Abir looked at Jack nervously. "I can't stay long. I want to thank you for your concern, but I am remaining here, in America."
"Abir, there are other ways," Jack said. "Please come back with me to the embassy. You're an adult... there are several ways to do this legally, safely."
"I will not. You don't know. Demarco, did you tell him?"
Demarco nodded.
"You'll be safer at the embassy," Jack said. "We can consult with your father about relocation."
Abir shook his head. "There will be no such consultation. My father is not a reasonable man. He has already frozen some of my assets."
"But someone is stalking you. We need to get you somewhere you'll be safe."
"No one is stalking me."
"Have you not seen the picture inThe Post?" Demarco asked.
"Seen it?" said Abir. "I know all about it, Demarco, my friend. I set it up."
Demarco swallowed, a heavy lump slipping down his esophagus to his stomach. He felt light-headed, confused.
Jack did not. "How long have you been planning this, Abir? And who are you working with?"
Abir flashed a revealing smile, far from the innocent one he had used with Demarco the night before. "I have friends—" he said, "—with my better interests in mind."
"Don't be so certain. What is it, a book? A TV show?"
Abir's smile froze, his eyes narrowed, locking in on Jack with cold contempt.
"What about Qatar?" Demarco interjected. "You said you were concerned about US relations with your country."
Abir scoffed with the derisiveness of a jaded millennial... way too overconfident, borderline arrogant... speaking words that were likely not his own. "Things will work out, Demarco. Qatar will get more exposure, more tourism. The US will land on its feet. It always does. I'll get my freedom—"
"—and a boatload of money from Random House," said Jack.
"Hollywood, actually," Abir countered, smugly. "A reality show."
Jack looked at Demarco as if asking permission to clock the kid. Demarco was shaken. He'd experienced mind-games and role-playing with tricks but never had he felt as used as he did right now by this punk-ass in front of him. He felt sick to his stomach and angry... so angry... angry enough that he wanted to slap the boy himself. Jack intuitively recognized what was transpiring, he lifted his left wrist to his mouth and spoke into the microphone there: "OK. Move-in."
Abir's eyes widened with realization. "But you promised... only you two."
Jack grinned. "I lied... it's the Hollywood way."
Abir looked to Demarco.
"Don't look at me kid. I'm out." His hands were up and he stepped back.
Shots boomed in the crisp and sunny pre-spring air. One, and then another. The first hit the bench behind them, splintering the wood of the top rail. The second clipped Demarco in the shoulder and sent him collapsing to the bench.
Jack saw blood.
Then came the screams, not of laughter, but panic. The crowd surrounding the fountain, the Circle, and its adjoining streets, scrambled with people running for shelter in every direction. Abir, used the disruption to his advantage, fleeing, disappearing into the crowd before any of Jack's men showed.
Jack's attention was on Demarco. His shoulder was bleeding and he was positioned awkwardly—half on, half off the bench. Jack knelt, lifting his head to check his pupils. Demarco was conscious, but barely. His glazed eyes looked into Jack's and he whispered, "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."
And then he was out.
8
