Page 10 of Hidden Justice
5
JUSTICE
Morning sunlight blasts through the conference room’s forty-foot floor-to-ceiling windows, glimmering across the glass table, the steel and leather swivel chairs, and crystal chandelier. And me without my sunglasses or any idea what I’m doing in here.
Damn Leland. He marched me in here, refusing to answer any of my questions, ordered me to take a seat, and exited discreetly. Man does everything discreetly. Pretty sure he’s even a stealth pooper.
I stand when the conference room door swings open and Momma enters, a billow of veils, a jingle of jewelry, and a whiff of Une Rose perfume. That heady Turkish rose layered over earthy mountain soil that so represents Momma brings me comfort.
I kiss her lightly on her silk-covered cheek. She sits in the chair opposite me, then crosses her legs. “I’m sure you’ve realized that I have provided a cover for your Jordan trip.”
For a woman who hides her face, Momma can be incredibly direct. She can also be exactly the opposite. She’s tricky that way.
“Yeah. I noticed the hot humanitarian in your office. Kind of big to miss.”
“And I can imagine you are wondering why I’d send your team an email stating there would be a delay when I am providing the cover. A cover that will put you in Jordan within the week.”
The week? “Yeah. Why?”
Momma fiddles with the numerous bracelets on her wrist, twisting them against her brown-skin before releasing them. She lets out a breath so heavy it seems expelled from the nethermost regions of her soul. The rose niqab moves with her breath. “I need to tell you something. Something painful.”
My heart begins to fence with my ribs. Momma doesn’t do drama. She’s telling me to prepare.
I steel myself, nod to let her know I’m ready.
“I believe we have a traitor among us.”
How do you prepare for a punch to the gut? My hand flies to my churning stomach. “Us? The Guild, us?” The stunned words emerge with barely any sound. I shiver as my blood plummets below cold, past chilled, and down to arctic. “No. You’re jumping at shadows.”
As erect as the Eiffel Tower and as self-assured, Momma says, “No, I’m not. I’ve managed to keep this organization a secret for forty years, and my instinct tells me the fact that the Brothers Grim changed the location of their meeting to a place where we have few resources is not mere coincidence.”
“It’s someone in Internal Security then? Someone hired to help with organization, strategy, or contacts. Not family.”
Momma’s gaze softens as it lands on Leland, who stands beyond these glass walls with Sandesh by the reception desk, looking over some papers.
As head of The Guild’s tactical security and Momma’s oldest friend, Leland knows more about Momma and her secrets than any person alive. But I’ve often wondered if there’s more to them than that. They’re so close. But intimate? I can’t imagine it. Not Momma. Never that.
She turns back to me. “Leland has cleared Internal. Though there was little need. The information on your mission was given to a limited few.”
A limited few? Besides Leland and a few in Internal, the only other people who know about the mission are…
No. My stomach rolls over so far and fast, I have to swallow to control my rising nausea. “You suspect someone in my unit?”
Even saying it feels like a betrayal.
In numbers, the Parish family could give the Kennedys a run for their money. Except all twenty-eight of my siblings are adopted. I’m loyal to them all. But my unit, the four I’ve trained with, played with, fought with, attended classes with at the Mantua Academy, are the ones I’m closest with—Tony, Dada, Gracie, and Bridget.
“Why would you think that?” It isn’t true. Can’t be. I escaped people like that. People like my maternal grandmother. Every member of my unit knows how much this mission means to me. And, like me, they’ve sacrificed and trained for years to make it happen.
“When dealing with the most injured of society, the group dynamic won’t always supersede the instinct for self-preservation.”
That’s bullshit. “Why? Not for money. We have plenty.”
“I don’t rule out money. Not everyone is comfortable working within The Guild, being paid by Parish Industries.”
She’s talking about Gracie. “Not Gracie. No way. She makes plenty of money at her club, which is also a great cover for her.”
Momma looks beyond me, outside at the city as the sun’s light blushes against her niqab. “I can think of many other reasons. Money and therapy and purpose can’t always root out stigma, shame, or the lingering need for self-harm. Those latent feelings could’ve been transferred to The Guild or me. Instead of introspection, one of my children might have latched onto deflection or resentment.”