Petra raises a brow. “You get what you needed?” she asks me, her Slavic accent adding edges to the words. Her partner, Lenox Gold, has a Senegalese accent that softens words, making them sound musical. Both of them former sex workers, they now run ethical brothels together.
I shrug. “They agreed to give me space, and help…”
Her smile tilts to one side and her emerald green eyes flash. “Oh,” she says, like she perceives some deeper meaning under my words. Ignoring her expression, I look out at the drenched street. “I’ll call a car,” she adds.
“Thanks,” I answer, my gaze locked on a turbulent puddle. The Peshmerga fighters had docked the sailboat in Marseille and, from there, Blue and I took the train to Paris. The Peshmerga commander, Zerzan Kahni, didn’t share her plans but promised to be in touch. Anticipation hums in my veins. What will their next move be?
With Rida gone, the religious movement is leaderless, but Zerzan was never a disciple. The Peshmerga fighters are a multi-ethnic, multi-religious militarized arm of the Kurdish Democratic Party. They fight for women…no matter their faith or birthplace. Zerzan, known as the Tigress because of her fierceness and the scarring on her neck that looks like claw slashes, grabbed my hand as I climbed off the boat.
Low clouds created a darkness that the yellow lights of the marina struggled to penetrate. Zerzan’s dark eyes met mine. She didn’t say anything but an understanding passed between us.
You can’t escape this. Stop running. Start burning.
Back in Petra’s small attic apartment, with the rain slashing at the dormer windows, exhaustion washes over me. I won’t be able to sleep, though. My mind races, churns, and falters—too tired to do anything and too scared to stop trying.
“Here,” Petra holds out a steaming mug of tea to me. The scent of warm honey and chamomile drifts from it.
“Thank you,” I say, taking the proffered cup.
Her shoulder-length chestnut hair is wet and she’s changed into sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt—both in a pink that looks great with her dark hair and pale skin. It’s one of those fancy sweatsuits—the kind that cost as much as a crappy used car. Petra rests her hands on the back of the couch and looks down at me with narrowed eyes.
I’m wearing a sweatsuit too, a black one we picked up from the Zara across the street just before it closed. I travel light, especially when fleeing by boat.
Behind Petra the lights are on in the kitchen area, glinting off the stainless-steel fridge and shimmering over the granite counters. A bar with two stools cordons it off from the sitting area. The front door to the left of the kitchen has three deadbolts on it…as though Petra expects trouble. We always should.
Petra comes around and sits at the other end of the couch. Blue leaps up, curling himself between us, resting his chin on my ankle.
“You look tired,” Petra says in her blunt way.
“Thanks.” I smile.
“You should be resting, no?”
“I’ll sleep eventually.”
Blue growls low in his chest and his head pops up. Then he’s off the couch and to the door, nose pressed to the crack under it. His growl hums louder.
Petra’s eyes find mine and I give a small nod. Some shit is about to go down.
I stand, holding my tea. Petra dashes to her bedroom and I hear a closet door slamming open. I circle the couch and Blue backs off the front door. Closing my eyes, I listen closely.
We are on the top floor of a walk-up building. There is only one way up and down—the staircase right outside the door. There are no other residences on this floor, so the casualties should be just the intruders stalking up the steps.
Who they are doesn’t matter—either someone after me, or Petra, or both. Could be a rival criminal organization unhappy with Petra and Lenox’s business model. Could be members of the “Action Men,” the ridiculous name for a group of involuntary celibates who want to take down Joyful Justice. Could be the police or Homeland Security.
When you try to change things…people try to kill you. One plus one equals two.
Footsteps shuffle on the top steps—they’re moving fast. The door shudders under an impact—probably a battering ram. I sip my tea; it’s burning and sweet. Placing it on a side table next to the couch, my churning mind settles now that it has a focal point. People trying to kill me always chill me the fuck out.
Petra returns, a pistol in each hand. She passes one to me and then pulls another from the back of her pants. I put Blue in a down stay at the foot of the couch so he is invisible from the doorway and protected by the furniture.
Petra and I position ourselves on the couch—the bulk of our bodies behind the back, weapons resting on the edge, aimed at the door. My son shifts inside me and settles again.
Another swing of the battering ram and the door explodes inward, bits of wood splintering out like shrapnel. A man stumbles in after it, the weight of the bright red tool carrying him forward. Petra fires, the crack of sound setting off ringing in my ears.
The force of the bullet hitting his chest knocks the intruder back a step, his eyes widening in shock. What the fuck did he expect when he smashed his way into Petra Bokan’s apartment?
He loses his footing and falls back, the heavy red ram slipping from his hands and crashing onto the floor—denting it. The intruder lands on his ass, blood spreading from the center of his chest, soaking his black shirt.
Two men stand behind him, jammed in the narrow corridor. They are both tall and broad, wearing all black—classic enforcer types. This stinks of organized crime and greed. Petra and I both fire in quick succession, forcing the men back down the stairs, hiding from our bullets. The injured man on the floor crawls after them. I aim at his back and fire. He jerks but keeps crawling. One of the other men reaches out and grabs his hand, hauling him to safety.
The bright red battering ram lies on the floor, the parquet ruined.
Petra and I keep firing, pocking the walls with bullet holes. I stop after ten shots, assuming there are fifteen in my gun. Petra keeps going until her weapon is empty. Then she drops it and picks up her spare. Silence filled with ringing descends.
The stink of gunfire thickens the air. I strain to hear any movements beyond the door. Time stretches. Petra shifts slightly, repositioning herself. I lift and release my shoulders, trying to ease the tension in them. My son kicks twice.
“Do you think they are gone?” I ask after an immeasurable amount of time.
Petra shakes her head, the movement visible in my peripheral vision. We wait more. My knees and leg muscles throb. My throat burns. I need a drink of water. The cup of tea, still sitting on the table next to me, whispers my name.
I glance at it furtively before returning my full attention to the doorway. Sirens sound in the distance. “Think that’s for us?” I ask.
“Seems likely,” Petra says.
“I think they were here for you,” I say.
“Yes. They did not look like your incels.”
