Afterglow

"I will find you after completing my business," I said in rapid Urdu, clasping a hand on Bilal's shoulder. I gave him a firm shake and he grinned.

"Muscle Guy," he said in English, and I released him and went on my way.

I caught a bicycle-pulled rickshaw down the road, not even bothering to haggle with the rickshaw wala—or the rickshaw driver. Most people haggled around here and the shopkeepers and rickshaw walas often inflated prices in advance. A couple of rupees was nothing to me, but everything to them. Most had hungry mouths to feed, and I wasn't about to deny a child their next meal. I tipped well, which was not custom, but the rickshaw walas were grateful.

I traveled through Old Lahore by rickshaw, passing the Mughal era mosque, the Badshahi Masjid. It was an impressive piece of Indo-Islamic architecture. Located within walking distance was the ancient Lahore Fort, which was a large palace, one I used to sneak into as a child to earn rupees and dollars from tourists. I would relay facts about the fort, how it had been built in 1566, how the Kings would ride upon elephants and pass through the iconic Alamigiri Gates to battle, how the architect Nawab Zain Yar Jang Bhahadur had also been a powerful religious preacher and had founded the branches of Khaksars in Hyderabad, India. I'd been seven years old, spitting facts and laying the charisma on thickly. I was paid well by most tourists.

But that was a long time ago.

The rickshaw wala pedaled us out of the outskirts of the Ancient Walled City and entered the Red Light District, an odd place for prostitutes to gather beside such a holy symbol. Some time ago, a prostitute's son had opened up a popular rooftop restaurant called Haveli, which overlooked the Badshahi Masjid. Here I would stop for kebobs—and my next assignment. A courier was waiting for me, holding a briefcase with the case files. I already had the code and small key to unlock it. My lunch was delayed by traffic, but I wasn't worried. This was normal here, and I knew the courier had been instructed to wait as long as it took for me to arrive. I was certain that I could arrive a week from now and still find him there.

The rickshaw wala was a decent man, speaking proudly of his daughter who had gotten high marks in school. He said he worked day and night to earn enough money to pay her school fees. His wife worked as a maid in a rich neighborhood in Gulberg, and he only saw her once a month. Their daughter's name was Afreen, meaning beautiful and brave in Arabic. As most Pakistanis were Muslim, many were given Persian, or more importantly, Arabic names, the same language that the Holy Qur'an was written in. Hearing about his smart, rambunctious daughter made me smile—something I rarely did.

"For your daughter," I said, handing the rickshaw wala two one-thousand rupee notes. It wasn't much, about ten dollars USD if converted, but considering that the fare was only fifteen rupees, it was generous as hell. The rickshaw wala began to cry and I made a swift exit. I found the entrance to Haveli Restaurant, making my way inside. A dwarf wearing a colorful, exquisite Punjabi tamba and kurta greeted me politely. He led me to the elevator, something very uncommon in Old Lahore to this day, and up to a host who seated me at a rooftop table overlooking the mosque.

I hadn't yet opened the menu when a man with a briefcase approached me. He wore a traditional kurta, off-set by a pair of reflective aviators. He lifted the sunglasses, looking me in the eye. He needed to identify me.

"Naeem has sending me," he said quietly in broken English. The briefcase was handcuffed to him, and only I held the key. I gently picked it out of the breast pocket of my blazer.

"It's all there?"

"I did not opening it, Sahib." Sahib meant "sir" in Punjabi. Lahore had a large population of Punjabi Muslims.

"Would you like me to release you?" I asked in Punjabi. He looked relieved to hear his mother tongue.

"Yes, Sahib."

I had him lay the briefcase on the table, and put one hand on the Glock at my hip, ready to protect the briefcase if I had to. With my free hand, I uncuffed him with the key. Within seconds, I had the handcuff snapped on my own wrist. Just then, the waiter arrived. The courier bowed, said one last "Sahib" and took his leave. I ordered two plates of Behari kebobs, no naan because I didn't want the carbs. My hand rested on my Glock as I waited for my meal.

One of the benefits of being in Pakistan was having easy access to my choice of weapons. The gunsmiths of Darra Adam Khel produced hundreds of guns a day in addition to their grenades and other weaponry. Painstaking copies of AK's, Desert Eagles and any other weapon were readily available and cheap. Because I had the money and because I was accustomed to it, I'd paid for a Glock 17, one actually manufactured by Glock USA. It was dependable and ubiquitous. I'd picked it up within half an hour of my plane landing in Lahore from Los Angeles.

I knew where everyone on the roof was, knew what they were doing, and guessed what their next moves would be. It was a game I played to keep my mind sharp and keep track of my surroundings. I ate in silence when the food arrived, then quietly paid my bill and left.

The handcuff weighed heavily on my wrist as the elevator took me back to the ground floor. I was about to step back out into the world, but I'd be handcuffed to this briefcase, a prisoner to this life.

—

The Drug Mule

—

Have you heard the expression 'turtles all the way down'? That's the trade I'm in. Drug dealers all the way down; from the multinational pharmaceutical corporations that turn a blind eye to what else their suppliers are doing, to the para-military government-sanctioned warlords running poppy fields in Afghanistan, to the kid slinging crack on a street corner.

If you've ever wondered where drug dealers get their supply, I'm here to tell you that the answer is quite simple: other drug dealers. Drug dealing is a hierarchical operation. Street dealers get their supply from low-level suppliers, who in turn get theirs from upper-level suppliers. Upper-level suppliers get their supply directly from distributors who are the head of transport and distribution in the entire country. Each person in this pyramid usually only knows the person directly above them, which is both a security measure and prevents dealers from cutting out the middle-man.

Where was my role in all of this? I was transportation. I moved drugs, and I was on high-level operations, trusted with international smuggling. I get top-grade heroin from Thailand or Pakistan, making it in and out of there within days, delivering a supply of uncut, pure drugs that wasn't easy to acquire. The drugs I brought went directly to Sergio, and he used them to secure business deals and entertain the elite. He wasn't low-level or even upper-level. You had to be deep in drug culture to know who a guy like Sergio was in the drug world. His family was distribution level. They bought drugs directly from the Diamante Cartel, the hella pure shards, brought them by the bulk into this country, and then moved it almost flawlessly across state lines. You don't meet a guy like Sergio by asking a street-level dealer who their boss is. You meet him by being something special.

At least, that's what he always said to me.

I was headed to Distribution today, a location that wasn't really a location because it was always changing. I knew this day's address because I'd been briefed in Pakistan by Distribution there. It was all connected, and yet it wasn't. You couldn't pin this kind of shit on any one person, not in one lifetime, anyway. Sergio was high up there, but he wasn't the top. Whoever was perched up there was powerful—and he or she could be anyone.

It was 11 PM and I still hadn't gotten any sleep, except for the few hours I was able to catch on the flight from Pakistan, which hadn't even been a direct flight. There had been a stop in Istanbul, Turkey and from there it was a 14-hour flight to Los Angeles. I was jet-lagged and grumpy, but I put aside all attitude as I reached the warehouse. This one was in Seal Beach, which is located in the westernmost corner of Orange County. The smell of the salty ocean filled my nostrils, along with the smell of diesel from the warehouses. The streetlights were dead out here, so it was dark as hell and eerily quiet in the area. Enforcers were waiting in the shadows, and one of them started shadowing me. I stopped to state my business.

"I got a meeting with Sergio," I said. A figure walked up to me, face half-hidden by a hood. He was large, buff and mean-looking.

"There ain't no one here by that name."

"Sergio is expecting me. I'm Ellie."

"I don't give a fuck who you are. Run along, kid."

I lifted my sleeve and showed him the tattoo on my forearm.

"Oh," the enforcer said. "You're one of those girls."

I was used to this. Sergio had had me branded a year ago, marking me as one of his girls. As long as I showed this tattoo, I couldn't be touched. It was an intricate tattoo and could probably be replicated by a talented tattooist, but it wasn't worth the risk. That kind of shit gets you killed.

The enforcer looked at me like he expected me to die tonight. I didn't really look like one of Sergio's girls. Those women were sultry and sexy and I was—well, cute and white. Affecting a calm I didn't possess, I had my head held high and inspected my nails as the enforcer made a call. He confirmed what I'd told him.

"You're good to go, Princess," he said after the call.

"Call me that again and I'll have you buried," I said coldly. He put up his hands and backed off.

The cool, crisp air came from the nearby beach, blowing gusts of wind. Chased by the cold, I hurried into the warehouse. Inside there was an overnight operation in the making, bustling and crowded, the lights bright and blinding. There were shards everywhere, and big barrels of the crushed crystal, ready for distribution after being weighed and individually packaged by the kilo. Most low-level meth went for $300 an ounce, but this was the good shit; it started at $2500 per ounce. The warehouse workers would have to get this shipment ready for distribution by tonight. By midmorning tomorrow it would be an empty warehouse with nothing left behind, completely clean. It was almost like magic.

I passed by the people wearing hazmat suits, handling the fentanyl that would be mixed in with the methamphetamine to increase potency. There was no such thing as pure dope anymore. People wanted the extra high, wanted the kick that came from the fentanyl. The only problem was that it was highly dangerous. Just 30 kilos of fentanyl was enough to kill 14 million people. People died from fentanyl overdoses every single day. Narcan couldn't even save you.

"Ellie," said a rough, velvety voice from behind me. I turned around and found Sergio flanked by two of his bodyguards. The guns they held made me feel safe. They'd protect the drugs, and they'd protect people like Sergio and me. We were important to the Diamante Cartel.

I was usually greeted like a queen when I was in Sergio's presence, but for whatever reason, everyone was avoiding eye contact with me. Sergio looked livid, as if I'd personally shat in his coffee that morning.

"Is something wrong?" I asked.

"'Is something wrong?'" Sergio repeated and laughed, but something told me that he didn't find it funny at all. His expression had darkened.

"Sergio—" I began.

"Come with me," he said and turned around. He walked away and I followed, the bodyguards ghosting behind us. Sergio led us to an office overlooking the warehouse. We climbed the steps.

"Espera afuera," he said to the bodyguards. Wait outside.

Sergio led me into his small office, closing the door behind him.

"Didn't think you'd show," he said.

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because you never made the drop."

"What?" I said sharply.

"You didn't make the drop, Ellie."

"But—I did. 12:28 PM just like discussed, exactly where I was instructed to."

"Not according to my sources," Sergio said. His eyes seemed to burn, and for the first time, it dawned on me that I really could die tonight. I thought of Ashley, Danny, and Sophie. How would they survive without me? The foster care system was scary. Over half of the kids that aged out of the foster care system ended up addicted to drugs, incarcerated or dead within the first two years. Half.

"Fuck your sources," I spat. "I've been doing this job since Pete died. I've never failed to deliver."

"Until today."

"Sergio, you know me. I'm not a thief."

"Tell me who bought you out," he said, holding my gaze with those sharp green eyes.

"I wasn't bought out,'" I said. "I made the drop. Hack into the airport security cameras and see for yourself."

Sergio laughed, but it didn't sound like he actually found it funny.

"What do you think we are? The CIA? We've got enough eyes at the airport. I got six different sources tellin' me you never made the goddamn drop. Why the fuck you gotta embarrass me like that, Ellie? Everyone knows you're my girl."

I wish I could say that I wasn't Sergio's girl, but I was. We had a strange relationship, one that made no sense. Our roles weren't equal; Sergio was the boss, and I was the employee. It was unethical, but what was ethical about drug trafficking operations anyway? We fucked when we needed the release, and I knew I wasn't the only one he came to. He had his harem of girls, all tattooed and worshipped by the masses. Those that gave him children were treated like royalty. Sergio had five kids, all under ten. He'd never let me get pregnant. I made him too much money. Not that I'd want to have his baby anyway.

"You're in deep shit, Ellie," Sergio said. "I can't protect you from this one. We got powerful people that were waiting on this dope. We fail to deliver and we lose business. We lose business and we can't feed our people. You want our family to starve? You want yours to?"

"Never," I whispered, taking a step back. Sergio took several steps forward in response and then grabbed me by the arm.

"Why didn't you make the drop, Ellie?"

"I did make the drop!"

"Don't fucking yell at me," he commanded. He got annoyed when people raised their voices around him. He was in a position of power, and that deserved some respect. Sure, he let me get away with a lot, but disrespect was one thing he couldn't let slide. That's how he controlled me. By keeping me in line.

"Now tell me who bought you out. I'll buy the supply back, probably double what I paid the Cartel, but we'll be able to at least break even after selling it to our special clients. Tell me and I'll send you and the kids outta town until things cool down. I said I wouldn't protect you, but fuck me, I can't with you."

"Sergio," I said, my eyes pricking with tears. "I really did make the drop."

He sighed. "All right, if that's how you wanna play it then fine. You owe me six hundred thousand dollars, Ellie. And that's me being nice. The street value of that shit is five times that."

"You know I don't have that kind of money."

"Well, you're gonna have to come up with it," he said. "If you don't, it's gonna be someone's head—and it ain't gonna be mine."

"Give me a job," I said. "I'll move whatever you want me to move. Give me the opportunity to cover it." By now I was past pleading my innocence. It wasn't going to work. He was convinced that I'd given the supply to a competitor, even though it made no sense for me to. There was nothing in it for me except death, and I had three young mouths to feed. Now I had to fight to survive.

"You really think I'll trust you with more supply after this little stunt?"

"Sergio, please," I pleaded. "I got three kids that depend on me."

"We all got our stories," Sergio said. No sympathy. This was bad.

"If our relationship ever mattered to you, prove it and give me a chance," I said. Tears were falling and I couldn't stop them. Sergio looked like he'd gone a little soft. His body language told me so. He relaxed his shoulders, and his eyes became kind.

"Fine, but no one knows about this," Sergio said. "I'll give you a job. One last job to make up for this. After that you're done, Ellie."

I was being fired. Whatever. I was still gonna make it out alive. That was all that mattered now.

"So, what's the job?"

—

The Hitman

—

I could cave in a face with a roundhouse kick, and I was considering doing it now. I was in an alleyway at dusk, after having shared a couple of cups of chai with the shopkeeper Bilal. We'd had a dinner of pulao together, the stuff that was only a couple rupees for an entire plate. I'd eaten the chicken, passing on the rice. I was glad I had because I was currently facing three thugs, and they seemed to be really interested in my briefcase.

"What's in there? Money?" one of them asked in Urdu. His eyes gleamed under the evening lights. I couldn't blame him. I was dressed like a foreigner, and a handcuffed briefcase usually meant money around here. It was how most businesses moved their cash to the bank. He was probably forgetting that they always carried guns, and I had my Glock. But I really didn't want to use my gun. The sound would thunder through the streets, and then cops would show up and demand to know what was in my briefcase.

"In the briefcase? Nothing to concern yourself with," I said calmly in Urdu. My American accent made them grin.

"Filthy American," a thug said. "You take from our country, doing nothing for it in return."

I said nothing, making tight fists that cracked my knuckles. This was going to be a minor nuisance. I let them corner me, taking steps back until I was against the side of a building. There were three of them, so keeping my back to the wall was imperative. The window had bars, as did most other windows in Pakistan. I had a plan to use them. I squared my shoulders and leaned back slightly to the side, taking advantage of their amateurish behavior and stretched. It had been a couple of days since I'd fought with a real person and this was going to be a glorified sparring session.

One of them had paused, a second pulled out a knife and the third moved towards me.

He was large, powerful-looking and slow as shit. He was probably using low-grade HGH, roids or both. If you can't have quality, go for quantity. It was obvious that they weren't the cream of the crop when it came to low-end thugs. When you have a crushed trachea, it didn't matter how large you were. I feinted to his crotch with a front snapping kick and when he turned to his side I slammed the edge of the briefcase into his throat, about three inches below his chin. As he made odd choked-off gurgling sounds and staggered back, I turned to his two friends.

The one with the knife pushed his friend forward. He seemed to know what he was doing as he shifted to my left, leaving Knife-Guy to my right. He'd clearly taken some lessons at some point, as he shot out a side kick towards my head. Weaving out of the way, I stepped back from him and felt the stinging heat in my arm that indicated Knife-Guy had cut me.

Grimacing, I realized that I couldn't keep a man with a knife at my back, so I launched into a double leg take-down of the fighter. He went down on his ass and I quickly shifted behind him, getting him in a rear-naked choke. We were both on the ground now, but I was on one knee and had him between myself and Knife-Guy. I didn't have any qualms about killing him. He attacked me and it's what I do for a living, but it wasn't needed. He was out quickly. Standing, I kicked him in the head, ensuring he wouldn't be bothering anyone else for a while.