Chapter 30
THE CLOCK TICKS loudly in the café kitchen. Zohra and several of the Lions stare right at Simran. Keeping her face expressionless, she tosses her final card on the table.
Everyone sighs. Shane, one of the Lions, throws his hand down, too. “Are we all gonna pretend she’s not counting cards?”
Zohra reclines in her chair. “That’s the fun. Trying to beat a card counter.” She pushes her chips toward her. “Damn it, Simran. I lost two hundred bucks to you.”
“I don’t want the money,” Simran replies. But they always want to play with real stakes. “Take it back.”
“See, that’s plain insulting.” Shane gets up to stretch. He’s in his twenties, heavily tattooed, and had intimidated Simran until recently. “I’m starving. I’m gonna get one of those bagels in the display case.”
“Ew,” Zohra says. “Those things have been there forever. Wait five minutes and I’ll go buy you something fresh.”
“Too hungry. I’ll risk it.” The kitchen door swings shut behind him.
As Zohra puts the deck away, Simran pulls the ledgers toward herself.
She’s finished her bookkeeping for the day, but the Ace ledgers are her side project.
There’s only one she hasn’t fully decoded yet.
It’s mostly simple transactions, which she deduced were encrypted with a Vigenere cipher ten minutes in, but she wants to finish anyway.
It’s like Rajan said: She just likes solving problems. There’s no other excuse for being here.
Things at home have actually improved. In fact, just this morning, her mom’s oncologist had called.
“I have excellent news,” she’d said as Simran and her parents crowded around the phone. “The lymph nodes came back negative.”
It was like a spring released in the room. The oncologist kept going. “You’ll get a follow-up about further treatment. If any.”
If any. Her father silently cried right there, tears trickling into his beard. Once the call was over, he called Kiran. Her mother just opened the window and stared out for a long, long time. And Simran...didn’t know what to do with herself.
She’s spent months bracing for a train wreck. And now that it’s not happening, she feels off balance. Like someone’s playing a prank, and any moment now, the other shoe might drop.
Zohra reaches for the ledgers, but Simran’s grip tightens. “I’m not done yet.”
Zohra gives her a knowing look before straightening. “You remind me of Manny sometimes.” She swings her purse over her shoulder. “His favourite thing to do is get high and then count his money. Except, for you, I think counting money is what gets you high.”
Simran ignores her teasing tone in favour of a question she’s been dying to ask. “Who is Manny?” All she knows is everyone seems to answer to him.
“He’s part of the family from Van that founded the LS. They got rich in the nineties funneling drugs from Pakistan to India to North America. Biggest open secret ever, the Khullar family. Cops have never been able to pin any of them.”
“Why not?”
“They don’t do any actual dirty work. That’s reserved for plebes like me and you.” Zohra winks and pushes out the door.
Now alone, Simran resumes working. It’s silent for a long while, the only sounds the ticking clock and cars occasionally driving by. The Aces have used “reigninhell” as their keyword in this book. Disappointing. It’s too easy. She wanted a challenge. She wants the same rush she got on June 18.
She can practically see Rajan shaking his head at that. Which is why it’s best he doesn’t know about these extra sessions.
A gunshot rings out.
At first, she doesn’t quite process it for what it is. It sounds like a firework. And then...glass breaking. Shouts from outside.
Simran scrambles up, a delayed reaction, and backs away from the door. It’s probably nothing, right? Some Lions getting into a little tussle with each other. A gun firing accidentally.
But then there’s another gunshot. And another.
Terror grips her. It’s happening, a voice in her head whispers. This is how the universe is balancing the end of one nightmare.
With another.
As if to punctuate this, she suddenly hears voices. Horrifyingly close, and coming closer.
There are only two possibilities here: police or rival gang. Either way...she can’t be here. She runs for the back door. It leads to a service hallway that has an exit. But as she reaches for the handle, it swings open on its own.
And there stands a tall man in a balaclava and hoodie, eyes glaringly blue and vicious. His gun is pointed right at her head.
A sound escapes Simran’s throat. “Please don’t.” She puts her hands up. He descends upon her, and she backs up. Keeps going until she hits the wall.
He pins her against it. “Who the fuck are you?” His voice is gravelly.
Simran’s frozen. It’s like she’s outside her body, watching this happen. Think, she begs herself. What answer does he want? Think.
The cold metal of the gun presses under her chin, making that impossible. “I’ll ask one more time, bitch. Who are you?”
Her vocal cords feel like molasses. She cannot get her lips to form around any words.
Without warning, he raises his gun and hits her across the face. The metal is sharp and unforgiving, connecting against her glasses with a crack. They twist out of shape, digging into her nose, the lenses going lopsided.
She automatically reaches up to adjust them, but he grabs her wrist, then hits her across the face again. Her glasses skitter clean off. Her vision becomes a smear, the world losing definition, losing sense. “No—” she gasps, but he slams her against the wall again. A low chuckle.
“What, these?”
It’s like watching through a windshield drenched in water, but she can see the blurry outline of his boot, stepping deliberately onto something on the floor. Crunch.
The sound snaps her out of her fear. He’s had to shift his weight in order to destroy her glasses, so she shoves him as hard as she can. He stumbles—slightly. It’s all she needs.
She barely makes it three steps before he yanks her back by the braid. Pain shoots through her skull, and she crashes down behind the table. Her chin collides with the chair back on her way down. Blood fills her mouth.
She hasn’t even fully hit the floor before he’s hauling her up by the back of her shirt. Then slamming her onto the desk. Papers scatter off. Her already bruised cheek smarts against the wood. All she can see is the blurry outline of a book and her pen beside it.
Disbelief steals over her. This cannot be the end. As her attacker wrenches her arms behind her back, absurdly, Simran thinks of her parents. She thinks of the police showing up at their door to say, I’m sorry to have to tell you...
Her mother would collapse. Her father...he would collapse in his own way. Inwardly. There would be nothing left for them. Nothing left of them.
An inhuman sound tears from Simran’s throat. Some strength she didn’t know she had possesses her, enough that she can wrench one arm free. She snatches the pen from the desk and twists, swinging it with all her might.
It sinks into something soft. Her attacker screams and releases her.
Simran rolls off the table, catching a glimpse of him clutching his throat before she takes off through the kitchen door. She collides with a wall on her way. Clumsily, she skids into the dining area.
It’s dark. And quiet, other than someone gasping loudly. It takes her a second to realize it’s her.
She attempts to gulp it back. Her feet crunch on glass unsteadily as she heads for the door. She’s nearly there when headlights flash through the windows. Automatically, she ducks behind the front counter instead.
Somehow, the only light bulb still working is in the pastry display case, flickering from within. She ducks farther, not wanting it to illuminate her face, and nearly trips over something on the ground. Not something—someone. She drops to her knees, shaking, bringing her face closer to see who—
Shane. His eyes are open. His black shirt glistens as if drenched with water, but Simran knows better.
A silent scream builds in her chest, just as the kitchen door swings open.
“Crazy bitch,” her attacker wheezes. He cocks his gun. Simran backs away from Shane’s body and holds her breath.
Her attacker fires into the pastry display cases on either side of her. Glass explodes. She shields her face, so her forearms sting instead, but doesn’t make a sound. His footsteps echo closer. This is it.
Her hand falls to her hip, where her kirpan is strapped. A curved blade, small as a pocketknife, and as familiar as her own face. She’s had it since she was ten: a symbolic, smaller version of the weapon once used in war. She doesn’t want to use it. Doesn’t even know how. But it’s all she has.
Her attacker is almost around the display case. Simran’s hands tighten around her kirpan. Just two more steps...one...
Thunk.
Everything is quiet except for that calm, violent sound. She can’t see what’s happening, but the boots stop in their tracks.
And then her attacker pitches forward. He lands on his cheek, staring blankly at her. Out cold. She stares at his face as a different set of shoes crunch into the glass beside his head. Simran looks up. Although she cannot discern his features, she would recognize that silhouette anywhere.
Yet, she doesn’t really recognize Rajan in what he does next.