He looks away, he knows I heard him clearly, and that makes him uncomfortable. Really, what is it with these two? Should I really intervene? Do something? Let Bruno know what the hell is going on over here?
“Not yet. I’m still waiting.”
“That’s why disguising yourself as a man is key here. Let me know as soon as he arrives.” Rage then mutes the mic and turns to me.
“Roger.” Sarah acknowledges.
“Where were we?” Rage asks, scratching his beard. He wants to avoid what just happened. I let him, because I’m a good guy.
“Daremo said you interfered with some Yakuza businesses, and they lost a lot of money because of that. Ballsy move, man.”
“Fuck. I knew this was coming, but the timing sucks.” He looks worried now, and it makes me restless.
“I know. So, what are you going to do?”
“Got to call a meeting with my brothers first.”
“I thought presidents made hard choices, alone,” I inquire.
“We do, but I’d be a fool not to take advice from my guys at the table.” He pulls out a phone from his pocket. “Can you take over and be here for Sarah?” he asks as he makes a call.
“Sure thing.”
“Get the boys. Church. Now,” he orders to someone on the other side of the line then hangs up.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
SARAH
It’s been a day and a half since I left Greece.
I’m finally here.
Cairo.
The dark side of my adventure.
From this point on, I have to be ready for everything, and that includes death.
My contact here, “The Bedouin”, is yet to show up. He had better be on his fucking way though. I’m not in the mood to wait for someone for hours today.
I’m standing in a dark corner, hungry and dirty. My wig looks like a dead cat, and my clothing reeks. I need a shower right fucking now. Luckily, I think that’s what sells the outfit – a guy trying to hide he’s balding, smelling like onions and stomping as if life somehow defeated him.
To the untrained eye, I’m your average guy.
A car pulls over right next to me. I don’t recognize the make or model, not because it’s not sold in the U.S. but because it was manufactured before I was even born. The engine doesn’t purr, it coughs in agony, asking for death. The paint is old, faded and gone in some areas. The windows are tinted so black it looks like it was done by a kid. It doesn’t look good at all.
This car is garbage and is probably my ride.
The window rolls down, and a face emerges – a man wearing shades, greased-back brown hair and sporting a three-day beard.
“Hey man, looking to score?” he says to me. A French accent, it has to be him.
“Beat it, loser,” I reply. I need to be sure this is him.
“Come on, I’m being friendly, chill out.”
“I can’t. I have aRageproblem,” I grit out.
