I shake my head, trying to clear it. The doctor waits patiently. “My brother’s ex…Hugh, he was accused of murder, so I came here to clear his name and ended up getting doused with a highly potent strain of Datura.” The doctor nods, he knows the stuff—The Devil’s Breath is a powerful hallucinogen that leaves its victims trapped in a nightmare while their bodies become totally pliant. It’s mostly used to rob people. While under a Datura spell, victims will empty their bank accounts, lead their burglars to all their prized possessions…they will do anything anyone asks. “I was lost in the Everglades for several days during a big storm.” I bring my hand up and swirl it near my head. “And the lightning and thunder kinda stuck with me.” I try another smile and get that same sad frown in return. He won’t pretend it’s funny with me.
“How long were you in the Datura haze?” he asks.
“A few weeks.” I turn my gaze back down to Blue. “My dog, Blue, he rescued me, kept me alive in the Everglades, and brought me to safety. Then my friends took me to a private hospital and looked after me. But I can’t seem to get rid of this lightning and thunder. I know what’s real. But it’s still annoying.”
He nods. “Are those the only residual effects?”
I chew on my lip for a moment. Should I tell him the rest? “It’s okay,” he says, “you can trust me.”
I release another sigh. “Well…a couple of months back I almost died.”
He grunts. “May I ask, was it suicide?”
“Sort of. See, this assassin, he tried to kill me, and I couldn’t just let him, but I also was kinda ready to go.” I stroke Blue between his eyes, running my finger out to his wet, black nose. “But Blue really wanted me to stay. I was bleeding a lot, and this woman found me.” I look up at the doctor. “She was a surgeon and saved my life, but I don’t remember the months I spent with her recovering. I…” How do I put this? “I kind of convinced her to say she was a prophet from God and start a…a kind of…well,” I take in another deep breath. Just get it out. “A revolution. You’ve heard of the Her prophet?”
“Of course.” By now anyone who listened to the news had heard of the burka-clad woman hiding in the wilds between Syria and Iraq, claiming to be a messenger from God, telling women to rise up and force men to accept and acknowledge their value. To let the wolf out. I look down at Blue again. His eyes are closed, long dark lashes spread against white fur. He sees the whole world in black and white.
Thunder rumbles so loudly I have to close my eyes and let it rage over me. I’m not sure how long I stay like that, but when I open my eyes, the doctor is still sitting in front of me, his gaze holding mine. “Anything else?”
“My mom got shot. She almost died.” I shake my head. “I have not seen her…we have issues.” He gives me a warm smile, like he knows about Mommy issues. He waits and I go on, weirdly desperate to fill the silence. I know that trick, and yet I’m falling into it.
“I’m in love with someone who doesn’t even know I exist.” He cocks his head, this one seeming out of context with the rest of my saga. I swallow and look down at my hands. Clean and healed. The hands of a civilian. Not the calloused, wounded weapons of a warrior. Not right now.
“His name…” I can’t say it out loud. Mulberry. I blink away tears. “He was injured, badly. Because he went looking for me. Lost part of his leg, lost a lot of blood. Almost died.” I look up at Dr. Munkin again, and he’s giving me that same soft, understanding smile. Like this isn’t freaky. Like I’m just another hurting person. “He has amnesia and doesn’t remember me. And—” Sucking in a deep breath, I sit up taller, strength seeping into me as I force myself to speak. "He’s happy now. Not remembering—it’s better.”
Dr. Munkin purses his lips but does not argue with me. “I think I can help you,” he says.
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
I send up a prayer to a God I don’t believe in…don’t let Dr. Munkin be full of shit.
“Sydney,” Robert’s voice pulls me from my memories back onto the gently bobbing boat. “Should we grab dinner before heading back?”
“Sure,” I say, giving him a smile. “Where do you want to go?”
“You still haven’t gone to see Hugh, right?”
“No,” I answer quietly.
Robert sighs. Hugh’s restaurant is his favorite in Miami. “Fine, Saphina’s then?” Robert turns the engine over, and I help him bring up the anchor—I drive the winch as he maneuvers the lithe boat.
We take off across the bay, headed for Saphina’s, the casual French bistro Robert likes almost as much as Hugh’s restaurant; James.
If I go to see Hugh then Miami will be home, and I won’t ever want to leave. I watch Robert’s hair twisting and fluttering in the wind and know I should leave. And soon.
It’s dangerous to get too comfortable. People die when I’m happy.
Chapter Five
Dan
I’m sitting in my office, looking out at the command center, still buzzing with energy and purpose. I’ve checked our system repeatedly and found no breaches…not even an attempt.
Maybe they are waiting until we calm down, until we think we’ve averted a crisis. Or maybe their plan went wrong somewhere. Maybe they hurt themselves in the explosion.
I pick up my radio. “Sick bay, come in.”
“This is sick bay.” A female voice I recognize as one of our nurses, Camilla, answers.
“This is Dan. Tell me, what kind of injuries do you have up there?”
“Nothing serious, a few cuts and bruises from falling in the dark. And George burned himself on hot coffee.”
“Hot coffee?”
“Yeah, all over his hands, knocked the pot over.”
“Where?”
“Where? His hands.”
“No, which pot of coffee? In his room, the cafeteria?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I’ll be right up. Don’t tell him I asked.”
“Yes, sir.” Her voice comes out unsure…almost frightened.
George. He was supposed to meet me at the beach. Could he possibly have gone to Battery Room C and set off a device in an attempt to distract us, with plans of infiltrating our servers, but then hurt himself and had to abort his mission?
My mind rebels at the idea. George is loyal. He has worked with me since early on. He looks up to me. I’m his freaking mentor.
I sit back in my chair and close my eyes, letting my mind go blank for a moment. Too many thoughts are pushing at me; I’ll never see clearly with so much clutter.
Several deep breaths later, I open my eyes then stand and begin to pace. If it was George, then someone has something over him. And I’ve got to find out what. I wrestle with the rage and hurt that is trying to rear up and control me. This is not the time to indulge in personal grievances. I have an entire compound, seventy-two people, and an international justice operation to protect. My feelings don’t matter.
I jog down the spiral staircase and stop by Mitchel’s console.
“I’m just going up to check on George. He burned his hands on some coffee in the dark. Hold down the fort here.”
Mitchel nods, his expression grave. “Rachel should have something soon from that video.” His knee is bouncing with anxiety under his desk.
If it was George, there won’t be anything to see. He’s one of the best. I trained him.
Mitchel turns back to his screen, sun lines around his eyes standing out in the glow of his computer. When I met him, he didn’t have any wrinkles. Time takes its toll on all of us.
The infirmary is on the fifth floor, too far for the steps. As I get into the elevator I take a deep breath and close my eyes again, letting my mind go blank as I’m carried skyward.
I find George in one of the private rooms, his hands bandaged in white gauze. “Hey,” I say. He turns his head slowly and meets my gaze with eyes fuzzy from the pain meds.
“Hi,” he says back, tension pulling at his mouth.
“
How are you?” I ask, taking a seat next to his bedside.
George looks down at his hands. “I’ve been better.”
“What happened?”
“Spilled some hot coffee.” His voice is low. George is lying.
“Where? In the lobby?”
He clears his throat, still staring at his hands. “In my room. I ran up there to grab something—some sunscreen—and remembered my pot was still on. The power went out as I reached for it, and I’m not totally sure what happened next.”
“But you managed to burn both your hands?” He just nods. Anger sizzles in me. He’s lying. My hands itch to grab his chin, to force his gaze to meet mine.
Why not?
I give in to the instinct, standing up and reaching for him, digging my fingers into his jaw and making him look at me. “Don’t lie to me,” I hiss.
His glazed eyes focus, then blur with tears, but he does not speak.
“George,” I lean close to his face. “Tell me what you did…now.”
He hiccups a sob. “I can’t,” he whispers.
I rear back, staring down into his face—at the man I’ve trained, mentored…trusted. Fuck.
“I’m so sorry, Dan.” Tears begin to stream down his face, and his body shakes. “They have my sister. They’re going to kill her. I failed, and now they are going to kill her.” He breaks down, his voice gone, his body shuddering under the pressure of his sobs.
“Who has her?” I ask, keeping very still, refusing to react emotionally.
He doesn’t answer; he’s sobbing uncontrollably. Sympathy and anger war in my chest. I let go of his face and sit back down, clenching my fists. “Tell me who has her. We will save her.”
He shakes his head. “It’s too late.”
“George,” I clench my jaw. “It’s never too late, talk to me.”
“I’m so sorry.”
I bite my tongue to keep myself from railing at him. “George,” I keep my voice low. “Tell me everything.”
He nods and swipes at his running nose with his bandaged hand. I grab a tissue from the box next to his bed and pass it to him. He can barely hold it as he wipes at his eyes. George won’t look at me, and that’s fine. I don’t think I can stand to meet his gaze right now.
He betrayed me.
“My sister, she’s only sixteen.” I nod. I know that. George is from Texas. His parents are both Mexican immigrants, but he and his sister were born in San Antonio. He’s ten years older than her—he has a savings account for her college fund.
The picture George showed me from her quinceañera last year comes into my mind’s eye. Young-looking for her age, she was dressed in a white gown, poofy and bedazzled, grinning at the camera from between her parents and George.
“What happened to your sister, George?”
“She called four nights ago.” I knew that. But I didn’t listen in on the call. We need to change some policies. “She is being held—I don’t know where. But she said if I didn’t destroy our servers and cut off power they’d kill her. At first they wanted to know the location of the island.”
“But you don’t know that.”
George shakes his head, his face red with shame and eyes still welling with tears. “But I would have told them, Dan. I’d do anything for her.”
“I know, George.”
“They said if I told anyone they’d kill her.”
“How would they know if you told anyone?”
His eyes widen, and he shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
I stand up so fast the stool I’m sitting on falls over. Shit. George isn’t the only mole.
My eyes scan the empty room. No one can hear us in here.
“George.” My voice is quiet. “Shut up.” He sniffles and looks up at me, his breath coming is sharp pulls. “No one can know you’ve told me.” He nods. “But I need every detail.”
“I’ll tell you everything.”
I pick up the stool and sit back down next to him, gathering my patience. I will remain calm and steady…I will figure this out and defeat my betrayers.
Lenox
In the morning, Petra wants to go riding. The stable is grand. Original to the property, it’s built of stone and wood, scented of hay and leather. A smile brightens Petra’s face as we step into the aisle between the horse stalls.
Velvety noses and majestic heads pop over the stall doors, and a black Friesian, at least seventeen hands tall, whinnies to her. She grins and waves to him. He stomps in anticipation. “Tarzan,” she coos. “I’ll be right there.” I wait as she steps into the tack room and grabs a handful of treats from a bin by the entryway.
Petra passes a few to me. “You’ll ride Jane,” she says, pointing across the aisle to a gypsy horse—just as tall as Tarzan, with the black and white markings her breed is known for. She is working the latch to her stall with her lips, trying to escape. “I figured you’d want a mare,” Petra laughs, stepping up to Tarzan, who lowers his giant head and pushes it into her chest.
Jane snorts and bobs her head, eyes narrowing at me. You think you can ride me? I approach her stall, hand extended, two of the oat treats on my palm.
Petra taught me to ride. A true gentleman can handle a horse.
Jane sniffs my hand, her breath warming and whiskers tickling my skin. Her lips fumble over my palm as she takes the treats. Crunching them down in two bites she raises her gaze to mine. More?
I smile gently, reaching out to pet her nose. She lets me, even leans in a little. A groom appears at the far end of the barn and, seeing Petra, hurries over. He speaks to her in rapid Romanian. She answers, and he hurries to the tack room, calling to another groom who comes into the barn at a jog.
Through the open barn door I can see the kennels on the other side of the yard. Two German Shepherds pace behind a tall chain link fence and muffled barking from inside the handsome brick structure reaches us. “What do you use the dogs for?” I ask.
Petra comes to stand next to me, following my gaze. A handler is entering the side door and the dogs head inside, presumably for breakfast. “Protection,” Petra says simply, walking back to her horse.
“Ah,” I say. “Is there a lot of crime out here?”
“Enough,” Petra answers quietly, clearly wanting the conversation to end. A sick feeling stirs in my gut as I stare at the kennels. Something doesn’t feel right.
Our horses are tacked quickly, and we mount, heading across the giant lawn at a walk. Both horses have long strides and gentle mouths. They keep their necks curled, step their feet high, and carry themselves regally—as if they are the beasts of a queen, not one of the most powerful pimps in the world.
Petra’s organization is a web of human trafficking that spans the planet. Though ruthless and powerful, she always struck me as ethical…which has a different meaning in my world than others. Many people think exchanging sex for money is immoral. But it’s not. If both parties are consenting adults, and the transaction is equitable, then selling one’s body is a perfectly reasonable way to make a living. And buying a body to pleasure oneself is far preferable to more coercive courses of action.
However, recent intel about a scheme to move Isis sex slaves out of their territory and into other markets suggests Petra may be involved. I hate to believe it.
“How is business?” Petra asks as we move deeper into the woods. We ride side by side, entering the forest where light plays between the leaves and sparkles on the dew-covered ground.
“Good. You know I don’t work much anymore.”
She smiles, glancing over at me, then back to the path. “Only for very special clients, I’m sure.”
“It’s true,” I say. “I have not taken on a new client in years.”
“You have many men working for you though.”
I nod, reaching forward to pet Jane’s neck. “Yes, you taught me well.”
“Still no women, though?” she asks.
I nod. “That’s right.” My business is selling men to women. I understand i
t and prefer it because of my firsthand knowledge.
“It pleases me that you still come to me,” Petra says.
“I am forever grateful for your guidance.” I turn to look at her, and she is watching me.
Petra nods, her eyes holding mine. She is suspicious. “Is that why you called?”
I hold her gaze, keeping the lies that flow from my lips from entering my eyes. “I heard about your marriage and wanted to check on you. Why are you questioning me?” I do not let any accusation tinge my words—only innocent curiosity.
Petra turns away from me, staring over Tarzan’s head at the path before us. “These are dangerous times, Lenox.” She pauses, pulling her lower lip between her teeth. “Do you have any trouble with Joyful Justice?” Her eyes flick back to me, and I smile at her.
“Joyful Justice? The vigilantes? Why would I have any trouble with them?”
Her brow furrows. “Lenox, do not be so blind. They are against what we do.”
“Are they? I know very little about them.”
Her fingers tighten on the reins, and Tarzan snorts in complaint. Petra loosens her grip but her jaw is still clenched and body stiff with tension. “Maybe they do not mind you selling men. But women selling themselves…” She snorts. “It’s not allowed.”
“You’ve had trouble with them? How unfortunate.”
“No,” she shakes her head. “Not me, but associates have told me.”
“I see. And you trust these associates are…being respectful.”
She nods aggressively. “Of course. Lenox, you know how I operate.”
“I do. You taught me well.”
She smiles and her shoulders relax a little. “You’ve picked up a few of your own tricks along the way.” Her gaze travels down my body, and she laughs, the last of her tension leaving.
Betray the Lie (A Sydney Rye Mystery, #11) Page 4
