Sheik's Revenge(3)
The tinny music from the jukebox segued from a recent pop hit into the dramatic and strident chords of a Bolivian tango sextet. The mood in the room shifted.
The older couple got up, the man holding his hand out to his woman as he led her onto the tiny dance floor. They began to move in each other’s arms, crumpled echoes of once strong individuals. The woman’s sandals were dusty and had a broken strap. The man’s pants were threadbare. A strange emotion caught Omair by the throat as he watched them dance to the sensual beat. It was an odd little vignette, a reminder of the endurance of love, the passage of time. Even in this dirty, dangerous little settlement that passed for a town in the heart of poverty-stricken jungle, the universal story of human love still played itself out.
That couple probably had been born here, grown up on the banks of the coffee-colored river, met, fallen in love, married, had children. Grandchildren. And although faded and bowed by time, they still had each other. In their minds they were still the same. They still had tenderness, compassion, love.
Like his parents once had.
Like his brothers Zakir and Tariq now had.
Omair swallowed the last bitter grounds of his espresso, a chill crawling into his veins, and his jaw steeled. So did his heart.
This was his lot, his solitude. His warrior’s duty to his ancient kingdom was now the pattern that shaped his days. No matter where in the world it took him, he was duty bound until justice was done, an eye for an eye, the old way. Omair wondered what would be left of him when it was over—a hollow husk of a killer incapable of love? A man forever denied what that old couple had?
But before he could dwell on the thought, Omair sensed a shift. The air around him seemed to thicken and his assassin’s instincts prickled down the back of his neck.
He caught the scent of pipe smoke coming from somewhere out on the deck, the tobacco pungent. He heard the soft hiss of a feral cat and a small splash in the water. Omair slowly moved to touch the hilt of the dagger in his boot, and he felt the reassuring pressure of the pistol tucked at the small of his back.
A man entered from the deck, the heels of his snakeskin shoes clumping onto the worn wood floor. The aroma of tobacco smoke and cologne wafted in with him. He wore crisp dress pants, a pale yellow golf shirt open at the neck. A gold chain nestled in dark chest hair, and a fat ring embedded with a blue stone adorned his pinkie finger. His skin glistened with humidity. His black hair had been slicked off his brow with oil, accentuating a sharp widow’s peak.
The group of men at the table fell silent. One by one they got up and began to leave as the stranger slowly crossed the scuffed floor. As he reached the bar the elderly couple scurried out of the cantina behind him.
Omair was now the only patron left in the pub.
He reached for his straw hat and tilted the brim over his eyes as he slid slowly back into his chair, feigning drunken sleep. Through the small holes in the straw weave he watched Lili offer the man a full-wattage smile. Omair was now certain—this stranger was high-level cartel and Lili was one hundred percent on the make. An inexplicable twinge of jealousy shot through him.
Without uttering a word, Lili reached for a bottle of the cantina’s finest scotch. She sloshed three fingers into a glass and pushed it toward the stranger.
The man swigged it back, nodded for a refill. Lili poured again but this time, as she gave him the glass, she allowed the backs of her fingers to caress the man’s hand.
The man withdrew his hand, tossed back his second drink, set the glass onto the counter, then turned abruptly and strode toward the exit.
Frowning inwardly, Omair remained motionless as the man passed his table. The man stilled for a moment beside Omair, then left as suddenly he’d come, via the deck.
A monkey screeched outside, shattering the silence in the cantina.
Slowly, Omair returned his attention to Lili.