1 CONNOR
“Have a good trip, sir.” The smiling girl in front of me could’ve been my daughter, yet she smiled at me like a predator.
I made my way to the bus that would take us to the aircraft and settled into a back seat, staring out the window at the California horizon. Before going after Ammit, I’d wanted to make sure I saw my parents one last time in case things went sideways.
Unfortunately, Ethan couldn’t be there—his soccer team was traveling to Las Vegas. Maybe I was just being dramatic.
“Excuse me,” the woman said, sitting down next to me. I shifted in my seat, making room so she could settle in.
Shortly after, we were inside the plane and taxiing across the runway. I was headed for Cairo, where Bob was waiting. I never thought I’d have to go this far to get justice.
More than ten hours later, the plane finally landed in Cairo. The climate was already showing signs of summer, even though it was still May. The dry air sucked the moisture right out of me—I’d barely arrived and was already on my second bottle of water.
“Big C.” Bob smiled when he spotted me. I had my backpack on and a duffel over my shoulder. “You been juicing?”
“Just because I don’t have a gut like you?” I gave his belly a light slap.
“This is what happens when they stick you behind a desk.” He jiggled the small mountain on his gut.
“That what you tell yourself every day?”
“And it’s working.” He grinned. “Now let’s go—we’re not here for a reunion.”
Bob grabbed my bag and we headed to a pickup parked outside the airport, near the taxi stands.
During the drive, Cairo’s tourist appeal was obvious. Statues and pyramid replicas lined the route. The city was packed with tourists snapping photos of everything in sight.
Vendors with exotic animals perched on their shoulders offered shows for a few bucks. It reminded me of parts of New York, just more yellow.
Bob gave me a quick rundown on his work and why they were here, but honestly, I’d need him to repeat it in a few hours—I was exhausted. The heat made everything feel like twice the effort. It would take a while to get used to this climate.
The car stopped and I grabbed my things, following Bob through the alleys to where I’d be staying.
I’d gotten lucky with an Airbnb near downtown.
Couldn’t risk a hotel where someone might get access to my files.
Plus, here I could drop the O’Brien and just be Connor Wade—a name I rarely use, but one that comes in handy.
“Sure you don’t want to stay at HQ with me and the other guys?” Bob asked, setting my bag down at the townhouse door.
“Share a bunk with eight guys?” I shrugged. “I’d rather sleep alone.”
“Always been like that, since the army.” Bob punched my shoulder. “You were always a mama’s boy.”
“You guys snored like sweaty pigs.” I reached into a hanging planter at waist height and fished out the key, right where the host said it would be.
I couldn’t help yawning the moment I opened the door.
“I’ll let you get settled. Come back in a few hours, grab a drink, and I’ll fill you in on the case.”
“We can do it now if you want.”
“You look like hell. You’re no good to me this tired,” he said with a smirk.
“I’m not the one who looks like a retired cop.”
“You’re the one going gray.”
“You dye yours, Bob.”
“Not the ones on my balls.” He guffawed.
Bob left and I headed up to the small apartment above an antique shop—if you could even call the same sculptures scattered all over the city antiques.
It was a small loft with a single bed in the center, surrounded by books crammed into every corner. A no-frills bathroom. It would do.
The place was covered in prints, with picturesque photographs filling one wall. A bookshelf stuffed with art history books and biographies completed the look.
I drew the curtains and turned on the ceiling fan, hoping for some relief, but it was useless. More noise than breeze.
In the kitchen, I filled a pot with water and set it to boil, letting the steam drift through the place while I took a shower—cold, unsurprisingly.
After the shower, I wrapped a towel around myself and went to the bed. I spread the files around me and started going through years of work, now reduced to a few folders I could carry.
Even after more than a decade on this hunt, I had little useful information about Ammit’s true identity—or the exact number of people he’d killed.
The legend of the Crocodile Head had spread across jurisdictions for years, using the system as cover. It wasn’t until I took over the case that he revealed his name and his purpose.
The only time I managed to get ahead of him, I nearly ended up dead in an alley. If it weren’t for Gretta, I’d be just another one of Ammit’s victims instead of his hunter—which is what I’ve been planning to become since the day I met his first victim.
I stared at the scar on my abdomen, just above the oblique muscle. Ammit’s weapon could have split me in two. Yet I’d still found the strength to shoot him and hit my mark. I thought we’d both die that day.
I lay back with my arms under my head and felt my eyes growing heavy, each blink stretching longer than the last.
I only realized it had gotten dark when I heard the doorknob turn, and survival instinct sent my finger to the gun I’d stashed under the pillow.
My breathing was slow and I didn’t move a muscle, though every inch of me was tense. I heard slow footsteps crossing the dark room toward the bed. When they were close enough to touch, I struck—yanking the intruder down and pinning them beneath me.
A scent of sand and salt flooded my nostrils, and a strangled sound escaped through the gaps between my fingers pressed over their mouth.
“If you scream or move, I’ll put a hole in your chest. Understood?” I whispered, keeping them pinned.
Without moving my gun, I reached for the lamp beside the bed.
“I swear, if you scream…” I repeated, hearing their breathing change.
“Who are you?” the intruder asked suddenly, her voice deep and sweet.
“I’m the one asking questions here.” I pressed the gun against her chest and she held her breath. I still had her pinned by the waist between my thighs. “What do you want here?”
“T-t-to… I… sleep.”
“You break into houses to sleep?”
“What do you mean, break in?” she shot back haughtily, and I had to remind her what was in my hand. “This is my house.”
“I highly doubt that,” I responded. “If it were, you’d know I was here.”
“Could you get off me?” Her amber eyes seemed to glow in the moonlight from outside.
I moved off the bed, keeping her in my sights. When she sat up, the coral fabric wrapped around her hair slipped down, revealing brown locks that fell to her chin.
“Unless you knew…” I leveled the gun between her striking eyebrows. “Who are you, girl?”
“Sam. The owner of this apartment.” She glanced around, and on the way back her eyes ran over my bare chest. “My God, you’re naked in my house?”
Her eyes—those two rough stones—went wide.
“Sam? I don’t remember negotiating with anyone named Sam.”
I was sure I’d spoken with a man.
“Damn it, he did it again, didn’t he?” She moved away from my gun as if she no longer thought it was lethal—though it was, even if I’d relaxed my stance a bit.
She went to the bookshelf, grabbed a book, and handed it to me.
“S. Riad,” she said, pointing to the book. I checked the cover and found a Riad, but it wasn’t Sam Riad—it was Seth Riad. “The dedication!”
She took the book from my hand and opened it to a page with a photo of the young woman standing before me, probably just over fifteen at the time.
“It was a 2014 reprint,” she said, sounding almost impatient. “I’m Samantha… and that gun is totally unnecessary.”
“I don’t remember asking for your opinion.” I returned the book to her. “I still don’t know why you’re here, miss.”
“I already told you, I live here.”
“Not today, and not for the next thirty days,” I countered.
“THIRTY DAYS?????”
“That’s what I negotiated with Mr. O…”
“Omar. That old man is always mixing up the apartments!” she grumbled. “I’m sure you’ll love the right apartment, across the street.”
“I’m not going across the street. I paid for this one. With this view.” I pointed to the window.
“You can’t stay in my apartment!” she complained. “Seriously, lower that. I’m harmless.”
“I think that’s a problem you’ll have to take up with your landlord.” I lowered the gun.
“What is this?” She noticed the photos on the bed and picked one up. A photo of one of Ammit’s last victims. “This is a dead per…”
“Yes. A teenage girl.”
“My God.” She looked at the next photo.
“Stop touching that.” I stepped forward and pulled the folders away from her, leaving only one image. An illustration of what Ammit might look like—at least, everything I’d managed to convey to the sketch artist.
“Ammit,” she read aloud. “He did this?”
“You know Ammit?” My fingers tightened on the gun again, ready to respond if necessary.
“The killer? No.” She sat down, staring at the photo. “The soul-devouring entity? I know something about that.”
“Must be famous around here.”
“Yes. They take the legends seriously,” she said as I took the photo from her hand. “Who are you? Please don’t tell me you’re the one who did that to the girl with her guts hanging out.”
“If this were my work, I wouldn’t have a gun in my hand,” I replied, tucking the gun into my waistband. “It’d be more like a knife or some other blade.”
She shuddered before slipping back into her passive-aggressive stance.
“I still don’t know who you are.”
“Doesn’t really matter who I am,” I said, walking to the door. “You can leave, Samantha.”
“What?” She stood up and crossed her arms. “I’m not leaving.”
“You don’t think I’m going to let you stay here, do you?”
“Are you going to kill me over a damn apartment?”
“No. But I’m not willing to leave. So we have a problem.” I crossed my arms. “And I paid for this place legally.”
“It was Mr. Omar’s mistake.”
“Which you’ll sort out soon,” I shot back. “Tomorrow.”
“And where am I supposed to sleep?”
“I’m sure you’ll find somewhere to stay that isn’t here, getting on my fucking nerves.”
“You’re going to let me sleep on the street?”
“Here,” I replied, grabbing a handful of dollars from my wallet. “This should cover a decent hotel, I think.”
“My God, you’re an asshole.” She threw my money aside. “And you know what? I’m not leaving. If you want to kill me, fine. Go ahead. I don’t have much to lose anyway.”
“What?”
“That’s right. I’m not leaving. If you want the apartment because you have a damn contract, fine. But I’m staying here. I’m not leaving you alone with my stuff.”
“You can’t stay here.”
“Make me.” She stomped her foot.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Samantha.”
“Then that settles it.” She grabbed her bag and scarf, then headed to the bathroom.
My phone started ringing and Bob’s name appeared on the screen. I looked out the window—his truck was parked on the street below.
I gathered the folders and stuffed them in my suitcase, got dressed, and left. Samantha was a problem to deal with later. Ammit was the priority. The reason for everything.