17. Amal
AMAL
Jet places his gun in the glove box and programs the location of the shop into the GPS on his phone rather than using the car’s navigation system.
It makes me think about his line of work.
Makes me remember how Malek was. Always suspicious of everyone.
Almost paranoid about being watched or listened to.
“I don’t know that he’ll be open,” I say. It’s after nine o’clock.
“Is there a particular reason you chose this shop rather than pawning it in the states or anywhere else?”
“I had enough saved up from Cassian’s allowance money for a ticket,” I say, hating how it sounds. “He wouldn’t let me work,” I add to justify.
“For your own safety and look where that got you. Continue.”
“I Googled to see where I’d get the most for it and also be able to buy it back. I understand if you don’t believe me, but I did plan on returning it.”
Jet’s eyes are on the road his brow is furrowed like he’s going through a million scenarios.
“What’s going on, Jet?” He doesn’t answer. “You’re making me nervous,” I say, having a sinking feeling as he veers off onto the quieter, darker streets outside of the touristy area of the city.
“Look right?” Jet asks.
I nod.
The shop is located on an ancient street of antique booksellers and furniture shops. It’s definitely for a certain socioeconomic demographic.
“That one,” I say, pointing to the shop which, like the others, has an old-fashioned sign on the door stating that it’s closed.
The apartment above it, however, is lit up, flashes of light telling me someone is watching TV.
“I’m pretty sure the owner lives up there.
” When I was negotiating the price of the watch, his wife had come downstairs to bring him his lunch.
Jet nods but drives past the shop.
“You missed it.”
“I want to get my bearings first.”
We drive around the block and the next one, Jet peering into the parked vehicles and the few pedestrians on foot before finally parking in a spot at the far end of the street.
“There was a spot right out front,” I tell him.
“I know.” He kills the engine and reaches over to take his Glock out of the glovebox.
“Jet, what the hell?”
“Stay here. Keep the doors locked. Honk the horn if you get nervous.”
“Wait,” I say, grabbing his arm as he tucks the gun into his holster. “What are you going to do? He’s just an old man.”
“Stay here. It’s safer for you.” Jet opens the driver’s side door. “Keep the doors locked. Understand?”
“You can’t hurt him.”
He opens his mouth, closes it again. “I’ll be back as quick as I can.” He steps out onto the street and reaches for the umbrella Joe had helpfully tucked into the back seat. “Stay. I mean it.”
“Okay, just don’t hurt him.” My heart pounds. Guilt gnaws at me.
“Lock the doors,” he tells me before shutting his, opening the umbrella and walking toward the shop.
I lock the doors and watch him go, looking around the dark, deserted street.
When Jet reaches the shop, I make a decision.
I pull the keys out of the ignition and jump out of the SUV.
The rain has picked up. It masks the sound of the car door closing.
I pull my hood up and hurry toward the shop via the street rather than the sidewalk.
By the time Jet spots me, I hear the shop seller’s voice through the doorbell’s speaker.
“We open in the morning at nine.”
“Fuck’s sake, Amal,” Jet says, taking my arm and tugging me to his side. He looks like he might march me right back to the SUV. “Do you ever fucking do what you’re told?”
“I don’t want you to hurt him!” I whisper-shout
“You and your girlfriend come back in the morning,” the man says and I hear the eye of the camera moving above us.
I keep my head down so he can’t see my face for the hood.
“I’ve got something you’ll want to see. It can’t wait for morning,” Jet says into the intercom.
“It can all wait.”
“IVI,” Jet says, and although I’m sure he can feel my eyes boring into the side of his head, he ignores me.
“Show me,” the old man says after a pause. “Camera is over your head.”
Jet raises his hand where he wears a ring in the shape of a human skull.
“Let me see the inscription.”
“Are you opening the door or not? I’m sure you know how sensitive this is.”
The man hesitates and there’s a part of me that doesn’t want him to come downstairs because I’m not sure what Jet’s going to do. But greed gets the better of the old man. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
The intercom goes off. “What are you doing?” I whisper-ask.
Jet puts a finger to his mouth. A light goes on inside. He shifts slightly so I’m behind him as we listen to the lock turn. The old man peers out from between the bars to get a look at us before deciding if he’ll let us in. Jet must look the part because he opens the door.
He’s about six inches shorter than Jet and he studies his face before his gaze shifts to me. I pull my hood back and he recognizes me instantly.
“You!” the man cries out. He tries to slam the door in our faces, but Jet’s already got the toe of his shoe blocking it and forces his way in.
The man backs up, stumbling, pulling a gun on us. He must have tucked it into the back of his pants.
“Jet!” I call out although there’s no need. He’s seen it.
“Now what the hell are you going to do with that?” Jet asks calmly because he’s quicker than the old man and has his wrist in hand. He squeezes, turning the gun to the far wall before relieving the man of it. “Sit,” he orders the man who is clutching his chest and breathing heavily.
Jet empties the old revolver of bullets, pockets them and sets the gun on one of the counters. He shifts his gaze to the man who drops heavily into one of the antique chairs that has a clear sign on it that it should not be sat in.
“You sold my watch?” I ask the old man who shifts his gaze to me. “You promised me two more weeks.”
“I didn’t think you’d be back, considering,” he says.
“Considering what?” Jet asks.
“Well, she’d stolen it from powerful men. It was clear as day.”
Jet looks between us but ignores the comment. “Who bought it from you?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“And how did he know you had it?”
He hesitates.
“I’m the dangerous man she stole the watch from,” Jet says I suppose for motivation. “Now how did this man know you had the watch?”
“The inscription. I had a number to call if ever anything with that particular marking is brought in.” His greedy eyes move to Jet’s ring. “I can give you good money—"
“Fucking—” Jet takes one step toward him, his arm moving as if he’d hit the old man who cries out, setting his hands in front of his face as I grab Jet’s arm. “I’m not here to sell. Now what’s the number you called?”
“I have it.” The older man’s voice is quaking now. He points. “Back here.”
“Lead the way.” As we follow him, I notice a camera over the register.
I get Jets attention and point to it.
He nods.
We move toward the back of the shop where a half-wall separates the space from the shop itself.
The man switches on a light. It’s a messy office with stacks of books and ledgers and paperwork on every surface.
But from one of those stacks, he pulls out a notebook and opens it, putting his glasses on to search through it.
“There,” he says, pointing to the number and turning the notebook around for Jet to see.
Jet punches the number into his phone and hits the Call button. It rings for several minutes before a voicemail comes on saying a single word. “Speak.” He disconnects without doing so.
“You have a camera at the register. Show me who bought the watch.”
The man drags his lopsided chair to the table with what looks to be the first computer ever made on top. He switches it on then surprises me by scrolling through folders adeptly.
“Here,” he says.
We watch as he forwards through a recording until he gets to nearly the end of it. It looks like the man who bought the watch came after hours. He’s wearing a fedora and has the collar of his coat pulled up.
“Unfortunately, there’s no audio. It was much more expensive,” the man says. He seems kind of helpless and I almost feel sorry for him, but then I remember how he lied to me.
The buyer looks over the watch, studies the engraving with a magnifying glass before handing over a chunk of cash. And I mean a chunk.
“How much did you get for it?” I ask, because I’m pretty sure he gave me only a fraction of that amount.
He at least looks shame-faced when he meets my gaze.
“Go back,” Jet says pointing to the screen.
The man scrolls back and I see why Jet had him stop it. There’s a split second when the man tilts his head and the camera captures a corner of his face, the scruffy black beard.
“When men like that don’t want to be seen, they are quite good at it,” the man says.
“Describe him for us,” Jet says.
“Shall I draw you a picture then?” the man asks sarcastically, and before Jet can respond, before even a split second passes, I hear a sound that although I can’t name, sends an icy chill through me.
I don’t know if I imagine the shifting of air by my temple. It all happens so fast.
The old man freezes and I stand stupefied and watch as a hole appears in the very center of his forehead. He looks as surprised as I am confused. But when a trail of dark red slides down to the bridge of his nose, all the pieces click into place and the man’s body drops to the floor.
Jet’s arm is around me instantly, hand over my head, body at my back.
“Down!” he calls out, his body landing heavy on me.
All goes quiet apart from my panicked breathing, the shop black around us. Jet shifts, and I feel the metal of his gun.
“You okay?” he whispers.
I nod because I can’t form words.
Glass shatters too near us.
I scream, shards cutting my hands as I try to cover my head. It’s the camera. The shooter cut out the camera so there will be no recording.
“Stay down!” Jet calls out, firing his weapon. He must hit the overhead light because the office is plunged into darkness and Jet has the advantage with the light of the streetlamp illuminating the shop itself just enough for us to make out the shooter.
The shooter and Jet exchange bullets. A vase crashes to the floor behind me.
I hear the cry of the other man. He’s at least injured and it buys us enough time for Jet to half lift me and move me into a small space between two bookcases.
He looks at me, something flashing in his eyes.
He swipes his thumb over my cheek, and it comes away red.
“Glass. Just glass,” I tell him.
“Stay. Don’t move a muscle!” he orders. Just then, the streetlamp goes out and the little bit of light it provided is gone. The bell over the door dings signaling someone entering.
There are two of them now. Two against one because I don’t have any weapon.
Jet strips his off his long coat and leaps behind the opposite counter. Shots follow him. I scream because I know what he’s doing. He’s getting me out of the line of fire by making a target out of himself.
As my eyes adjust, I see Jet pick up some sort of ball and hurl it across the shop, smashing an ornate lamp in the far corner before raising his weapon to shoot the gun hand of the one still standing.
The one on the floor takes aim. I don’t know if Jet sees.
“Watch out!” I call out as the man’s gun fires almost simultaneously to Jet’s. His bullet misses but Jet’s doesn’t.
The Devil never misses his mark. I know this about him.
Jet approaches the other man who puts his uninjured hand up, his other arm hanging limply, bleeding from Jet’s bullet.
“Unfair fight,” he grunts out.
“Agree,” Jet says, tossing his weapon aside. The instant he does the other man grins, pulls a switchblade out of his back pocket.
If I can get to the gun, I can kill him. If I can just get to Jet’s gun.
The man lunges, Jet jumps left, the man comes at him again, Jet whirls. The man’s attention is on Jet, his back to me. I get to my feet, keep crouched, and move.
It’s just the distraction Jet doesn’t need because when he sees me, he takes his eyes off his opponent for an instant. A fucking millisecond. But that’s all the attacker needs to lunge, blade aimed at Jet’s stomach.
I scream.
Jet grunts.
The two come together, Jet holding him close, hand closed over the man’s bullet wound, squeezing, the other gripping the wrist of his knife-hand.
“Jet!” I’m on my feet as I hear another grunt. Jet’s dark eyes find mine, sweat glistening on his forehead, hair flopping down into his eyes.
I go for his gun, my hands shaking. I take aim.
Before I have to shoot, Jet shoves the man backward. The man stumbles, the knife still in his hand. That knife buried in his own gut. And I watch, stunned, as he drops to the floor, looking at his own wound as if he can’t believe it. Looking up at Jet as if this can’t be happening.
Jet stalks toward me his hand on his hip. He’s bleeding and he’s pissed.
“What did I tell you?” He demands, taking his gun and wrapping an arm around me.
He hurries us out of the shop. “What the fuck did I tell you?” he barks.
He half lifts me over the body in the way and we walk out, forgetting our umbrella.
He stops, pulling my hood over my head as I stand in the pouring rain mute and shaking.
I may have grown up in the mafia world, but I’ve never experienced violence like this first-hand. He must see my shock.
“Hey. You okay?” he asks. “Amal? Look at me. Are you okay?”
Tears spring from my eyes, all the adrenaline leaving my body.
“Shit. Are you hurt?” Jet’s hands move over my body. He’s feeling for an injury.
“I’m okay. I’m okay.”
“Good. Let’s get to the car. You’re safe, come on now. Walk with me. They’ll likely send backup.”
“Who are they?” I ask as we hurry toward the SUV.
“The guard. Keys?”
I nod, stopping when we get to the vehicle. Digging into my pocket, I feel for the keys and am relieved I didn’t lose them in that chaos. Jet takes the keys, unlocks the door and opens the passenger side, lifting me in, even though I see it hurts him.
He closes the door, hurries to the driver’s side and once he’s in, he pulls the seatbelt across my lap and pushes the hood back from my head to look at me, scrutinizing my face.
“You’re cut.”
“It’s fine.”
I glance at his wound. “You’re bleeding badly, Jet.”
He glances down but doesn’t even wince. “Let’s get out of here before they send more men.”