Afterglow

"How good of a shot are you?" I asked. She surprised me by grinning.

"You have a gun, dude?"

I nodded. Dude.

"Well, you should have said so. Give me the gun. You drive, I'll shoot."

"Don't shoot any innocents," I said, passing her a pistol. "I'll get you within range."

"I don't shoot innocents," she growled. Okay, so she had a little fight in her.

I allowed one of the cars to get close to us, and instead of shooting the driver, the girl took out the two left tires. She was a hell of a shot; she hadn't wasted any bullets. Just two well-aimed shots. Okay, so she wasn't weak either. This little thing was dangerous. My job had just become a whole lot easier.

We repeated the same with each of the three remaining cars. She shot, reloaded, shot some more. A professional must have taught this girl how to shoot, because shooting the tires of a moving car from another moving car was a hell of a lot more difficult than it looks in the movies. My hands clamped the steering wheel. I'd trusted this girl without a second thought, had let those cars get close to us. Where had that come from?

"Is that the last of them?" she asked.

"I expect not. We will see more of them at every airport, and then again in Pakistan."

"Well, they obviously know it's me so there's no point in wearing this anymore," she said, undoing the scarf from her face and hair. Long golden hair fell to her shoulders, shining like warm sunlight, bright and blinding. Her face was... exquisite. She had angelic features; a pixie nose, big almond-shaped eyes, plump pink lips, and a killer resting bitch face. She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

"Where to, boss?" she asked, her big blue ocean eyes glancing out the window. I cleared my throat.

"Sabiha Gokcen International Airport."

"That's smart," she said. "Istanbul's infected by those fucking worms." I'd never heard anyone call their enemies 'fucking worms' before. It was amusing, but I didn't crack a smile.

Hitmen don't smile.

—

The Drug Mule

—

We drove by Sabiha Gokcen International Airport and found it overflowing with more worms, and with them was the police, trying their best to arrest the gang. There were cops everywhere. The driver changed our course, moving us from the airport back onto the main streets, taking us further and further north.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Need somewhere to lay low."

"And where's that?" I asked.

"Confidential."

I snorted. "I can see everything, you know."

"Use that scarf to blindfold yourself," he said.

"What? No," I said, and a moment later the smile was wiped off my face. A Glock was pointed right at my forehead.

"Do as I say."

I held up the pistol, pointing it back at him. "Try me, asshole."

The car screeched as he pulled over. He turned around on the seat, grabbed the pistol gripped in my hand and yanked it to his forehead. My finger hovered over the trigger.

"Shoot," he said, his eyes burning. A moment of silence passed before he spoke again. "Never point a gun that you don't plan to shoot. It's not a fucking toy."

"You pointed your gun at me too," I pointed out, trying not to tremble. My hand was still wrapped around that gun pressed to this forehead. I could shoot, could blow his brains out right there—but I wouldn't. I wasn't like this guy. And I wasn't like Pete.

"I would have shot you dead if I had to," he said coldly. I let go of the gun.

"I'm not a killer," I said.

"That makes one of us," he said, yanking the pistol out of my hand. He emptied the bullets and threw it on the passenger seat before putting the car into drive again. I put on the blindfold as he sped down the street.

—

I couldn't check my watch to see how much time had passed, but I knew it had been at least an hour when the car had finally come to a stop. It was now evening, and I was feeling a little chilly. I felt around for my backpack and pulled a sherpa-lined denim jacket out, donning it to fend off the cold.

"Wait here," the driver said, and I obeyed. I didn't really know why I was trusting this guy. He hadn't said who'd sent him, and I was suddenly filled with the very real fear that he'd brought me straight to the competitors. I ripped the blindfold off, looking around at my surroundings. It was an old junkyard with rusted cars and parts lying around everywhere, like an auto graveyard where no one bothered to bury the corpses. I opened the door, stepping out onto the dusty ground.

"I told you to wait in the car," said a voice from behind me. I turned around and it was the driver, wearing his usual scent of Eau de Asshole.

"You just said to wait here. I'm still here, technically."

"I don't have time for games. Grab your stuff."

I grabbed the scarf, certain I'd need it again. I was still wearing the abaya. When I turned around, I went up to the driver and shoved him. He didn't move an inch, just looked down at me like I was the most annoying thing he'd ever had to deal with. Hell yeah, I was.

"Tell me your name," I commanded. "Give me a reason to trust you."

"Telling you my name should change nothing," he said coolly. "You should never trust a man like me."

"Cryptic," I said, rolling my eyes. "What should I call you?"

"Nothing."

"Okay, 'Nothing,' what am I supposed to call you in front of people?"

"You will not speak in front of people. I'll do all the talking. We'll be driving through Iran soon. Stay silent and it'll keep you alive."

"But I don't have a visa for Iran."

"You will."

"That could take weeks or months! I can't be away from the ki—from US soil for that long."

"Forged documents don't take that long."

"Forged? You'll get us thrown in jail," I said.

"The alternative is going back to the airport where you'll be kidnapped, tortured and killed. Which do you prefer?"

I didn't answer. I had no choice.

—

We waited at the car garage for five hours before someone entered through a gate and came to greet my driver (I didn't know what else to call him). The man was thin and wore a blue suit, which was later explained when he told me that he owned a suit shop. He was dressed sharply—sharper than my driver who was in a traditional black kurta, a leather jacket, and a pair of black boots. The men were different; my driver was unfriendly, but this guy was a total peach.

"Nice to meet you," he said, taking my hand and shaking it with both of his. "I am Taimoor. I will get you prepared for travel through Iran."

"Thank you," I said, feeling much better to have a friendly face around.

Taimoor smiled and turned to the driver. "Any existing false passports, Brother Yusuf?"

Yusuf. So he had a name.

"Yes," Yusuf said. "I have six with me."

"You will only need one. You must discard the rest." Yusuf nodded.

"And you?" Taimoor asked, turning to me.

"I'm using a fake passport, but my cover is blown." I was currently Anna Marie Johnson, and she had a target on her head. Time to let her die so that I could live.

"That won't be a problem," Taimoor assured me, smiling. "I will arrange for a new one."

Yusuf slipped a hand into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet and handed a thick wad of cash held together with a rubberband to Taimoor.

"Expedite this, Taimoor," he said.

"Very well, brother," Taimoor replied. "I will bring you passports in two day's time. In the meantime, I will bring you food, water, and provisions. Do not worry. I will protect your position."

Taimoor left for fifteen minutes and returned with pilav, şiş kebap, köfte, döner, and some Sprite, Coke, and hot Turkish tea. It was a fantastic feast of meatballs, rice, stick kebabs and some sandwiches with kebab meat. The smells were almost overpowering, filling my senses and making my stomach grumble. I hadn't gotten a chance to eat a real meal in a long, long time.

Taimoor took his leave, promising to return in the morning. Yusuf turned to me, his eyes pausing on my belly. I realized I was still wearing my backpack under my abaya. He must think that I was pregnant. I didn't consider coming clean. Maybe he'd treat me better if he thought I was pregnant. And maybe he wouldn't perv on me either—but something told me that this guy wasn't here for the sex. He was here because he chased a high. I just didn't know what it was yet. Money? I observed him and noted that he dressed ordinary, had an ordinary haircut and wore an ordinary, average-priced watch. This guy didn't care about money.

So what was it? I guess it didn't really matter. I only needed him to get me into Pakistan. I could make my own way from there.

Yusuf opened the trunk of the taxi, digging around until he found a rolled-up blanket. He shook it out, put it on the ground and opened and arranged all the food on top of it. So we were going to dine traditionally.

"Sit," he said after he'd finished pouring two cups of steaming hot tea. "Drink. Eat."

I did.

—

I'd fallen asleep in the middle of my meal. The last thing I remembered was shoveling a spoonful of pilav in my mouth, leaning back in contentment and then putting my head on the blanket, cuddling up while Yusuf stared at me as if I was a disgusting bug that he'd just crossed paths with. I guess it was kinda rude what I did, but fuck him; I was tired as hell. I knocked out on the ground, and I was certain that I started snoring almost immediately.

When I woke up, the sun hadn't touched the sky yet, but I could tell that it was early morning by the calls of birds. I sat up and something fell off my shoulders. I glanced down and it was a leather jacket. Yusuf's leather jacket. I felt my stomach clench in surprise, which was a pretty severe reaction to a guy giving you his jacket. Maybe it was because no one had ever really done something like that before. I'd always asked to borrow sweatshirts from ex-boyfriends, and even Sergio was distant, leaving me to sleep alone and naked in a bed while he took care of midnight business deals. Yusuf was the first guy who'd shown me an act of chivalry—and it had been directed at me. It blew my fucking mind.

"Uh, Yusuf?" I called, looking around. It was pretty hard to make out my surroundings. I finally spotted a figure kneeling on the ground, sitting back, weight resting on his calves. I immediately recognized it; he was praying. I got up, folded the jacket and gently put it down on top of the blanket. I walked over and sat beside him, closing my eyes and taking in the fresh air. I did some breathing exercises and cleared my head as he spoke to the heavens. I'd expected a lot from this guy, but I hadn't expected him to be religious.

After a few minutes, I heard him get to his feet. My eyes popped open.

"What did you pray for?" I blurted out.

"Peace."

—

The Hitman

—

I started training immediately after prayer. There were no bands or weights, but my goal was endurance, not bulk. I completed 15-20 reps of a non-traditional muscle-building plan. Mobility, joint stability, explosive power, and injury prevention were the cornerstones. I did stretches, warm-ups, the workout, and probably would have gone for a run to cool down if I wasn't on assignment. My goal was to protect the girl. I couldn't leave her.

"You train like a SEAL or something," she said after I'd completed my workout. I wiped the sweat off my brow with my forearm, giving her a look that conveyed my disgust. I figured if I gave her enough of those, she'd stop asking me questions. I was wrong.

"You're built like a killer. You work out like one, too. You gotta be a contract killer or something. Are you?"

"You think all men in the east are assassins and terrorists?" I snapped.

Her face fell. "N-No, I didn't mean it that way. It's just—my brother was a hitman. He acted and trained a lot like you do."

I bent over, hands on my knees, and tried to take deep breaths. I was still winded from my workout.

"Your brother," I said in between breaths, "What does he do now?"

"He's dead," she said, blinking fast. Her golden hair rippled like water in the wind, sweeping across her face, a lock of it getting stuck on her eyelashes. I resisted a very strong urge to brush it away.

"I'm, uh, sorry to hear that," I said, clearing my throat.

"Me too," she said, her eyes full of tears. I turned and walked away so that I wouldn't see her cry. I didn't want to feel sorry for this girl.

But I already did.

—

Taimoor brought us a traditional Turkish breakfast spread around 7 AM. Kahvalti was one of my favorite meals. It consisted of beyaz paynir (brine cheese), eggs, cucumbers, tomatoes, olives, kaymak (clotted cream), butter, jam, honey and some spicy sausages called sucuk. There was tea and coffee for the end of the meal. Taimoor had also brought a couple gallons of water in the back of his car, which I unloaded and then shared with the girl. I finished almost an entire gallon, chugging it down to quench my thirst. The girl drank a lot, too, but nowhere near as much as me.

After breakfast, Taimoor helped the girl cover her face and hair with her scarf.

"Today is photo day. We must complete it all by mid-afternoon if we are to have the passports and visas ready by tomorrow," Taimoor said. He helped the girl into the backseat of his car, handling her with far more care than I had. He even drove slowly over bumps, checking every now and then that she was comfortable. I hadn't been raised to be this way. I hadn't been raised at all. I acted like an animal because I was one. Taimoor treated the girl the way she deserved to be treated and I was surprised that I recognized that.

Taimoor drove us to the back of his suit shop. I noted where we were in relation to other buildings, how many options there were to get to the street and where the windows were. We exited the car and followed him into the back where there was a large open room full of sewing machines, fabric, and mannequins. Suits were hung up on poles that ran from one end of the room to the other. On one end of the room, a photo studio had been set up. Hung up on the pole closest to it were the outfits the girl and I would be wearing. There were two sets of outfits. One for the passport photos; and one for the wedding.

I probably should have told her that we were getting married today.

"Have a seat, have a seat, Ellie," Taimoor said, rolling an office chair over. Taimoor kept her busy for the next ten minutes, chatting about the local cuisine (which she was now a huge fan of) and entertained her with some Turkish jokes. She smiled sweetly at him. The sight of it made my heart stop. She was so beautiful that it was distracting. I shook my head and turned away.

"Taimoor?" said a feminine voice, opening the back door. A woman stepped inside. She wore a red dress and had a scarf loosely covering her hair, which was cut in a short bob. She looked like a movie actress with her red lipstick and darkly-lined eyes.

"Zehra," Taimoor said, looking pleased. "You are here."

"I hurried over as soon as I heard, brother," she responded, smiling. "Now, let's see the blushing bride."

"Who—who's getting married?" my assignment asked. I sighed.

"You cannot pass through Iran without a husband. You must marry Yusuf," Taimoor explained.

She looked at all of us, as if she expected us to burst out laughing and yell, "Gotcha!"

"I'm not—no," she said, shaking her head. "You must be joking."

"It's not a real marriage, sweetheart," Zehra said gently. "Only a marriage between your two fake identities."

"Will there be a ceremony?" she asked.

"But of course," Zehra said. "We need a real imam to sign the marriage certificate and they will not do so without performing a real ceremony. But worry not, my darling. It will not be a real marriage to us or to you. This will merely get you across safely."

"Is there no other way?"

"None that will get you ready to cross into Iran by tomorrow."

"I have to get back to the US as soon as possible, my..." she paused, closing her eyes. When she reopened them, I could tell that she'd resolved her feelings. "If this is the fastest way, then I guess 'I do.'"

There wasn't a damn thing I could do to back out of it myself. My assignment was to get her to Pakistan, and that was why I had arranged this as a backup ahead of time with Taimoor. I'd never had a fake marriage before, and from the looks of it, neither had she. We were going to be married by a real ceremony but under aliases. Did that make us really married in the eyes of God?

I tried not to think about it.

—

The Drug Mule

—

Zehra took me out back and helped me bathe with a bucket and a hose. The water was freezing cold, but I was grateful for the opportunity to be clean again. She had brought shampoo, conditioner and body wash. When I first took off the abaya, she gasped.

"You are not pregnant?"

I laughed. Of course I wasn't pregnant. "No," I said, taking the backpack off and putting it down. "Not pregnant."

"Clever girl," she said, grinning. She helped me strip down to my bra and underwear. Thankfully, the back of the store was abandoned, and we were given cover by the cars parked there.

"Thanks for this," I said, working the shampoo into my hair.

"Your American dollars does much for our family. I am happy to bring you everything you need," Zehra said. We shared a smile.

After bathing, I wrung the water out of my hair, dried myself thoroughly with a towel and got dressed in the clothes for the passport pictures. It matched the fashion of that time, an early 90's loose blue suit with a long skirt and a creamy white blouse paired with low pumps. The pantyhose and underthings were new, courtesy of Zehra. She cleaned my clothes and hung them up to dry while I brushed out my long hair. The wind blew it half-dry.

When I stepped back inside, I bumped into Yusuf. He had his arms crossed and was leaning against the wall.

"Were you watching me bathe?" I asked.

He scowled. "I have better things to do than violate a woman's privacy."

Then his eyes fell on where my pregnancy bump was supposed to be. It wasn't there.

"You're not—"

"No, I'm not pregnant," I said.

"I was going to say 'dirty,'" he said and began to walk away. I reached out, grabbed him by the sleeve and tried to yank him back. He didn't move an inch, but he did stop walking away. He looked over his shoulder, catching my gaze.

"Don't be a wise guy," I growled. "Insult me again and I'll have you buried."

Before I knew what was happening, I was pushed up against the wall, hands on my throat. Yusuf leaned down, his lips coming down close to my ears. "Empty threats irritate me, woman," he said in a dark voice, his breath hot on my ear.

"Fuck you," I choked out.

"Not interested," he said and released me. I took in fresh gulps of air and my anger rose. This asshole had put his hands on me! I mustered up the last of my courage and tried to slap him across the face, but he caught my wrist. We glared at each other.

"I hate you," I spat.

"Remember that when I save your life."

—

Zehra and Taimoor took our passport photos and then quickly got us changed for the wedding. My dress was simple, elegant and black with a sheer cape that served as a train. Zehra fitted me with a black scarf on my head and then covered my face with a gorgeous gold chain face veil. I looked like an eastern tribal bride. Yusuf looked like himself, wearing another black kurta, although this one was much nicer with some intricate patterns sewn on the shoulders and chest. He'd trimmed his beard and actually looked... handsome. With deep dimples, a strong jaw and fierce golden eyes, he looked like he could easily steal at least a million hearts in his lifetime.

Just not mine.

Once we were ready, Zehra brought out the marriage contract and had us review it. There was a list of standards we were expected to meet, one of them being that we must treat one another with respect. Good thing this was a fake wedding because there was no way Yusuf and I were going to be able to follow that.