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FATIMA NATASHA RAZI

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FatNat Press

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The Drifters
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author‘s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © Fatima Razi 2010

All the illustrations used throughout the entire course of this book are works of the author and are copyrighted. Any reproduction, distribution or transmission in any form or means without the prior consent of the author/painter shall be considered illegal and will be challenged in the court of law.

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Printed and bound in Russia by

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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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TO MY LOVING FAMILY

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‘LATE’ GRANDMOTHER

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Acknowledgements

No one walks alone and when one is walking on the journey of life, just where do you start to thank those that joined you, walked beside you, and helped you along the way.

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My friends, for accepting me the way I am, for loving me, for having faith in me and for being there when I most needed support, thank you!

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Words would never be enough to thank my loving mother ‘Sarosh Yakoob’ and brothers Essa and Hassan; for believing in me, loving me and supporting me. In facing life’s adversities and sharing my insights and secrets. For ingraining the continual, positive approach to life and the strength to face all that life throws at us. My life would be incomplete without you, thank you for being an essential part of my life.

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My profound thanks to my aunt-cum-mother ‘Rubina Yakoob’, for developing my interest in books and arts. Thank you for believing in me, encouraging me and finding the artist inside me. Above all, thank you for your continuous support through my childhood and making me a better human being.

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The Drifters
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We cannot seek or attain health, wealth, learning, justice or kindness in general. Action is always specific, concrete, individualized and unique. Benjamin Jowett

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Bertrand Russell

Three passions have governed my life: The longings for love, the search for knowledge, And unbearable pity for the suffering of humankind.

Love brings ecstasy and relieves loneliness. In the union of love I have seen In a mystic miniature the prefiguring vision

I have wished to understand the hearts of people. I have wished to know why the stars shine.

Love and knowledge led upwards to the heaven,

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But always pity brought me back to earth; Cries of pain reverberated in my heart Of children in famine, of victims tortured And of old people left helpless. I long to alleviate the evil, but I cannot, And I too suffer.

This has been my life; I found it worth living.

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With equal passion I have sought knowledge.

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Of the heavens that saints and poets have imagined.

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Table of Contents
Foreword ........................................................................................................................................................................... 11 Chapter 1 .......................................................................................................................................................................... 13 Chapter 2 ......................................................................................................................................................................... 19 Chapter 3 ....................................................................................................................................................................... 24 Chapter 4 ......................................................................................................................................................................... 31 Chapter 5 ......................................................................................................................................................................... 39 Chapter 6......................................................................................................................................................................... 43 Chapter 7 ......................................................................................................................................................................... 50 Chapter 8 ........................................................................................................................................................................ 58

Chapter 10.........................................................................................................................................................................75

Chapter 15........................................................................................................................................................................ 119

Chapter 17 ....................................................................................................................................................................... 131 Chapter 18 ...................................................................................................................................................................... 137 Chapter 19 ...................................................................................................................................................................... 147 Chapter 20 ..................................................................................................................................................................... 162

Chapter 23 ...................................................................................................................................................................... 191 Chapter 24 .................................................................................................................................................................... 200 Chapter 25 .................................................................................................................................................................... 209 Chapter 26 .....................................................................................................................................................................218 Chapter 27 ....................................................................................................................................................................229 Chapter 28 .................................................................................................................................................................... 241 Epilogue ........................................................................................................................................................................ 250 About the Author .......................................................................................................................................................... 254

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Chapter 22...................................................................................................................................................................... 181

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Chapter 21 ...................................................................................................................................................................... 170

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Chapter 16 ...................................................................................................................................................................... 126

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Chapter 14 ...................................................................................................................................................................... 114

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Chapter 13 ...................................................................................................................................................................... 103

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Chapter 12 ....................................................................................................................................................................... 92

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Chapter 11 ........................................................................................................................................................................ 84

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Chapter 9..........................................................................................................................................................................66

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Foreword
Crash and burn! It’s how things happen around here. Not all things, but mostly that’s how things end. The start is never bold and daring like it is in other places and stories, tales and epics end the same way here. This story isn’t a story about kings and princes. It is however, a story of the people and heroic deeds. Only, in the time these people exist, democracy is the name of the game. How you define the word is something left up to the monarchs, but since this isn’t a time of monarchs either; this responsibility resides on the shoulders of the leader or anyone who dares to be in charge. To the untrained eye, all you can see is shades of gray, but the flickering street lamps say a lot if you stop and listen. That’s how life exists here now; in short bursts like the iridescent street lamps that speak the Morse code of life. Here in New Pakistan. It wasn’t always like this: once this was a thriving nation of vibrant people with sunshine in their eyes and color in their cheeks. The bazaars had still buzzed with bargains and the streets had still been clogged with modernization running its course as it did in other countries around the world. Like them, Pakistan had its share of corrupt politics, but somehow it always managed to pull through. Still a child in the world at the time, it wasn’t hard to imagine that the country had a long way to go to join the economic moguls like the United States, Great Britain or France, but it was getting there. Not mogul material yet, but slowly making it close to the mark. Then like all histories, everything that goes up has to come down. Pakistan wasn’t fortunate enough to recover quite so quickly. While the world was at the brink of Third World War, the people of Pakistan elected a very able and competent President, much by mistake, with the name of Shakan Nazir. A man of the people, he was just what Pakistan needed to come back up to treading water, rather than sinking further into the fathoms of the modernization of the late twenty first century. He was a man of vision. A man with foresight and wisdom, but he was one man and sometimes dreams, when stolen, take the shape of nightmares. That’s what happened with Shakan’s dream. He dreamed of an economically autonomous nation but his ideals were robbed and forced into the confines of narrow minds. While the crime rate soared and he did his best to control the flaring up of a civil war, he made the mistake of sleeping nights; for when you run a nation of misguided people, sleep becomes a stranger. During his absence, a senator by the name of Rehman Mustafa whispered the first seeds of what would finally take Pakistan to the rocky bottom of economic prosperity. A flood of aspiring students started to leave the country in hopes of a better future abroad. When migration reached a tragic crescendo, Shakan conceived his first dream and closed all borders of the country; not allowing anyone to enter or leave. When immigration stopped, Pakistan was crippled from the rest of the world. All businesses moved under the government and trade became a commodity rather than a way of life. The unrest was bound to flare, but Shakan believed it would quiet when things started to fall back on track and for a while it worked, but like all dreams, his was only an apparition of the reality. Shakan made his first mistake and fell asleep while Mustafa made sure he never awoke. With the country severed from the rest of the world, Mustafa forced modernization on the people until they had nothing else to do but consent. Twelve years that followed were written in modern history as the Black Years of Pakistan, when death, famine, poverty, crime and injustice took its first potent breath. Since the country was forced to rely on itself to provide and survive, reserves were dug and exhausted until life became an unending struggle to survive; one hour, one day, one life time.

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DRIFTERS

11

FOREWORD

Then one rainy morning Rehman Mustafa stood before his huge office bay window, a tobacco pipe in his mouth, and frowned. The country had to be peopled. It seemed as if there weren’t enough people left to make his country look alive anymore. That couldn’t do. The world couldn’t directly interfere in Shakan’s iron clad agreement with the United Nations and so Rehman made his first public address since he had announced Shakan’s death. He opened the borders and let more people come into his country, but no one could leave. So his backyard could be peopled, so he had more people around to suppress and empress upon with his authority and lust for power. After all, what was a dictator without populace to tyrannize? With the influx of these strangers of different color, creed and race, most of who had been forced out of their own country because of poverty, intolerance, or just because they were too dirty to keep around, Rehman beat his new dream into the people. Fuse or die. Crash and Burn. And finally the vivid people of Pakistan began to shift darker and eventually they became what Shakan had intended to prevent.

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DRIFTERS 12

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Not a nation: just drifters.

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You never heard this one from me I wanted to belong to what I fear And we're supposed to laugh it off We're very limited in honesty

A sense of belonging just for once in my life

This is my life it's all I have

My life is still my own

There's no connection to my past And if it's hurting me, it's teaching me

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You're desperate for your friends to like you more

When Kennedy spoke you'd hear America sigh

The poor seeking solace in their God that's above We scream and we fight, it's all we have

If I were a girl and you were born as a boy I'd know I'm still here when someone's hurting me badly Failure's beautiful to me

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You took your pill today for sure

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“The Drifters” by Mansun

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'Cos we know

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Repeat after me we're drifting

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I thought you were God and Elvis rolled into one

CHAPTER 1

It was never morning anymore. The gray clouds never stirred to let the morning light in or to take away the night. They hung upon Balaam like a disease. Dark, thick and impenetrable; it forced civilization to build tall graying buildings that stretched up through the smoke and cloud and finally caressed fresh air some twenty five levels above the ground. Tall looming giants that only cast shadows on the ground below; where the unfortunate lived. Those that could not afford the luxury of the fresh air dwelled on the surface among the darkness of Sectors 1 through 250. Balaam, former Lahore, was now the center of all business and the hub of industry as it now existed here in the New Pakistan. With dark shadowy walls that stretched up to the heavens, the burning fires in the drums only added to the desolation that hung in the air. The scampering dogs and scurrying cats over turned trashcans and scared away rats, but they couldn’t scare away the shadows. The litter of hookers and gamblers on the sidewalks were permanent landmarks as the people flooded in and out of seedy buildings huddled in thin coats and insufficient layers. The wind that curled at the base of the buildings swept up old newspapers and rotten garbage; filling the air with pungent fumes until the senses became dormant to them. The chattering of people was sometimes drowned in the winds that curled and screeched through the broken glass of windows and doors. Flickering display screens showed the latest news and reports, but no one paid heed to the over enthusiastic synthetic announcers. Everyone one went on their own way. In the bustle of the lower sectors, no one collided into anyone; it was as if they had walked this path too many times to make the simple mistake anymore. Serpentine roads that disappeared in the crimson smog were a reminder of places they couldn’t go. Faces that were no longer distinguishable from each other didn’t smile or frown as they went about their business wearing a mask of death; like lifeless eyes staring beyond this life and into the next; same, but yet so varied. Here were now different Ethnic groups melded and forged until the spirit of the Pakistani people forked into two different entities. Those that intermarried with the settlers called the Breed or the Natives that still clung to their individualism with almost fanatical vehemence, usually lashing out against those that didn’t belong with them out of fear and hatred. But riots and public fighting was punishable by death as was almost anything that Kamal Mustafa saw fit. Mustafa! The name was as famous as it was notorious. Can you really mock the hand that feeds you; in abundance or otherwise? A man among men. A leader. A tyrant. The messiah. The monster. To be feared and loved under all costs. Royal blood. Decades of ancestry etched in blood and domination. This generation was worse than others. If the people thought Rehman Mustafa was the devil himself, his spawn had gotten better at the profession along the years that they plagued Pakistan. Kamal wasn’t much similar to the name he was called. Quite the opposite actually; a jackal. A creature of the night. A feeder of flesh. Getting his fill one way or the other. The people no longer had faith in the government or the justice system that was now a figment of the equality Shakan Nazir had created. In a world where faith had given up and hope had gathered its wings away from the people’s hearts, a figure slowly stepped out of the shadows; a small parcel tucked under his right arm and he raised his crystal gray eyes towards the busy streets of Sector 12, a place they once called Mall Road, the downtown of Old Lahore. ‚Do you see them?‛ The gray eyes scanned the crowd, sweeping slowly over the dark corners and huddled shapes. ‚No, but with Skinners, you can never tell.‛ The skinners, were Kamal’s elite force who combed the streets of lower Balaam looking for people like him and his companion; personal guard dogs caught from these very streets, trained killers, murderer and con men, who sold their souls and joined Kamal’s crusade for the sake of a few

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pieces of gold. The pillaged and terrorized, killing innocent women and children for fun and pleasure. Ironic. They hired law breakers to uphold the law and they hunted for people who opposed them and their tyrannical master. Sami Kayoshi was one of those people. His twin sister, Zara Kayoshi stood beside him in his resistance to the Skinners and Kamal. They had been young. They didn’t have to fight, but they chose to. That’s how it was meant to be. At twenty four years of age, Zara and Sami learnt every sewer drain, every alley and every nook and cranny they could disappear into. Balaam had been forgotten, when Cloud City, was constructed some fifty levels above. The people of Balaam were as good as dead. Born into this city of the living dead, Sami and Zara had learnt to find solace in a small band of people who still believed in better tomorrows and sunshine. ‚Sami, we have to get back to the station or we won’t be able to if the Skinners start their night patrol.‛ Zara ducked out from behind her tall brother and gazed around into the crowd. The girl, at a good five inches shorter than her brother’s six feet, looked and dressed nothing like her twin. His basic attire was generic with every day that passed even if Zara tried to coax him into colors. A dark black coat hung from his broad, supple shoulders skimming the calves of his black pants. Underneath the coat he wore a blood red collared shirt with a jagged collar and black combat boots that no matter how common they were, always managed to draw attention to him. Zara used to tease him that maybe it wasn’t the clothes that made women turn and walk into lamp posts, but Sami had a dark aversion to flirts and had it not been for his own sister, he might have added women to the list. Zara Kayoshi, on the other hand, was a petite girl with long silky black hair that flowed in a straight cascade almost to her waist. The half Japanese descent was more evident in her than her brother; the slight dip of her eyes and the soft planes of her face were nothing like the sharp slopes of Sami’s Pakistani coloring and features. Clad in dark blue trousers a soft red halter top and black pullover completed her sleek appearance. To the first glance, they looked nothing like twins. But the spark was there. The way they walked. The way they never had to speak to understand. The way Zara shared his passion for freedom and the way her anger flared much like her brother’s. They were more than just siblings, they were family. The only family they had. ‚Won’t that make Zen happy?‛ Sami’s voice was sarcastic as he held the parcel firmly into his left hand and grabbed Zara’s elbow protectively with the other. ‚Come on Sami, he loves you like his own son.‛ ‚Right.‛ The man had very little doubt, but his tone was sarcastic as it was with any topic on his tongue. The girl glared up at her brother as he half dragged her across the street, through the river of ambling people and up to the rusty door of a small inn. The buildings were brick giants that stood centuries old. White brick and cobble stone worn flat; the same streets history strode down. Jinnah, Bhutto, Musharraf and so many of the same profession; all names no one remembered when they passed the ruins of the governor’s house or the old hotels that housed no VIPs. The red brick of the General Post Office was marred black with dirt and grime. Heritage was hidden and no one noticed. It was not the perfect place for anyone to be visiting during working hours, but Sami and Zara had a purpose. ‚You’re being silly.‛ ‚I’m being honest.‛ He pushed her through the door of the inn housed in front of an old theater that had shut down long before the black years had come. The warming stale smoke swirled out of the open door as Sami stepped in after her with a wide grin that said nothing for the empathy in his eyes. If Zara hadn’t been his sister, she might have thought the grin to have been more of a leer. She knew the man had little patience with shrouding truth. ‚Brutally honest mon-sibling. So where’s this guy we’re supposed to meet?‛

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He put a soft finger to her lips. ‚Remind me never to tell you details, you have a big mouth.‛ Looking up he noticed that the people in the little bar turned and looked at them curiously as they saw the new comers. ‚Breed.‛ Sami’s eyes snapped up to a dirty looking man hunched into a small booth his eyes oozing hatred as he looked over the two of them. That name. Sami was well acquainted with it. It was a sticker he’d been living with since the first day he stepped out of his house to play in the street with the other kids in his little neighborhood. ‚Breed!‛ At seven he had barely been in time to look up as the three boys approached him. The only girl in their group glared menacingly at him and the little boy stepped back in alarm. First day of his debut and already they didn’t like him? Somehow his seven year old mind couldn’t comprehend the accusation being thrown at him. Breed? What was a Breed? ‚Dirty breed! You can’t play with us Breedy. Breed boy. Breeder!‛ Laughs and stares. None of which he could justify. It wasn’t long before he was pushed into a puddle of mud soaking his new playing clothes and his straight black hair. Even then Sami hadn’t still understood why. Not until he went back into his little house and realized how big a difference there was between his mother’s soft black hair and cobalt eyes that drew up in slanting lines and his father’s deep-set smoky gray eyes and brown hair. That was the first day he was educated in the laws that governed hatred. Differences. Little things, like hair, color, eyes, face, nose could make such a difference between acceptance and rejection and Sami learned firsthand how ‘different’ he was. He never forgot since. Not when he went back outside. Not when he learned he had power in his fist. Not when he knew hatred could draw blood. Not when he lost his mother’s slanting cobalt eyes to an angry mob and not even when his father died saving his baby sister. He never forgot he was a breed ever again. Now he watched the same hatred flicker in the dirty man’s eyes and he wished her could reach out and pluck his eyes out. But that wouldn’t solve anything. And he didn’t have time for idle confrontations anymore. Squeezing Zara’s hand reassuringly he pulled her into the little inn and walked up to the bar. ‚Hello gorgeous.‛ A hand with blood red painted nails ran along a tangent down his chest and rested at the base of his belly as he raised his eyes to meet the woman’s. ‚Ajj kaisay ana hua1?‛ Without flinching he held her gaze, avoiding the games she played there and cocked his head to the side almost amused. Trauma must bring lowlife’s here more often now, he reflected. ‚I’m not buying today Rushna. Hassan; where is he?‛ ‚He’s here.‛ Leaning closer she slid one hand around his neck and Sami’s eyes narrowed, his body relaxed and unmoving. Zara sighed as the woman started to serpentine around her brother and crossed her arms. Here we go again, she thought. Ten seconds before he shows here where she can put her hand next. One down only nine to go. Nobody better than Zara knew Sami had a one track mind when business was underway. ‚Where Rushna?‛ His voice didn’t waver. Seven to go. Zara mentally counted. ‚Always in hurry.‛ Rushna’s eyes played with his as she tried to find the familiarity she knew was there when he wasn’t working. Five to go.

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What brings you here today?

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‚Where?‛ Three to go. One long red painted finger nail ran down his nose. ‚Second door behind the bar.‛ Without another word Sami shifted out from under the woman and walked around the bar. Zara snickered as the woman stumbled slightly unsure of what had just happened, one hand still held in midair where his face had been. ‚One second to go. You got really lucky.‛ Zara smirked at the woman and circled around her to follow her brother behind the bar. Rushna took a deep sigh her eyes following the man before her own business drew her attention away. Sometimes it was so hard to dream. Sami pushed the door open and stepped into the dimly lit room, his body already blocking any way out as the man standing in front of the computer screen, his chin caught between his thumb and pointer finger, turned. The rakish man broke into a smirk. ‚Well if it isn’t my favorite bad boy Kayoshi. To what do I owe the pleasure?‛ ‚It’s not a social call, Hassan.‛ Sami fixed his eyes on the man across the little room as Zara closed the door behind her and looked at the man over Sami’s shoulder. Hassan smirked widely crossing his own arms to match Sami’s stance. ‚It never is.‛ He nodded a greeting to Zara who smiled politely. He held out a half smoked cigarette. ‚Chara?‛ Sami’s eyes narrowed. ‚You don’t have money to feed your homeless, but you got enough for charas2?‛ The man’s smile widened. ‚Not as expensive a habit as you think Kayoshi. Besides,‛ he shrugged before taking a drag on the rolled up joint, ‚I think it’s only fair I practice what I sell. So?‛ He crossed his arms blowing out the burning smoke. ‚What is it this time?‛ ‚Medicine.‛ The man’s smile vanished instantly. ‚I can’t spare any Sami. We’re already short.‛ ‚I know; that’s why I’m here.‛ The right side of his mouth lifted up in a quirky half smile. ‚There’s a shipment coming in. I want you to get it out. You and I split the cargo as before, we keep the profit.‛ Hassan blinked a little startled. He hadn’t heard anything yet. ‚When?‛ ‚Tonight. Sometimes around one.‛ Hassan swiftly sobered his eyes narrowing as he rubbed his goatee in thought. ‚I’m assuming it’s an official carrier then.‛ Sami nodded. ‚A chaser and a truck load.‛ An eyebrow shot up curiously and Sami smirked at the silent question. ‚I have my contacts Hassan, and as always they are off limits to you.‛ The man rolled his eyes and threw down the burnt cigarette before stubbing it with his heel. ‚When are you going to learn to trust me man!?‛ ‚You know him Hassan, probably never.‛ Zara chuckled looking affectionately at her brother. ‚I’ve been working with you for seven months now Sami.‛ Hassan jabbed a finger at the dark haired man, his eyes narrowed with irritation. ‚I deserve a smidgen of trust, no?‛ ‚No.‛ Sami retorted. ‚Why the hell not!?‛ ‚Because you’re a conniving heartless bastard; that’s why.‛ ‚Oh come on man! You’re not still sore about last time are you? That was an accident. I had no idea how Rafe and his men got there.‛ ‚Sure Hassan. And I’m Snow White. So are you in?‛ The man scowled slightly then threw up his hands as if in defeat. ‚Yes! Yes, I’m in dammit, but this time I want to at least know where I’m delivering it.‛ ‚No.‛ Zara hid back a chuckle at the shock on Hassan’s face at her brother’s refusal. ‚Sami!‛

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Dope

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CHAPTER 1

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‚You’ll deliver them to Jake as usual, he’ll handle the rest, all you have to do is get it from the check point and drive like the madman you are.‛ Hassan gave Sami a defeated look. ‚I hate you.‛ ‚Yeah well what I feel for you, isn’t loving either Hassan.‛ Sami threw the packet towards the other man and Hassan caught it easily. ‚The disks are in there as you usually want. Haroon’s got all the data you wanted plus a little extra if you promise to keep this to yourself. Not even your little ‘hood’ gets details. You’re rank right up there with the Skinners in my books. Insane commodities.‛ Hassan rolled his eyes in frustration. ‚We don’t do that shit Sami.‛ ‚Not yet.‛ Sami’s smile held not feeling. ‚The upload is only valid when Jake gives you the pass code and not before, otherwise that pile of discs will be worth shit. And since you already know how good Haroon is; if you try to bypass the code, those discs will melt your data pad like hot butter.‛ Hassan glared. ‚I hate you.‛ ‚You said that already.‛ Sami gave him the half smile again then turned as Zara opened the door with a hidden smile and stepped out. ‚Oh and Hassan, tell Rushna if she tries to pick me up here one more time, I’ll nail her to the front door of your lovely establishment.‛ The door closed followed by a burst of hysterical laughing. Zara looked at Sami with knowing eyes. ‚Tell me again why we do business with that weasel?‛ ‚He’s the only decent driver who can handle an old pickup truck full of delicate medicine and still manage to outrun Kamal’s fastest Chaser.‛ Sami looked down at his sister, and then his face broke into one of his wicked grins. ‚Besides, he’s expendable.‛ Zara closed her eyes and sighed. ‚You know Sami, I wouldn’t have minded if you had lied to me about that last reason.‛ Sami only dragged her right to the front door as the dirty old man hissed again. ‚Breed!‛

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Tell me why can't I just reach up and simply touch the sky Tell me why can't I spread my arms and fly and fly and fly Tell me why can't I say this, why can't I do that

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“Split” by Pink

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Tell me what do they want from me, tell me how to act

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