Girls from the Street

Chapter 4

New York City

New York CityA weak cold front had passed through the city last night and the temperature was still cool as the sun set. Sitting on a beam under the Brooklyn Bridge, Midnight Rain cut a piece of apple with her long sharp blade and slowly chewed as she watched the last ferry of the day travel its loop around Manhattan and the East River.

Twilight was her favorite time. It was the few times of the day that she experienced. When most people were settling down for an evening dinner with their family, she was waking up. The night was her time. The shadows were her friends. Those that preyed on the weak were her meal.

That almost makes me sound like a vampire, she thought with amusement.

That almost makes me sound like a vampire, A smile curved her lips, pulling on the scar that made a ragged line from the corner of her lip to her eye. Above her, cars passed, unaware of the people who lived in the belly of the iconic structure.

She was finishing the last piece of her breakfast when her phone vibrated. With a flick of her wrist, she sent the core flying through the air. A seagull caught the treat before it hit the water below.

Midnight pulled her phone out of her pocket, stretched her legs out, and looked at the message. Two photos appeared on her phone. The first was of a girl who was maybe fifteen years old. The second was a missing person’s poster.

Midnight raised her eyebrow at the five-thousand-dollar reward being offered for the return of a girl named Mandie Martin. She waited for more info. In seconds, the familiar image of a bug crawling across her screen appeared alongside a message.

You interested?

You interested?Midnight lips curved upward and she texted: oc. Of course.

oc. Of course.Cams picked up this.

Cams picked up this.Midnight recognized Mandie in the grainy traffic camera. The one from inside a top-end boutique along Fifth Avenue was clearer. It showed Mandie with a woman that Midnight recognized all too well—Hilde Karr, rich socialite and Madame to the wealthy and perverted. The woman preyed on frightened young girls and set them up with men old enough to be their fathers or sometimes even their grandfathers.

Mandie didn’t look like she wanted to be there. The slap to the girl’s back looked painful. Hilde didn’t hit where the marks could be seen. Hilde was also old-fashioned and liked to write things down offline. This made it difficult to follow a trail, but not impossible.

“What is the agenda this evening?” Sheikh Junayd Saif-Ad-Din asked, never breaking his stride as he descended the steps to the waiting limousine.

His aide followed. “You have an appointment to meet with the head of New York Central Hospital, a tour of the new surgical center, a meeting with the Jawahir ambassador, followed by a dinner at a Mr. Albert Benning. I believe the next Vice-Presidential candidate is to be attending. Due to this last meeting running over, I’m afraid I will need to reschedule either the meeting with Dr. Housing, the surgical tour, or the meeting with Ambassador Kahin. Which would you prefer I do?” Ashar inquired.

He grimaced at the last part. He would be expected to attend the dinner with a guest. A list of names ran through his mind before he settled on one that would be the least intrusive and most entertaining for his brief visit. Ginger Collingsworth, a wealthy socialite and recent divorcee, had made it obvious that she wouldn’t turn down a call at last night’s fashion show.

“Inform Dr. Housing to meet me at the new surgical unit. He can give me a private tour and we can have our meeting while I’m there. Call Isam and ask him to bring his wife to the Benning’s dinner. This will prevent me having to cancel any of the scheduled events. Oh, and call Ms. Gina Collingsworth and tell her I will have a car pick her up at eight o’clock. If you need Collingsworth’s phone number the event planner from last night should be able to give it to you,” he instructed.

Ashar gave him a half-smile. “Ms. Collingsworth has called several times today requesting to speak to you. I will use the number she has left,” he said.

Junayd chuckled. “Thank you for not patching her through,” he commented.

“Might I suggest sending Ms. Collingsworth a ruby bracelet? If I remember correctly, she likes the color red and it may placate her,” Ashar added.

“Fine, just make sure she is there,” Junayd absently replied.

He leaned back in the plush seat and wished he could close his eyes for a few minutes. The last week had been filled with one meeting or event after another. Staring out the window at the cold, grey haze, he wished that he was back home. He missed the warmth of Jawahir during the day and the cold, starry nights of the desert at night. Here, as in many of the cities he traveled to around the world, there was no chance of seeing the stars.

Five hours later, he was wishing he had come alone to the Benning’s dinner party. The sickly scent of his date for the evening was burning his nose and throat. His skills as a doctor didn’t miss the thin scars of Gina’s most recent visit to the plastic surgeon and if she pressed her rock-hard implants that she called breasts against him one more time, he might finally relent and tell her she should have gone with a softer pair instead of choosing perkiness.

He motioned to Isam to distract the clingy socialite as he carefully pulled her red talons from his arm. He motioned to Ashar. His aide appeared at his side, his expression bland even if Junayd could sense the amusement in the other man’s eyes.

“See that Ms. Collingsworth gets home without me,” he instructed.

“Yes, sire,” Ashar replied with a slight bow.

His need for a distraction was not that bad. He would rather take care of it himself than sleep with Frankenstein’s bride. A shudder ran through him and he needed a breath of fresh air.

He stepped out onto the second-story balcony that overlooked the backyard gardens of the lush estate. The temperature had dropped and his breath fogged the air. The chill felt good against his overheated flesh. For a moment, he closed his eyes and imagined he was in the desert. His escape lasted for only a few seconds before he heard a low cry of distress.

Junayd moved into the shadows, scanning the grounds below him. In the light streaming from the windows, he noticed two figures—one small, slender, and obviously female was being roughly pulled across the lawn by a rather rotund man. He stiffened when the man stopped and struck the woman who fell to her knees with another muffled cry. He pressed the radio on his watch.

“I need two guards to the backyard near the large tree. There is a woman in trouble,” he ordered.

Rage built inside him when he saw the man strike the woman several more times and began to drag her towards the large oak tree. Impatient with the response of his bodyguards who were out front and worried for the woman’s safety, he turned toward the French doors he had exited only minutes before. His hand was on the door handle when another cry rang out, this time from the man. Relieved that his guards must have made it to the yard in record time, he twisted to watch what happened.

His eyes widened when he saw a shadow menacingly circling the man. The man lunged toward the woman he had been pulling only to fall back. The shadow moved again, striking the man with moves that were beautiful in their execution. A blow to the throat to silence his cries. Another blow to his stomach, then legs. The sharp c***k of a bone in the man’s arm breaking.

The shadow released the terrified man who was rolling back and forth on the ground in agony. His breath caught when it moved to the woman who was sobbing on the ground. Whatever was said, it calmed the woman who nodded and shakily rose to her feet with help.

As if aware that there was an audience, the shadow stopped and looked back toward the house. Junayd swore he could feel the intensity of the shadow’s eyes when they stopped on him. He knew it was impossible. He was covered in darkness. Even his coloring would conceal him, a black silk shirt with his black tuxedo. Yet, he was positive that whoever had appeared out of the darkness to stop the man saw him as if he were standing under a spotlight.

The moment lasted only a few seconds, then the shadow slowly stepped back and disappeared. Released from the mesmerizing gaze, he twisted, entered the building, and strode through the oblivious guests to the lower level. Three of his body guards were near the tree by the time he arrived.

A young girl, the side of her face swollen, her lip bleeding, and her dress torn stood shaking uncontrollably between two of them. His third guard was kneeling next to the man on the ground, requesting an ambulance.

Junayd unbuttoned his jacket and removed it. He stepped close to the shivering girl, assessing that while she had been abused and was suffering from shock, she did not appear to have any other injuries. Still, he would recommend that she be transported to the hospital and evaluated to be sure.

“Pull this on,” he instructed.

“Th-th-thank you,” the girl stuttered.

“How old are you?” he asked.

She looked up at him with dazed eyes shimmering with tears. “Fifteen,” she said.

Junayd stiffened and looked down at the man moaning on the ground. Oliver Quest had pissed his pants from the scent in the air. His jaw tightened with disdain.

“See that the girl is protected. She is to be transported to the hospital and evaluated. Stay with her at all times until her family is notified,” he ordered.

“Yes, sire. What of this one?” the bodyguard kneeling next to Oliver asked.

“Leave him. The emergency medical and police can deal with him,” he answered.

Junayd stepped back and waited as the scene unfolded. Ashar had retrieved his wool coat and brought it to him. The police and medical personnel arrived. He gave a statement to the police, describing what he had witnessed. He stayed as close to the truth as possible, remaining vague about the mysterious person who had come to the young girl’s aid and then disappeared.

He waited until everyone was gone before he turned and faced the hundred-year-old tree. Shoving his hands into his coat pocket, he slowly walked around it, carefully scanning the darkness for any sign of movement. The minutes stretched in silence and he began to wonder if perhaps he was mistaken. He stopped on the back side of the tree near a low branch that curved toward the ground before reaching upward.

“You broke his arm,” he said, waiting to see if the shadow would respond.

“He deserved it—and more,” a soft voice said in the darkness.

He twisted, trying to pinpoint the location of the speaker. His eyes locked on a tall hedge bush.

He took a step toward it and stopped. “You’re right. In my country, in the desert, I would have killed him for abusing a woman like that,” Junayd responded.

“Not a woman, a child. By the time I’m done with him, he’ll wish he was in your desert.”

The lilting sound of her voice caressed his senses. Shock filtered through him when he realized that the speaker was a woman. His body responded to the husky voice as if she were whispering directly to his soul.

“Who are you?” he demanded

She was all around him. No matter where he turned, he sensed she had moved, though he couldn’t quite see her. She was like the zala alqamar aleayim, the floating moon shadow that swept across the dunes at night, making them appear alive.

zala alqamar aleayim, “I’m vengeance, justice, someone’s lost conscience. Pick whichever name you want,” she replied.

“I want—”

“What do you want, Dr. Junayd Saif-Ad-Din?” she asked in a low, mesmeric voice.

He slowly turned toward the trunk of the tree, captivated by the tantalizing scent of oranges and vanilla washing over his senses. The faint outline of her body was visible. His breath hissed when she stepped into a sliver of moonlight filtering through the barren branches of the old oak.

A dark red scarf covered the lower half of her face and revealed only her almond-shaped eyes and her forehead. Her eyes were the color of rich dark chocolate and framed by long black lashes. He instinctively knew that she didn’t wear any makeup to enhance them.

Her hair was a thick chestnut-colored and fell in thick waves down her back. She was dressed all in black, her clothes form-fitting. His eyes moved to the weapon at her waist. A black tonfa in a sheath. He would bet his best Arabian stallion that she had more than that on her.

His attention returned to her eyes. She walked toward him. Her steps were so quiet that it was impossible to hear them above the sound of traffic and the wind. There were very few people in the world that he knew who were as fluid as she was when she moved. It was like watching a dancer. He was mesmerized by everything about her.

She circled him, staying just out of his reach. Blood rushed through his body, pooling low in his groin. He had found a raqisat alqamar, a moon dancer.

raqisat alqamar, “How do you know who I am?” he asked.

Her soft chuckled hit him in the gut, pulling an instant reaction. Desire unlike anything he had ever known coursed through him—raw, primitive, and shockingly possessive. He wanted to capture her, drag her to the ground, and claim her right under the moonlit sky.

“Yes, sire,” she mimicked with amusement. “There was only one royalty—well, one that would know how to treat a traumatized girl who had been physically assaulted, though I must say the AMA might be a little upset that you didn’t offer poor Oliver more assistance,” she dryly replied.

He remained still as she circled him again. She was drawing closer with each pass. There was no doubt in his mind that she knew exactly what she was doing. He could only wonder if she knew the effect she was having on his body.

“I don’t follow your American Medical Association rules—all the time,” he said.

His eyelids lowered when he felt her hand slide across his lower back. The need pulsing inside him increased, and he gritted his teeth. She paused, as if sensing the danger that she was playing with.

“What rules do you follow, Junayd?” she murmured.