Amira's POV
I walked down the eerie hallway, the dim bulbs flickering on and off, and the temperature dropping considerably as I enter the room. The loud but muted music from the club upstairs thumps in my ears, making my blood pond faster in veins and I use the wild energy to fuel my intentions. It seems like yesterday we were playing golf on the barren grounds of this land, while conversing about ridding it of corruption and making it the hub of civilization one day. It's funny how the times have changed and I am using it for fulfilling my own corrupt deeds today.
I try not to look at the crimson liquid pooling the floor, the puddle only getting larger with each crack of whip that resounds within the emptiness of the room. I take out a bottle of beer from the small fridge in the corner and put it against my lips, gulping it half down in one breath, the bitter sweet drink running down my throat. Wiping my mouth with one hand, I walk over to the half naked, flabby mass of body standing in the center of the room, the two chains on his wrists holding him upright while his feet dragged on the floor. A withheld cry escaped his mouth whenever the crack resounded within the room, while his back arched as a thorny whip tore open his wounds further with each hit. I almost felt sorry for the poor guy, before the sight of my mother dismantled body flashed before my eyes.
Stay strong Amira…
Noah moved aside as he saw me approaching and halted his procession until I allowed him. The murderer was breathing heavily; his head hung low, while his eyes closed and blood caked on the corners of his lips. I did a whole 360 turn around him, the clicking of my heels confirming his impending doom.
I did not expect him to cower in fear or back away at the mere sight of me, but I also did not expect him to throw his head back and laugh loudly at my face, the act causing him clear agony. "You think this is vengeance, my dear girl?" he asks, his voice out of breath. "This is but a mere illusion. I'm already dying, you're only making it easier for me." I backed away, as he coughed blood out of his mouth. "You don't what you're getting yourself into, and nobody has made it alive out of the unknown."
He's lying. My grip on the hilt of the knife tightened as the fury inside me rose. I grabbed a fistful of his sweaty, thread like hair on his half-bald head, and pulled it back tightly. "So be it," I said through gritted teeth, and slashed the knife across his throat. A spray of coppery crimson liquid fell on my face, and a wave of sweet, cold pleasure swept over me.
As they say… Vengeance is a dish best served cold.
I licked the blood on my lips, and roughly wiped the blood off my face and neck. "Take care of the body," I tell Noah, as I make way for the club upstairs.
A plethora of bright lights danced over my skin as I walked into the club, enjoying the rhythm the music made. It was so loud, that it drowned almost every sound in the surroundings at a certain distance. I ignored the various heads turning my way as I made my way to the bar. It's not every day that you see the daughter of the prime minister proudly walking down the aisle of such a controversial place. Well in my defense, it's not every day I murder humans in cold blood. Grabbing a whiskey on rocks, I make my way to the dance floor. I take a sip of the drink and ignore the burning sensation down my throat as I bust some moves.
This is crazy, I think, my body moving to the rhythm.
"This is perfect," I said, smiling at a stranger. Why does he look so familiar, though?
Jala's POV
I pump the hand soap on my hand, and wash my hands beneath the tap before checking my reflection in the mirror. Half of my hair are pinned back and look smooth for the most part except for the few stray wisps lying on my forehead, and I let them be because they are too stubborn to be held back. I wiped a wet hand across my forehead, as well as my neck and arms to cool down. I'm not too concerned about my makeup as I am just wearing peach lip tint on my lips and cheeks. I feel a bit awkward in my peach strapless blouse, that expose my shoulders, as well as the form fitted black skirt that has a slit in the back and reaches half of my thigh in the back, but there is not too much I can do except call Salman and tell him about the interview as well as the fact I am about to head out with a man I have known for a little less than an hour.
"No Jala, no," Salman said over the phone. "You barely know the guy, Jala you can't. he already seems some kind of a creep to me and you could get in potential danger."
"And I could gather some inside news on the government as well as the opposition. This could be important, and I don't want to miss this chance."
"Okay," he said, finally. "But please be careful."
"I will," I promise, and head out of the building with Amin.
"Ready?" he asks. "As I'll ever be," I reply with a smile, feeling giddy with excitement. We got into his car, comfortable in the silence of our journey.
I heard about this place in rumors and whispers among college students, and seldom around the house when my father and brothers talked about their business in the heart of the city. Once, I tried to ask them what that meant, and got scolded in return, while receiving a warning about never to hear the name of the place from my mouth, ever again. It was known to be the home of all crooks, and was known to be often visited by parliamentarians and other political personalities in the dark hours of the night, where they could plan their meticulous deeds in peace with no one to judge between them and executed them perfectly in the shadows where no light could creep.
We drifted through the busy streets of the Eight Markets that encircled the clock tower, and turned around a wall that wafted around the edges of the last one. Surprisingly, the drive was comfortable quiet and the silence only broke once we entered the Anarkali, (literal meaning: the "blossom of pomegranate" named after Nadira begum who was said to be the love interest of the Mughal emperor, Jahangir. Like all love stories that blossom in these forsaken lands, the tale of Salem and Nadira met an untimely end.) "Have you heard of this place before?" Amin asks me, his eyes focused on the road ahead of us. "Only in rumors," I reply, taking in the scene before me. Men sat out cottages drinking from large green bottles and the open doors showed women dancing around in scanty clothing, while children in rags pranced around the streets with no sign of discomfort for their surroundings, and I asked myself why in the world was this spot shunned from rest of the city? A few men sat on their bikes as we crossed a gully, smoking cigarettes and their knives glinted in the dark as one of them with a pale, pointed face and slicked, black hair passed me a devious smile that sent shivers down my spine, before a woman in a abaya lifted off her veil and kissed him passionately on the lips. "Thought so," he remarked, glancing at me and taking in my reaction. The corner of his grey eyes crinkled in mirth, before he parked the car in front of a two storey building and pressed the clutch before stomping his foot on the brake pedal.
"I'm not asking for your trust, Jala," His gaze holds an intensity that made my heart leap inside my chest. "I'm asking you to forget, with me. Forget, just for one night."
"I'm not sure if that what I want to do…" I reply hesitantly, his hopeful expression flickering for a moment, which bothers me for some reason. "But I guess it's worth a try." I manage to smile.
"That's what I'd like to hear," he replies, his smile renewing. He opens the door for me and holds his hand out for me to take, helping me out of the car. We enter the building and climb up the basement stairs, making way for the dimly lit corridor. Music pounds loudly behind a wide, wooden double door which Amin pushes open, leading me into a large room filled with bright lights and people in flashy clothes, moving in sync to the beat, yet notoriously to their heart's content. I've never been to a club before, and it's exciting as it's overwhelming. My peach blouse and black skirt, even though it's more revealing than my traditional attire, contrasts greatly to the clothes of the participants on the floor, making me feel a little insecure but Amin squeezes my hand reassuringly and leads me to the bar at the end of the room. He orders a whiskey on rocks, and even though I have next to no idea what he is talking about, I am pretty sure it contains alcohol which is enough to get me apprehensive about.
The bartender arrives with the drinks, who is a middle aged man with thinning hair and a gentle smile on his face. "First date?" he asks placing the drink in front of us. "You bet," Amin smiles, and raises his glass in a toast.
I clink his glass with mine and take a huge gulp of the clear brown liquor, instantly regretting it as a burning sensation follows down my throat. I cough to get rid of the horrible feeling and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I look over to Amin, who throws his head back and laughs, his pearly whites gleaming in the light.
"To a night of forgetting," he says taking my hand and leading me to the dance floor.
"To a night of forgetting," I breathe, as our foreheads join, his lips only a few inches from mine. His hands rest on my waist, and mine lay on his chest, as he gently sways my hips to the beat of the music. Once my nerves calm down, or the alcohol begins its work in my system, I steadily loosen up and allow my body to move more freely. In no time at all, my hips were shaking, my feet were moving at their own accord, and my arms were flailing all over the place. In front of me, Amin was busting some pretty cool moves, his head nodding at the music, his whole body moving side to side, and his movements looked much more coordinated then mine. We were dancing and laughing at our silliness and the sheer happiness we were feeling. It felt so nice to forget just for a while. I'm glad I came, even if I might feel guilty later on. I was supposed to be waiting for Amira at the office, not dancing at some night club.
We stopped breathless, our bodies warm and sweaty, though I could swear I had enough energy in me to dance the whole night. He told me wait at the lounge, until he got back with some drinks. "You don't want to be mingling with the people in this place," he whispers, his breath fluttering over my ear, and it's hard to ignore the warmth and scent of his body. "Trust me." He says, his hold tightening on my waist and wrist. I nod and leave him, making way for the couches, while he proceeds toward the bar at the end of the room. A square, glass table lies between the couches, with four to six other people already sitting on them. Two were sitting on top one another, engrossed in an intimate moment while two men and women sat staring at the dance floor with drinks in their hands. I adjusted my skirt and rubbed my arms, feeling a little exposed, especially since I felt the woman in a striking red dress and the man sitting in the corner, staring at me.
There seemed to be a commotion rising at the back end of the room, in front of the bar, which was now more crowded than it was earlier. I think I saw a flash of light before Amin appeared at my side, his touch cold and his eyes wide.
"That's the prime minister's daughter!" I heard someone say.
"We have to get out of here," Amin said, his voice on edge. "Now."