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THE MAN IN the white suit wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief and scanned the crowded market. He didn’t recognize anyone, but that didn’t mean anything. The organization had a long reach with many supporters, and had watchers everywhere. Pulling the brim of his hat down, he made his way through the milling throng, attempting to blend into the chaos of Tripoli’s oldest and most popular souk.
He’d made it to the edge of the crowd and was about to disappear into the rabbit warren of passages that made up the medina when he saw them. A quick glance to his left confirmed his fear—two intimidating looking men, both with telltale bulges beneath their jackets, were threading their way toward him at a rapid pace.
Cursing the visibility of his white suit, he dove into the crowd in the opposite direction, barreling past vendors and shoppers, stirring up a wake of angry people. Before he could stop himself, he slammed into an older woman carrying a basket. The basket tipped, spilling its burnt-orange contents to the ground. The fragrant, dusty-sweet scent of turmeric enveloped them both as he blindly muscled his way past her, trampling the spice with his expensive shoes. The woman barely had time to react before he was gone. He didn’t bother to apologize.
I’ve got to get the phone to Paul.
His singlemindedness drove him on as he raced past tables of brass and copper. He chanced a quick look behind him and his heart stuttered. The gunmen were closing in.
He had to do something.
He tucked his chin and poured it on, shoving people out of the way and knocking a young girl flat on her ass. He ignored her and rushed past, fervently praying for a miracle.
“Hey! Watch out,” she yelled after him.
The passageway branched in three directions. He flew past the first and careened down the second.
And pulled up short.
The deserted passageway was a dead end. Shit! Nothing but closed doors and barred windows. He pivoted wildly, willing an escape route to materialize, knowing that retracing his steps would be suicide. Moments later, a pair of footsteps echoed around the corner behind him followed by the unmistakable click of the hammer being drawn back on a revolver. Slowly he turned. The two men stood not five yards away, guns aimed at center mass.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the young girl he’d smashed into. Eyes wide, she poked her head around the edge of the corridor. Go away, kid. You don’t want to see this. He groped for his jacket pocket, but his hand hit empty.
The phone wasn’t there. His thoughts raced. Did he lose it back in the medina? No, the pocket was too deep for it to just fall out on its own. He thought back to his mad dash through the market and zeroed in on the old woman with the basket, then discarded the idea as soon as it emerged.
The kid.
He closed his eyes. There was nothing he could do. He was a dead man. They would never let him live after what he’d done. Sweat rolled down his neck and slid along his back. He lifted his hands, palms up, to show them he wasn’t armed. Too late, he realized it didn’t matter.
The loud bang! echoed off the plaster walls, followed by searing pain that split him in half. He doubled over, clutching his chest. His hand came away wet and warm with his blood. He fell to his knees as the two thugs moved in, reaching him as he sagged to the ground. He opened his mouth, trying to suck in a breath, any breath, but all he could manage was a pathetically shallow gasp. The bigger gunman searched his coat and pants. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, the thug kicked him in the ribs, sending excruciating pain radiating through his body.
“Where is the phone?”
The man in the white suit sucked in one last, tiny breath. Blood bubbled between his lips as the light began to fade. The gunman said something else that he couldn’t understand. His voice sounded like he was speaking in a long tunnel...
Then everything went black.
~ ~ ~
JINN GASPED AND COVERED her mouth. The two men heard her and both looked up at once. Heart thudding in her ears, she tore away from the deadly scene and raced back toward the market. She’d be safe there. She’d memorized all its nooks and crannies, and a lot of the shopkeepers knew and liked her. Especially when she brought them valuable items they could sell.
Her hand closed around the cell phone she’d lifted from the man in the white suit after he’d slammed into her. It was a newer model of a popular brand and would bring a good price. But the pick had been easy, too easy. She was a master of distraction, but he’d already been distracted. Now she knew why.
Jinn was no stranger to violence—two years of living on the streets of Tripoli had taught her a lot about human nature, and it wasn’t all good. But she’d never seen anyone shoot someone down in cold blood.
And now they knew she’d seen them.
A fresh dose of fear spurred her on, giving wings to her feet, as she dove into the public market and the anonymity of the crowd. She weaved in and out of the throng of shoppers, not daring to look behind her for fear of giving herself away. She wasn’t very tall for her age and could disappear among the larger adults with little problem. Like a wisp of smoke, one of the shopkeepers had said when he described her, and she liked the comparison. It fit with her name, Jinn, the Arabic word for a group of magical beings.
Genies.
She made a beeline toward the rug dealer’s shop. There’d be plenty of places to hide and his vision wasn’t as sharp as it used to be, so he wouldn’t notice her slip past. She slowed as she neared the entrance, using the time to catch her breath. She was lucky today—Ebrahim was regaling a customer with tales of a tapestry’s origins and didn’t see her glide through to the back, past mounds of Berber carpets and imports from Iran and Afghanistan and the silver tea service with brilliantly colored glasses, reserved for a celebratory drink after a sale.
She burrowed into a narrow channel in a mound of seconds that Ebrahim only sold to those customers uninitiated into the secrets of quality, stifling a sneeze from the dust motes underneath. Several minutes passed before the old carpet salesman’s voice grew louder as he walked near her hiding place.
“I told you, I haven’t seen anyone matching that description come through here, but you’re welcome to look.”
Jinn held her breath and squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to disappear, half-believing her own mythology. Jinn of the Marketplace, the other kids called her. She’d constructed a reputation for being lucky and smart with the lightest of fingers, but also for being fair in her dealings. She never stole from the vendors in the market, preferring well-off visitors as her targets, and would assist the older shopkeepers by carrying product and stocking shelves or watching a storefront while the owner had to leave for a moment or two. The reputation she’d established set her apart from the other street kids, and shopkeepers tended to like having her around.
The sound of heavy footfalls grew near, hesitated a moment, and then circled the jumble of carpets where she hid.
“What are these?” asked a gruff voice.
“Those? Ah. You have outstanding taste, sir! Those are of the absolute highest quality. I have them on special through today only. I’ve had people tell me the price I quote them is almost criminal. Would you like to see one?”
The gruff voice said something Jinn didn’t catch, and the footsteps receded. She let go of her breath, relief sweeping through her. She would wait a while more, just to be sure that he’d gone.
Her hand closed around the mobile in her pocket. Obviously, the device held something of great value to the two men. They’d killed for it, hadn’t they? She wondered if her friend, Labid, would be able to unlock the screen so she could see what was so important. The tech-savvy computer repairman was known in the market for being able to hack into almost anything. She’d have to pay him a visit. Maybe its contents were more valuable than the phone itself. Carefully removing the phone from her pocket, she slid it between the folds of the carpets.
She’d come back later, when she was sure the two men were gone.
She waited a few more minutes before wriggling out of the dusty hiding place and making her way cautiously to the front of the store. She searched what she could see of the market for signs of the men with the guns but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Ebrahim was sitting in his chair at the front, smoking a cigarette and watching people go by. Jinn didn’t want to put him in a compromising position in case the men came back, so she slipped past him without saying a word and went the other way.
She’d almost made it to the end of the market when the little hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Slowly, she turned.
Jinn had just run out of luck.