Scarlett Undercover

by Jennifer Latham

  “Who are you?” I whispered.

  “You know the answer to that,” Decker murmured into my hair.

  I pulled away, hating myself for it, and watched the gold flecks around his irises dance in the steam.

  “You know what I mean,” I said.

  “Yeah.” He sighed. “You want to sit down?”

  “Yeah.”

  We pushed through the swinging door to the dining room. I hopped onto one of the counter stools. Deck pointed to a half-full pot of coffee on the burner.

  “Want some?”

  “I’m good,” I said. “Let’s just talk.”

  He nodded, ran his hands through dark hair cut too short for his curls to show. “How’d things go at Calamus?”

  “You knew I was there?”

  He shrugged. Looked guilty.

  “Scarlett…”

  The look in my eyes must have made him stop.

  “You should have told me what was going on, Deck,” I said quietly.

  “I couldn’t. I wasn’t supposed to.”

  “What do you mean you weren’t supposed to? Since when do you take orders from anyone?”

  “It’s not like that,” he said. “I wasn’t following orders—I was trying to do things the way they’re meant to be done. This is all bigger than you and me, Scarlett.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s just fairy tales and delusions.”

  He shook his head. “It’s definitely more than that.”

  “A magic ring and an old bottle that’s really a door to genie land? Are you kidding me?”

  Deck frowned and shook his head. “Solomon’s ring and the Shubaak aren’t fairy tales. They’re our history, Scarlett. Where we come from. And that’s worth saving.”

  “Okay,” I said, “but even if that’s true, from what Manny told me, the Children of Iblis are doing this because they actually believe all the magic stuff. And I got the feeling he believes it, too. I mean, the guy’s all torn up about losing the ring. He thinks he’s an Abd al-Malik.”

  Deck looked sheepish. It suited him.

  “What about Delilah?” I asked. “Does she believe?”

  “A little, maybe. But she’s not all weird about it. It’s more like she figures there’s no harm believing, just in case it’s true. Because if it is, and if the Children of Iblis find the ring and the Shubaak, we’re all sunk.”

  “What about you?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’m still sorting things out,” Deck said. “When both of your parents believe in something, when it’s what they expect you to believe, it’s kind of hard not to at least give it a good think. And you’re going to have to do the same, Scarlett. Your parents believed, too.”

  He rested his knee against mine. I thought about pulling back. Didn’t.

  “You told me your father was dead,” I said.

  “Up until last year, I thought he was.” Decker tucked a strand of curls behind my ear. I tried to brush his hand away, but he caught my wrist right where it was tender, and hard enough to make me wince.

  “I’m sorry!” Deck jerked his hand away, looking ready to throw himself on a sword. “Did I hurt you?”

  “Not you. Asim.” I tugged up my sleeve so he could see. He ran the tips of his fingers over the swelling, gentle as a butterfly kiss.

  “He knocked me down, shoving his way into our apartment Saturday night,” I said. “I landed funny.”

  Deck’s face went grim. “He shouldn’t have done that.”

  “No shit.”

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  I pulled my hand away. “Don’t bother. From what I can tell, he’s way too into this mess to see things rationally.”

  Deck tried to turn his head away, but I put my hand on his cheek and brought it back.

  “Even if you aren’t sure about the magic part, Deck, do you believe your ancestors were jinn?”

  He looked at me then like there was nothing between us, nothing to mark where I ended and he began.

  “I don’t know.”

  The raw honesty of his answer filled up a deep, empty spot inside me that I hadn’t known was there. I came off my stool and moved to him. Pressed my hands against his chest. Felt the warmth of him through his cotton T-shirt. My hands slid to his waist. Around. Up the muscles of his back.

  He didn’t move. I kissed him.

  It was warm and sweet and walking off a cliff, all at once. My tongue traced the curve of his upper lip. He held back, letting me. Then it was too much and he pressed me to him hard. His tongue licked at mine. His free hand slipped to the small of my back, electric with want and promise.

  And then he pulled away.

  “No,” he said. “Not like this.”

  “What do you mean?” My breath came fast. “I thought this was what you wanted.”

  His fingers slid from the top of my spine to wander over my lips. “You know it is.”

  “Then what?” I pulled his hand away, held it as I bumped back against my stool. “What’s wrong?”

  “It… it’s just the timing, I guess,” he said. “This shouldn’t happen when everything’s so screwed up. I mean, you just found out about your family. Things must be so surreal for you right now. You need time to make sense of it all without having to think about us. Because I know that we’re real. You and me. We’re real, and that’s never going to change.”

  I played with the hairs on his wrist.

  “Okay,” I said.

  His lips brushed my cheek. And then we sat there, hands touching, listening to the wall clock count out minutes.

  “Scarlett?”

  I looked up.

  “I…” He paused, exhaled, tried again until I stopped him.

  “I know, Deck. Me too.”

  He nodded. “Yeah.”

  And that was all we needed to say.

  I left the Rubicon alone, even though Deck had offered to go with me. Insisted, even. But I turned him down. Needing him was one thing. Needing him to protect me was another.

  The smell of chicken stock seeped out of my cardigan and into my nose as I walked, reminding me that no matter how Deck made me feel, a girl can’t live on stomach butterflies alone. So I swung by the Vietnamese place around the corner from our apartment and picked up two orders of pho. Reem’s went into the fridge; mine went into bed with me.

  Everything was easier to take once the pillows at my back were arranged just so. It freed up my mind, let me focus on the questions that still needed answering. Like why the Children of Iblis were after George Fagin. And what had been on the paper shreds Quinn threw off the bridge before he jumped.

  I sipped my broth and was about to shovel in a mouthful of noodles when a strange chime sounded in my backpack.

  It was Quinn’s phone. Had to be.

  I shoved the container aside, pawed through the backpack and came up with the phone. A push notification lit the screen.

  SoldierofIblis34 said: Traitor

  I hit the icon next to the message, and a photo sharing account for SoldierofIblis21 came up. Even though I’d never seen the boy in the picture before, his round cheeks, freckles, and bushy red hair were so much like Sam’s it spooked me. SoldierofIblis21 was Quinn Johnson.

  They said they’ll hurt my little brother if I don’t give them Fagin.

  I waited too long.

  Get out while you can.

  Quinn had posted the picture and its caption the day he died. Since then, a string of comments had piled up underneath.

  SoldierofIblis14 said: Seriously dude?

  SoldierofIblis30 said: U r an idiot

  SoldierofIblis5 said: Rot in hell asswipe

  And on and on.

  Some detective you are, Scarlett, I thought. Any shamus worth her salt and pepper should be able to search a phone right, especially when it comes straight from a dead boy’s hand.

  I’d just flunked Gumshoe 101.

  It wouldn’t happen again.

  A quick look at Quinn’s followers gave me a list of SoldierofIblis
usernames, numbered one through thirty-six, along with one more that stuck out like a sore, festering thumb: IBLIS.

  I tapped the screen, closed my eyes as Iblis’s photos loaded. When I opened them, a single picture was onscreen, showing the Baker Street Bridge and a caption from that morning.

  Soi1 and Soi2

  1:00 pm Tuesday

  That was when I knew that even though I’d screwed up a little, the Children of Iblis had screwed up a lot. They were zealots, and zealots relied on fear to weaken enemies and blind their followers.

  But I wasn’t afraid.

  My eyes were wide open. I was going to keep Sam and Gemma safe. I was going to destroy the Children of Iblis.

  Even when things hit too close to home.

  Even when curveballs knocked me flat.

  Even when it meant facing down a psychotic cult on the bridge Quinn Johnson had jumped from just a few days ago.

  I wasn’t afraid.

  18

  By 12:20 Tuesday afternoon, I was in the middle of the Baker Street Bridge, standing on the pedestrian walkway with a plywood construction barrier between me and six lanes of car-clogged asphalt. Whitecaps danced over Las Almas Bay 824 feet below. The wind off the water was strong enough to knock me backward into the barrier like a warning. And since the Baker had hosted more than its fair share of deaths—intentional and otherwise—it was a warning I’d do well to heed.

  My stomach flopped like a one-winged gull as I peeked over the rail. I didn’t do heights. Never had.

  I whispered a prayer for Quinn into the wind and dialed Emmet.

  “Finally got yourself in enough trouble to call, huh?” He sounded playful.

  I stepped back from the rail, curled my hand over the mouthpiece to shield it from the wind. “Nah. Still working on it.”

  The warmth in Emmet’s chuckle spread through me like a tonic.

  “Listen,” I said, “I need to know more about the papers that walked out during the last Archer Construction break-in. Are there any details you forgot to mention the other day?”

  Emmet was folding his lip. I knew it like I knew I didn’t want to be on that bridge.

  “What makes you ask?”

  I looked left, saw a cyclist in full racing gear coming toward me.

  “I talked with Quinn Johnson’s brother,” I said. “He mentioned that Quinn started acting different after the insider break-in. Scared.”

  “What else did he say?” Emmet asked. The cyclist was getting close.

  “Not much. He’s just a kid. He’s upset.”

  “Not much isn’t nothing.”

  I did some lip folding of my own.

  “He wants me to prove his brother didn’t kill himself.”

  Emmet let out a low whistle. “That’s a big ask.”

  “It’s why I need your help. Did the cops tell Quinn’s family what he said to the woman before he jumped? About Sam being safe?”

  “No one knows except the woman and us,” Emmet said. “The higher-ups decided it would complicate things if word spread, and since the coroner ruled his death a suicide, that’s how they want to keep it.”

  The cyclist was thirty yards away. I reached into my bag, fastened the blackjack’s strap over my good wrist.

  “You should tell them, Emmet. They deserve to know.”

  The cyclist whizzed past. A heavy gust of wind hit, whistling across the phone’s mouthpiece, lifting my hair toward the steel cables overhead.

  “Where are you?” Emmet said. “A wind tunnel?”

  Suddenly, more than anything else in the world, I needed for him to know where I was. At least that way, if I died, they’d know to drag the bay for my body.

  “I’m on the Baker,” I said.

  “What?” he shouted. “Why the hell are you out there?”

  “Tell me who the unopened envelope was from. The one stolen from the construction trailer.”

  A hooded figure with a familiar stride was jogging straight at me on my right.

  Blondie.

  “Scarlett, what’s going on?”

  I tightened my grip on the blackjack again. “Tell me who sent the letter, Emmet.”

  Another jogger was coming on my left. This one was big. Tall big. Thick big.

  “Get yourself off of there first,” Emmet said. “It’s too windy for anyone to be out on that walkway today!”

  I hitched the straps of my backpack over both shoulders.

  “Emmet?”

  “All right, all right,” he muttered.

  I heard papers shuffling, felt my heart pound in my ears like the waves back onshore.

  “That’s weird,” he said. “The envelope was from Hammett House. The secretary remembered because she couldn’t figure why anyone in juvy would bother writing to a big-deal architect.”

  “Thanks, Emmet. I owe you.”

  Blondie had gotten too close to keep talking.

  “Scarlett, don’t you…”

  I hung up. Shoved my phone into the outside pocket of my backpack. And hoped like hell I’d live long enough for Emmet to give me the bawling out I deserved.

  I took off toward Blondie at a run. She froze, feet leaden on the walkway. Tensed. Then she turned tail and ran. I pumped my legs harder, cursed myself for going so light on muay Thai sessions in the past few months. My muscles burned. My lungs fought for air. Still, I was catching up to her.

  Halfway back to land, I pulled close enough to take her out. My blackjack landed solid across her hamstrings. She pitched forward into the outside guardrail. Skull met metal. A funny squeak flew out of her as she hit the ground. She lay still.

  One down.

  The man behind me was closing in fast, looking nasty as shit on a shoe. Six foot and then some, he had the lumpy nose and thick, hard body of a retired boxer.

  Him I did not want to fight.

  I jumped over Blondie’s crumpled limbs and ran at an all-out sprint. It was no use; the Goon had me beat, and when he tackled me from behind, it felt like I’d been hit by a mile-long train on an open throttle. My knees smashed into asphalt, then my head. I flipped over just before the Goon came down and crushed the air out of my lungs. The Shubaak replica from Manny’s dug into my back. I jerked my arms out from underneath his chest and rammed my thumbs into his eyes. He roared, tried to shake me off. I pressed harder. A ham-sized fist swung blindly toward my head. I ducked it, pulled in my knee, and forced just enough space under his tree trunk torso to nail him in the crotch. He let out a roar, jerked back, curled up in agony.

  I dragged myself up to standing and crouched in a fighting stance, blackjack cocked.

  “Walk away,” I said. “And we’ll call it a draw.”

  He rolled to all fours.

  “I don’t care what Iblis wants,” he growled. “I’m gonna kill you and that little brat, too.” His eyes were muddy brown. Not a speck of gold in sight.

  “Gemma…” Her name slipped through my lips before I could catch it.

  The Goon sneered. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it hurts real bad for both of you.”

  He came at me. My right leg swung up and around, high enough for my shin to nail him in the ear. With the same leg, I aimed a heel strike at his nose. I’d hoped to send bits of skull into the back of his head, but ended up with my foot locked in one of his massive hands instead. He pushed forward, driving me into the guardrail so hard there must have been cartoon stars and birdies circling my head.

  “You know how to fly, bitch?” The Goon pressed his forearm into my throat, lifting until I was on the tips of my toes. My backpack caught the rail. The Goon pushed harder, cutting off my air completely. No matter how hard I jerked my head side to side, the pressure against my windpipe wouldn’t let up. In a few seconds I’d tap out, and the Goon would toss me into the bay.

  Only I wasn’t ready to die.

  With the last of my strength, I hammered my blackjack into his temple. His arm sagged. I sucked in a breath and rammed my fist into the soft tissue under his chin. His h
ead jerked back. I threw an elbow that opened up a razor-thin gash on his cheekbone. Threw another. Blood spurted as his flesh split wide.

  From the look on his face, I knew the Goon wasn’t used to seeing his own blood in a fight. It surprised him so much I had time to lash out with another kick. His kneecap gave under my heel. He stumbled, dropped his head like a mad bull elephant. My blackjack arched through the air and crunched into the side of his skull. His eyes clouded over. His face drooped. And then he sank into a pile at my feet.

  “Not as tough as you look, are you?” I wheezed, wiping blood from the corner of my mouth. Every part of me hurt. I wobbled. Caught myself. Spit a mouthful of blood onto the ground beside him.

  “Just remember, pal, you got your ass handed to you by a girl.”

  Behind us, Blondie was gone. I pulled off my backpack, checked to make sure everything inside it had survived. Abbi’s decoy Shubaak was in the big compartment, undamaged. Quinn’s phone was there, too, along with mine. More importantly, the safe deposit box key I’d stolen from Reem’s hijab drawer that morning hadn’t come out of my jeans pocket where I’d stashed it. Its ridged edge was a comfort against my palm. I put it back, closed the bag up tight, knelt beside the Goon.

  He was still breathing. So I stood and walked away, weak as a prom night chastity pledge, but hell-bent on getting Gemma out of her brother’s mess alive.

  19

  Outbound cars lined up bumper to bumper at the Baker’s entrance. I stumbled past them, crossing at the first light. Pain stabbed like a dagger behind my eyes. Diesel fumes and blood mingled in my stomach. I swallowed back the acid in my throat and kept going.

  “Get in.”

  I recognized the voice coming through the rolled-down window of an old VW Bug beside me.

  “Get. In.”

  “Mook?” My voice sounded far away. The passenger door swung open. “We need to go, akht,” he said. “You aren’t safe here.”

  Cars behind us fired warning shots with their horns.

  “I’ll be damned,” I said.

  Mook shook his head. “Not on my watch, you won’t.”