Quicksand

 

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About the Author

Copyright Page

 

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For Aya

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

An opinion piece by LZ Granderson
(“Treat Chicago Gangs as Terrorists”) helped shape my thinking about gang violence in the United States and the definition of terror; meanwhile, Nick Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn awakened me to the terrors of sex trafficking. Many people helped bring Nora Khalil to life, in particular my daughters, who I expect to always be as badass and sweet as Nora, in that order, and my mom, my biggest fan. I want to thank my cousin Mary Lowry, who inspired me by being in the first generation of female FBI agents and who dropped everything to “be there” when she was most needed. Finally, special thanks to Angela Bell, FBI, who was patient enough to share her knowledge with me and purge some of my biggest mistakes.

 

PROLOGUE

Her bare feet
smacked against the cold, slick grass. She ran fast, faster than she ever thought she could, and the sharp, crisp air could not keep up with her; she gasped, trying hard to pull enough air into her body to propel it faster, faster, faster. She could not stop, must not stop, she must run, and this time she must get away, away, away, where they couldn't get her, couldn't touch her, couldn't take her back, never go back, never, never, never …

She saw the curling, intertwined letters, out of place, it seemed to her, on a neon sign with a deep gash in one corner. She focused on the sign, and her feet left the littered lawns that stretched out in front of tall, tired houses and she ran across cement, and then onto jagged gravel. She looked for the side door and found it, and, as she doubled over in pain, everything within her shocked at having run so fast, it was all she could do to push open that door and stumble inside.

Scarved heads jerked up immediately at the sound of her entrance. Eyes widened.

But she could not speak, could barely breathe. Somehow, her thin legs took her near the circle of women, and then she sank down, down, onto the soft carpet, knowing she could go no further.

Shocked murmurs floated above her head, and she felt some of the circle pull away, but then one face came into view, and she saw clear, honey-colored eyes filled with concern, with care. She felt a hand touch hers, and the skin was warm and soft.

“Are you alright, Sister?”

Rahma's chest was still heaving, and she could not speak to answer. The words were incomprehensible, but the woman's voice was so gentle, so gentle … she found tears flooding her eyes. She had not cried in a very, very long time.

“Sister?”

This second time she could understand: the woman had spoken in Arabic.

When had anyone last spoken to her so gently? It was not since her mother had clutched at her, parting tears tumbling down her sun-stained cheeks. Rahma fought to focus her eyes on the woman's face, searching hard for the words to tell her that they would be coming soon, that they would have their guns, that they would try to take her back.

The words formed so slowly on her tongue! “There are six of us,” she whispered at last, hoping that her dialect would be intelligible.

The woman leaned down, and Rahma saw the intent look in her eyes, knew with relief that she had gotten the right words out.

“I am the oldest,” she continued. “Help us. Please…”

It was then that the door burst open and the shouting began.

 

PART
ONE

 

CHAPTER
1

Nora Khalil had
just reached the river path when an incoming text vibrated against her upper arm. She came to a quick halt, wiped sweaty hands against her leggings, then yanked her phone off her armband, read the text, and called her partner.

He picked up immediately. “You jogging?”

“Running, yeah,” she corrected him, trying not to pant into the mic.

“We found him. Where can I pick you up?”

Nora squinted at the early-morning traffic inching tortuously across the bridge, then back in the direction she had come. “I'm at the river. Looks like you should stay off the expressway. I'll come up Cherry 'til I meet you.”

“Ten minutes.”

The
tabla
-heavy beats of a Nancy Ajram track overtook Nora's earbuds. Nora stood for a regretful moment, watching the quiet, olive-green water. The skinny Schuylkill River wound its way along the western edge of Philadelphia's Center City. To Nora, it looked like it flowed directly from the Art Museum, which sat imperiously atop Fairmount Hill. Cliché or not, running the museum's steps was her favorite workout, and she frowned, annoyed, as she turned and headed away from the river, in among the stately town houses of Cherry Street. She let her sneakers fall into rhythm once again with the music. It was much less than ten minutes before John Wansbrough's black Suburban intercepted her at the densely congested Benjamin Franklin Parkway. He pulled up, and she climbed in.

“Good morning,” she said, yanking the door shut and then tugging gently on her earbuds.

“Don't sweat on my leather, now.”

Chest heaving, she narrowed her eyes at him.

“You have your piece and badge?” he asked.

She nodded. The 9 mm Glock was strapped to the small of her back in a sweat-stained velcro-and-elastic carrier that also held her ID. All of this was neatly concealed under her long, loose tee with the words T
EMPLE
U
NIVERSITY
emblazoned across the front. She arched her back slightly as she buckled her seat belt, shifting the gun slightly left so that it wouldn't dig into her spine as she sat. “So what's the story?”

“The lead from little miss gangster turned out to be right on. Good work, by the way.” Nora had spent most of the previous day with a young Junior Black Mafia recruit, such that she'd memorized her every tattoo. Progress had come only after a trip to the basement of the FBI building. Furious, Nora herself had pulled out the long, refrigerated drawer, and then sank her long fingers into Daniella Miller's braids and held the young woman's face six inches from the cold, knife-slashed body of fourteen-year-old Kylie Baker.

Soon afterward, Daniella was willing to tell what she knew about Dewayne hiding out in a loft apartment in Northern Liberties with a high-priced white hooker.

“Calder and Burton staked them out and finally spotted Dewayne when he passed by a window. Took a while to nail down the warrant.” He waved a folded white piece of paper at her, then tucked it back into his navy-blue blazer.

Nora checked her watch. It was almost seven thirty. “Calder still there?”

“Yeah, waiting for the cavalry.”

“He'll be tired. He always ends up shooting stuff when he's tired.”

“That's why you get to go in first. Rookie's privilege.”

Nora flinched. “Didn't you promise to stop calling me that after I'd been with you guys for six months? You do know that I went through all this with PD. I've paid my dues.”

John Wansbrough snorted. “Are you suggesting that being a rookie with the Philly PD is anything like being a rookie with the Federal Bureau of Investigation?” Her partner gave her a patronizing smile born of twenty-six years of active duty.

Nora responded with a small groan. “Right. What was I thinking?”

Traffic was bad. Wansbrough flicked on the red and blue lights embedded in the front grille and window, and Nora watched as early morning commuters grudgingly pulled to each side to make way for the SUV. Wansbrough navigated the snarls with great efficiency, and Nora envied him his cool. Although she'd passed the necessary driving tests for the police academy, she still hated driving. There had been no real need, growing up in the city. She had walked everywhere, or ridden the subways and buses.

When the Philadelphia Police Department had tapped her to join the FBI's Safe Streets Violent Gang Task Force, she ended up working full-time with the FBI, and got a desk and a navy-blue Ford. But it was almost always parked in the garage under the field office at 6th and Arch. Nora was a competent but nervous driver and always felt better with the pavement under her feet. She sighed, still regretting the abrupt end to her run along the river. She had just paid far more than she should have for a pair of pink and gray Adidas Energy Boosts, and she admired them as she sat waiting for her pulse to slow.

For Nora, being locked in the interview room with Daniella Miller yesterday evening had been like living through a five-hour assault. Nora had learned at least seven new swear words. Running it off this morning was all she had wanted to do. It had taken every ounce of her strength to keep from throat-punching that woman. Even just going over it in her head now enraged her.

Wansbrough glanced at her, noting the deep V that had settled between her eyebrows.

“What?”

Nora shrugged.

“Come on, what? Nervous? You're a pro at this now.”

“What, oh, the bust? Nah. Well, a little.”

“Daniella the gangbanger??” Wansbrough guessed correctly as Nora laughed. “She was somethin' else.”

Nora nodded.

“You kept it together, though. Except in the basement, maybe.”

“I just … do you know that's the first time somebody called me a ‘white bitch'?”

Her partner raised his eyebrows.

“No one has ever called me white before. Do I look white to you?”

Wansbrough laughed out loud. “Well, girl, you don't look black. Did you think you were black or something?”

“I always got ‘
sand nigger
.'”

John's wide forehead creased into a scowl. “I'm gonna have a long, long talk with you about using that word in my presence. After we get Fulton into custody.”