23. RAVEN

23

RAVEN

There is a murky light about two hundred feet away across the beach, shadows blocking it now and then.

Slowly, I make my way there, my eyes adjusting to the darkness, cutting into it and revealing an amusing situation.

Local brawls don't really interest me. But I stumble upon plenty of secrets in this way. Many came in handy.

The men ahead haven't noticed me yet. It looks like a fight, but I know better when I see the guards' uniforms.

Two are standing. One is straddling another guy who is flat on his back on the sand, grunting and snarling, while the one on top sends a punch to his face, incapacitating him. He rips the guy's shirt in the center and makes some strange movement over his chest.

"You say another insult," he hisses, "you so much as look in her direction, and I cut the word on your forehead. Understood?"

Well, well, if it isn't the praying guy from the other day. And it looks like he is cutting the other guard.

Adrenalin spikes in me—that's a sight to behold. Guards have their own lives here on Ayana besides work. They are not allowed to leave the island during their annual contracts unless it's an emergency or they break the rules. Outside work, they are regular people, relaxing, going to Port Mrei to bars, getting women, partying, hanging out at Ayana restaurants.

Apparently, occasionally cutting each other. After the places they served in, this might be a way to take the edge off.

"You scumbag," the guy on the ground hisses, and I recognize the voice—Skiba. My Skiba.

Amused, I cross my arms at my chest. Whatever Skiba did, I'll find out.

I take slower steps closer, and the two guards whip around when the sand under my feet crunches.

"Fuck," one of them blurts out.

The other makes a move toward me, but his friend grabs him and pulls him back.

The guy straddling Skiba freezes, too.

"What's going on?" I ask.

"Sir." One of them nods, recognizing me. Most of them know me, or have heard about me at least.

The praying guy slowly gets off Skiba, the solar lantern casting a soft glow on his face.

Skiba grunts, sits up, and spits on the ground. Crouching like a drunk, he gets to his feet. Skiba has been with me for a long time, and I should be protecting my guys, but then, if he did something that deserved this assault, it's on him, and I have no business interfering.

"Sir, this is a private matter," one guy says like an excuse, but I'm not interested in him. Not even in Skiba.

It's this guy that I see praying every other day who draws my attention.

"You three, leave," I say coldly and cock my head at the prayer-master. "A word with you."

I learned many things about war mingling with the guards in Port Mrei my first year here. One of them is that war never leaves you. War stays with you like a permanent disease, making home in your head. Like a shitty childhood, I suppose.

Many of these guys who keep Zion safe come from war. And occasionally they snap. The key is to ensure that they don't snap at those they protect.

Is that why this guy prays so much?

The guards' footsteps disappear in the distance as I stand face-to-face with him.

"Your name?" I ask.

"Full name or the American version?"

Cocky, alright. "Didn't think it would be a hard question."

"Ali. Sir," he adds, though he's off-duty. "And this is a private matter. No complaint will be filed. No crime was committed."

"The man you just punched is one of my right-hand men, so I'm curious. But if you don't feel like answering, it's up to you." I'll find out anyway. "What did that guard do?"

Ali stands straight with his hands clasped behind him, contemplating, I guess, whether to tell me or not. Fighting with others outside Ayana is not a crime. But I could easily report him as a danger to the residents, and he could be expelled from this island. I won't. But he knows I can.

"He made a crude joke about one of the residents."

Interesting. There's more, I'm sure.

Ali's face is indifferent like he didn't just carve a man's chest. His face is a mask, with the shadows from the flies around the lantern flickering across it.

"He then made a derogatory comment about her religious beliefs and made jokes about ripping off her headscarf in public."

So, it's about a woman. Add to that religious and ethnic intolerance—obviously, the issue escalated. It must be one of the girls from the Center.

I nod. "What were you doing to the guy on the ground?"

His eyes flash with pride when he says, "I cut a word on his chest."

I stifle a chuckle. I like this guy already. He knows his way with a knife.

"What word?" I press on.

His eyes narrow on me, and I feel he's holding a triumphant smile. "Hijab." The headscarf. "Backward," he adds.

"Why backward?"

"So that when he looks in the mirror for the next several weeks while it's healing, he can learn how to say it properly."

Something about this guy draws me in. The discipline, the calm, and inner strength that he doesn't flaunt. A flare for cutting.

"Harsh," I say.

Without missing a beat, Ali says, "What would you do if he joked about stripping a woman you like in public?"

If he even so much as touched Maddy? I'd carve his own name on his ass and send him to jail on the mainland so that ass-lovers knew who they were tapping.

Even though I don't answer, Ali knows he is right.

"And your God is okay with this unnecessary violence?" I ask.

His jaw locks. "Do you think he's okay with me saving 225 children in a refugee camp in Yemen?"

That statement makes me want to read his file.

"I suppose so," I say, knowing something else is coming.

"Do you suppose he will forgive me for killing twenty terrorists while doing so?"

"Maybe you can ask your God."

"He's everyone's God."

I chuckle. "Sure. Send my regards. And have a good night."

I start walking off, thinking I need to know more about this Ali Baba, the defender of women's honor. And more about his religion.

More importantly, I wonder if the people I saved in my life will say a word for me to God because there are sure to be many more who I hurt.

I reach my motorcycle parked at the beach when my phone dings with a notification. I pull it out and halt when I read the message from an unknown number.

Unknown: Nice family you have.

Attached is a picture.

My insides turn icy-cold. I know exactly where we were when it was taken, by the medical center. I swear, there were no people around us. Nevertheless, it's a good-quality shot taken from no more than a hundred feet away.

It's Maddy, Sonny, and I.

I knew that bringing Maddy into my life would have consequences. She is the butterfly effect, my personal chaos theory.

And here we are.

Someone is already watching us.

Someone knows we are together, whatever "together" means.

Someone thinks she is my liability.

Fuck.