Page 19 of Hidden Justice
It’s amazing that she’s already gotten so much done. “I’m so grateful to you, Salma, and thrilled that the money Justice and Mukta have provided will be put to such good use.”
“You and Justice have made a difference that will allow these women and children a better future.” Salma says, nodding at Justice before moving to help one of the women with a sewing machine.
Justice waves away Salma’s praise, seemingly embarrassed by it. She focuses instead on the women she’s helping.
I’m beginning to understand that Justice, the real Justice, cares a hell of a lot more than she wants people to know. It’s touching and a little confusing, as confusing as that kiss on the plane that’d been so scorching hot I get hard thinking about it.
Strange that, just like she pulled away from me on the plane, she’s also begun to distance herself from the reason we’re here, telling me she plans on spending most of her time at the hotel, organizing PR.
If that’s the case, why even come here? She could’ve organized PR in the States. Is she a war tourist, here to look around and gain some street cred? Is she here to pat me and Salma on the head while getting to what she thinks is the real job? Or is she the Parish Princess the media portrays, here to take credit while doing little?
None of that computes. Look at her; she’s genuinely interested in the great designs a young woman with a missing arm is showing her.
“You havegotto stop staring at me,” Justice says.
Busted. My skin heats and a few of the English-speaking women laugh. I should look away, but, honestly, she’s so beautiful I don’t want to. “Can I borrow your camera?”
One of her eyebrows goes up before she shrugs, takes the camera from around her neck, then hands it to me.
I take it. “I mean, if I’m going to stare, I should at least do something a little useful.”
She evaluates me with suspicion, but the woman showing her designs puts her arm around Justice’s shoulders and the two of them smile.
Clicking photos, I’m struck by the hope of this moment. These women, who’ve lost so much, even of themselves, have a strength that humbles me, inspires me. They’re ready to take their pain and create a new future. My bargain with Mukta Parish is already helping to change lives, so in the end, it doesn’t really matter why Justice Parish came here.
13
JUSTICE
Sitting in a lounge area off to the side of the concierge desk, I realize the Four Seasons in Amman really plays up the whole desert theme. Desert-tan marble floors, walls, ceiling, chairs… Even the uniforms on some of the staff are tan. It makes me, dressed in a traditional black niqab and abaya, stick out like a sore thumb. Good thing only my blue eyes—thanks, contacts—show.
It also makes me a bit anonymous, which is what I’m going for. Most of the Jordanian women here wear only a hijab head scarf, nothing over their faces. And they have some serious style with jeans, heels, and fashionable clothes. I’m not interested in fashion. I’m interested in hiding the fact that I’m an undercover assassin, so this outfit works for me.
The concierge passes me with a curious gaze, and I return to the open book of Sufi poetry on my lap. He’s probably wondering why I’m all by my lonesome, but he won’t dare question a guest at this hotel. I checked in under a false name with all the supporting documentation thanks to The Guild.
Two people walk up to the check-in desk, and I do a quick scan. They’re not my prey. Too bad. I only have two weeks to do recon, discover a pattern, and make my move. The Brothers Grim usually meet for at least a month every two years. They’re being awfully cautious by shortening their time together in Jordan. Which makes Momma’s worry about a traitor in the family seem that much less paranoid.
Distress beats like a winged bird against the cage of my chest. I massage the area with the tip of my fingers. Please, God, don’t let it be one of my own, not one of mine. Please, not one of the four in my group.
It’s hard doing this job alone, without any of my four closest siblings. I keep thinking about what tactics Tony would suggest or what insights Dada would have. Keep wanting to text Gracie for cyber backup or hear Bridget’s soothing voice. But I can’t fixate on it right now, because this patched-together, last-minute plan is anything but foolproof.
Sure, Momma was able to place a reliable connection at the hotel. A former rescue, who’ll get me a key to the suite and ID, but that’s where her help ends.
With the security around the hotel, not to mention around the Brothers, I definitely couldn’t get a gun into the room. Poison, it is.
I’ll go in dressed as staff for turndown service and hope their security won’t feel the packet on me. The packet is substantial enough to take up my palm, so that’s an issue. I’m working on a solution.
Holy shit. I spy with my little eye a soon-to-be-dead guy.
One of the brothers. Not Aamir, the slick one who dresses like aGQmodel, but the younger, uglier one, Walid. Early forties, dark-black hair, sharp brown eyes, and a rope burn scar on his neck.
According to the dossier my family compiled on Dead Man Walking across the hotel lobby, the neck burn was left by his father who’d tried to kill him. Aamir had saved his brother, which, unsurprisingly, made Walid a fan for life. A super fan from what I hear.
Walid would do anything for his brother, including killing his own father. Which is how the two of them got free and moved to England—where they promptly became victims of another, more violent man. Who they also killed.
The brothers are survivors. Survivors who became convinced the only way out was to make other people victims. Kind of opposite of the way The Guild operates.
I can almost hear Bridget’s voice telling me that the brothers didn’t have The Guild to rescue them and maybe they’d made choices based on fear, desperation, and need. Sure, Bridge, they need to hurt and kill others, like Hope, so that they would feel safe and superior. What about now? Wealthy and vicious, they continue their abuse based on greed and entitlement and misogyny. And a system that gladly looks the other way.