Read the Excerpt: The Palace of Sinners and Saints by Ammar Merchant
PROLOGUE
AHMAD HAIKAL WAS AFRAID of wolves. He’d never seen one in person. They weren’t native to the island of Borneo, and he had never left the Sabah region of Malaysia or wandered far from his small town of Beaufort.
When he’d been a boy, however, he had seen a horror movie that featured the beasts. It left him scarred. His mother comforted him by promising that because of where they lived, he’d never actually come across the fearsome creatures.
For over thirty years, her words had been true.
Then the stranger walked into Ahmad’s tiny, failing roadside restaurant.
He was tall and had shoulder-length, unkempt black hair with hints of gray. His eyes, under thick, sweeping brows, were dark. A shaggy beard covered a face that was . . . well, Ahmad was not one to be unkind, but this man was not pretty. His features, like the rest of him, seemed to be carved out of stone, which was a great thing for muscles but not so great a thing for a nose.
He wasn’t Malay, likely hailing from either India or Pakistan or Bangladesh, which wasn’t unusual in this part of the world. What was unusual was his height, his bulk, and the menace he radiated.
Ahmad stepped back, moving away from the massive wok in which he was deep-frying bananas. A moment passed before he realized what he’d done, after which he shook his head. There was no reason to be afraid of the man.
At least that’s what he tried to tell himself, but the primal part of his brain, which recognized a predator when it saw one, would not stop crying wolf.
Reminding himself that he had recently gotten used to being around dangerous men, Ahmad called out a greeting. Not knowing whether his new customer spoke Bahasa Malaysia, he used some of the little English he had.
“Hello, sir.”
The stranger didn’t respond. Instead, he stood by the entrance and surveyed the place, taking in the cheap, plastic furniture, the rickety oscillating pedestal fans in every corner, and the white cement walls with their peeling paint. Eventually, his gaze found the other seven men present.
They were former members of the Abu Sayyaf group—part terrorists, part pirates. They were also the reason Ahmad’s business had cratered. They’d fled to Beaufort from the Philippines and had taken an unfortunate liking to his food. A few of them seemed to always be around, and as a result other locals now avoided his establishment.
Driving them off was out of the question. Attempting to do so would mean his life. Since their arrival four months ago, several tourists had been held for ransom, there had been shootings and robberies and a few murders. Killing was their work, and they seemed to like their jobs. They were there that afternoon, hunched over their usual table, cackling over crass jokes while waiting for their food. They paused to study the stranger when he strode in, like hyenas hungry for a bite. Instead of harassing him, like they did everyone else, they looked away quickly and went back to their conversation, speaking now in more
subdued tones.
Smiling a little at their reaction, Ahmad called out again. “Order here, sir.”
The stranger ambled up to the counter and, with bandage-wrapped hands, reached into the back pocket of his worn jeans. He pulled out a folded article cut from a newspaper. It was in some language Ahmad didn’t know, but there was a picture of a smiling young woman on it he recognized.
Cilek Osman was one of the first foreigners who’d disappeared after the “retired” Abu Sayyaf men had set up in Beaufort. She had been a nineteen-year-old with dreams of becoming a travel vlogger. She’d come to nearby Kota Kinabalu to snorkel.
Her body had been found floating through town on the Padas River. There had been no ransom demand in her case. Ahmad had heard the Abu Sayyaf men laughing as they talked about what they’d done to her.
When he saw her face now, Ahmad couldn’t help but look in their direction.
The stranger noticed, nodded, and said, “The furniture here looks cheap.”
Ahmad, who had been expecting him to ask about the girl, started. “Yes, cheap food. You eat?”
“I was talking about your stuff. You didn’t spend a lot of money on it. It won’t be a big loss if it gets broken.”
Ahmad shrugged.
“Just start a tab.”
“What is ‘tab’?”
“Keep a record of your damages.”
“No order?”
The stranger sighed and started undoing the bandage on his right hand. His knuckles were skinned raw and bruised purple. “What’s good?”
“Nasi lemak ayam with sambal very good. Spicy okay?”
“Sure. You work on that.” The stranger gestured toward the former Abu Sayyaf men with his head. “I’m going to talk to them.”
“Sir,” the restaurateur leaned forward and whispered urgently, “they dangerous, yeah?”
“I’m dangerous too.”
That was easy to believe. Still, Ahmad wanted him to understand what he was about to start. “They hurt people.”
“So do I.”
“You came for . . .” Ahmad fumbled around for the word “revenge,” couldn’t find it, and decided to do without. He gestured toward the picture of Cilek Osman. “Your daughter?”
The stranger’s expression darkened and for a moment it seemed like the guess was accurate, but he eventually shook his head. “Her father hired me. These guys are the ones who took her, right?”
Ahmad swallowed, licked his lips, then told him the truth: “Yes.”
“Good.” The stranger pointed at the bananas Ahmad had been frying, which he’d forgotten about, and which were now starting to burn. “I’ll take those too.”
“I make new. How many—”
The stranger’s left hand darted out and grabbed the huge wok by one of its handles. Lifting it effortlessly, he marched to the Abu Sayyaf table. All seven men there looked up at his approach. He swung the wok, spraying them with boiling oil. They screamed as it hit their faces, sizzling as it burned their skin and seared their eyes. Howling and clutching their heads, they rolled out of their seats.
The stranger grabbed the pirate closest to him by the hair, held him in place, and slammed the hot cast-iron wok on the man’s nose with staggering force. Blood sprayed everywhere. The stranger did this again and again and again, until the criminal dangled in place limp and lifeless, like a puppet without strings.
He turned his attention to one of the men rolling on the floor next “Sure. You work on that.” The stranger gestured toward the former Abu Sayyaf men with his head. “I’m going to talk to them.”
“Sir,” the restaurateur leaned forward and whispered urgently, “they dangerous, yeah?”
“I’m dangerous too.”
That was easy to believe. Still, Ahmad wanted him to understand what he was about to start. “They hurt people.”
“So do I.”
“You came for . . .” Ahmad fumbled around for the word “revenge,” couldn’t find it, and decided to do without. He gestured toward the picture of Cilek Osman. “Your daughter?”
The stranger’s expression darkened and for a moment it seemed like the guess was accurate, but he eventually shook his head. “Her father hired me. These guys are the ones who took her, right?”
Ahmad swallowed, licked his lips, then told him the truth: “Yes.” “Good.” The stranger pointed at the bananas Ahmad had been frying,
which he’d forgotten about, and which were now starting to burn. “I’ll take those too.”
“I make new. How many—”
The stranger’s left hand darted out and grabbed the huge wok by one of its handles. Lifting it effortlessly, he marched to the Abu Sayyaf table. All seven men there looked up at his approach. He swung the wok, spraying them with boiling oil. They screamed as it hit their faces, sizzling as it burned their skin and seared their eyes. Howling and clutching their heads, they rolled out of their seats.
The stranger grabbed the pirate closest to him by the hair, held him in place, and slammed the hot cast-iron wok on the man’s nose with staggering force. Blood sprayed everywhere. The stranger did this again and again and again, until the criminal dangled in place limp and lifeless, like a puppet without strings.
He turned his attention to one of the men rolling on the floor next to him. He pinned his quarry in place by putting a heavy boot on his chest, then dropped the wok on top the man’s face, so that it muffled his screams. Then the stranger stomped on the wok viciously, repeatedly, until there was a crack and his target’s cervical spine snapped.
A terrorist who’d been spared the brunt of the initial assault came at the stranger with a knife. The stranger stepped aside and tossed him toward Ahmad, who shrieked and ducked behind a counter.
From where he was hiding, Ahmad saw the stranger hold the terrorist’s face above his stove. The sick smell of burning hair and flesh filled the air, joined by cries straight out of hell.
Ahmad closed his eyes, cowered in a corner, and listened to punishment being meted out. Minutes later, there was silence, followed by the sound of running water.
Ahmad slowly got to his feet and saw that the stranger had taken the bandage off his left hand too and was washing blood off of himself. Seven bodies lay on the floor of Ahmad’s restaurant. A crowd had gathered outside and was looking on in silence. In the distance, the call for the Asr prayer started.
The stranger looked around for a towel, found none, looked down at his gore-covered clothes, then walked over to Ahmad, grabbed the restaurant owner’s shirt, and used it to dry his hands.
When he was done, the stranger took out his wallet, counted out a thousand ringgit, and dropped them on the counter. “To fix up your place,” he explained. “And for the meal. I think I should take it to go.”
“To go?” Ahmad echoed dully.
“It’s time for Asr and then I have a plane to catch.”
“You kill, then you pray?”
The stranger shrugged. “It’s when I need forgiveness most.” Ahmad stared at him.
The stranger tapped at his left wrist, at an imaginary watch that wasn’t there.
“Okay. Nasi lemak ayam with sambal. You said spicy, yeah?”
“Yes.”
Still trying to process what had happened, Ahmad drifted back into his kitchen. “Can I get a name for your order?”
“Mirza,” the stranger said.
Discover the Book
In a wealthy Middle Eastern kingdom, despotic King Nimir is determined to quash all dissidents calling for free elections. Billionaires, clerics, influencers, and journalists who dared challenge King Nimir’s regime have vanished without a trace. The most recent person Nimir has had “disappeared” is Renata Bardales, a trained fighter raised alongside Mirza–his sister, of sorts.
Now things are personal, and Irfan Mirza doesn’t like it when things get personal.
Assembling a ragtag team of specialists, Mirza sets off on a wild rescue mission, determined to save his sister from a medieval fortress that has now been transformed into a heavily fortified blacksite. The prison is surrounded by endless stretches of uninhabited sand, making it difficult to approach and impossible to escape from.
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