Return (Matt Turner Series Book 3) (27 page)

She looked out on the three rows of cars, and indeed, the vast majority were white. The maid had said it was a Subaru … which row?

“Which row did she say?” Tuni said aloud.

“Second row!” Alexander cheered, and dragged her on.

A whistle from the gate. Tuni spun toward the sound.

There, beyond the gate, a dark car sat parked in the tree shadows just off the service road. A man stood beside it, on the passenger side—a Caucasian man with silver hair, black five o’clock shadow, sunglasses, and wearing green slacks and a tucked-in white polo shirt, reminiscent of a park ranger.

Oh, thank God, he’s white,
she thought, and then immediately felt semi-ashamed of the semi-racism.

The man quickstepped to the rear passenger door, and beckoned Tuni forward with a small-yet-urgent wave.

Tuni glanced behind her to the house and roof. It appeared all clear. She tossed the kind maid’s keys toward the wall, and pressed Alexander forward.

“This way, Bubu! We’re going with the man out there.”

He proceeded on, unsure. “Who?”

She picked him up, hugged him tight across her, and ran up the sloping driveway without another backward glance. The waiting man’s face, aimed at the house, told her the coast was still clear.

As she neared the car, she spotted another man—shaggy blonde mop, younger—in the driver’s seat, his bespectacled eyes tracking her through the rearview mirror.

“Come, come, come,” said the older man as he swung the back door open.

The driver put the car in gear as Tuni pushed Alexander inside. She slid in after him, suddenly aware of her heart thumping. Doors shut, the car revved up the road. She dared a glance out the back. The gate was slowly rolling shut. No signs of pursuers. The wall disappeared entirely behind the road’s thick tree canopy.

“Mama,” Alexander whined, and she saw her hand still clamped around his wrist.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Bubu.” She rubbed out the finger marks. “Here, hand me your seatbelt over there. We don’t have your car seat so you get to sit like a big boy.”

She clicked in his seatbelt and pulled on her own, eyeing the silent men in the front.

“Thank you so much. You’ve no idea how much I appreciate your help. It’s been quite a day.” She peered out her window as they summited the hilltop—all downhill from here.

“S’okay, s’okay,” the passenger replied. “Hide down now.”

Tuni pulled Alexander’s head down toward her, then slid low in the seat, bending over him. At the bottom of the private drive, she snuck a peek between the front seats. They’d reached the wide-open second gate, passed right through, and turned onto the public street. She peered out the rear window for pursuers. No one. And no guard in the security booth.

Under the overhanging trees near the booth, an old pick-up truck with a dilapidated camper shell—an offensive eyesore to the highfalutin neighborhood—sat parked in the no-parking zone. Probably the guard’s truck.

“Lucky the protestors didn’t come around this way, too,” Tuni said.

“Hide down,” the older man repeated.

Cruising through the rich neighborhood next door to the mansion, Tuni and Alexander both watched the tops of big houses flash by. Unaware neighbors pruned cacti and fetched water jugs.

Tuni liked how the driver was navigating the neighborhood. Two right turns, a left, a right, two lefts. He seemed to be following a well-planned path.

Well clear of the neighborhood, she sat up. The driver glanced at her in the mirror, but didn’t object. “Thank you again,” she said. “Alexander, say thank you to the men.”

“Thank you,” he said, and in English, even.

“S’okay, s’okay,” the passenger replied, and he lifted his ringing cell phone to his ear. An inaudible voice spoke on the other end, and the man replied,
“Tak, u nas ye, shcho zhinka, i dytyna tezh.”

What the hell was that? Russian? Thabiti had said Jivu was yelling about Russians.

He listened a moment.
“Tak, dobre. Piznishe.”

He hung up as the car merged onto the highway.

“Excuse me,” Tuni said with a light,
purely out of curiosity
tone. “Was that Russian? Are you Russian?”

“Nyet,” the passenger said, and the driver chuckled. A few seconds later, the passenger twisted halfway around, displaying his profile. “S’okay. You will be best now, okay?” It was the thickest Russian accent she’d ever heard. “You safety, okay?”

The driver muttered something to the passenger.

“I say yes, you will be
fine
now.
Fine?
” Apparently, he was asking her. “This is right English? Black-white, here-there, bad-fine?”

“Yes, I suppose,” Tuni said, and leaned back in her seat. “I hope so.”

“He don’t know how to talk, Mama.”

She slowly slipped her right hand behind her, found the two rounded ends of the scissors, and pulled them from her pocket.

* * *

Down the hall, a self-closing door shut with a click and resounding clunk.

“May I sit?” Mr. Absko said, motioning to the bed.

Thabiti nodded, his pistol still trained on his boss’s chest. “Slowly, sir.”

The President smiled as he sat. “I love that. Still respectful as you threaten my life.” He’d abandoned his usual, more Arabic emphasis, altering his Swahili to Thabiti’s native Mombasa accent. Thabiti wondered if the President was still conscious of these shifts.

Thabiti didn’t like his back to the suite entrance, and he wouldn’t chance even a quick shoulder check. Mr. Absko was a remarkably fast man when compelled.

Thabiti walked across the room to the foot of the bed, rotating his aim as he moved. Mr. Absko kept his eyes in his lap, studying his fingernails. Now properly faced for any comers, Thabiti glanced through the antechamber to the suite door—still ajar, with a long view down the main hall. Had all of the guards come to? He’d been careful with his fist and telescoping baton. Those men didn’t deserve cracked skulls for doing their jobs. He felt bad, though. New guy had taken a good one to the kneecap before Thabiti punched his temple.

“How long have we known each other, Thabiti?” Mr. Absko said, but he knew the answer. Nineteen years.

The President was about to get wordcrafty with him, something Thabiti had heard the man do to others on many occasions. Strange to be on this side. Strange to see The Gray with these eyes. Another man, sitting on a bed, sweating, afraid for his life, because he knew as well as Thabiti that this couldn’t end with a handshake.

“Long time, sir.” Another glance to the door. Still no heads poking in. Perhaps they’d all gone after Tuni. Perhaps she needed more help. He’d already done more for her than he would’ve ever imagined. Sacrificed everything. Had it been for nothing, though?

“Long time, indeed,” Mr. Absko said. He was nodding to himself, supposedly entertained by memories of good times had. “I want you to know something. What happened, all this, means nothing to me … as far as
you’re
concerned, Thabiti.” He was giving this speech to the carpet at his feet. He didn’t wish to look Thabiti in the eye, because that fear and rage he hid so well from his voice would be visible in his gaze. “I say this not to trick you into lowering your gun. I say this because it’s natural for you to be afraid right now, how this will all play−”

The baton’s knobby end struck Mr. Absko’s right shoulder bone, reflexively sending his face tilting the opposite direction, toward Thabiti. His temple met with Thabiti’s thrusting elbow, and a high-pitched wheeze streamed from the President’s nose as he flopped, unconscious, to the bed.

Thabiti collapsed his baton and pocketed it as he stepped around bedside. A harsh flick to Mr. Absko’s cheekbone while watching his eyelids. Out.

He holstered his pistol.

On his way out of the suite, Thabiti stuck in his earpiece. “Thabiti to Mosi, what’s our status in back?” The response would tell him many things.

A short delay, then, “We’re a bit light. If you have anyone, send them.”

No guards in sight, and all four radios remained submerged in Thabiti’s water pitcher behind his stool. They’d have to seek out a hardline, but had more likely headed straight to the security office.

Thabiti clomped down the stairway to the lower level. “I’ve got it covered. Is the property breached?”

“Yes and no,” Mosi replied. “They broke down the vehicle gate, but no one wanting to enter. We fired warning shots, so we think they’re afraid to be shot.”

“That would be a logical fear, man.” He strode through the empty kitchen, burners still alight, pots steaming, timers beeping. “Just keep every man you’ve got there.”

“No shit, man.”

Thabiti snatched his keys from the check-in board as a new voice cracked onto the channel. “Thabiti, report to the security office.” Suhuba, head of security. The suite guards had apparently called or made it back.

“I’m on my way,” he replied as he breezed through receiving, and struck the gate button on the wall.

“No you’re not. You’re heading to the parking lot.”

Thabiti yanked out the earpiece and broke into a run. His achy knees protested, but time and luck were quickly fading. The big metal gate was halfway open when he made it to his pick-up. The gate had a twelve-second delay before it’d begin closing, but Suhuba could cancel from the office, and it’d then close the second the chain reached the end of its cycle. Thabiti assumed he’d have no grace period, and there was no action-movie-crashing through
this
gate.

He fired his engine, slammed it into gear, and gunned it straight to the gate, and out.

Alexandria, Aegyptus – 271 CE

Patra dismissed Unza and turned back to her mirror. “Hello, Steward. As you’ve observed, we are in crisis. You may or may not be aware, but the preservation of the Library’s collection has been we stewards’ duty since its earliest days, a mission launched by Euclid as the very first scroll slid into the stacks. But it was Zenodotus, the first librarian, who, along with Alexander Aetolus and Lychophron of Chalcis, organized our collection, and established the role of library steward to ensure knowledge’s persistence. The voice conveys knowledge−”

She considered going on, studying her own eyes for trustworthiness, and opted to leave it there.

“I’m walking to the Governor house,” she said as she passed Unza, polishing a silver goblet, “and then to the Serapeum.”

Unza grunted without looking up from her task.

Patra made her way down each of the Musaeum complex’s levels—ignoring hails from alarmed members above, and avoiding the pregnant gazes of passers-by—until she reached the main gate. The road outside the high walls bustled with distraught citizens with full arms, some leading slaves carrying their litters filled instead with valuables, or hauling loaded carts from the Palace District toward the temples. Foolishly, the moneyed populace believed Emperor Antonius would sooner respect the temples’ sanctity over that of anything else in the Royal Quarter.

Heading uphill toward the Governor’s residence, Patra drew her palla across her face to filter the dusty air. The busy main thoroughfare continued on to the temples, while Patra veered left up the private road.

Dense, spiraled bushes flanked a pair of marble pedestals, marking the estate’s formal entry path for guests, but Patra had little interest in climbing the near-one-thousand stairs leading to the front gate. Instead, she remained on the road, a flagstone-paved route that led to the primary entrance in back.

Halfway up the incline, her lungs and feet demanded a rest, so she paused, glancing out toward the now-visible sea.

So many ships.

She looked up the curving road again, the palace’s second story looming beyond the path’s crest. From his verandas, Cassius would have an even better view of the cluttered waters to the north. Did he fear for his own life? What might he be planning? There was certainly more to consider than the Musaeum, if he even intended to take Thomas’s purported advice to offer up the offending performers at the bay. It remained for her difficult to imagine Cassius taking such a cowardly approach. Then again, she still had trouble seeing him as governor, that rascally boy with whom she’d grown up.

She continued uphill, recalling the young Cassius in his family’s orchard.

Sometime after her mother’s death, Patra’s father began courting Cassius’s widowed mother. That summer, the two adolescents spent every day together, either exploring the vineyard, reading in the vine-shaded atrium, or playing in the small river.

Patra would never forget the day he’d pulled her behind a low wall, slid out of his tunic, and said, “Now you.”

She expressed her skepticism, but obliged him nonetheless. The two sat in the high grass, touching and poking each other with equal curiosity, but she put a stop to the probing after they touched tongues.

Cassius had pouted for about a week, but their friendship resumed, and the pair remained close all the way into their twenties. After his wedding, contact between them declined. Now, they only saw each other a few times a year at large social events, but there remained an unspoken bond, reaffirmed with shared glances, knowing smiles, and brief-yet-brimful discourse.