The airport walls were stained, the once-bright paint dulled by time and countless passing hands. They stood beneath ceiling panels yellowed with age.

  Compared to even the smallest of the three airports in Darvika, the Zhyn airport looked like a forgotten relic. Worn down not so much by age as a lack of adequate maintenance. And funds.

  Stepping off its tarmac after twelve years, memories assaulted me with the ferocity of rabid dogs. Relentless, impossible to shake. Because every inch of it looked exactly the same, except perhaps for the dull patina of neglect.

  It was hard to believe this was the primary airport of Zilan, the country’s second-largest state. In land area, if not in terms of population or wealth.

  The air, overchilled to counter the parched heat outside, stung my nostrils and scraped my throat like sandpaper. Fluorescent lights pulsed overhead. They cast uneven shadows on scuffed tiles, and on the peeling posters of local politicians and celebrities.

  A few flickering signs struggled to stay on, their letters glitching in and out as they directed travelers towards baggage claim.

  Shouldering my bag, I wove through the sluggish crowd, past rows of metal chairs with fraying upholstery. In one corner, a vending machine drew its final wheezing breaths.

  Every so often, a grim-faced officer in uniform – bearing the distinctive FF insignia of the Frontline Force – would yank someone aside. To scrutinize their documents or rifle through their luggage with practiced efficiency.

  Frustrated travelers muttered expletives in every language of the federation. Too low for the officers to hear, or too frequent for them to bother reacting.

  I kept walking, scanning the faces beyond the glass partition where people waited for the arriving passengers.

  A man sporting a well-groomed mustache held up a card with my name on it.

  As I stepped through the partition door, he smiled brightly at me, reaching out to take my bag. His gray-green kurta bore a name tag: Adhirath Alai.

  Though a couple inches shorter than me, he had broad shoulders and a deep tan. Not atypical in this region, where the sun burned fiercer than in the capital.

  “Come now, brother. Don’t be shy.” He admonished with a thick Zilani accent, when I motioned for him to lead the way without handing over my bag. “If there’s one thing we do right around here, it’s hospitality.” He turned slowly, taking a moment to glance around before making his way to the exit. “You must be exhausted. I had a table booked at the Parkside Grill, but you’re almost two hours late. Guess we’ll have to settle for something more modest today.”

  The Parkside Grill? And on whose dime?

  I was all for being wined and dined. But I wanted to see the under-construction stadium for myself, before indulging in luxuries potentially bankrolled by misappropriated government funds.

  Allegedly.

  Not that I put it past Papa to fabricate rumors of financial mismanagement in his own party’s development project. Just for an excuse to thrust me into the pit of vipers that was Zilan.

  But on the off chance there was a sliver of truth to the allegations, I needed a head start. Before every stakeholder and their dog caught wind that I was here to audit the Minjal Stadium. Albeit unofficially.

  Humming along to his friendly chatter, I followed Alai out of the airport – leaping straight from the freezer into the furnace. The mid-April sun seemed intent on roasting us alive.

  At the edge of the airport grounds, a series of short queues had formed. Officers from the Frontline Force, their sweat-drenched uniforms instantly noticeable for the stylized FF insignia, meticulously checked the documents of each person leaving the premises.

  Similar queues of malcontent travelers stretched at the entrance as well.

  Trapped in the sweltering midday heat, none of us made the slightest attempt to hide our annoyance. The Frontline Force wasn’t winning any popularity contests around here. But as a central paramilitary unit operating under the strict mandate of the internal security ministry – tasked with maintaining order in the restive border states – they were at least efficient.

  In less than fifteen minutes, we were at the short-term parking lot, where a massive SUV awaited us. All thick metal and dark-tinted windows, it was clearly built to withstand more than just weather and potholes.

  Alai unlocked the car with a click.

  “Nice ride.” I tossed my bag in the back, sliding into the front passenger seat.

  He took the wheel and fired up the engine. “We do what we must. You’ve lived in Zilan before. You know what we have to deal with, around here.” He eased the car into reverse and backed smoothly out of the parking spot. “And things have only gotten worse, since your father’s time.”

  I stayed quiet, projecting just enough curiosity. Careful not to seem too eager for information; not to contaminate his thoughts with my own.

  “The separatists have been restless ever since Shaukat Awan’s arrest.” Leaving the lot, we merged onto the main road traffic. His voice dropped. “They say he was framed.”

  “Do you believe them?” I asked.

  Alai twitched, visibly uneasy. “He’s got a lot of support. Even Aranyak’s backing him. Openly.” He shifted lanes, overtaking a slower car with effortless precision. “That family’s always been deep in the separatist cause. But they haven’t taken a public stand in years. And now? Mahrang’s eldest son just resigned from the ZDC in protest. Claims the cops brutalized Awan, tried to force a confession.”

  His tone made it clear he wouldn’t put it past the police to do such a thing. Nor put it past the separatists to fabricate such a story to garner public sympathy.

  “If this keeps up,” he grunted, eyes on the side mirror. “We’d be lucky to avoid another full-blown insurgency.”

  I turned my head just enough to stare out the window, praying Alai hadn’t seen my face. Each word he spoke was a dull knife digging into my ribs.

  Mahrang. Aranyak.

  Names I’d hoped never to hear again in my life.

  But here I was. In Zilan.

  I wanted to punch my past self in the throat. What had I been thinking? Why did I agree to this? Surely there was another way to placate Papa. Surely, he wouldn’t really have sent Moyna in my place.

  The demons of my past clawed at me. God, what nightmare had I just walked into?

  “It’s bad enough they scrapped the nuclear power plant project. They claim it’s just on hold, but everyone knows all the money is flowing into Minjal, now.” Alai scoffed. “Awan was raising hell over it. But at the end of the day, it was just talk. Made the public happy; made them feel heard. No wonder he had support. Arresting him was just stupid. Just what the separatists needed to get their wheels turning. Even Aranyak couldn’t let an opportunity like that slip through his fingers.”

  Lost in thought, I made a small noise of agreement.

  Aranyak, as Alai said, was Mahrang’s eldest son. Like his mother, he was known mononymously by only his first name.

  An engineer by training, he’d graduated from a top regional college, cracked the civil service exams, and spent the last decade at the ZDC. The Zhyn Development Corporation.

  That didn’t keep him from being suspected of all kinds of separatist activity. His name kept surfacing in countless operations, but nothing could ever be proven. And the state government didn’t want to poke a sleeping bear. So they looked the other way – for now. Hoping the comforts of civilian life and a steady salary would tame him eventually.

  As the car jolted over a rough stretch of road, I fought to keep my breathing even.

  I was here. There was no turning back now. If luck was on my side, I’d be in and out of Zilan before any of this became my problem. But I couldn’t let the mere mention of these names send me into a spiral. That’d only make my job harder; drag this out longer than necessary.

  I said lightly: “So, you don’t believe Awan was really planning a bomb blast at the airport?”

  Alai rumbled with laughter. “At the airport? You’ve seen the security there. Hundreds of FF agents, armed to the teeth. Even if Awan was dumb enough to try, he’d have as much chance of pulling it off as I would of staging a coup for the PM’s seat.”

  The back and forth continued, the rhythm of our conversation ebbing and flowing as we settled into the journey.

  Zhyn, the capital of Zilan, stretched before us under the brutal afternoon sun – a jagged blend of sleek new buildings and aging, discolored structures.

  The roads and highways hummed with activity. Cars, buses, and motorcycles weaved in and out of lanes, their horns blaring.

  People bustled along the sidewalks – office workers in formal outfits, street vendors calling out their wares, and schoolchildren in sweat-drenched uniforms, making their way home on foot or packed into bright yellow buses.

  The street signs displayed a tangle of languages. Outside schools or in the more residential areas, hawkers set up makeshift stalls, their vibrant umbrellas adding a splash of color against the muted concrete backdrop.

  Glass-and-metal high-rises shimmered in the sunlight, towering above landscaped parks with trimmed hedges and sculpted fountains. Not a few hundred meters from tightly packed slum dwellings with tin roofs and crumbling walls. Skinny, half-naked children dashed through their narrow alleys, barely wide enough for two adults to pass side by side.

  We drove through this mismatched terrain for a little over an hour.

  Eventually, in one of the more prosperous parts of the city, we arrived at a fork in the road. One path continued straight ahead, flanked by rows of glittering shops and residential complexes. The other veered sharply to the left, the junction dominated by a towering, unmissable billboard.

  The massive display featured a digital illustration of the Minjal Stadium. A marvel of modern architecture, its curved outer shell was to be made of adaptive nanoglass panels that shifted transparency and color. Bright floodlights would line the upper edges, overlooking tiered seating that stretched in sweeping arcs around the field.

  Two large statues stood guard at the entryway. An intricate network of support beams bestowed the design with an almost skeletal elegance.

  At the bottom of the billboard, the words ‘Minjal Stadium’ glowed in both Central and Zilani script. Just above it, a large image of the prime minister’s smiling face. Surrounded by logos of the various corporate sponsors, including Vance Industries, that’d poured money into the project.

  Alai cruised down the road, chattering as he drove. Confident in his direction.

  “Take the left,” I said abruptly.

  He shot me a sharp look. “Why? The stadium’s not going anywhere.”

  “I don’t want to drag this out longer than I must,” I answered, honest.

  “You’ve had a long trip. You must be tired. And hungry.” His smile had a nervous edge to it. “Let’s get you to the hotel. Get some rest; a good meal. I’ll drive you to the construction site first thing tomorrow morning.”

  I shook my head.

  If the materials smuggling rumors were true, I had to get to the stadium now. When the workers weren’t expecting me. By tomorrow, they’d be ready. They’d have time to prepare, to hide any evidence of their activities.

  I needed to take them by surprise, catch the site unprepared.

  Not that I could say any of this to Alai. He was, after all, a junior employee at JalVayu Construction, the company that had secured the contract to build Minjal Stadium.

  So instead, I met his gaze and spoke the plain, unvarnished truth: “I don’t have much time. It’s like you said. At the moment, this city – the whole of Zilan – is sitting on a ticking timebomb. And being Darpan Naag’s son,” I gave him a wan smile. “I’d rather not be standing here when it blows. I don’t intend to find out firsthand what kind of creative vengeance Mahrang’s sons have been plotting. After all, they’ve had more than a decade to rig the charges, light the fuse.”

  I let my voice carry the full weight of my anxieties. Every word I spoke was the truth, if not the whole truth.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  With obvious reluctance, Alai warned, “It’s quite a drive. Well beyond the city limits. By the time we get to the stadium, it’ll be evening. We won’t make it back to the hotel until midnight.”

  “That’s fine,” I grinned. “I’ll sleep in tomorrow.”

  His jaw tensed, and for a moment, it seemed like he might argue. But after a brief pause, Alai exhaled slowly. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. Knuckles pale against the leather, he signaled left and eased the car onto my chosen path.

  After that, the mood in the car shifted, grew heavier. Conversation died off, leaving behind an almost frosty silence. I didn’t mind. With the heat and noise outside, the cool silence inside was oddly comforting. I settled back in my seat, gazing out the window.

  As we left the heart of Zhyn behind, the signs of Zilan’s lingering backwardness became impossible to ignore.

  The roads, rutted and uneven, were riddled with potholes that jolted the car every few minutes. High-rises became scarce, replaced by squat, weathered buildings – some half-built and abandoned, others barely holding together, their walls cracked and paint peeling.

  Every few hundred meters, piles of garbage accumulated by the side of the street. Scrawny stray dogs rummaged through the waste in hopes of scraps.

  The people changed, too.

  The professional men and women in ironed shirts and neatly pleated sarees grew slowly scarcer. Replaced more and more by shirtless men with bony frames, their ribs jutting outward. And emaciated women wrapped in faded, fraying sarees.

  Many of the women had pulled one end of their saree over their faces, creating a veil. A ghunghat. Concealing their face from the eyes of strangers – a tradition that had faded into obscurity in nearly all other parts of the country.

  In short, Zilan hadn’t just stagnated in the twelve years since I was last here. It had almost visibly regressed.

  A depressing panorama.

  Or it would’ve been, if I wasn’t too busy wallowing in my own bitter anxieties to spare much gloom for my unfortunate countrymen.

  By the time we stopped for food, I wasn’t sure whether to call it lunch or supper.

  Didn’t really matter. The rich aroma of slow-simmering dal and freshly-buttered rotis – wafting from the tiny roadside eatery – was too tempting for either me or my companion to ignore.

  An unspoken agreement between us, Alai eased the car into a spot behind the eatery. We hopped out, an almost involuntary spring in our steps. Both of us drawn in by the smell of fresh, hot food.

  The place looked like a half-finished warehouse that’d been hastily converted into a restaurant. Well, might be too generous to call it a restaurant. The walls were complete, but the door and window openings remained exposed, void of panels. Only a pair of thin, tattered curtains fluttered weakly in the window spaces, while the two doorways stood bare.

  A fat stray dog dozed by the front door opening.

  At some point in the distant past, the walls had been a bright pink color. This I could discern only from the few patches near the ceiling that retained the original hue, untouched by the layers of grime that coated every other surface.

  There was, needless to say, no air-conditioning. Four ceiling fans spun sluggishly in each corner of the dining area, lit by a stark tubelight and two flickering bulbs. Six plastic tables dotted the space, each surrounded by a set of mismatched chairs.

  Two of them were already occupied – families chitchatting between bites of food.

  The kitchen was little more than a crude extension at the back. A tin roof slapped over a bit of open space, teetering on shaky wooden pillars. It pulsed with the sounds and smells of cooking, the metallic clang of utensils blending seamlessly with the hiss of oil hitting a hot pan, and the mouthwatering aroma of spices being tempered.

  We walked in, occupying the table closest to the front doorway. The other diners turned to look. And kept looking. Their gazes lingering far longer than strictly necessary.

  A few moments later, a teenage boy in an oversized tank top emerged from the kitchen, trotting over to our table. As he drew closer, he stopped short, eyes locking onto me with open curiosity.

  Alai rapped his knuckles against the table. The boy ignored him.

  Meeting the latter’s gaze, I raised an eyebrow.

  That seemed to snap him out of it, at least momentarily. He blinked, darted a quick look around the dingy room. Sharp and skittish.

  But his beady black eyes inevitably snapped back to me, as if drawn by some unseen force.

  I stared back. Hoping my expression revealed no more than mild curiosity.

  Seconds passed. Then, shaking off whatever had so enthralled him, he finally spoke: “Brother, what can I get you?”

  No preamble. No menu in hand.

  I turned to Alai for help.

  Something about the boy’s tone unsettled me. In Zilan, any man within a ten-year age range was a brother. A woman could be a sister or a sister-in-law, depending on her marital status. Anyone twenty years older was automatically an uncle or an aunt.

  These interactions were digging up childhood memories I’d rather leave forever buried.

  “Roti and dal makhani for two,” Alai said offhandedly.

  The boy hesitated, his gaze shifting back to me, lingering.

  I gave a slight nod. I hadn’t had a morsel since breakfast. Right now, I’d gnaw through a brick if it was set in front of me.

  With one last look my way, he spun on his heel and darted back to the kitchen.

  “Well, that was awkward,” I said, once he was out of earshot.

  “He’s just curious. You don’t exactly blend in, do you? Not every day someone like you strolls through here.”

  “I can’t believe you blend in too well yourself.” I nodded to Alai’s wrist, where his hand rested on the table. Sleeves rolled up in anticipation of the meal. “I had the ‘19 model a few years back – micro-rotor movement, double-axis tourbillon. Solid piece.” I tilted my head, studying his watch. “Heard this version was a significant upgrade. They weren’t wrong. That blue dial captures the light like nothing else.”

  “It’s just a hobby.” He slipped his hand under the table. “I didn’t know you were a watch enthusiast.”

  I wasn’t, particularly. But Ammi was enthusiastic about anything remotely to do with fashion. And always generous with her gifts. Which was how I had, by now, built a decent collection of high-end watches.

  It was impossible to be around her and not absorb some of her interest – and insight – in these things. A blessing, really. Because it allowed me to continue the conversation with Alai, rebuild some of our old rapport.

  Soon, the food arrived. And the rich, buttery aroma of dal makhani drove all other thoughts from my head.

  The trouble was, right behind the food came the dog.

  Ambling drowsily in, it slipped under our table. The next moment, something cool and damp pressed insistently against my thigh.

  I jerked, nearly upsetting the glass of water set in front of me.

  A soft huff of breath followed. Then the slight weight of a muzzle resting against my knee, expectant.

  Alai let out a deep, rumbling laugh.

  Tearing off a piece of roti, he offered it to the dog, who devoured it instantly.

  I considered the situation for a moment, then reached down to give it a scratch behind the ear. A tactical error. As it only encouraged the dog to plop its massive rear down on my feet, settling in.

  I sighed. At least someone thought these shoes were comfortable.

  For the next few minutes, we ate in silence. Tearing off pieces of roti to scoop up the warm, spiced dal. Then chasing it with a sharp bite of raw onion or green chili.

  “Our dogs are like our citizenry,” Alai rumbled, as I passed another piece of roti to our canine companion underneath the table. “The fat ones keep getting fatter. And the ones that’re starving?” He took a sip of water. “We’re all too happy to pretend they don’t exist.”

  I wasn’t entirely sure where that metaphor was going. But I wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. If Alai wanted to talk, I had one job – keep him talking. “You don’t think the federal government is doing enough for Zilan?”

  His fingers tightened around the bite of food he was about to eat, before letting it fall back onto his plate. “For Zilan? What have they ever done for any of the border states? To them, Zilan, Hilya, and Sitaur exist for one purpose only. To be stripped for resources so the four central states can grow fat and comfortable. Drown in milk and honey.”

  “And why do you think that is?”

  “You tell me.” His smile was all teeth when he met my gaze. “You’re not as stupid as you pretend to be.”

  I bit back a pleased chuckle. Well, this was getting to be interesting.

  “It’s hardly a secret…” I began with a slight shrug.

  In terms of land area, the three border states were significantly larger than the four central ones. But the terrain was harsher, and they were more sparsely populated.

  Every federal government in Darvika, no matter the party, had the same incentives. Prioritize the development of the central states. It was simple electoral math. Why pour resources into a vast, remote region when a single infrastructure project in one of the densely-populated central towns could yield just as many votes?

  I said as much to Alai, having no particular interest in defending the ridiculous quirks of Hastinar’s electoral system. “It’s a vicious circle. But not so much malice as simple survival. No politician is going to risk his re-election prospects by prioritizing the border states over the central ones. And anyone who does won’t be re-elected for a second term, because the border states simply don’t have a large enough voter base. Smarter people than me have said that redrawing the state borders is the only solution. But Zilan isn’t too keen on that, is it?”

  “Why should we be? So you can devour our culture and language as you’ve devoured our economy?”

  The dog whimpered underneath. I slipped it another bite of food.

  “Hardly me, personally.” I bit into the green chili, regretted it instantly, and blinked hard to ward off the tears that sprang to my eyes. “But you’re right in that it’s a systemic issue. And must be solved through systemic reform. No one politician is going to fix it – no matter how righteous or noble, no matter if they hail from the center or the peripheries.”

  Alai snorted, loaded a large piece of roti with dal, and shoved it into his mouth. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” He chewed, swallowed. “You’re not the one on the chopping block. It’s greed, plain and simple. They don’t invest in the border states because there aren’t enough votes in it. That keeps us poor while ramping up development in the central states. Widening the gap between us.

  “And so, central businesses have more money to donate to the parties, to fund their election campaigns.” He leaned slightly forward. “You’re damn right it’s a vicious circle. Our businesses can’t compete with their political donations. So when these politicians take office, those central businesses get all the federal contracts. Keeping us locked in poverty, generation after generation. Our youth have no choice but to migrate, chase opportunities in the central states. And every time they do? Our population shrinks further, our voter base weakens, and the cycle tightens its grip.”

  “And the Zilani elite have played no role in Zilan’s stagnation?” I asked mildly. “They’re innocent babes, are they?” I had no horse in this race, but I wanted to probe. To gauge if Alai was just venting or if he had genuine separatist sympathies. “It’s not central politicians skimming funds off the Minjal stadium project. Neither is JalVayu a central company. That’s your very own homegrown corruption.”

  Alai’s expression shuttered. “There’s no corruption in the Minjal project.” His tone flattened, as if reciting lines from a script. “All the accounts are in perfect order, transparent. As you’ll see for yourself once we get to the office.”

  I said nothing, letting him wrestle with his own unspoken thoughts. I knew from experience the sting of swallowing words that you were desperate to spit out.

  “Unless you count the government axing the nuclear powerplant project,” he spat, eventually. “In favor of a useless high-tech stadium…with seating capacity higher than the population of most Zilani towns. Anyone with half a brain would call that what it is – blatant corruption. But of course, it’s all perfectly legal.”

  As if to prove his point, the tubelight above sputtered once, then died. The ceiling fans ground to a halt with a strangled whirr, and both bulbs blinked out almost simultaneously.

  A power cut.

  Weary groans swept through the room, more resigned than outraged.

  In the kitchen, the clatter of cooking ceased, replaced by a chorus of annoyed voices. Under our table, the dog chimed in with a long, mournful woof.

  The teenager in the oversized tank top rushed in, setting an electric lantern on each of the three occupied tables.

  I glanced out the window. The sun had set almost completely, leaving behind a faint orange glow in the sky.

  Minutes later, the clanking of pots and pans hesitantly resumed.

  “And they tell us a futuristic stadium is what we really need.” Alai let out a dry, mirthless laugh. “It’ll attract foreign investment, boost tourism, don’t you know? It’s the interests of the Zilani people the government is promoting, don’t you know?”

  I studied him, squinting in the bluish glow of the electric lantern. “You’re sure it won’t do all that?”

  “No. It’ll serve the interests of the central businesses that want to exploit our resources. Buy our timber and copper for next to nothing for their factories. While we’re left with gutted mines, barren land, and a stadium we never asked for. If Zilan were to secede, where do you think they’d get those raw materials so cheap? Their bottom lines would—”

  The distant roar of struggling engines cut him short.

  Springing from its comfortable perch on my shoes, the dog started barking. Its sudden movement rattled the table, sending the electric lantern into a precarious wobble.

  The teenager’s head appeared in the kitchen doorway. A beat later, he dashed across the room, skidding to a stop right outside the front entrance.

  Just as two battered sedans lurched down the pothole-ridden road, their headlights slicing through the semi-darkness as they rolled to a halt.

  Alai sprang to his feet. Tipping his glass, he poured water over his right hand, before rubbing it clean on a hastily-withdrawn handkerchief. “Come on. We need to go. Now.”

  “What?” I looked around, confused. “Why?”

  Muffled voices drifted in from outside. I recognized one of them as the boy who’d served us. But from my seat, I couldn’t see who he was speaking to.

  Likely the people who’d arrived in those beaten-up cars.

  Before I could try for a better look, thick fingers clamped around my arm. Grabbing me just above the elbow, Alai yanked me to my feet with a force that nearly sent me stumbling.

  “Move,” he hissed, already dragging me toward the back door.

  By now, the dog’s barking had turned frantic. Likely fueled by Alai’s palpable anxiety.

  “Wait—what! You can’t just—” I staggered, wrenching myself free barely long enough to pull out my wallet and slap a wad of notes onto the table. Probably enough to pay for our meal many times over, but he didn’t give me a chance to count.

  The voices outside grew sharper, urgent.

  Alai hauled me forward again. My feet fumbled to keep up as he pulled me across the dimly lit room and out the back door.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. I had no choice but to ignore it.

  Out in the kitchen area, the two cooks looked up from a massive wok of simmering gravy, startled. Alai didn’t pause, navigating the cluttered kitchen floor at a near run.

  By the time we reached our SUV, we were both gasping for breath.

  Only then did he release my arm. And that only to yank the car door open and shove me inside.

  For the next several minutes, he drove us in silence. Not speeding, thankfully. But his gaze shifted constantly between the road and the rearview mirror, never resting easy. Never wavering from whatever destination he’d settled on.

  “Okay,” I said, feeling I’d given him enough time to pull himself together. “What was that about?”

  Alai shot me a quick glance. Then flicked his eyes back to the road, the rearview mirror, and finally back to me. “Let me take you to the hotel.” His voice was gruff. “Please. I’ll drive you to the stadium at dawn, if you want. Just, not now. It’s not a good time. Just…just stay in your hotel for tonight.”

  “But why not?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice light. “What is it you’re afraid of? What is it you want me to be afraid of?”

  A minute passed. There was no reply.

  The truth was, I didn’t know Alai. I liked him well enough. He was sharp, engaging. A good conversationalist. But as for where his loyalties lay? I had no idea.

  He was clearly on edge. But nothing objectively alarming had happened.

  We’d been eating at a diner when the power went out. A couple of beat-up cars pulled up outside, and our server stepped out to talk to them. A heated discussion followed. And the dog barked its head off, likely as much from Alai’s outburst as the arrival of the cars.

  None of that was cause for concern. Not unless Alai explained why he’d reacted the way he had.

  For all I knew, this was an elaborate charade. A carefully staged act to throw me off, keep me away from the stadium until they’d had the time to sweep away all evidence.

  I said as much to Alai. Well, as much as could be said without outright accusing him of being a liar and a separatist sympathizer.

  “Fine,” he growled, jerking the car onto a rough, unpaved road. “You’re so desperate to see the stadium? Be my guest. But don’t blame me when—”

  “When what?” I asked again. “What do you think will happen?”

  Just as I’d resigned myself to another bout of the silent treatment, he finally spoke. “Listen. There’s a passage. A hidden back exit built into the stadium. On the first floor.” He licked his lips, keeping his eyes on the dark road ahead, lit starkly by the SUV’s headlights. “It opens up in the woods, nearly half a kilometer away. Even the workers don’t know about it. It was one of the first things they constructed. The crew that worked on it has long since been reassigned to other projects. The ones working there now, they’ve no idea it exists.”

  I leaned in slightly, eager not to miss a word.

  “I-I’ll park the car near the exit point in the woods. Then we’ll walk back to the construction site, use the main entrance. Draw as little attention as possible. You’ll do your inspection. Once you get to the first floor, I’ll show you the opening to the passage.” He exhaled sharply. “If everything goes well, we’ll leave the way we came, then loop back to the car.

  “But if-if something goes wrong…” Taking one hand from the steering wheel, he touched his forehead, then his chest. Thrice, in quick succession. “You’ll have a way out. A way to get to the car that even the workers don’t know of. So they won’t be able to chase you down.”

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