MirrorWorld

Heads shift about randomly, a mix of dark hair and darker-colored abayas. There’s no pattern to the clogged marketplace, just movement as thousands of people buy, sell, and steal for their families. They don’t call the Chor Bazaar the “thieves market” for nothing. There are as many stolen goods being sold as there are pickpockets working the crowd.

My view is from far above the action, a half mile away and sixteen stories up, on the roof of a hotel that provides a line of sight straight down Mutton Street, right in the middle of Muslim-populated Mumbai, India.

I scan the street, looking for my target, who should be easy to spot, despite the fact that all I can see are heads. And motorcycles. Cars won’t fit up the narrow street with all the people, so the vehicle of choice in this part of the city is of the two-wheeled variety. Except for the black BMW parked across the street from the used-instruments shop. It sticks out as obviously as my target will.

“There you are,” I whisper, as a blond woman steps out of the music shop. She has an edge to her. A seriousness that, despite her age and aquiline beauty, says she’s not someone with whom to trifle. Too bad for her; trifling is kind of my job.

I put her head in my crosshairs as she speaks to someone still in the shop.

The dossier I received said she runs a human-trafficking ring, smuggling women out of India and into the Middle East. But she recently expanded her business and now smuggles arms to a variety of terror organizations. Bad career move.

It’s a hard shot. Her head, while squarely focused at the center of my crosshairs, is occasionally blocked by a passerby. I could pull the trigger only to have someone step in front of the bullet.

But this doesn’t frighten me. If the bullet does strike someone else first, the high-caliber round will pass straight through the unfortunate’s head and still find its target. Ignoring everything but my target, I slip my finger behind the trigger, exhale, and squeeze.

*

“Do you, Josef Shiloh, take Maya Lyons to be your lawfully wedded wife, promising to love and cherish, through joy and sorrow, sickness and health, and whatever challenges you may face, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” I say.

The words come fast. Fearless. I love the woman standing across from me. She’s perfect, and I make the promise with no concern about later breaking it.

The minister turns to Maya and smiles. Who couldn’t smile at a woman like this? She’s strong and sharp, like a sword, but also soft and gentle in a way I’ve never experienced. Her black hair, spilling from a bun in curly loops, looks even darker against the stark white of her wedding gown. She smiles at me, and I want this day to be over so the night can begin.

“Do you, Maya Lyons, take Josef Shiloh to be your lawfully wedded husband, promising to love and cherish, through joy and sorrow, sickness and health, and whatever challenges you may face, for as long as you both shall—”

“I do,” she says.

“She can’t even wait for me to finish the question,” the minister jokes, getting a laugh out of the full church. I glance to my parents. My mother’s tears are matched only by those of Aunt Allenby. They hold hands, sisters-in-law who seem more like two halves of the same soul.

Uncle Hugh gives me a thumbs-up, a far less traditional man than my father. Speaking of my father, he actually looks proud, wearing his black kippah hat emblazoned with the Star of David so everyone knows the gentile woman is marrying a Jew. He will welcome religious arguments after the ceremony, but for now he’s happy to be happy.

I clap my hands together and rub them in anticipation. “Okay, who’s got the rings?”

*

Hanging upside down for any length of time is a fairly uncomfortable affair. Hanging upside down for four hours, inside the ventilation system of a penthouse, sixty-eight stories above Ramat Gan, Israel, is nearly unbearable. But I do it in silence, waiting patiently for the whores in the bedroom below to finish their job. My target lies between them, moaning like a wounded mule.

And then, he’s done. Wants nothing more to do with the women. Shoos them out of the room like he never asked them there in the first place.

I don’t know much about the man, other than that he has close associations within Al-Qaeda, and someone in the company wants him dead, immediately, and disappeared for three days. I don’t know why. I don’t care.

The man stumbles around, mumbling about the whores’ lack of abilities and attractiveness. I nearly laugh when I realize he’s speaking to his own nether regions, which apparently hadn’t performed as hoped. All that mewling was a show, but for whom? The women are no doubt having a good laugh at his expense right about now.

He wanders around the room, clearly drunk and pouring himself another glass. For a man with ties to Al-Qaeda, he’s the worst example of a good Muslim I’ve ever seen. He curses toward the door, his accusatory hand sloshing the drink.

He gasps. Stands suddenly still.