42. Dreams

It had been a while since Mira fell asleep in his arms. 

Warshon carefully put her head on the cushion. Covering her feet with the quilt he took out from the closet early on, he planted a kiss on her forehead. "Sweet dreams, beauty of my crime." 

Standing astride next to the window, he angled his head. Any minute now, he thought, his eyes narrowing at the LED screen. A vibration shook around his wrist. He slid the hand out of his pocket and detached the screen. Videos of Senator Kadin Bashara with Vittorio Lori released from multiple anonymous sources had flooded the web. Warshon logged into his proxy account. 

Get ready. Airport, 8-9:30 a.m. tomorrow. Leak intel on the outbound shipment we had already cleared out. Have the DEA block the highway for non-essential. 

After sending the order to Nikita Ozal, he sauntered over to his desk and opened the other message from Murong Kai with somewhat reluctance if not boredom. So gullible was the man he believed every threat thrown in his face. If only he would risk a little by going to the police, he would find that Warshon didn't have anyone there working for him. If only he dared a challenge and made it more interesting, Warshon might have respected him a little more to have what might resemble remorse. Or perhaps he is old and shrewd enough that he knows no one will really help him. Warshon scoffed. The police would dispatch a rookie to record his statement, then send him home to wait indefinitely. And like an average father, old Kai chose to believe the lie because he couldn't bear the cost of risk when it came to his daughter. 

Was it cowardice or strength that rendered the man weak and cooperative, Warshon couldn't decide as he lounged in his chair and pondered the request for another video of Cindy. He only gratified the father with a picture of the girl wearing a sack over her face. 

While Erdem had done his part playing the director, the girl was no thespian, and even with a man as gullible as Murong Kai, Warshon wouldn't push his luck at this point. 

Sit tight, doctor. He typed the words, which turned into a mechanical voice before being sent. It will all be over soon. 

He flicked a finger across the keypad to his computer. Having pulled up the encrypted file on Kieren Zaman, he steepled his hands, the tips of his forefingers grazing his lips. 

At thirty-eight with a degree in history, Kieren Zaman was the youngest Conservative candidate in Republican history. An idealist in his younger years, he was also an addict while serving the Globalist cabinet and was made to resign because of his addiction. Lord Qusbecq gave him a second chance. Seeing the worth in his youth and his coveted appearance, which would win the love of the younger demographic the Conservatives needed, he spent his own money to put Zaman in rehab. 

Indebted to Lord Qusbecq for life, Zaman was unlikely an ally from the start. But a debt for life was also cumbersome. Everything Lord Qusbecq asked, Zaman obliged. There must be moments of hesitation of which Warshon could avail, so he did. Knowing that the former addict's greatest fear was to fall off the wagon again, and no drinking was the first rule he set for all his staff, Warshon sent a few underlings after Zaman's chauffeur. After tranquilizing the man, they quenched his thirst a little more than needed, so to speak, before it was time for him to pick up his boss. And the rest fell into places of its own accord. Unable to trust anyone's recommendation after firing the chauffeur, Zaman turned to Lord Qusbecq, whose recommendation would play a key role. While the rest of the world would presume Mustafa and the Globalist to be accountable for the accident, Zaman, as an insider, would find the presumption too convenient to hold. He would suspect the new driver as the accomplice in the accident and the one who recommended him. 

Lowering his head, Warshon lifted his eyes at the screen. Far from being over, there was more to the skein of plots. While most of Kieren Zaman's past had been erased, no longer accessible to the public, Warshon had no doubt that it wasn't unbeknownst to Mustafa, who, with a little more digging, could have claimed his early victory. But he didn't. He mentioned Zaman's past as if to tease, as if he was petting a cat, knowing how it would react, or simply didn't care. No, Warshon snorted. Globalist or Conservative, it didn't matter to Mustafa, who was losing this battle to win a war. 

Sinking into his chair, he leaned to the side, propping an elbow on the armrest, his knuckles against the side of his head while his mind went over the meeting with Zahid Abid. Doubts did encroach on him about the alliance between Mustafa and his lord father upon learning of the potential release of Marvin Osborne. Supposed Zahid had told the truth, the release could have havoc on their partnership should there have been one, and Mustafa wouldn't have attempted a dalliance with gratuitous trouble unless it had become a sine qua non. 

When Warshon first entered the game, he was tasked with the drug dealer's job only because it was too dangerous, and there was no one else. That his lord father still put him to it anyway should have sufficed to convince Mustafa how little his partner cared about his son. And indeed, Mustafa hadn't paid it much heed. A drug dealer, a sideline, who might or might now help Lord Qusbecq clear out a few rivals. But the peace of mind must have abandoned him after Warshon took out all three cartels in the Republic and became the one drug lord who could go after anyone now if he wished. Now, having learned the Phantom Lord's identity, Mustafa felt outnumbered. That the father and the son could work together against him was enough of a threat that set him on edge. Mustafa needed his leverage. And from the bottomless pit of fear, he found Marvin Osborne. 

 One man's enemy is another's friend. Warshon brooded. Perhaps he'd have no choice but to work with his father again at some point. He let out a long sigh, his brow sore from frowning. And Kieren Zaman – he flicked his eyes at the profile on his screen – would be the friend to bring down his father. He entertained who his own nemesis would be. 

Rising to his feet, he went over the cabinet and poured himself a glass. The liquor singed his gullet, keeping him awake. He thought about Zahid and his motive for giving him the notice. Despite the lack of evidence, the DEA commander must have played his own guessing game and made the conclusion about the Phantom Lord. But he also chose to look the other way when he deliberately avoided clapping Warshon on the shoulder. Yes, he needed him as a doctor. But could there be more reasons? Would the release of Osborne also affect him? In what ways?

A little whimper turned his head. He loped to the couch and caught Mira before she rolled off. 

"Bad dreams?" He cradled her head in his arms, his thumb grazing her cheek dampened with tears. 

Half awake, she let out a murmur he couldn't make out of. 

He smiled, "The eloquent Mira can't articulate, that's a first."

"Don't go." Another murmur, and she hugged him the first time, her arms tight around his neck. 

"I won't," he crooned, his smile felt wry. Knowing very well she might have mistaken him for someone else notwithstanding, he was glad to be here for her. 

"Warshon…" 

He pulled a little distance so he could see her face, his breath hitched. "Are you calling me?" 

A gleam came to her eyes as she blinked, damp lashes brushing her cheeks. "Don't go."

Holding her face that sat well in his palm, he kissed her, and those cherry blossom lips burgeoned upon his.