Justice Unserved

BESTSELLING AUTHOR
NADIA SIDDIQUI
Nathan Doe Book 1
Justice Unserved


Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 Nadia Siddiqui – All rights Reserved
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication / use of the trademarks is not authorized, associated with or sponsored by the trademark owners.


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Table of Contents
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  1
T here is nothing quite as disgusting as moldy carpet. That sort of mildew stench that works all the way down into the padding. In a building like this it’s very possible that there were fine hardwood floors underneath it, but it was covered up so long ago that it is likely too warped now, beyond fixing from years of careless management and misuse. This is the sort of carpet that wafts dust clouds into the air with each and every step taken.
It’s certainly not the sort of carpet that you want to find yourself face down on, but here he is. There is a throbbing in the side of his head, he thinks it’s somewhere near his temple. As his eyes start to crack open the room around him spins and he is forced back downward for another long moment breathing in more of that sour stench. He can’t remember the last time his body hurt this badly. He is a man who prides himself on keeping in peak physical shape and takes his condition very seriously; he has to in his line of work.
The effort it takes just to get his hand up and underneath himself is monumental. It’s even harder just to lift himself up to where his forehead is just barely hovering over that foul carpet. How has he found himself up here? What has happened to him? The throbbing in his head gets worse the closer to sitting upright that he gets. Pushing his knees up underneath him he’s finally able to will his eyes open to see the floor around him. There’s a deep crimson stain making an oddly formed circle right around where his head was lying. Gingerly, he lifts one hand to probe softly at the side of his head. His fingers come away wet with his own blood. The room is too dark around him to see if anything is familiar. He doesn’t remember anything leading up to this event. The room seems to be a nondescript motel room. Light filters in through the plastic blinds on the awkwardly large window. The door is only slightly ajar and there doesn’t seem to be anybody else in the room with him. The bed is still made and there are no signs of baggage or anything else in the room that would offer him any indication of who might have possibly hit him over the head. Has he been in a fight? His hands feel stiff but not in the bruised knuckle way that might have indicated that he was the aggressor or that he was the one defending himself. He might have been ambushed, but there doesn’t seem to be anything in this room that would say that he was the person who was staying here either. In truth, he can hardly remember any more than waking up on this floor.
Somewhere in the distance, perhaps down the hallway, a door shuts and he wonders if he is to be found in here, what will happen? Will the police be called on him? Will he be sent to the hospital? Will anything happen to him at all? Perhaps they will scream at the sight of the blood and run right back down the hallway screaming. None of those outcomes seem like something he wants to be dealing with while still dizzy.
A smaller noise brings his focus back to the room he’s in. Something soft is moving on the floor, vibrating. He squints as he looks more closely for the source, everything is still hazy. With the hand that’s not holding pressure to his aching head he probes the sticky, wet carpet around where he’s kneeling until his fingers bump against a cell phone. A number marked “unknown” is calling him, it has called him three times in a row now, exactly five minutes apart if the call history that he’s squinting at is to be believed. Should he answer it? Does he really have much of a choice either way?
Perhaps it’s just a reflex that has his thumb sliding the green phone icon over and putting the phone up to his face, listening without even bothering to greet whoever is on the other end of the line. Somehow, he knows that this isn’t a telemarketer. Somehow he knows that there is a person on the other end of the line waiting for him. Just as he knows, somehow, that whatever that has happened in this room was his fault, that somehow he has made a mistake.
“Is it done?”
The voice on the other side of the line is formal. It seems to be a female voice but it’s not