Chapter Eight
The charm offensive.
The man with the wrench advanced quicker, raising it, ready to turn my brains into a Jackson Pollock castoff. My finger rested on the trigger, my heart thudding. I gripped Sanj in front of me and aimed.
The odds looked grim. “Sorry, Amir,” I mumbled under my breath.
“Amir?” a loud and authoritative voice boomed from the shadows at the back of the garage. “Amir Mazra, by any chance?”
“That’s right,” I said hesitantly, searching the darkness for the source of the voice.
“Wait, stop! All of you!”
The men stopped. My pulse slowed. I was extremely tempted to just taze one of the bastards anyway. But the way the crew responded to the voice made me think that whoever was speaking was absolutely in charge. My need for answers was stronger than my need to s
