The Djinn's Dilemma (7 page)

She held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded. “Okay.”

“Good.” The knot in his stomach unraveled. Rukh focused on business. “So if you’re writing about the governor, then we can suppose he’s the client.”

“Not necessarily,” she said. “It could be his lover, his wife, or even his mother.”

“Whatever.” Rukh rolled his eyes. “The stories are about him, so I take out the governor and your problem is solved.”

A jolt of nervous exhilaration shrieked through her. To have so much power at her fingertips, to have this man willing to protect her and kill for her…left Sarah feeling drunk. For a moment, she could imagine what Helen of Troy might have felt. Then reality crashed down on her head, sobered her in an instant. Death. They were speaking of death.

Sarah shook her head. “No.” She convinced him they could nail the client without resorting to murder.

Rukh resisted for a while. Death was final and foolproof. It could be trusted…he’d been killing long enough to know that deep in his bones.

“I really appreciate you trusting me and telling me,” Sarah said. “It gives me a chance to stay alive, but I can’t agree to another’s death.”

“But they want you dead,” he argued.

“Yes, but I am not them.”

He turned away from her, muttering about naïve and idealistic fools.

Sarah turned him back towards her.

“You satisfied desires I didn’t even know I had. It wasn’t just sex, it was a connection—an electric, intrinsic connection that’s not easily found,” she said. “But I have to confess, I can’t be with a killer. Do something else, anything else, that doesn’t involve murder or torture and is preferably legal.”

Good to her last breath. He shook his head, laughing. “Let’s see if we can save your life first.”

They suspected the client to be the governor or his lover, but they needed to prove it. The email address was one of those free email accounts; further digging only yielded a bogus identity behind it.

So Rukh called his bank and had them return the recent payment. Next he sent an email to the client: “Problem with fulfilling your order due to nonpayment of balance. Please advise.”

Sarah hoped their ploy would draw the contact out and they could get a picture of him.

Within a few minutes, he had a reply. “Balance transferred at 0900 Tuesday of this week as per your specifications. Please explain.”

He sent a terse response: “Payment isn’t in our account and we regret to inform you that we are unable to fulfill your order under the circumstances.”

Sarah went through some yoga moves as Rukh paced; both kept glancing over at the laptop as if it was a ticking time bomb.

After the longest fifteen minutes, the email alert chimed again. The missive read: “Time 2 short. Let’s arrange for f-2-f handover.”

Rukh looked at her. “He wants a face-to-face.”

“Has he ever met you?”

“Of course not,” he said. “I never meet anyone in person.”

Rukh typed: “Fine. Where and when?”

Sarah grabbed his hand before he could send. “Are you sure? This could be dangerous. You don’t have to do this.”

Guilt gnawed at him, he still hadn’t found the time to tell her he wasn’t wholly human. What was dangerous for her, wasn’t necessarily for him. Fine, timing had nothing to do with it. He was a coward, afraid of losing her. Rukh shook her hand free and clicked the send button. “I want to.”

The drop-off was arranged for 4:00 p.m. at the outdoor café of the Whole Foods Market on 6th Street. He said he’d be the blond with the loud Hawaiian shirt and straw hat. The password: Aloha.

“That doesn’t sound like you,” Sarah said. “For one thing, you’re definitely not blond.”

“I will be by the time I show up at Whole Foods,” he replied.

Sarah called her friend, Bob—a photographer at the paper—and left a message. Then she called her contact at the district attorney’s office.

“Hey Tim, I’ve a tip for you for a change.” She cleared her throat. “Involving political corruption, love triangle, and murder for hire.”

She listened for a bit. “I can’t tell you more, but if things turn out the way I think they will, you’ll have definite proof.”

Sarah raked her fingers through her hair. “We’ve worked long enough together, you have to trust me on this.” She blew out a breath. “I have a source who can nail the governor’s ass, but this person will need some favors.”

Her gaze strayed to him. The worry and warmth in her eyes sent a shiver up his spine. No one but his da had ever given a rat’s ass about him. Guilt festered like a wound. He needed to come clean about his Djinn part. Tell her everything.

“He’ll need immunity and witness protection.” She sighed. “I guess I can call your boss and try to deal with him.”

His email pinged. Rukh tuned out the phone call and clicked on the reply. His contact wanted more, he didn’t want to risk speaking to the wrong person. Yeah, unknowns could come back to bite.

Rukh took a deep breath, released it, then typed. “Ask me the time and get back a global answer.” Cryptic as hell, but he couldn’t come up with anything else to reassure the guy at such short notice.

Once that was taken care of, he shut the computer down and turned toward Sarah. She stood by the window, in profile, chewing on her thumb.

He went to her, encircled her in his arms from behind, placed a soft kiss at the warm nape of her neck. Below them, Lady Bird Lake glittered blue-green in the sunlight.

“How did you become an assassin?”

He told her about his dad. Daniel O’Shay had been a decent dad. He’d also been a two-bit crook and did petty jobs—from lookout to getaway car driver and delivery guy—for bigger, badder crooks. Rukh had accompanied him on jobs, helped out. His djinn talents to shadow, stalk and travel through the ethereal plane had helped him rise through the ranks. The world of humans, at least the more criminal part of it, had welcomed him with open arms no questions asked.

“What happened to him?” she asked.

“He drank himself to death,” Rukh said.

“I’m sorry.” She turned in his arms and kissed him. “I can tell you miss him.”

He cradled her in his arms, enjoying the sharing, the acceptance, the trust…. He took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For trying to get me a deal with the district attorney’s office.”

“Now that I’ve seen what you can do in bed, I want to keep you here,” she said, smiling. Then her eyes darkened. “And I want to keep you safe. Like you said, Texas has a death penalty.”

He should have known his words would return to bite him in the ass. Rukh licked his dry lips. He needed to stop pussyfooting around and tell her all. Now.

“Hakuna Matata,” the “no worries” song, belted into the room and she whipped out her cell phone. “Sorry, I have to get this.”

He nodded and moved away from her.

“Hey Bob, thanks for calling me back. I need you and your camera.”

While she was on the phone, Rukh stepped into the bathroom and transformed himself into a tall, slender man, pale as cream with a drop of coffee. A curtain of honey-wheat blond hair fell straight and silky to just below his shoulders. He made sure that his face was elongated, the square chin softened, the full lips turned thin. A few days’ growth of facial hair gave him the look of a guy on vacation. Only his eyes remained the color of oceans. Within minutes he was dressed in a bright red and yellow Hawaiian shirt and blue jeans.

He stepped out and bowed to her. “Meet Alexander Karlsson, the retiring assassin.”

“Yikes, you look like a scrawny, Swedish Fabio with a bad wardrobe.” Sarah walked around and checked him out. “You really are a master of disguise. You’ll have to do Brad Pitt for me someday soon.”

When he glowered, she laughed. “Never mind, I’m kinda partial to the Rukh look.” She reached up and touched his face. “How do you make yourself look thinner?”

“I’ll explain later,” he said, tapping his wristwatch. “Your disguise is in the bathroom.”

Sarah changed into the clothes he’d conjured up. Dressed in a UT orange T-shirt, a pair of jeans, and scuffed sneakers she looked like a college kid. “This is it?”

“Nope.” He stepped away to reveal a wig, a cap and sunglasses lying on the bed. Jasmine laughed as she wrapped her curls into a tight knot and donned a black wig sporting dreadlocks. She jammed the bright Rastafarian knit cap on top and donned a pair of sunglasses.

“Personally, I think the cap is a bit much,” she said.

Rukh ignored the heaviness in his gut. So many things could go wrong at this meet. But he’d risk anything to keep Jasmine safe. He winked. “It’s you, babe.”

Rukh settled down at a table under the shade of a gigantic umbrella with an iced coffee in the Whole Foods’ patio. Families and groups of friends occupied nearby tables, laughing over coffees and pastries. Oblivious and carefree.

Surrounded by the crowd, exposed in broad daylight and waiting for his contact gave him the jitters. Rukh forced himself to drink as he scanned one building after another. Any one of them could be hiding a sniper. The bullet would hit before he’d hear the report of the rifle, leaving him no time to thin his substance. The speed of the bullet would drive it deep into his being, the poison of the metal would shred his essence, leave it in tatters. Healing would be slow and full of pain.

Then there was the possibility of accident and ricochet. And casualties. The chubby toddler waving a rattle, or the Willie Nelson look alike in the battered cowboy hat. Shit. Bile churned in his gut. He shoved the coffee away. His heart yearned for Jasmine.

Casually, he leaned back in his chair and glanced over at the live band performing under the covered area. She swayed to the music at the fringe of the patio, languid and sensuous in her movements. Heaven and hell, she was gorgeous…even in that getup. If he hadn’t watched her transform, he wouldn’t have recognized her and that was good. But where was the photographer?

On the dot of four, a man carrying a briefcase and a cup of coffee stopped by Rukh’s table. Dressed in a dark blue suit, red and silver power tie and sunglasses, he could have stepped out of
Forbes Magazine
. His short blond hair glinted in the afternoon sun.

“Hi. Do you have the time?”

Rukh glanced at his watch and then back at him. Was this his contact? If not, the man would probably think him a certifiable loon and vacate the area. Worked either way. “One-thirty a.m. Kabul, 10:00 p.m. Belfast, or 4:00 p.m. Austin.”

The man flashed a toothpaste ad smile. “Aloha. Finally we meet.”

Rukh inclined his head and tossed out a half smile. “Aloha to you too.”

The guy shifted from foot to foot, then cocked his head toward one of the empty chairs at the table. “Could I borrow that for a sec?”

Rukh nodded and looked away at the traffic streaming past on 6th Street—cars, bicycles and a bright yellow duckmobile filled with happy tourists. But he studied his contact through the corner of his eye. Thank God for reflective lenses.

The guy set his coffee on the table and pulled out the chair. Then he lifted his left foot on it and retied his shoe.

“Thanks.” He straightened up and picked up his coffee. Bending, he grabbed a case. “Sayonara,” he said before sauntering away.

Rukh watched the guy as he threaded through the crowd. Such an ordinary, pleasant looking man.

After he disappeared from view, Rukh glanced down. His blood buzzed with electric excitement. The man had taken the dummy case he’d brought from the hotel instead of his own. Rukh hoped the unmarked bills had plenty of incriminating fingerprints.

He scraped back his chair and tossed his trash into a nearby can. He picked up the case gingerly, not by its handles where the man had grasped it, but from underneath and one side. Lugging the case, he made his way to the parking garage and Sarah’s car. She and the photographer Bob, who had his digital camera, were waiting for him. “So was that anyone you know?” Rukh asked.

Both newshounds grinned and said “Lover Boy!” in unison.

“Okay then, let’s go take care of this.” He slid into the backseat.

They arranged to meet investigator Tim Garza at a coffee shop that was near the D.A.’s office.

Even though Rukh didn’t need the immunity and legal paperwork because he could simply disappear, he stuck to his persona. He hadn’t found time to explain his djinn heritage to Sarah, and she needed a real life source for her story to run with all the new developments.

Besides, the papers would help him get an acceptable, legal job, buy a house with a mortgage, give Jasmine the normal guy she wanted. So the blond Alexander Karlsson cut a deal with the D.A., FBI and other alphabet soup agencies. He became John Smith, ordinary American citizen. And, along with Sarah, went into temporary protective custody.

By Saturday noon, Rukh was pacing from room to room in the tiny little bungalow hidden on a quiet street in Travis Heights. But Sarah sat at the kitchen table leafing through her notes and typing away at her laptop, a total workaholic.

“All work and no play makes Rukh cranky.”

She glanced up, her eyes glazed. “What? You aren’t working.”

“Yes, but you are.” He unbuttoned his shirt, teased it off and tossed it at her. Did a slow swivel of the hips. “How about some exercise?”

“Tempting.” She smiled. “But I have to revise the story with this latest development and send it in to the paper. This is big, even bigger than what I originally had.”

Disappointment must have shown on his face, because she crooked her finger and beckoned.

When he was almost at her chair, she stood and stretched. Her full breasts rose up and strained her T-shirt, making him happier in seconds. Her arms wrapped around him and pulled him close. Oh yeah, this was more like it. He leaned in for a kiss and received one. Slow and sensual, like drinking perfectly aged port with a sweet long finish. Warmth tingled through his cells, built to a flood and washed through every inch of his being. A soft protest escaped him as she pulled away.

“I really need to get this done. But afterwards I’ll be ready for all kinds of exercise and games. Promise.” Sarah pulled down his head until their foreheads touched. “Thank you for helping me with this story, for being honest.”