Qadir frowned when he saw the police vehicles parked in front of the Harris building. He was about to step out of the limo when he saw Tarek exit the building and stride toward the car. A bodyguard pulled the door open and Tarek entered the limo with a sharp command in Arabic. In seconds, the limo pulled away from the curb.
“What happened?” Qadir demanded.
“Carthmen is dead.”
“His heart?”
Tarek shook his head. “A bullet to the head. It looks like a suicide.”
Qadir studied his brother’s face. “You don’t sound convinced.”
Tarek shook his head again. “The angle was wrong—Carthmen was left handed. The gun was in his right hand.”
Qadir lifted an eyebrow. “Murdered? By whom and why?”
Tarek gave him a grim smile. “I can’t answer the who, but I can guess at the why. I’ve been doing some deeper research into Carthmen’s business dealings, following the money. It led to a shell company owned by Atri Holdings. The name sounded familiar.”
“Atri Holdings belongs to Andrius Bronislav, the Lithuanian billionaire,” Qadir replied.
“Yes, and he’s good friends with Rashid al Hamid.”
Qadir grimaced in distaste.
Rashid’s mother, Dima, was Qadir’s great aunt. Rashid’s father was Faiz al Hamid, a sheikh of the northern tribe, who had ruled with a brutal sword thirty-two years ago. Faiz had tried to strip Jawahir of its wealth, killing thousands of people in the process. The marriage of Dima and Faiz was intended to heal the Civil War, but once Faiz had an heir, Dima mysteriously perished in a riding accident.
Rashid had all the ruthless callousness of his late father, but it was extremely unlikely that he would ever rule. His chances of rising to the throne of Jawahir had significantly lessened with the birth of Qadir and his brothers. Rashid’s animosity flared when policies were put in place to diminish the already limited power he held in the cabinet.
“Do you think Rashid was behind the attack? What did Carthmen have to do with it?” Qadir asked.
“Carthmen could have been convenient. What I know is this: There is a connection between Carthmen and Rashid through Atri Holdings. Atri Holdings has been trying to sell our computer chips to countries on our banned list. Unrest is growing in our northern region. One of our mines collapsed, a transport of raw materials was bombed, and a man I have on the inside hasn’t checked in for over a month. Do I believe Rashid was behind the attack on you and the killing of Carthmen? Yes. Can I prove it? No. Various pieces of evidence suggest that he’s the one stirring the pot, but I think it is time I check out what is going on there in person.”
“Make it happen,” Qadir stated.
The limo slowed. Qadir frowned when he saw the street leading to Becker’s closed off. A small crowd was gathering behind a row of cars. A news reporter stood with her back to the building, talking as two people from the coroner’s office emerged from the building with a body in a large black bag. Qadir could feel the blood drain from his face as he took in the scene. He reached for the door, but Tarek covered his hand and shook his head.
“Let Hasan find out what is happening,” Tarek advised.
Qadir wanted to protest, but he knew his brother was right. The media was already becoming curious about their presence. He gave a terse nod. Tarek pulled out his cell phone and rapidly spoke to Hasan.
Qadir watched Hasan exit the vehicle in front of the limo and walk over to a police officer standing near the edge of the crowd. The man looked to be of Middle Eastern descent.
Qadir’s eyes moved back to the vehicle where the body had been deposited. The body in the black bag was too large to be Aimee. It could be Stanley—or one of the other men who worked there.
Hasan walked to the limo door. Qadir lowered the window far enough that he could see Hasan but no one could see in. Hasan bent down and spoke rapidly in a low voice.
“There was a police detective attempting to apprehend a woman who broke into Becker’s. The detective was killed. A second officer was in the area and witnessed the shooting. He said that the detective confronted her, the woman opened fire, and she escaped out the back,” Hasan said.
“What?” Qadir hissed.
“What happened to the woman?” Tarek asked.
Hasan shook his head. “There is a warrant out for her arrest.”
Qadir was about to reply when his cell phone vibrated. He glanced at it, his eyes widening when he recognized the number. He closed the window at the same time he answered the phone.
“I didn’t do it,” Aimee’s shaking voice immediately said.
“I know you didn’t. Are you alright? Where are you?”
He glanced at Tarek who nodded. Tarek would trace Aimee’s number.
“Qadir, it was—”
The sound of gunfire blared through the phone. The line went dead. Qadir closed his eyes.
“Aimee.”
Tarek was speaking rapidly to one of his security men. Qadir’s hand shook as he tried to call Aimee back. She had never set up her voicemail. He clutched his cell phone and stared blindly out of the window.
“The signal came from the old warehouse we found her in before,” Tarek announced. He turned and gave the driver the address.
“There was gunfire,” Qadir said in a voice devoid of emotion.
Tarek returned his grim look. “Aimee is smart. She will survive.”
Qadir nodded. He gazed out at the blur of passing buildings and calculated that it would take them ten minutes to get to the warehouse. A lot could happen in ten minutes.
They were almost to the warehouse when sirens behind them forced his driver to pull over. Dread filled him when he saw the plumes of black smoke rising from the buildings. Four fire trucks passed them, followed by several police cars.
“No!” he whispered, pushing open the door to the limo.
“Qadir,” Tarek called behind him.
Qadir ignored his brother and began running down the sidewalk. He cut through a side street and emerged on the other side less than a block from the warehouse. The building was engulfed in flames. Tarek stopped beside him, followed by his bodyguards. Qadir stood frozen, staring at the flames and feeling as if he were trapped in a nightmare.
“Qadir,” Tarek said, placing a hand on his shoulder.
He shrugged off his brother’s hand and walked slowly down the sidewalk. The shouts of firemen and the loud sounds from their equipment drifted across the water. A tugboat with a water cannon was attacking the blaze from the harbor side.
“Qadir, there is nothing we can do here. The media will arrive soon. Go. I will find out what has happened and report back to you,” Tarek encouraged.
“Find her, Tarek. Find her and bring her back to me,” he softly ordered, his gaze locked on the building as the roof caved in and flames reached greedily for the sky.
Dawn was breaking over the horizon when Tarek finally returned. Qadir looked at his brother’s drawn, tired face. Tarek shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at him, visibly struggling to find the right words.
“Tell me,” he ordered.
“The body of a young woman was found. The body—“ Tarek took a deep breath. “The body was burned beyond recognition. I will receive a copy of the coroner’s report once it is finished,” he said, looking away.
“What are you not telling me?” he demanded.
Tarek looked back at him, his eyes filled with grief. “I overheard a firefighter mention that the woman had been shot,” he confessed.
Pain seared through Qadir like a hot knife. He took a step back as it hit him. The shield he had been building over the past few hours to protect his heart burst under an intense wave of grief. He shook his head when Tarek lifted a comforting hand toward him.
“Find out… find out what happened. I want to know everything, Tarek—and I want to destroy whoever is behind this.”
“I will make sure that it happens,” Tarek vowed.
Qadir turned away. The elevator door closed behind his brother, and his resolute facade cracked. Alone again, he stared with unseeing eyes at the sun rising over the city.
An uncontrollable trembling consumed his body and a harsh sound, like that of a wounded animal, broke the silence. Gasping for breath, Qadir sat down on the edge of the chair and did something he hadn’t done since he was a very small boy. He cried.
Two weeks later, Qadir left New York for Jawahir. He had lost weight—and a piece of his soul. He held two reports in his hand. The first was the autopsy report from the coroner’s office. He had memorized every detail, searching for some hope that there had been a mistake.
Young Caucasian female; age 20-24; five foot four inches tall; evidence of recent lung infection. Cause of death: 9mm bullet to the back of the head. Body burned over 100 percent.
The second report was from their informant in Rashid’s inner circle—in a roundabout way. The informant had disappeared over a month ago and had finally been found—in pieces, but the FBI had gotten ahold of the informant’s last desperate message and passed it on to Qadir.
It gave Qadir a target. It gave him the names of the individuals behind atrocities committed against his people—and he knew it was the reason for Aimee’s death. She had given her life to save him and protect his people.
Tarek suspected that their spy had sent the photos via courier services in the hope of it making it through all the attempts to keep it quiet. Aimee would have discovered it when she was sorting the deliveries.
Colin Coldhouse must have tracked the document to Becker’s Courier Service.
Colin was in charge of Andrius Bronislav’s private security forces. In one of the photos in this report, he was the man standing over a line of dead nomads in Shedad, a mountainous region known for its rugged terrain.
Colin had a brother—Detective Anderson Coldhouse. Anderson was the detective who claimed to have witnessed Aimee shooting his partner, Bert Crank.
The brothers had been in special ops together before Anderson joined the NYPD five years ago and Colin started working for Bronislav in the Middle East and Asia. Anderson had only been in the Upper Manhattan office of the NYPD for six months. Colin had placed him there to find and kill the spy, then find the damning evidence and remove it, along with any witnesses, which included Carthmen. The informant in Rashid’s inner circle had sent him the photos, too.
The attempt on Qadir’s life using a couple of locals was mostly a distraction while Anderson hunted for the leaked evidence of their crimes, but it still had the possibility of succeeding and destabilizing the royal family more than all their efforts so far.
Anderson had left New York the night his partner died, claiming that he needed time to mourn. He boarded a private jet registered to a shell company of Atri Holdings and traveled to Lithuania.
Qadir looked up when Tarek entered the jet’s cabin and sat in the seat opposite him. A steward appeared, and Tarek ordered a drink. Tarek’s gaze flickered to the reports open in front of Qadir. They didn’t speak until after the steward handed Tarek his glass and left the room.
“Father has ordered Rashid’s arrest,” Tarek said.
Qadir clenched his jaw. “What about Colin and Anderson Coldhouse? I want their heads on a platter,” he coolly replied.
“Colin has disappeared and Anderson is hiding in one of Bronislav’s mansions,” Tarek answered.
“I want them both, Tarek. I don’t care what it takes; make it happen,” Qadir replied in a hard voice.
“Oh, I will, brother. I will,” Tarek promised.