Shadow on the Wall: Superhero | Magical Realism Novels (The SandStorm Chronicles | Magical Realism Books Book 1) (26 page)

Shadows climbed the walls like spirits from hell, witnesses to his treachery as the sound of his sister's heels clicked on the concrete stairs leading up to the loading dock. There was no going back now.

"Isik," she called, stepping into the gloomy room. Mannequins and their shadows circled the space.

"Yeah."

He tossed his half smoked cigarette onto the ground, where it smoldered near a pile of designer bras.

"Where are they? The meeting was supposed to start by now. I thought I was—"

She was cut off by the glint in his eye as he strode toward her.

"Isik?"

"You've done everything right, everything you could," he began as he approached. "There's nothing more anyone could possibly do. You're smart, and you're beautiful."

"Where is everyone?" Darya asked again, refusing to cower, refusing to be afraid again.

"They'll be here, come on."

Turning his back on the only family who'd ever cared about his existence, Isik led the way to the small, windowless office.

"I've got a plan," he stated holding the door wider so that she could enter.

"Is it genius?" Darya asked. Her voice was flirtatious but her body cold and hard. Isik missed the sister his uncle had stolen from him.

"It is."

Isik stepped forward, forcing his sister to back away from him, farther into the room. He glanced down at her lips, wondering how she would taste. Would her mouth be as full of evil as his soul?

"I'm sorry, Darya, but this city just isn't yours to run."

Surprise flashed across her face as he pushed her into the office.

"Isik!" she screamed, recovering her footing and launching her body at the door. He pulled it closed before she reached it, leaving her trapped inside. Locking it from the outside, Isik released the breath he had been holding. Her screams were muffled behind the door, but he could still hear the fury in her voice.

Part of him wished it could be different, that he could keep his sister and the city. But she would never have given up; she was stubborn and blind to the realities of her world. Isn't that what made her such a ferocious fighter? But in the end she was too easy to deceive and he had the prejudice of an entire city on his side.

Poor Darya
, he thought,
every time she thinks she's in control someone takes it from her.
He pocketed the only key to her cell with a smile.

He pulled a rack of clothing in front of the doorway, blocking it from anyone who entered before plugging in the large industrial fan sitting on the floor next to the office door. Her screams were dampened into silence. No one would ever know she was here.

Fahri Kana followed the other members of the Lion Division of the RTK along a back alley. They were off duty, but the brigade commander had called them together.

The RTK's concern over the man referred to as "The SandStorm" in The Gazetesi had diminished as the weeks went by and he remained in hiding. A fluke incident, a lone man overstepping his place for just a moment wasn't something to worry too much about.

As the group approached a loading dock, the commander stopped and turned to his men.

"You're the first to know, and I'm telling you because I trust you. You're my men, and I know you're the right men for this: The mayor's gone missing."

Silence vibrated around them as each processed the meaning of their leader's possible death. Excitement, fear, sadness, and relief floated into the air, creating an atmosphere of chaos.

"What happened?" one officer asked.

"Is he dead?" another questioned.

"It was from the inside, and we don't yet know who is responsible. But the RTK and city bank accounts are drained. Power's changing hands and it's starting tonight. I know someone who can pull the city together and keep our leadership strong even without Mayor Yilmaz. Tonight, the future's going to be decided. You can come in, or you can stay out here and melt in the heat with the rest of the city. No second chances."

Fahri's hands shook as he accepted an offered cigarette from the officer standing next to him. What the hell is going on?

Standing at the top of the stairs leading into the warehouse, a man appeared. He was tall, wearing tight-fitting jeans and a black t-shirt. His head was bare, and the tattoo on the side of his neck had eyes that peered out at Fahri as if it smelled his doubts.

"Come inside, there's a lot to do. My name is Dayar Yildirim."

He turned and walked into the dark mouth of the warehouse; the entire division followed him. Fahri blew out the smoke in his lungs and closed his eyes. He didn't want anything to do with this. But there was no way out. If he walked now, he'd be seen as a traitor. Quickly, before anyone could question why he hadn't followed, he flipped open his phone and sent a text to the number the nurse at the hospital had given him accompanied by a note that read "If you need us."

Texting with his thumbs, he squinted in the darkness for the right letters:
Safak Mh., 79071—Mayor is missing—come now.

"Kana, are you coming?" Serge called out to him.

"Yeah, yeah, just texting Sabiha."

"Ever the lapdog, huh little man?"

"Yeah, well, at least I don't smell like an Arab," Fahri joked, his hands shaking as he stuffed his phone back into his pocket and strode inside.

At the hospital Maryam's phone vibrated in her scrubs' pocket, pulling her out of her thoughts. She was exhausted, sitting in the nurse's lounge, staring at the tile floor. It was one of the only places in the hospital where she could find some quiet. The doctors were not allowed in the lounge—it was open only to women staff members. As much as it made them angry when they couldn't demand the nursing staff's presence, they respected the need for separation of the sexes too much to barge in.

Her shift was slow. There was only an hour left before she'd be able to clock out and head home. Everything in her body ached for sleep. The past forty-eight hours had been exhausting. None of it made any sense. Secret catacombs, quicksand that delivered her to the Imam, Recai's strange role in all of this. She believed. She was faithful. But she had never seen a miracle before. Those things happened when The Prophet was alive, not now.

But then, her people had strayed so far from that path perhaps everything she had seen was a sign from Allah.

Taking her phone out of her pocket, Maryam leaned back and crossed her legs, a habit her mother had tried to break her of since she was a child, but the posture was comfortable. Fahri's message glowed on her screen.

Sitting up, she read the text again before dialing the phone.

Recai drove to the mosque in the Safak district. There he could leave his car, and the Imam would vouch for his presence at a special prayer meeting if anyone asked. When his phone had rung and Maryam told him of Fahri Kana's text, the instinct to leave the house and run on bare feet straight to the address Fahri had sent had overwhelmed him.

The streets were empty, and the sky, the color of lead, hung dark and low as he drove.

As usual Maryam's head had stayed cool. It was her idea to contact Imam Al-Bashir and have him set up the cover story, her idea for Recai to navigate to the address through the catacombs. But his body already knew the way.

He pulled up in front of the mosque and breathed deeply, pulling on what strength he had.

Recai's body ached to return to the caves, to act. Instead he forced himself to be still and find the strength Allah had given him. He was the one who ran, who acted without thinking. He was the man who screwed everything up, who let people down. He wasn't the man anyone should count on. He hadn't inherited that gene from his parents.

Now he was called to be more than that, and he felt unworthy. It had been easier when the situation landed in front of him. Without the time to consider the ramifications of his actions, he had defended Sabiha. Now he was intentionally involving himself in something purposeful. Was this even his business? Perhaps a coup was a good thing. The mayor was the worst thing ever to happen to the city.

Yet something about Fahri's text troubled him.

The ornate wooden door of the mosque opened, and an elderly Imam with a white beard appeared. His eyes peered into the darkness, searching for Recai's black car. When he found it, the emotion that flared in the old man's eyes made Recai's decision. It was hope that brought fire to the man's eyes.

Inside the mosque, Recai followed the man to the back rooms and down to the hidden caves beneath.

"Al-Bashir is a good man," the Imam spoke finally when the stairs reached the sand-packed floor of the softly lit tunnel.

"He is."

"He has faith in you. He believes that Allah has called on you."

"He does."

"Has he? Has Allah spoken to you?"

The Imam's eyes were bright, this time with excitement, as he asked.

"I don't know. I don't even know what I'm supposed to do."

"You're supposed to listen, to bend to the path that's been decided for you."

He spoke with the confidence of a person of faith. Recai was awed by a belief so deep there was no room for compromise.
Actions could be decided, people could be corrupted, but faith is the only thing left that could remain pure no matter what trials it endured.

"A woman was here; she brought you this."

The Imam handed Recai a brown niqab, which was designed to cover a woman's face below her eyes. Recai smiled and hooked the sides over his ears, allowing his features to be hidden.