Chapter 30 Zainab #2
“Please—” He was crying now. Actually crying. Snot and blood running down his face. “Please, Mehar, I’m sorry, I’ll change, I’ll be better, I’ll—”
“Get on your knees. Properly.”
He scrambled to obey, kneeling before her like she was a queen and he was begging for his life.
Which, I guess, he was.
Mehar smiled. And that smile? That smile was the scariest thing I’d ever seen in my entire life. That smile said “I’ve been dreaming about this for years.”
“Open your mouth.”
“What?”
“Did I stutter? Open. Your. Mouth.”
He did. Trembling. Crying. A whole grown man reduced to nothing.
Mehar stepped forward and slid the barrel of the gun between his lips.
“This feels familiar, doesn’t it?” Her voice was almost sweet now. Mocking. “How many times did you force me to do this? How many times did you shove your tiny dick down my throat and tell me to be grateful?” She pushed the gun deeper. He gagged. “Not so fun when you’re on the other end, huh?”
Ahmad’s eyes were wild with terror. He looked past Mehar to Prime, desperate, pleading—man to man—begging for backup.
Prime just leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, face blank as a mannequin. He met Ahmad’s eyes and shook his head slowly.
“Wrong tree to bark up, homie. This ain’t got shit to do with me.”
No mercy. Not from him. Not from any of us.
Mehar racked the slide and chambered a round.
The clack was the loudest sound I’d ever heard. Ahmad’s whole body convulsed, and a dark stain spread across the front of his pants.
This grown man had pissed himself.
“Look at you.” Mehar pulled the gun from his mouth, wiping the barrel on his shirt like it was dirty.
“The big, strong man. The king of his castle. Crying. Begging. Pissing on yourself like a toddler.” She crouched down to meet his eyes.
“This is who you really are, Ahmad. Not the righteous brother. Not the disciplined Muslim. Just a weak, pathetic little boy who could only feel big by hurting someone smaller.”
“Please—” His voice was barely a whisper. “Please don’t kill me. I’ll do anything. I have money. I’ll sign the divorce papers. I’ll—”
“I don’t want your money.” Mehar stood back up. “I want you to SUFFER.”
“Lie down.”
“Mehar, please—”
“LIE. DOWN.”
He collapsed onto his back, arms spread, chest heaving with sobs. Mehar stood over him like an executioner.
“You used to make me get on my knees and pray for forgiveness after you beat me. Remember that? Made me thank Allah for a husband who ‘disciplined’ me out of love.” She adjusted her aim to his right knee. “Let’s see how grateful YOU feel after this.”
She pulled the trigger.
The blast was deafening. Ahmad SCREAMED—not a man scream, a little girl scream—his body jackknifing off the floor before collapsing back down.
“SHUT UP.” Mehar’s voice was flat. “Shut up before I give you something to cry about. Isn’t that what you used to say to me? Every time I cried? Every time you hurt me and I dared to show it?”
She shot him in the left knee.
More screaming. More blood. The carpet was turning into a crime scene.
“Please—please stop—I’ll do anything—I swear to Allah—”
“You used this—” Mehar moved her aim lower. To his crotch. To the sad little situation he’d been so proud of earlier. “—to hurt me. Every night. Whether I wanted it or not. You took what wasn’t yours because you thought it was your RIGHT as a man.”
Ahmad’s eyes went wide. “No—no, please, not there—please, Mehar—”
“You don’t have rights anymore.”
She pulled the trigger.
The sound that came out of Ahmad wasn’t human. It was something from the depths of hell—a howl that would probably wake me up in cold sweats for years. His hands flew to his crotch, blood pouring between his fingers, his whole body convulsing on the floor.
And you know what? I didn’t feel bad. Not even a little bit.
This man had raped my sister. Beat my sister. Controlled my sister. Made her life a living hell for years while hiding behind religion and tradition.
This wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough.
Mehar watched him writhe for a moment, her face completely serene. Then she shot him in the right hand.
BANG.
Then the left.
BANG.
“You will never hit another woman.” She stood over his destroyed body like a goddess of vengeance. “You will never touch another woman. You will never force yourself on another woman again. Those days are OVER. You’re DONE.”
Ahmad was barely conscious now. His eyes were rolling back. His breath was coming in wet, shallow gasps. But he was alive. She’d made sure of that.
Living in agony was the whole point.
“One more thing.” Mehar crouched down and pressed the hot barrel against his cheek.
He whimpered like a dog. “If you tell ANYONE who did this to you—the cops, your friends, your mama, ANYONE—I will come back. And I will visit your mother’s house first. Then your grandmother’s house.
Then everyone you’ve ever loved will get exactly what you got today.
” She tilted her head. “Do you understand me?”
He managed a weak nod.
“Say it out loud. I want to hear it.”
“I… I won’t tell…” His voice was barely there. “I promise… I won’t tell anyone…”
“Good boy.” She stood up and looked at me. “The ashes. He has them somewhere.”
Oh shit. The ashes. Zahara.
“Where are they?” I demanded, my voice harder than I’d ever heard it. “My sister. The ashes you thought were mine. WHERE?”
“Closet—” He gasped out. “Hall closet—top shelf—please—just take them and go—”
I was already moving. Found the closet. Reached up to the top shelf. And there she was—a simple brass urn, shoved behind old blankets and forgotten junk like she was nothing.
Zahara.
My twin. My other half. Reduced to ashes and hidden in a monster’s closet.
I pulled the urn down and held it against my chest. It was heavier than I expected. Or maybe that was just the weight of everything it meant. Everything I’d lost. Everything I’d done to survive.
“I got her,” I said, my voice cracking.
Mehar nodded. Gave Ahmad one last look.
“Remember what I said. I keep my promises. And I know where your family lives.”
She turned and walked out. Prime followed without a word. I was last, still holding my sister’s remains, stepping over Ahmad’s broken body without looking down.
The man was still breathing. Still alive.
But everything he’d used to hurt my sister? Gone. Forever.
We were in the car and three blocks away before anyone spoke.
“You good?” Prime asked, glancing at Mehar in the rearview.
She was staring out the window, her face peaceful. Calm. Like she’d just finished a spa day instead of shooting a man five times.
“I’ve never been better.”
And THAT’S what scared me.
I looked at my sister—this woman I’d thought I knew, this sheltered girl who’d never tasted freedom—and I saw something new in her eyes. Something that hadn’t been there before the car chase. Before the bullets. Before Ahmad.
She’d gotten a taste of power. Of violence. Of vengeance.
And she’d LIKED it.
I wanted her free. I wanted her to fight back. I’d wanted so much for her to find her strength, to stop being a victim, to take control of her life.
But sitting in that car, holding my dead sister’s ashes, watching my living sister smile like she’d just discovered her new favorite hobby was shooting men in the dick…
I wasn’t sure if I’d helped save her.
Or if I’d helped create something far more dangerous.