“Try not to get killed,” Hasan said.
“Try not to kill each other,” Paranjay shot back, releasing Hasan and reaching for Zeyar. This had become their standard farewell.
“I make no promises.” Zeyar made a big show of cringing away as Paranjay turned their handshake into a hug, but that was part of their routine. Zeyar thumped Paranjay once on the back. “Bring us a souvenir?”
Paranjay chuckled. “Whatever you want.” He bent and picked up his trunk. “I’m ready.”
Zeyar frowned, and he and Hasan exchanged a glance. “Aren’t you going to make an offering to Neelam, or at least to Nathria?”
Hasan couldn’t remember the last time Paranjay had visited the pantheon. He couldn’t have had enough daivyakhi left in him to fly a kite.
Paranjay glanced at his watch. “No time. I’m late, and if we aren’t done loading the ship and out on the horizon before sunrise, we’re going to run into problems.”
Hasan took a step forward. “You should still?—”
“I can do it on the ship,” Paranjay said. “We’ve got the faces of the gods carved into the mast, remember?”
Hasan’s and Zeyar’s faces creased in identical expressions of displeasure?—a rare moment of alignment, Hasan thought. When it came to Paranjay’s safety, they were both on the same page.
Paranjay, however, remained unmoved. “I don’t need the power of the gods to load crates.” He softened for a moment, then added, “You don’t need to worry about me. I’ve done this plenty of times before. I’ll be home soon.”
Then he shouldered past Hasan and Zeyar, through the doorway, and out to the docks. Hasan stared at the door as it swung shut, hoping that the sea Paranjay loved so much would keep him safe for the next two months.
Chapter Four
The Twelfth Man
The telephone rang before dawn. Hasan ignored it, shutting his eyes harder and putting his pillow over his head to muffle the awful metallic shrieking. A soft bang echoed through the hall as Zeyar opened his door and shuffled out to the living room. He spoke softly, his words dampened by the wall and the pillow that Hasan still held pressed to his ear.
Zeyar burst into his room a moment later, ripping the pillow off Hasan’s head. “Get up,” he said. “Our ship was raided last night.”
Zeyar might as well have doused him in a bucket of ice water. He sat up immediately, his back ramrod straight. “What about Paranjay?”
“I don’t know,” Zeyar said, his face pale. “Raman said it was better to discuss in person.”
An hour later, Hasan and Zeyar had convened in a shabby, unremarkable office, “Devar Brothers Shipping Co.” printed on the awning in faded red letters. Dawn light filtered in through the slats covering the windows, illuminating those in attendance: the Devars’ most trusted subordinates. First, there were Kaushal and Jayendhra, two of their cousins, from their paternal and maternal sides, respectively. While Kaushal didn’t attach too much importance to their blood ties, Jayendhra was relentless, constantly pushing to be favored over the others. Hasan regretted the day he’d let his mother talk him into promoting him, but the deed was done.
Then there was Raman, a gruff, dark-skinned man who’d lost his left hand in an accident at an automotive manufacturing plant. Though the Welkish company that owned the factory made more money on each car than most Virians would make in a decade, it refused to pay him restitution, and the authorities claimed they could do nothing to compel payment. Raman had joined the gang shortly after to pay his hospital bills and make ends meet.
He sat beside Vinay, one of his oldest gang members, and the man who had helped Hasan on the Darsh Jana job. Hasan hadn’t chosen him just for the wisdom that came with his age. By day, Vinay worked as an innocuous rickshaw driver, making him privy to the secrets of streets where Hasan was too conspicuous to go.
The only one better at spying than Vinay was Samina, who was the most recent one to be promoted to middleman. She had joined the gang with her half brother after burning down their orphanage. Despite her petite size, a by-product of childhood malnutrition, she was a force to be reckoned with and had clawed her way up the ranks quickly.
Last to arrive was Harithi, a tall, dark-skinned woman with sharp hazel eyes who took no shit and could do a whole lot of harm. Much like Samina, she’d joined the gang to provide for her younger siblings?—but unlike Samina, she refused to speak about them at all, putting up an iron wall whenever asked.
These were the middlemen, all of them daivyakt, managing their own crew of Hasan’s spies and collecting money from most of his debtors, save for the slippery few like Darsh, who required personal home visits from the Jackal. They were the only people in the city privy to the brothers’ entire operation.
“What are we doing here?” Hasan demanded.
Zeyar tilted his head at Raman, giving him permission to speak.
“I received intel from one of my spies this morning,” Raman announced. “TheRohini IIwas raided, late last night. Her crew was taken into police custody at the main precinct, and even now they are being transported to the city jail.”
The room might have fallen silent. It might have erupted into pandemonium. Hasan would never know, because his ears began ringing as though he’d been flung from an exploding building. Paranjay, arrested? It couldn’t be. They needed him.Hasanneeded him. His throat tightened as he tried to picture his brother’s last moments as a free man.A raid.That meant police officers, pistols and nightsticks, and insatiable egos. Undoubtedly, Paranjay would have fought, which meant that the police would have retaliated. Hasan’s fists tightened, unease and rage brewing inside him.
“Who was leading the raid?” Zeyar asked. Though his expression was blank and his posture unchanged, Hasan could tell that his brother was just as disturbed as he was.
Still, he couldn’t curb the venom in his voice as he said, “Do you have to ask? There’s only one squadron of the Marnapur police you haven’t been able to bribe.”
