Chapter 44

The headquarters for the International Peace Team was in a suburb outside of Philly. It was a beautiful building with a sunlight-fed, plant-filled, tree-lined, decorative atrium.

As he entered the Conshohocken building, Sandesh loosened his neck noose. To his mind, ties were a way to make men uneasy, reminding them to choke back any spark of individuality.

He made his way over to the elevator. The phone in his pocket rang. He pulled it out, looked at the screen. Leland. “Yeah.”

“I see you are at the IPT.”

So this was how it was going to go—weighty reminders that he was being watched. How I Know What You Did Last Summer. Sandesh wasn’t in the mood. “Yep. I’m at my place of employment, my business.” Because he wasn’t a prisoner as much as these people wanted to think he was. Bad enough he had to keep looking over his shoulder for Walid and his men.

“What are you doing there?”

“Actually, I was just headed upstairs to prepare my press statement on global covert Parish family activities. Can I get a statement from you?”

There was a pause hard and solid enough to feel like a punch to the gut. “Don’t let this get messy, Sandesh. We care about Justice. We’d hoped you did too.”

Was that a threat to Justice? Sandesh swallowed the instant gonna-eat-you-up-and-spit-you-out fist rising in his throat. “Look, Leland, we both understand the situation. I’m on your side.” For now.

Another weighty pause. Like an orca circling a seal. “Can you still make it to dinner tonight?”

“I’ve already got it penciled in on my company calendar as a meeting with the head of a secret society.”

Leland actually snorted what sounded like a laugh, then hung up.

Sandesh looked at his phone. Before this call, he was wavering on doing what he was about to do, but Leland’s threat to Justice, even as mild as it was, sent his defend-and-conquer genes scrambling. He was going to find out everything he could about this family.

* * *

The elevator jerked to a stop at his floor. The doors opened, revealing a wall of steel-framed black-and-white photographs. And Victor.

Brown hair buzzed down to military attention, khaki slacks, and a screen-printed T-shirt with a colorful logo of a woman twirling, arms outstretched. Victor had the sleeves rolled up to reveal biceps that meant business and a Death Before Dishonor tattoo. He whistled at Sandesh’s suit and winked. “Oh, Sandy. If I were into discipline, I’d be all over you.”

Sandesh shook his head. What was it with his bisexual friend? He flirted like he had an agenda to make everyone in the world shake off their uptight restrictions. “I appreciate the love, man. Especially since I pretty much abandoned you for two weeks.”

They turned together and walked down the hall into the suite of offices.

“Forget it, Sandman. How’s things with Momma Warbucks?”

“Actually, we’re going to need to talk about that.” He gave Victor a look. “In my office.”

Inside the blue-carpeted reception area, seated at her half-moon desk, their receptionist, Myrtle, was on the phone. Sandesh nodded hello but didn’t slow down.

The moment he entered his corner office, Sandesh realized the office wasn’t as he’d left it. Clean.

Three gray-and-red-striped chairs pulled out around a table with two tablets and multiple files scattered across it.

Sandesh’s U-shaped desk was also covered with files. Looked like much of the staff had been here late yesterday organizing volunteers. Sandesh had no idea why his office was the one people gravitated to, but apparently it happened even when he wasn’t here.

Victor put a hand on Sandesh’s shoulder. “Okay, big guy, that’s a lot of brooding silence. Should I pull a fire alarm?”

He really hated to do this to Victor, who’d already done so much for him. “I know you’re the last person I should be asking, but I need a favor.”

“Hey, my currency is favors. But tell me this isn’t about one of those Parish sisters?”

Sandesh slipped behind his desk, put his keys and personal cell atop a stack of files, and plopped into his leather swivel. “No. I mean. Yes. I guess.”

Victor tugged at his pants and sat on an edge of Sandesh’s desk. “Which one?”

For a moment, Sandesh’s mind went blank. Which one? The only one that mattered. He stared through the thick glass windows that muted the sound of cars on the Schuykill Expressway as they shot past on their gleaming way to the city.

“Dude, tell me it’s not that mad scientist Kenyan. That chemist chick has a patent on some sort of mind serum shit. She’s selling that to the government.”

“You’re paranoid.” At least he hoped he was. “And no. It’s Justice.”

“Oh. The hot Native American chick. I’d let her beat my war drum.”

Sandesh swiveled toward Victor, held up one finger. “Don’t.”

That was it. One word. Victor’s entire demeanor changed. He met Sandesh’s eyes and nodded. Warned. Backing off.

Good.

Sandesh didn’t want Justice compressed into anything. Not into a race. Not into a woman. Not into a hot woman. Not into anything that identified her in a way that let her be simplified.

It seemed wrong. Like calling the Pope a religious guy.

Victor had the oddest smile on his lips. What was that about? Sandesh scowled. The grin disappeared. Victor busied himself by picking up the bronze Wounded Warrior statue from the desk, turning it over.

“What favor?”

“I know you have connections.” Victor grunted. Yeah, it was like saying Bill Gates had money. “So can you see what you can dig up on Mukta Parish and the Mantua Academy? And four of the Parish family?”

Sandesh began to write down the names of Justice’s suspect siblings. Gracie topped his list. Chick didn’t trust anyone. To his mind, that was a trait of someone who couldn’t be trusted.

Victor raised a hand to take the list. Sandesh pulled it back. “Can you make that five?”

Though he wasn’t a sibling, Leland went on the list.

“Yeah.” Victor took the paper. “Easy enough. I know someone. Former NSA. She owes me a favor. Or six.”

Sandesh pointed at Victor’s shirt. “Is that one of ours?”

Victor put the list down and nodded. “Yep. The screen-printing equipment arrived and the women are busy making shirts in Jordan. It’s beautiful, right? A Syrian woman designed it, got only one arm. One fucking arm.”

“Yeah. I know. I met her. She’s incredible.” And she wasn’t the only one. All of the women there had been fixated on the opportunity to make things better. Turned out Syrians didn’t give up easy. He was glad Salma’s work was still continuing. “So they’re okay at the warehouse?”

“Yeah. You were right about Mukta. First she helped shut down and evacuate Salma’s entire operation—and you have to tell me how you managed to get yourself kicked out of Zaatari—then she rented a warehouse in Amman under the guise of a bakery. We’re planning on selling the shirts online. Now that we have the funds to begin manufacturing.”

Sandesh felt the weight of this entanglement settle in his chest. They’d been at this for a year. And he had no problem with volunteers. No problem with organizations to partner with. But he hadn’t been able to get the attention and funding they needed until Mukta.

And now, that gift horse might just screw everything else up.

Sandesh put his hand on the sleeve of his jacket, over his SF tattoo. A scar cut it in half. He’d gotten it during a jump gone wrong. It reminded him that sometimes you had to battle your way to the battle.