“You’re an angel,” whispered Galang.
“And you’re the best kind of devil,” she whispered back.
They gave each other one last squeeze and then released. Galang retrieved his bag and headed for the door.
“Don’t forget to tell Aafreen I say hi,” said Zia. “And thanks again for the pizza.”
Galang looked back over his shoulder. “Don’t forget to cut yourself some slack.”
Zia settled the bill and decided to walk home. Their “hotel” was more like a barracks and she wanted some time to think before running into Himmat and the rest of her overworked team. The night was hot and humid. The pizza was heavy and awkward to carry. She could taste the mineral funk of soil on the breeze. The gibbous moon shone through a thin sheen of clouds—reminding her, as the moon always did, of sitting beside her father at his beloved shortwave radio set, learning how enthusiasts bounced signals off the lunar surface to communicate across oceans and continents. Beneath the pulsing cricket song, memory’s chorus swelled, serenading her meander down forking paths through the garden of the mind. That was why, despite her security training, it took Zia so long to notice that she was being followed.
+
8
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The man was two blocks behind her. Zia wouldn’t have noticed except that she glanced up at a chaotic bundle of electrical lines pirating electricity from the grid and saw movement in her peripheral vision. Maybe he was just another pedestrian walking home after a long day’s work. But the café she and Galang had just left was the last thing open in the village and there was no night life here to speak of.
Paranoia is your first line of defense, she remembered the friendly smile and hard eyes of the Interstice security coach. Once you second guess yourself, it’s already too late. Acting on a bad vibe might waste a little time. Failing to act might just cost you your life. Tennis. Math. Boarding school. Company events. Security training had been just another hoop her dad was forcing her to jump through.
Zia turned right at the next corner. It was probably nothing. But better to be sure before reaching the border of town and setting off up the country road to the hotel. She forced herself to slow her breathing. Everything was going to be fine. She was just amped up. Seeing Galang had momentarily revived the emotional rollercoaster of her teenage years.
She turned right again at the next corner and then doubled back to peer through the drooping foliage of a pepper tree. Nothing. Just an empty street in a sleepy town. Inhale. Exhale. Relax. Far off, she heard the whine of a motorbike over the cricket choir. She’d loop back around the block and continue on to the hotel, maybe join Himmat for a glass of arak and laugh about her little freak-out. The hairs on the back of her neck rose. Through the veil of hanging stems studded with pink peppercorns, she saw a figure jog around the corner after her. Then a second figure appeared from the direction toward which she’d been walking.
Shit.
She turned and hurried up the street, heart hammering like it was trying to escape her ribcage. If she had forgotten something at the café and a member of the staff was trying to return it, then who was the second pursuer? Could Galang have been followed, was he trying to set her up? But why? And for what? No. Paranoia was a useful tool, but left unchecked, it would paralyze her. Perhaps the Indian Intelligence Bureau had put her under surveillance, egged on by Governor Rao? Could be. Maybe an organized crime outfit was hoping to hold her for ransom and loosen daddy’s purse strings? Always a possibility. But Occam’s razor would suggest that her stalkers might just be angry young men, embittered by lack of prospects, looking to teach the foreign woman a lesson with a good beating and a side of rape.
Zia accelerated into a jog and catalogued her assets. There wasn’t much. Phone, but no time to call for help. Pizza, but whoever was chasing her probably wouldn’t be won over even by Zachary’s. She threw a glance back over her shoulder and saw the two men emerge from beneath the pepper tree. A few blocks behind them, a headlight tracked across the cinder block buildings as a motorbike turned onto the street.
Fear curdled in Zia’s gut, and she weaponized it, transmuted it into fury, used it to fuel her churning legs. She was a León. Whoever they were, she wasn’t going to make this easy for them. One more block, and she turned right again, shaking the hair out of her eyes. One last right and she was back where she’d started, banging into the café, shouting a warning at the shocked proprietor, ducking behind the counter and barging back through the kitchen, out the back door, and up the dark alley, squeezing into an alcove in the scarred wall of a mud brick building.
Had they seen her? Laundry fluttered on lines strung up over the alley, textile ghosts haunting a tropical night. She strained to listen over the throbbing bassline of her heartbeat. Only now did she realize that the kitchen must have had knives. She cursed herself for failing to grab one.
Shouts out on the street. Maybe her ploy had worked. Maybe they’d give up, decide to try another night. The whine of the motorbike was joined by the roar of a larger engine. Zia laid the pizza box on the ground, opened it, and picked up one aluminum-wrapped half in each hand. The frozen pizza immediately numbed her fingers. She hefted them. Better than nothing. Why had she so adamantly rejected her father’s repeated demands that she accept a personal bodyguard? Was her pride, her perceived autonomy, worth so much? The fierce joy of freedom won crumbled to dust at the prospect of actual violence.
Zia’s entire body clenched as a shot rang out. Then another one. Guns? What the fuck was going on? Why were they shooting? Who were they shooting at? More shouting. Footsteps pounded up the alley. The beam of a flashlight swung wildly, stabbing at billowing laundry and rotting garbage.
Zia had to do something. She couldn’t just wait here and get captured. She estimated when the footsteps would reach her hiding place, then heaved one half of the pizza up and over the alley. It thunked into the opposite wall and fell into the dust. The man charging up the alley grunted in surprise, spun to aim his flashlight and pistol at the source of the sound, and yelled, “Stop, don’t move!”
Zia leapt from her hiding place and brought the other half of the pizza around in a vicious forehand swing. Follow through, her dad yelled at her as they ran drills on the clay court. Seeing that he’d been fooled, the large man turned back toward her just as five pounds of frozen deep dish connected with his face, crushing his nose and snapping his head back. He toppled back into the dust with a heavy thump.
Her chest rose and fell. Icy adrenaline surged through her veins. In the light of his own flashlight, Zia could see the man was dressed in matte black clothes that definitely weren’t local. For a brief moment she considered stooping down to scoop up his gun. But the man was already writhing on the ground, trying to find his bearings and wipe the blood from his eyes. She needed to move, to get out of here, to find a hole to disappear into until she could figure out what was going on.
An arm locked around her throat.
“Gotcha,” a voice rasped in her ear.
Zia tore at the arm with her fingers, but it just tightened around her neck like a vice. She tried to punch behind her with her elbows but struck only glancing blows.
“That’s enough,” said the voice. “It’ll go easier for you if you just relax. This should help.”