Storm, page 6
“Come on.” I sigh, turning back toward the city. “We’re going home.”
* * *
“More?” Muhammad exclaims.
I nod. “Yes. Please. I’m dying.”
Muhammad shakes his head, pouring my third cup of coffee for the afternoon after another sleepless night. Every time I close my eyes, I find myself back in that forest. The dreams won’t stop coming, so I just won’t sleep. Problem solved.
Except a whole new slew of problems has begun. I’m practically falling asleep standing in the souk. My eyes blur, and the caffeine makes my hands too jittery to slip into unsuspecting pockets. So I sit in the bookshop, flipping through old National Geographics. Yet I can still hear the hum of that woman’s song, like a ghost haunting me.
Could I be possessed? Cursed somehow? But how and when? All I know is that everything changed after my birthday. And I need it all to go back to the way it was.
Come home.
“Ororo!”
I jerk back at the booming voice, hitting my head on the shelf, and a stack of books rains down. Moche storms into the bookshop with that look in his eyes that he saves for the boys when they act up.
“Why don’t you say it louder and tell everyone my name,” I snap as I clean up the mess I’ve made. Did I mention that the lack of sleep has also made me…moody?
Moche snatches a magazine out my hands and slams it on the table, dust blooming.
“What’s up with you? Why aren’t you out? Two tour buses passed through, and you didn’t hit either one of them. What’s wrong?”
My stomach tenses, and I reach up to readjust my scarf.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say, trying to act normal, despite my shaky hands.
Moche sucks his teeth. “You can fool everyone else, but you can’t fool me. I know you. You’ve been acting weird ever since the sandstorm. What’s up?”
I breathe out some anxious air, struggling to compose my face. He’s right. He knows me. Which makes lying to him that much more complicated.
“I told you, I freaked when sand got in my eyes. That’s all. I’m fine.”
I angle myself away, hoping he won’t notice my burning cheeks, hoping my defensiveness will dissuade him from asking too many questions. But I can feel his eyes bore into my back.
“You’re off your game,” he warns, his hands on his hips like a disappointed father. And I hate that. I hate that I am disappointing him. It doesn’t happen often.
Which reminds me…it doesn’t happen often. I’m the best in the business, so to speak. Better than the rest of the boys. Even he can’t deny that. Can I not have an off day or two? Or five?
I whip around to face him. “Has that ever happened before? I’ve brought in more in one day than some have in a week!”
The anger melts out of his eyes as he sighs. “Look, I’m not here to fight.”
“Tah! I beg to differ,” I retort, crossing my arms.
He shifts back on his foot and straightens, as if bracing himself.
“I’m just telling you,” he starts with a hard swallow, “that you’re short your daily take. And if you don’t bring in…well…”
I take a deep, painful breath. “You’ll kick me out? Is that it?”
Moche’s face, a war of emotions, cracks, his voice softening. “Ro, I’m…just worried about you.”
But I see the truth in his expression. Despite everything, I’m still expendable. It won’t matter what I do or say. Something inside me threatens to crumple, but I won’t let this break me. I won’t let anyone see me break.
I straighten my spine, blood now boiling, throw the book aside, and shove past him.
“Ro, wait! Where are you going?” Moche snaps.
“To get my game back!”
* * *
My next target looks as tired as I feel. He and his wife are dressed like European explorers in their ridiculous khaki vests with the millions of pockets and matching hats. The type that cost a lot of money, or so Moche has told me. Spending the day exploring the pyramids in this blazing-hot sun has drained them of any energy. They make the perfect easy prey.
Fighting a yawn, I move closer, pretending to be a part of the crowd, just a normal citizen shopping for fresh spices.
But inside, I feel something roped around my stomach like a thick rubber band, trying to yank and pull me away from the souk, threatening to snap my skin if it doesn’t get its way. My feet are anxious for a long walk, and I’m itching to find out where….
No. I have to keep going. I have to do this. Achmed has kicked out boys for less. They’re the only family I have left. I can’t let them down.
I steel myself as I go in for the attack, the man’s wallet in clear view, but just as I reach it, I notice two policemen rounding the corner.
“No,” I gasp, blood draining from my face.
A tingle in my right arm rips down into my fingers as a searing static explodes from my hand that’s still on the wallet. Before I can manage to pull away, it zaps the tourist like a stun gun.
He screams with a jerk, falling to his knees, his wallet catching on fire in his pocket.
“Ken?” his wife says. “Ken? Oh my God! What happened?”
Ken slumps on the ground, his body shaking as if seizing. She drops beside him, holding his head in her lap, frantically patting out the fire with her purse. And all I can do is stare in stunned silence as Ken’s eyes roll to the back of his head.
The wife glares up at me and screams. “Help!”
The police turn in our direction and spot me standing over the couple.
“Shit,” I mumble, and sprint away.
“Hey! You! Stop!”
I take off through the souk, dodging tables and shoppers, hopping over displays. The police follow, close on my heels. Closer than they’ve ever been before. Sweating out my coffee, I leap for a nearby ladder, catching enough air to swing myself up. The air swoops beneath me like a strong breeze.
“Get back here, you!” one of them shouts from below, but I’m already out of range.
Keep moving, I scold myself. No time to think. Only move. I dart across the roof, hopping over to the next building, my heart pounding, one hand holding my scarf in place. I’ve only been chased by the police once before, not long after I first joined Achmed. Can I outrun them again?
Adrenaline pumps through my veins, and despite my exhaustion, I’m fast, and I know these streets like the back of my hand. I scale down the side of the building, weaving across the street, and slip into the metro tunnels, heading for my second home. When I see Fahmy and Co., I slip through the door, my heart hammering in my chest.
Nibbling on my nails, I pace inside the bookshop, trying to slow my breathing, trying to work out what happened. What I can’t seem to explain to even myself.
I…electrocuted that man in broad daylight.
This is not a dream. This is really happening.
Panic bubbles up, my mind swirling, yet I keep picturing that forest, with the waterfall, and the woman. The woman who looks like me.
It might be paranoia talking, but all of this must mean one thing: a curse has been put on me. There’s no other explanation.
I don’t know why—it’s not like I have any enemies—but it doesn’t matter. All I need is to find whoever did it and get them to undo it before anyone finds out. I’m already a black sheep of the group—I don’t want to be a leper on top of it. I just have to stay calm and handle this in the most logical and practical way possible.
She certainly has your Kenyan pragmatism….
My heart stops. Kenya. My mother’s family was from Kenya. All the women had my eyes, my hair. Which means…that woman and the forest must be in Kenya.
If they are powerful, then maybe they will know what’s happening to me and how to fix it.
But…how do I find them?
“Ororo! Where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you.”
I hold my breath before turning to him. I don’t want anyone to know what I’ve done, but Moche…he’s good at keeping secrets. I’m sure he’ll know some doctor or witch who can help me find a cure. I exhale slowly.
“Moche…I think I’m in trouble.”
He shakes his head, grabbing my hand and leading me out. “Save it. We got called in for a meeting.”
“Meeting? Right now?”
“Yeah, come on. Amir is spreading the word. Everybody has to swing back.”
But it’s the middle of the day. He would never call us all back this early unless…oh no.
“Is, um, Boss okay?”
“It wasn’t Boss who called the meeting,” Moche says as we climb into a waiting van.
“Then who?”
I give Moche another glance, but his mouth is set in a thin line, his eyes on the road ahead. And without another word, the van speeds us toward Garbage City, my secret thick in the air between us.
SEVEN
When we pull up, there are three shiny black town cars parked in front of the Villa. Moche eyes them warily as we enter and head up to the great room. My head is spinning, trying to imagine what could be waiting for us when I haven’t even processed what happened with the tourist earlier.
The great room is on the top floor, where Boss hosts all our meetings. It’s unfinished, like most of the building, except it has high ceilings with exposed beams, broken framing, glassless windows, and a giant gaping hole in the corner, where, if you’re not careful and trip on the scrap supplies, you can easily fall several stories. Toward the back, down the narrow hall, is Boss’s office, with the red door.
As we enter, I see the boys standing in a U shape, facing four giant men in sharp black suits. Between them is a shorter man in navy.
I follow Moche into the crowd, the room tense and muggy, and we join the lineup with the rest of the crew.
“What’s going on?” Moche mumbles to Hakim. “Where’s Boss?”
Hakim fidgets with his collar, as if worried about making a good impression. “I have no idea. No one has seen him since breakfast.”
“Who are these guys?” I ask, trying to tone down my panic. “Police?”
Bassel shakes his head, his face pale. “I don’t know. They were here when I came in. Wouldn’t answer any questions. Just told us to gather everyone up.”
I take in the men walking around our home like they belong. Boss never lets adults in the Villa when he’s not present. He keeps our location mostly secret, barely lets us talk to strangers, always wary of others’ intentions.
I swallow hard. Something has happened.
The whispers die down as navy suit walks forward, his hair like black ocean waves, light gray stubble on his jaw. Despite his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, it feels like he is looking directly at me.
“Hello, friends,” he begins. “My name is Farouk.”
Though his voice is scratchy, it also seems familiar, but I can’t place it. I fidget with my scarf, not wanting a hair to fall out of place.
“I’m sure you are all wondering why I’ve called you here today.”
Moche glances around the room at the boys, then steps forward, chin raised. “Where is Achmed?”
“Ah. The brave one,” Farouk says, as if amused. “You must be second in command. I am sorry to inform you that unfortunately, your boss has been detained by the police. And he has put me in charge of your care.”
The room explodes in confusion. Achmed arrested? How? For what? And who is this stranger he has never mentioned before?
“I’m sure you have a lot of questions, as do I,” Farouk continues, pacing in front of us. “Many, many questions indeed.”
There is something about his motions that feels unsettling. The way his steps seem hesitant, like he’s not used to his own feet. His strides are too long, arms loosely flailing when he turns. I glance around, wondering if anyone notices. But the boys stand frozen, eyes wide in fear. Poor Amir, he looks so small. Too small to be caught up in this mess.
“You see, I was visiting a friend in the hospital,” he continues. “When I overheard a very peculiar story…of a tourist who had been electrocuted while out in the souk. His wallet was on the ground, burnt to a crisp. It seems someone was trying to steal it from him.”
The boys murmur to one another, and I forget how to breathe.
“What does that have to do with Achmed?” Moche asks, and I can sense his frustration.
Farouk takes in the room, waiting for silence.
“I’d like to have a word with each of you. In private. Until we get to the bottom of this. Starting with…” He waves a finger around and points to Hakim. “You.”
Hakim flinches, glancing at Moche as if looking for permission to move. Moche nods at him.
Two of Farouk’s men step forward and take Hakim to the back room. The meeting room remains silent.
Minutes tick by like hours, my heart drenched with guilt. Because I screwed up and brought this upon us. I, somehow, got Achmed in trouble—my mentor, the very man who has sheltered me all these years.
Time seems to pass both too fast and too slow, as one by one, my brothers are called. They interrogate each one of the boys until I’m the last person standing.
“You,” one of the men bellows, pointing to me.
Steeling myself, I lock eyes with Moche. His hands roll into fists as he watches them lead me away.
We walk down the long, echoing hallway before the two men shove me inside the office and slam the door shut.
“Hello, Ororo. Very lovely to meet you at last.”
Farouk sits in a lone steel chair in the middle of the room, his legs crossed. I can hardly contain my shock. All of Boss’s stuff has been removed, as if he never existed. On instinct, I look back at the door, then to the two windows behind him. Achmed hired builders to install locks on the windows to secure the stash of goods. Sunlight beams through the bars, casting split shadows on the dusty floor.
“Well,” Farouk coaxes. “Can you not say hello?”
I can hear Moche’s voice in my head. Play it cool, Ro. Watch my smart mouth and temper. Men don’t like that, especially not the powerful ones.
I keep my distance. “Hello.”
Farouk tilts his head and studies me for a long, silent moment. With his eyes hidden, I can’t tell what he’s thinking. But standing closer to him, his very presence makes my skin prickle.
“Do you know what happened to the tourist today?”
His voice is like ice; the room almost seems colder with him in it.
I shake my head and rub my arms, riddled with goose bumps.
“Really?” He chuckles, uncrossing his legs. “Someone said they remember seeing you in the souk, being chased.”
I shrug. “That is normal in this line of work, don’t you think?”
He cranes his neck back to bark a laugh. “I suppose so. My, my, you have grown up so splendidly.”
I keep my face even, trying not to give away my terror. He knows me. But I have no clue who he is.
“You know, I’ve been looking for you.”
My stomach does a little flip, mouth going dry. “You have?”
“Yes. You knew my brother, before he…died.”
I struggle to bring up any memory of someone I knew who passed away, but no one comes to mind other than my parents. Though his voice is familiar, nothing else about him is.
“It has taken me a very long time to make it back here,” he says, voice drifting as he glances down at his lap. “Luck just happened to strike at the right moment.”
I fidget with my scarf, trying to shake the feeling that he can see my white hair, with some sort of X-ray vision. What would stop him from telling the others?
I swallow and continue to play along. “Well…how can I help you?”
He crosses his legs, face darkening. “There is a man looking for you. A Professor Charles Xavier. Do you know of him?”
The wallet burns on my hip, but I manage to shake my head. “No, I don’t know anyone by that name.”
Farouk seems to see right through my lie, and he continues as if I didn’t say a thing. “Ororo, do you remember what happened in the bar that day?”
My mouth goes dry. I remember everything…. The room freezing, the glowing red eyes, the way the large man fell forward, dead…
“Sorry,” I say with an uneasy laugh. “I think you have me mistaken for someone else.”
Farouk pauses for a moment, taking me in. He rises to his feet, and there it is again—his unsteady steps. There’s something off about him. Perhaps he’s had too much wine; maybe that’s why he thinks he knows me. He regains his balance and sets his attention back on me.
“Ororo, I believe you are in need of mentorship…and protection.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Don’t play coy with me, girl. I know what ails you,” he hisses. “I can feel the chaos brewing inside you. A power like something no one has ever seen before.”
My throat closes, but I keep my poker face. He knows somehow. I swallow, letting out a light chuckle. “I’m quite hungry, but not much more than that, I’m afraid.”
He removes his sunglasses, keeping his eyes closed as he wipes the lenses clean with a crisp handkerchief, his face relaxed as if he is worried about nothing.
“Today in the souk, you almost killed a man just by touching him. You are not so foolish as to believe that you don’t possess something…special? I can see it clear as day, shimmering off you like heat waves.” He says it so matter-of-factly, his tone so flippant, that I struggle to keep my shaking hands still. This man is mad. I have no special powers…and yet, something is happening to me. Something I can’t explain, a sickness of sorts. But how does he know that?
“Professor Xavier killed my brother, knowing you were watching him,” he says, his voice smooth. “He is very dangerous. And he’s looking for you.”
