Page 114 of Countdown
Letter from Lynette
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyedCountdownas much as I enjoyed writing it! Raina and Vince stayed with me long after I finished, and their story was a great way to wrap up the Extreme Measures series. While my publisher and I prepare the launch of a brand-new series, coming in January 2024, I wanted to share another writer I think you’ll enjoy—Natalie Walters. Natalie, Lynn Blackburn, and I worked together on a terrific novella collection,Targeted—if you haven’t picked it up yet, please do! In the meantime, here’s the first chapter ofLights Out, from book 1 in Natalie’s SNAP Agency series. Enjoy!
Lynette
Sneak Peek ofLights Out
CHAPTER
ONE
MA’ADI, SUBURB OF CAIRO, EGYPT
3:17 PM TUESDAY, JANUARY 13
Seif El-Deeb watched the noisy trio of American boys cross the street away from Cairo American College. The international school had just let out for the afternoon, and the sound of privileged children laughing about their day mingled with the horns of waiting drivers and taxis trying to navigate the afternoon congestion.
“Seif, you will send your child to this school?”
The old man behind the wooden counter of the koshk laughed at his own question, causing the cigarette at his lips to bounce. Seif ignored the vendor as the man continued chuckling while he straightened the rows of chips and snacks.
Toying with the metal band around his finger, Seif shook his head. Mostly to himself. The vendor already knew the answer, which was why he was laughing. CAC was a private school with a tuition rate only the wealthiest Egyptians could afford. Andforeigners. Especially Americans. Or the grandchildren of the former president.
Seif eyed the twelve-foot cement wall surrounding the school. Iron paling embedded at the top gave the impression of a fortress, as did the private security officers positioned at the front and rear entrances to monitor every student, parent, and visitor entering or leaving. Their presence had doubled since the protests against President Talaat began more than a year ago. A promise by both the school and the president that these children would be kept safe at all costs.
A fortress of education and protection Seif’s son or daughter would never know.
Lighting his own cigarette, Seif stepped aside as the three American boys walked up to the street kiosk and purchased candy. One of them, a blond, set the Egyptian bill on the worn and splintered counter just as a breeze came through, lifting the money into the air. The boys laughed as the old man scrambled for it, none of them helping as they took their candy and walked away.
Seif hurried, following the money as it floated in the air over the busy intersection. Ignoring the blaring horns and shouts, he stepped into the street and caught the bill before it flew farther away.
“Shukraan.” The vendor thanked him before tucking the money into a box. “These kids do not know how fortunate they are. Allah has blessed them, and they forget it can be taken away.”
Taking a long drag from his cigarette, Seif continued to watch the boys make their way to a large, white Toyota Sequoia. The heavythunkof the door closing after they crawled in told Seif the vehicle was weighed down with armor.
Allah has blessed them. What about him? Or his wife, Heba? Or his child she was currently carrying? Where was Allah’s blessing for them? He’d been good. Memorized the tenets of theQuran, fasted for Ramadan, never missed a call to prayer, and yet here he was working two jobs just to provide for his family.
A business card burned inside his pocket. Fishing it out, he rolled the curled edges back and studied it.
Mahmoud Farag
+20 010 1251 175
Just a name and a number. The card left on the seat of his work van three weeks ago. Seif assumed it was job related, someone wanting zabbato. A favor. Street deal. As a technician for Nile Telecom, Seif had discovered that while he did not possess the kind of education protected by a fortified wall, he possessed a job that gave him favor. Those zabbatos were what kept Heba happy, safe, and out of the squalor he grew up in.
He dropped the finished cigarette to the ground and smashed it with the toe of his shoe. “Mas salama.”
“En shallah,” the old man responded.
God willing. Yes, that was the hope, but the funny thing about hope was that it seemed to be selective—blessing those with the wealth to afford it, the power to control it, or the will to fight for it.
Seif’s mobile rang. The number matched that on the card. Did he have the will to fight for it? For himself, he’d grown up suffering. For Heba, she was not his first choice when it came to their arrangement, but he was slowly coming to love her. But for his child, the ever-present ache in his chest pulsed. For his child, he’d do whatever it took.
Spitting the taste of tobacco from his mouth, Seif answered.
“Al salamo aalaykom.”