The old man hurries down the long, dark corridor to deliver the plate. Within seconds, in our left ears, Amber’s super-cool tech feed gives us a constant translation of the Urdu conversation that the mic is now picking up between Imran and his friends. There’s a delay of about three seconds, no more. I glance at Hala, relieved. But if we were hoping for high-level terrorist discussion, we’re out of luck. Right now, they’re taking turns complaining about their families and how the first wives are so jealous of the second and third wives. Everyone has their cross to bear, I suppose, but somehow, I can’t get there with the sympathy. I check my watch, which has a handy countdown timer that only makes me more stressed. Only thirty-five minutes to go. We have to get the information soon for Peggy’s contact to have any chance of mobilizing the police and evacuating the potential victims. In our ears, the chatter from the living room pauses. Then, finally, Imran speaks:
“Not long now,” he says. He sounds pleased with himself, his tone arrogant. I glance at Hala. She looks hopeful. Please, I pray, let this be it.
“Four thirty in the morning, everyone will be sleeping,” says one of his guys, like he’s congratulating Imran on his genius.
“Maximum casualties,” confirms another.
My heart is pounding, with stress, with willing them to say more. Where are these casualties meant to be?
“I never thought us Pakistanis would be working with Indians,” laughs Imran. “Muslims and Hindus—sworn enemies. But Family First is a bigger cause that unites us all.”
Murmurs of appreciation rise up for Imran’s comment.
“What made you choose this target, brother?” asks a different man, with a high voice.
Imran gives a low chuckle. “This target? This met all the requirements for Family First—but for me, it was also personal, my friend.”
Next to me, I feel Hala tensing, leaning forward just a bit. We’re getting close. Keep talking, Imran, I think. Just a little more detail and we can hand you over to the villagers and hightail it back home.
And then something blurs past us, right through the corridor, and then it stops, just as suddenly. I stare, my eyes wide open, my ears filled with the sudden hammering of my heart.
It’s a little boy, maybe six or seven years old, tousle-headed, sleepy. One of Imran’s kids, probably. The boy turns in surprise and stares openmouthed at the dark outlines of me and Hala standing there like statues in the corridor. Time slows to a crawl. I feel the blood pulse in my ears, as I watch, dull-headed, unable to think. Hala makes the tiniest move forward, then stops. Because I can’t think of what else to do, I put my finger to my lips. Wide-eyed, the boy watches us in fright for a moment more, then turns and runs, screaming, into the room where Imran sits.
4
WE ARE ALREADY RACING THE other way, back up the corridor. In our ears, there’s an echo of voices—a translation of the child’s frantic warnings, and then the questions, the surprise from the men in the room as they rise and hurry out to investigate. A shot blasts into the corridor behind us, lodging into the wall just as we hurtle into the kitchen. The housekeeper is at the sink. Before he can even turn at the commotion, Hala has pushed him to the ground, using the table to cover him as best she can. Hala and I throw ourselves out into the courtyard, but more shots come, splintering the door moments after we run outside.
“The outhouse,” I call to her. Desperate for cover, we both dive into the wooden building across from the kitchen door and pull out weapons—she has a real gun, I have my dart pistol. The team in London is hooked up to the feed from tiny body cameras sewn into our clothing. Amber’s voice comes in:
“Just intercepted a text. Imran’s requested backup.”
Now, Li’s voice sends an order into our ears. “Extract now, from the house.”
“On my way,” Caitlin replies.
I peer around the outhouse doorway and shoot—first one, then another of Imran’s friends. Both fall, drugged. Then I get the third. Suddenly alone, Imran drops to the ground for cover and lies there, waiting, a pistol in his hand. I don’t want to shoot him with a dart, because if he’s tranquilized, he can’t talk. In my ear, Caitlin comes in:
“I’m approaching the south wall.”
But we can’t move—we are in a standoff with Imran. He’s not stupid; he knows where we are. He’s seen three of his men drop from shots fired from our direction. Through a crack in the wooden wall, Hala and I watch his head lift off the ground, looking our way. Without getting up, he raises his gun at the outhouse. His bullets will blast through the rotting wood like a fist through a paper bag. So quickly that I hardly feel her, Hala pushes me aside and rolls herself out of the door. Imran’s hand sweeps across to track her, but she shoots first, getting him in the elbow. He screams and drops his gun.
I’m out in a flash, running toward Imran. He flails his other arm out, looking for the gun, but my boot moves it out of his reach. I scoop it up and press it to Imran’s head, holstering my dart pistol. At the kitchen door, women and children cower, drawn downstairs by the sound of gunfire. Hala fires into the air and barks at them to stay back. The kitchen door slams shut, leaving us alone with Imran in the courtyard.
“We have him,” I say on my comms.
“Get out of there,” Li says. “This is not the plan.”
But if we leave, Imran gets what he wants—the attack in India will
