourteenth floor shortly after Walid and Aamir’s scheduled dinner. She wore the crisp white shirt, black vest, white gloves, and sleek tie of a maid as she walked down the hallway lined with exclusive suites.

Even if she hadn’t had the room number, she’d have known the room. Two bodyguards stood outside the door.

Her heart sped up. She took in and let out a slow, controlled breath. She tried to appear harmless—just maid service here to shut the curtains and turn down the beds.

She plastered a smile on her face, grateful for the prosthetics that made her nose and chin larger. That, the change of eye color—she’d gone with Egyptian gold—and the addition of braces and wig made a decent disguise.

One of the guards waved her to stop. She noticed the bulk under his jacket. Both guards were armed. In Spanish-accented English, one asked her what she wanted.

She pointed to her mouth. She opened her mouth and showed them her braces and her damaged tongue. The men cringed.

As well they should; that bit of F/X hurt like hell. The steel wires holding down her tongue pinched her gums at the metal bracers attached to her teeth. Still, it didn’t hurt as badly as her Arabic. And even if she’d known they understood English, she wouldn’t have wanted to be remembered as someone who spoke English.

One of the guards commented to the other that it was “disgusting.”

The other guard nodded as he patted her down, thoroughly. In some countries, probably this one, that pat down would have been enough to consider them married.

He waved toward the door. “Go.”

Stepping forward, she used the key card Momma had provided.

One of the guards, touchy-feely, walked in behind her. Expected.

He called to the interior guard, and they exchanged information. The inside guard had a Russian accent. Okay. Did anyone in this country still speak Arabic? The hall guard exited.

The thin, angular interior guard watched her move across the central room, the living area. It was opulent, even by Parish standards. With thick velvet drapes that extended floor to ceiling, a large chandelier, velvet couches, a dining table, and a full bar.

She closed the drapes, found the engraved silver lighter behind the bar, and lit the candles along the dining table, then moved into the bedroom.

The guard didn’t follow her but told her to leave the door open. She did.

The guard’s interest flitted from her to the other bedroom and back to her. She turned down the bed, then, spotting a pair of brown shoes on the floor, she shook her head as if lamenting men and their barbarous ways. She walked the shoes into the closet.

Once inside, she reached under the wig and pulled out the slim packet that contained the poison. She handled the pod with care, though she knew it would take more than just squeezing it to open. It required something sharper.

She left the closet and slipped into the bathroom. Fiddling with her braces, she removed the metal wire. Her hands, covered with the traditional white gloves with rubber gloves underneath, began to shake.

Instinctively, she held her breath, though the poison needed to be ingested. She squeezed a small drop on the only toothbrush present. It seeped quickly into the bristles.

Now came the hard part. She palmed the wire and the packet and moved to the bedside table, careful to keep her back to the man. She finished turning down the bed.

One more.

She walked into the living area. The Russian guard now sat at the bar. He turned to her as she crossed to the other bedroom. “Be quick in there,” he said. She nodded.

It wasn’t until she was in the room that she realized why the guard wanted her to be quick.

The shower was on. It went off while she stood there. Justice’s heart lurched forward and began to pound. The bathroom door opened. Steam wafted out along with Aamir followed by a girl with long, damp, blond hair.

Hope?

No. Not Hope. Hope was dead. And the man who had killed her, who had raped and murdered her, stood here now. Naked.

And the girl. She couldn’t have been more than twelve. She was naked too. She shook, kept her eyes down. Aamir smiled when he saw Justice, smiled as if shame and evil didn’t really exist. He strutted past Justice and told the girl, who hesitated at the bathroom doorway, to get into the bed. The girl made a small, despairing sound, then obeyed.

Aamir didn’t cover himself. Justice didn’t move. He raised one eyebrow. He passed close enough that she could see the water droplets on his eyebrows.

In Arabic, with his creepy British accent, he said, “It’s okay. We’re married.”

Mother. Fucker.

She grimaced. All teeth and temper.