Dead Reckoning

by Ronie Kendig

  Whirling blue and white lights spun around her, bouncing off the low muddy-brown buildings and smearing across taller structures. She darted down Nagdevi Street, spotted Yusef Meherali, and flanked right. She ran past buildings, rickshaws, and people—the very people who’d helped Shiloh fall in love with Mumbai … with India.

  But today, danger pulsed through the air. Once beyond Sheikh Menon Street, she’d head southwest. Somehow she had to make it to Chowpatty Beach and the sparkling waters of Back Bay. She had to. Khalid was counting on her.

  A blur of red silk emerged from a shop, right into her path. Shiloh dodged the woman. Then, a small child appeared. She spun around him.

  A quick glance over her shoulder proved her fears. Less than two blocks back, the familiar Jeeps with their spinning lights stabbed their way through the thick crowds. She shot left and cut through traffic. It was like trying to do a breaststroke through the mangroves that lined much of the Indian coast.

  Shiloh checked on her pursuers. A grin tugged at her lips. Stuck. Jammed in gridlock traffic, they couldn’t get through. She had to switch clothes and identities. Seizing the chance, she hurried beyond the Santa Maria church and into a clothing shop. Although the religious structure across the street bore a crucifix, the sanctuary catered to every religion—a haven for all.

  Voices nudged her farther into the shop. She feigned interest in the saris and cholis. Her fingers caressed the silk. The lightness of the material made her wish she could buy something. Satin, crepe, blues, purples—oh, the greens! She lifted the faal of one and traced its intricately delicate pattern between her fingers, attention trained on the door. Men moved into view.

  She slid her hand over a rack of less ornate garments. Once again she admired a teal one and let the crepe fabric drape across her arm while she assessed the threat.

  A short, round woman shuffled toward her. “You like try?” A bindi of pink crystals ending in a teardrop focused attention on her chocolate eyes.

  Telling this woman she didn’t have money would alert her to Shiloh's predicament. An American wandering the streets without money? “Kai kimmat?” Asking the price should stay the woman's suspicions. When the seller revealed the cost, Shiloh shook her head. “Sorry.”

  “Trade?” The woman pointed a bejeweled and henna-tattooed hand toward Shiloh's hemp bracelet that sported a pearl embedded between two shells.

  Her heart caught. Khalid had made it for her on their first dig in the Caribbean. Opening her mouth to decline, she stopped as sirens pervaded the busy street. A man shouted, “She came this way.”

  Shiloh had to change clothes. Now. She gritted her teeth and agreed to the exchange.

  The woman lifted the teal sari and choli from the rack and held out her palm.

  Stomach knotted, Shiloh slid off the bracelet. “I’ll come back with money,” she promised herself and the woman, who took the bracelet and shoved the clothing toward her.

  Had she done the right thing? The exchange hardly seemed fair, and now she was without the only gift that tied her to Khalid. What have I done?

  Shiloh snatched a pair of sandals, too, then rushed behind a curtain and changed. A breeze danced around her bare mid-section, making her feel half-naked. Even in America where fashion applauded peeking midriffs, she’d always worn conservative baby doll T-shirts.

  “You there! Have you seen a girl, an American?” The thick Marathi words spilled through the warm structure.

  A sliver of space between the two tapestries gave Shiloh a clear view. Outside, the two imposters chasing her stood talking with an elderly man.

  Sari wrapped around her head and mouth, she slipped out. The woman bustled toward her.

  “Bindi.” She gripped Shiloh's shoulder and stuck a jewel to her forehead, then appraised her. “Aap khubsoorat hain!”

  Beautiful? Since when? Heat crept into her cheeks.

  “Dhanyavaad,” Shiloh mumbled her thanks. She hurried to the side of the shop where a narrow opening afforded her a clear escape. A knot of bodies swarmed the church entrance.

  Behind her the woman's shrill voice rang out, soon followed by irate Hindi as she ordered the police out of her shop, declaring they were cursing her profits.

  Shiloh fled down the tight passage and up a flight of red-painted stairs and entered an open door. Darkness consumed her. She stepped to the side and waited for her vision to adjust. To the far left, candles swayed under a gentle breeze. An aged woman in an orange sari knelt before an altar and poured oil over an idol.

  Shouts came from the alley. “This way. A man saw her.”

  Tugging up the sari, Shiloh strode to the altar and knelt. Perhaps the police wouldn’t take notice of two women kneeling before the round-bellied Buddha. She lifted a candle and lit the wick, offering prayers not to the stone god, but to the Christian God. He’d always helped her parents. If you’re there, God, I could use some help. Would He listen or even care?

  The sanctuary darkened. They were here! Her pulse quickened. She ducked her head and pressed her palms together. God had never answered before. Why would He now?

  The woman next to her chanted. Shiloh moved her lips and hoped it looked convincing.

  Air stirred nearby.

  The soft rustle of fabric snapped open her eyes. The woman stood. So did Shiloh. As the bent woman attempted to shuffle around, Shiloh hooked her arm through the fragile arm. Though surprised by the help, the woman murmured her thanks. In this culture, helping one another was almost a duty, not an inconvenience as in the States.

  They neared the front doors, and Shiloh dared a glance back. The men stood at the side exit, scanning the alley as they spoke into walkie-talkies. She drew a breath. Just maybe she’d be okay. With a nod to the woman, she wished her well and sped away.

  The attack had happened only a few hours earlier, but it wore on her like a lifetime. She spotted a fifty paise lying on the sun-baked ground and surreptitiously picked it up. A few more coins, and she could ride the bus to the beach. Easy. Perhaps too easy.

  She scoured the ground as she walked, sure nobody would notice her down-turned gaze. Women here were still lower life-forms.

  Someone's watching. Of course someone was watching. Jaw set, she kept moving. Her fair skin drew attention no matter how hard she tried to fit in.

  Shiloh paused. Her gaze tracked over the reflected images on a dirty shop window. A woman, hunched slightly from the crying child secured to her back with a stretch of fabric, pushed Shiloh aside. His screams punctuated the thick hum in the clogged street. Laughter trailed a small girl as she wove through the tangle of bodies. Amid the chaos, the delectable aroma of curry teased Shiloh's hunger. Just as fast, incense stung her eyes and nose.

  She lifted her chin for a clean, clear breath. Instead, rank sweat and a smell she could not identify assaulted her. A car honked, and she flinched at the sudden noise. Her senses buzzed. Yet … this was normal. This was India.

  She adjusted her choli and continued down MJ Market Lane.

  Cross the street. Heeding her instinct, she pivoted and peered around the edge of the sari to check for traffic. Maybe anonymity had found her after all.

  “I need a trace.”

  “Why?”

  Sweat dribbled down Reece's temple as he looked out the passenger window. “I’ve lost her.”

  “You what?” Ryan's voice bordered on outrage. “I don’t have to tell you—”

  “When was the last time you were in the Mumbai markets? An elephant could get lost in here!” He craned his neck forward, assimilating every detail of the busy street.

  “Do I have to remind you that your job is at stake?”

  “How about you get your boys on that tracer?” His white-knuckled grip did not help the ache in his shoulders. “And get the link to my satcom so I have immediate feedback. We don’t have time for runaround. If they’ve captured her …”

  “Already on it.”

  Steering around a corner, he let the car idle as a stream of pedestrians cr
ossed the hot pavement. His gaze struck every person as he searched for the blue scrubs Shiloh wore. How hard could it be to spot her?

  “Okay, we’ve got her signal. She's on … uh … looks like Market Lane.”

  “I’m on Market Lane, Nielsen!” His temples throbbed as he finally got a break in traffic and pressed the gas pedal. He cruised past one shop. Nothing. Another.

  “She's right there.”

  “Where?”

  A blur of green flashed into his path. Reece nailed his brakes and hammered the horn at the sari-clad woman he’d nearly creamed. Heart racing, he hissed his frustration.

  “Reece, your signals are overlapping.”

  He pounded his horn again as he searched the busy street, the shops, the vendors. “I’m telling you, she's not here.” There. A woman in blue. He grunted. The woman wore a sari, not scrubs.

  At every juncture where he’d expected her to fail, Shiloh Blake had surpassed his expectations. And now, she went in one door and out another without him ever noticing.

  Again he honked and demanded the woman in green clear the road. She flashed her palms at him, a scowl etched into her face as if saying to hold his horses. He leaned out the window and shouted for her to move—and froze. No way. He narrowed his eyes. Hers widened.

  “I’ll be the son of a monkey,” he murmured.

  She hustled into a throng of people on the sidewalk opposite him.

  Reece tossed the phone on the passenger seat and glued his eyes to the road ahead. Hands planted on the steering wheel, he peeked in the rearview mirror as his mark tucked her head and rushed onto the sidewalk. She quickly disappeared into a shop.

  Whipping down the next street, he knew he’d have to dump the Jeep and follow her on foot. She’d spotted him. As he jogged back up the street he stuffed his arms through a kurta. The thin tunic would buy him some time in tracking her. He donned a pair of sunglasses. Hands in his pockets, he rounded the corner and didn’t slow.

  Then he located her. She hugged the door of a shop and watched the corner, feigning interest in a black bag with crystal beads.

  A couple of yards east, Reece stopped and purchased a plain black cup of thick coffee. Sipping it, he crossed to Shiloh's side of the street and slowly made his way toward her. Amazement mingled with frustration as he took in the sight of her. A choli left her tanned, trim waist bare. The brightly colored sari accented her auburn hair and blue-grey eyes. He’d never forget those wide orbs staring at him when he’d nearly run her over.

  Incredible. She didn’t have any resources, yet she’d managed to change clothes, exit unnoticed, and almost lose him. Brilliant.

  Who was this woman?

  Shiloh licked her dry lips. It was him—the man from the Indian Coast Guard boat, the one with the brown beard who’d bumped into her at the hospital. At first she thought paranoia had tied her mind in knots, but now she had no doubt he was following her.

  Who was Mr. Brownbeard, and who were the other men? Were they working together? Separately? The second seemed unfathomable. What could be big enough that two different forces would pursue her? Maybe they thought she saw Mikhail's murder.

  More than ever she wished Khalid was here. With his help, she could talk through this. Alone, her mind couldn’t stitch together the threads of information.

  Shiloh shrugged off the thoughts. She needed time to figure it out, but first, she had to ditch her tail. She surveyed the busy marketplace. A mother and daughter shopped a few feet away, admiring the bindi and bangles laid out across a scarved table. Arms crossed, an Indian man chatted with another who sat in his car, his elbow sticking out the open window. Her real focus, however, lay on the opposite corner of the street. Ten minutes and the man still hadn’t appeared.

  Perhaps she was finally safe. Nearing the sidewalk, she stepped into the last rays of sunlight twinkling past the small huts. She reveled in the warmth and breathed in deeply of the scent of curried chicken. Now to make it to the beach. She was certain she could find food there. Her stomach rumbled.

  “Okay, let's get this over with.” Just as her toes touched the curb to cross the street and head south, she glanced right.

  Brownbeard. Though Shiloh wanted to snap away her gaze, she steeled her response. Definitely him, but now he wore a white kurta and black-tinted sunglasses. She’d recognize those broad shoulders anywhere, especially in a sea of shorter Indian men.

  She veered away from him and had taken only a dozen paces when uniformed men leapt out of the throng. Hostile eyes met hers—Kodiyeri and his minion.

  Her heart jack-hammered. Trapped between Brownbeard and fake police.

  The edges of her field of vision washed grey.

  Oh no. Not now. Please not now! Khalid wasn’t here to help. To steady herself, she reached for an electrical pole and looked for a place to hide. She spotted a gap between two shops. But it was too late. She couldn’t move.

  4

  SOMETHING’S WRONG.

  Reece considered the approaching agents and Shiloh. Why wasn’t she moving? Reece tossed down the coffee and started toward them. This he didn’t expect—Shiloh to freeze up. From what he’d seen, she was tougher. Smarter.

  He pressed the autodial on his phone. “I’m going to need you to keep a tracer on me.”

  “Jaxon … what are you up to?”

  “Just keep a live feed. Something's wrong with Blake.”

  “Reece, stop. Wait.”

  He kept walking. She still stood with her arms locked, facing the opposition. Auburn hair billowed over her shoulders blown by a gentle breeze that swept a light, spicy scent toward him.

  “Reece, what's happening? Answer me or—”

  “Namaskar,” he said to the two agents and blocked their path to Blake. “Tu kasa ahes?”

  The heavyset man scowled, his unibrow diving deep into the bridge of his nose. “Get out of my way!” he growled in Marathi.

  Reece knew his linguistic skills concealed his nationality. “I think I may have seen the woman you’re looking for.”

  The dingbat duo froze. “What did you say?” Malice painted a wicked mural across the older man's face. “How did you know we were looking for anyone?”

  “I was in a shop earlier when you asked for her,” Reece said. “I saw her around the corner—that way.” He pointed across the street.

  “Stay here. We will handle this.” The fat agent stomped past him.

  Reece shifted and rammed his shoulder into the agent's. When the man swung a fist toward him, he stepped back and apologized. “Maaf kijiye. I didn’t mean anything.” He could play the pretender—at least until Shiloh found her exit.

  “She's gone.” The younger man spun, searching the crowds. “The girl is gone!”

  Reece smiled inwardly. Shiloh had taken the opportunity and split.

  “Chup raho.” After ordering the underling to shut up, the bigger man turned his sneering eyes on Reece. “I ought to drag you down to the station and show you how badmash like you are handled.” He threw a punch, and Reece let it connect.

  Bent and feigning pain, Reece offered false humility with his apology.

  The man shoved him.

  Reece gave a half-bow and stumbled down the street, still clutching his ribs and watching as the two stormed in the wrong direction. The way she’d stood there, feet pinned to the cement, wasn’t like her. What happened?

  “Ryan?”

  “Good save, Jaxon. Your satcom should be working. You won’t need us now.”

  In the safety of his vehicle, he lifted his watch and flipped to the tracer readout. Her signal blipped, showing her nearing Bhuleshwar and Kalbadevi Roads. Reece clicked off the tracer. Why would she go back?

  Oh, no. He knew exactly what she was doing. And why.

  Smacking the steering wheel, he started the engine. Stupid. He’d love to wring her neck. Never had a target so mangled his mind and options. After the stunt she pulled on Market Lane, and now this, her naïveté might prevent him from keeping her alive.


  Long repressed memories surfaced. Darkness. Clanking. A scream followed closely by a thump. And he’d lost Chloe Staite.

  Reece shook his head and rubbed his eyes. Let the dead remain buried.

  He sped down Kalbadevi Road, keeping his eyes peeled. What had gotten into her? In the last fifteen minutes, she’d made two serious mistakes. Freezing up in front of those two and heading back to her apartment. She had to know better!

  His phone chirruped. At the intersection, he held the brake and retrieved the phone. “Go ahead.”

  “We’ve got an agent in place inside Mumbai Mansion. Just hold.”

  An agent in place? “Who?” He’d been the only agent working this area. “What's going on? Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

  “He's been there since the attack. Just sit tight.”

  “Sit tight?” He spun the steering wheel and pulled onto Bhuleshwar Road, this time coming from the east. The attack. He meant the one that had hit the Taj Mahal Palace and Tower … and killed Chloe.

  Parked along the curb, he glanced up at the multi-storied building where the UCSD students had taken up residence. He glanced at the Laxmi Narayan Temple across the street. Would that the gods there actually did any good—at least for Shiloh right now.

  “Okay, he's got her in sight. Looks like she's going in.”

  “Ryan,” Reece worked to keep his voice calm. “If she goes in, she’ll walk into a trap.”

  “I know.”

  Reece stilled. Were they not listening? “She's dead if she goes in there.”

  “I know, I know. We’re working on it.”

  A dog with its tail tucked scampered across the road, skittering out of the way when a horn squawked at it. Reece lifted his thermal binoculars and peered through the lenses toward the building. A dozen or more signatures lit up the screen. He tossed them aside. There would be no way to find Shiloh in that crowd, not at this time of day with everyone gathering for dinner in the main lobby and café.