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Back No Going Back: a Novel Save as PDF
Chapters (84)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Part 1
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. Part 2
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. Part 3
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. Part 4
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. Part 5
  60. 53
  61. 54
  62. 55
  63. 56
  64. 57
  65. 58
  66. Part 6
  67. 59
  68. 60
  69. 61
  70. 62
  71. 63
  72. 64
  73. 65
  74. 66
  75. 67
  76. 68
  77. 69
  78. 70
  79. 71
  80. 72
  81. Acknowledgments
  82. About the Author
  83. Also by Sheena Kamal
  84. About the Publisher

A sea of people wash past me with their drums and chants. I lean a shoulder against a doorway away from the alley, facing out into the street. Searching for a green jacket in the crowd, even as it thins. Waiting for the adrenaline to come down. Besides, I need a moment. I’ve scratched my palms and had a close call.

Was this some kind of crime of opportunity? A case of mistaken identity? A quick rape down a dark stairwell? It could be your garden-variety downtown eastside mugging.

It didn’t feel premeditated. Or careful. It didn’t feel like Dao. But, then again, putting a hit on me in Detroit didn’t feel like him, either. The cool, calculated man I’d encountered would never be that sloppy. The truth is, he’s as much a mystery to me as he has ever been.

10

Back at the Hastings office Brazuca finds Stevie Warsame sorting through his store of surveillance equipment and gadgets, putting some in the desk behind him and others in one of the two duffel bags at his feet.

Warsame was a cop, too, before turning to private investigations—though it had been his choice to leave the police department he served in Alberta. He never mentioned why, but Brazuca has a good idea that Warsame’s Somali heritage might not have gone down so well in certain circles. Not that you’d know from Warsame himself, who seemed to dwell on nothing but the condition of his surveillance equipment and the various gadgets he kept in what he called “resale ready” shape.

Brazuca sits at his desk and frowns at the opposite wall. He’s still trying to process the events of the day. He wants to be alone but can’t think of a polite way to ask Warsame to leave.

Warsame, sensing his mood, looks Brazuca over. “What’s up with you?”

“You notice anyone watching the office lately?”

“Should I be worried about something?”

“Don’t know just yet.”

“The way I remember it,” says Warsame, slowly, thoughtfully, “you ran into some trouble with a biker—what was his name? Wasn’t too long ago, either.”

“Curtis Parnell. According to my police guy, there’s a warrant out for his arrest, but he’s skipped town.”

Warsame finishes up with the equipment and zips the black duffel. “Or he’s here, just laying low.”

“I wouldn’t worry about him,” Brazuca says.

“Who are you worried about, then?”

“It’s nothing. Just a feeling. Probably need to get more sleep, is all.”

“Could be a feeling you listen to. You don’t mess with the bikers in this town, man. Even I know that.” Warsame reaches for his jacket. “You know where Krushnik’s been for the past few days? I’ve been trying to get him to sign off on an account. Been getting nothing but background checks these days. It’s been brutal out there.”