Betray the Lie (A Sydney Rye Mystery, #11)

by Emily Kimelman Gilvey

  Petra shifts, sitting forward, her eyes riveted to the screen, her face transforming. A moment ago she looked sick, now deep anger is sharpening her features, glittering in her eyes, and blushing up her neck. She uncrosses her arms and grips the edge of her seat, as if she is ready to launch herself at the screen and kill Ian McCain herself.

  “Enough?” I ask.

  “Not yet,” she answers, her voice low…not trembling, but not steady either.

  On screen, Ian McCain stalks toward the stage as the war prisoners are lead off. The camera captures him paying for his new merchandise. “When was this shot?” Petra asks, her voice quiet and cold.

  “About three months ago.”

  Petra sucks in a deep breath and turns from the screen, where another woman, this one older and limping is being forced onto the stage, her hands bound behind her back, teeth bared at the crowd.

  “And you did nothing to stop it?” she asks me, her voice filled with accusation.

  I let out a bark of a laugh. “Says the woman on Ian McCain’s side. The woman who is holding a totally innocent man hostage to let that shit—” I point the screen—“continue. You just tried to kill me to protect that guy. I’m the one trying to take him down.”

  “You were there,” she says, her voice rising, pointing to the TV. “Why didn’t you stop them?”

  “We did,” I say quietly.

  She starts, her eyes going wide, and recognition blooms in her gaze. “He said he got into a bar fight.”

  “Our operative freed those girls, maimed Ian, and destroyed the auction house.” Lenox is what we refer to as a bad ass.

  “Good,” Petra says.

  “So, you’re on our side now?”

  “I understand your position. Lenox should have been honest with me. Men always lie.” I can practically taste the bitterness in her voice—it’s like dark chocolate if the chocolatier forgot to add the sugar.

  “I’m sure he would have if he wasn’t so busy trying to save your prisoner.”

  “I was told she was an operative for Joyful Justice.” Petra’s voice turns defensive, and her legs tense as if she is about to stand.

  “Her name is Elsa. And she’s a sixteen-year-old high school student from Texas.”

  Petra does not look repentant. Her eyes on the paused screen, she looks pissed. “I want to kill him.” She is staring at Ian McCain’s broad back.

  “Fantastic. Let’s do it.”

  “Do his brothers know?” she asks, her eyes still on the screen.

  “We believe so.”

  “But you have no proof?” Her eyes find mine, a spark of hope igniting. Maybe she isn’t the only one who got fooled.

  “What do you think?”

  “Ian is the only one who speaks Arabic.”

  “Wouldn’t you notice if all the women your brother brought home from the Middle East were young, terrified, and crying most the time?”

  “Many willing girls cry, too.” She says it calmly. It’s just a fact.

  “Nice business you’re in.”

  Petra almost stands this time, but a sharp growl from Blue gets her butt back in the seat. “I provide an escape for many women who are trapped at home. They can prostitute themselves and get paid, save up and do what they want in the future. Or have their parents give them away to the first man who offers enough cattle. There is more than one way to be a slave.” I grind my teeth, knowing she’s right but hating it anyway. “But this,” she points to the screen. “This is unacceptable. And they must pay.”

  I nod, feeling our missions align. “So you’ll work with us?”

  Petra turns her green gaze to me, her eyes are sharp, angry. “Abso–fucking–lutely.”

  I can’t help the smile that stretches across my face. We are going to kick some ass.

  “Now tell me where you’re holding my friend.”

  “At the Bay Shore Marina. On a yacht—The Tempest.”

  “Let’s go,” I gesture for her to lead the way.

  Two of Robert’s men escort her down the hall, and I hang back to talk with Merl. “I’ve spoken with Lenox,” he says. “He is on his way. Should be here by morning. Looks like she is going to be helpful.”

  “Yes,” I agree. “Once Lenox gets here, we can come up with a clear plan. You spoke with Dan?”

  Merl nods. “Yes, he is relieved that we have her in our control but is still concerned about the breaches in his security.”

  “Understandable.”

  “He still hasn’t found any other moles?” Merl shakes his head. “I guess that’s just another question for Petra.”

  “Yes, if she knows. It looks like she is just one spoke in this wheel.”

  “Right, we need to talk to the hub. The person at the center of all this.”

  “Ian McCain and his brothers,” Merl says, absentmindedly tracing a hand over Chula’s head. The dog leans into him with a sigh.

  “I’d like to go to Ireland with Petra for that conversation.”

  Merl’s focus returns to me, his eyes sharp. I’m not known for my conversation skills. “We need information from them.”

  I smile with only one side of my mouth and raise my brows. “What? You don’t think I’m a good conversationalist?”

  Merl watches me for a long moment—so long I begin to grow uncomfortable. “You’ve changed,” he states.

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe this will be good for you.”

  “What?”

  “Getting back in the field.”

  “I think so.”

  “Sydney!” Robert calls from the end of the hall. “We need to go.”

  “Coming,” I squeeze Merl’s arm in farewell and jog toward Robert, Blue tight to my side.

  Time to go save Santiago.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Declan

  The camera, with its zoom lens, is pressed to my eye, focused on the front door of the nondescript office building. From my perch in the parking structure across the street I can see everyone who comes and goes.

  The door spins, sun glinting off the glass, blinding me for a moment. I blink against the glare, and there she is…Sydney Rye, Blue heeling at her hip. A woman in all black walks next to her. I have a better angle of the stranger’s face than when they entered the building and quickly capture several shots. The light is soft from the setting sun, casting a pink glow over the city.

  Sydney, Blue, and the stranger move quickly, climbing into the black SUV that idles at the curb. Brock Johnson is behind the wheel. He eases them into the evening traffic, and I capture a few more shots—a profile of Brock’s stern face, the license plate number of the vehicle, and one final parting shot of the bumper as it turns around the corner.

  I sit back on my haunches and just breathe for a moment, waiting for Robert to appear. It’s hot as Hades and humid as fuck up here. But I can take it.

  The deep rumble of the Ferrari’s engine pulls my attention back to the street. Black and sleek, the sun glinting off its windshield, the super car emerges from the parking area. I click the shutter of my camera as it turns, and the driver is revealed: Robert Maxim. He’s wearing aviator shades and a smug, satisfied smile, like driving that car feels good. I bet it does.

  He too disappears around the corner, the vibrations of his engine melting into the city soundscape. I stand up, stretching my back, reaching for the sky and then my toes.

  Sweat moistens my hands, and I have to wipe them on my jeans before taking my equipment apart. Returning the camera to its case and folding up the tripod, I head back to my rental car, a white Toyota Camry with gray cloth seats and the scent of pine woven into the fabric. It’s cheap and nondescript, but isn’t going to get me laid or put a smug smile on my face.

  Placing the camera on the passenger seat, I start the thing up, causing lukewarm air to blow out of the vents. I roll down the window, letting the thick humid air stinking of urine and concrete into the car. It mingles with the pine, and I put the car into reverse. Can’t sit here one
more second.

  Navigating across town to my apartment, I shower off the stench of my surveillance shift, and then pour myself a glass of ice-cold rosé before settling in behind my laptop. The air-conditioning blows onto my wet hair, sending a chill over me. It feels good.

  Downloading the day’s worth of photographs onto my computer, I start at the beginning. The first wedding guests arrived at the security gate to Star Island at 5:17pm. I pick up the invitation that lies on the glass dining room table next to my computer. Cream linen, simple black print: Hugh Defry and Santiago Sanchez request your attendance at their wedding…ceremony at 6:00 p.m. followed by dinner and dancing.

  Sydney is hosting weddings now.

  But it didn’t work out that way. Because at 5:57 p.m., Brock drives out looking even more constipated than usual, and Robert Maxim is in the front seat with him, his body turned to the back. I zoom into the image and can see Blue clearly in the middle seat, the white of his fur bright in the darkness.

  A series of images captured on the run shows how the evening unfolded. The group went first to Robert’s office downtown, taking a circuitous route that suggests they changed their minds about ten minutes into the journey. Then, having traded Hugh for a couple of unidentified figures and changed out of their wedding clothes, they set off again an hour later for an abandoned mall.

  The shots inside the mall are partly obscured—I had to shoot through a door that was slightly ajar. I didn’t dare open it further. Not with Blue there—he’d have heard or smelled me.

  I zoom in on the image of Sydney’s back, flanked by Merl and Robert. She’s facing a woman in black, who is surrounded by ten armed men—I’m guessing it’s local muscle hired for the job.

  I scroll quickly through the images of the men falling and Sydney taking the woman by the arm. The men who joined them after that first stop must have been snipers who took out the hired guns. It was all so perfectly orchestrated. I couldn’t help but admire the ease at which Sydney took the woman hostage.

  The next image is back at that nondescript office building. I make a note to check the leases—does Joyful Justice have an office there now? Or does Robert Maxim keep one there for interrogations?

  I click through the final images of Sydney coming out with the woman. She does not look injured in any way. No limp, no bruising. I sit back and sip my rosé, scanning the photos.

  I almost spill my wine as I bolt forward. What the hell? A tall, lanky figure is on the edge of one of the images—a man walking away from them, with bright red hair.

  Is that?

  I click to the next image, but he’s out of the shot. So I go back two and there he is, in full view of the camera: Billy Ray Titus’s right-hand man, Nathan Jenkins.

  What the hell is he doing in Miami following Sydney Rye?

  Sydney

  Santiago blinks against the bright light spilling into the small room. He holds up a hand to cover his eyes and turns away from the door. Santiago’s sleeve is ripped, stained with blood, and his usually perfect hair is rumpled and curled. There is a ligature mark on his wrist and the red line makes my heart beat faster.

  Petra promised he wasn’t hurt.

  “Santiago,” I say and he drops his hand, scrambling to stand.

  “Sydney!” He blinks, recognizing me. “I knew you’d come.” He steps forward, not limping or wincing in pain, and embraces me.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I am now that you’re here.” He steps back. “How is Hugh?”

  A warmth spreads in my chest. Bound and held against his will in a tiny, pitch-black room, and Santiago is worried about Hugh. “He’ll be fine as soon as we let him know you’re with us.”

  “He’s safe?”

  “Totally.”

  Santiago nods. “Thank God.”

  “They didn’t hurt you?”

  He shakes his head, holding up his torn sleeve—there is a deep scratch on his forearm but nothing serious. “The worst damage was to my suit.”

  “We can get that fixed.” Such a small and stupid thing to say. Santiago forgives me with a smile. “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Make it up to me?”

  My brows lift. “Anything.”

  “I want to get married today,” he says, looking past me into the hallway of the boat. “What time is it?”

  “After midnight,” I tell him.

  He nods, his jaw tightening with determination. “Then we have twenty-four hours before another circle around the sun. I’m not wasting one more moment not married to the man I love.”

  The words bring tears to my eyes, and I have to turn away. Blue’s nose touches my hip, and I rub his head, finding comfort in his presence. There is beauty and love in the world, not just evil and revenge.

  “Let’s do it,” I say.

  Santiago nods and follows me as I start down the hall. Robert waits on the upper deck with three men, all of them in matte black, their weapons holstered, but their deadly natures evident just in the way they stand. They are killers.

  Santiago touches my arm, and I glance back at him. He’s gone a little pale. “Don’t worry,” I say quietly. “They are on our side.”

  He nods, relaxing. Trusting me.

  It’s my fault he ended up imprisoned on his wedding day, and he still trusts me.

  “Santiago,” Robert says. “Good to see you well.”

  “Thank you.”

  Robert pulls out his phone and presses a button before passing it to Santiago. “I know Hugh will want to hear your voice.”

  Santiago takes the phone, his eyes suddenly red-rimmed, and he turns his back to us, putting the phone to his ear. Robert gestures with his chin for his men to step onto the deck and we follow, giving Santiago privacy.

  “He wants to get married today,” I tell Robert, the brine-scented breeze pulling a strand of hair free from my ponytail.

  Robert nods, lit by the electric lights coming through the salon’s windows, his gaze following one of the loose strands of my hair as it tangles against my lips. I tug it free, pushing it behind my ear, only to have it lift and float away again.

  His mouth quirks into a smile. “My life/ How much more of it remains?/ The night is brief.”

  I raise my brow, recognizing the poem. “Masaoka Shiki?”

  “Very good.” His voice is a deep rumble.

  I let out a laugh, but it is cut short when Robert catches the strand of hair and places it gently behind my ear, his palm cupping my jaw. “What are you doing?” I strive to keep my voice even, but it is high with fear and anticipation.

  He just shakes his head ever so slightly, all relaxed pleasure. “Nothing.”

  The door of the salon opens behind me and I turn, Robert’s hand dropping away. Santiago joins us on the deck. Tears glisten in his eyes. “Thank you,” he says, holding out the phone.

  Robert brushes past me. “Let’s go,” he says. “I hear we have a wedding to attend.”

  Santiago breaks into a grin and nods, emotion brightening his eyes. He links his arm through mine, and we follow Robert off the boat toward the waiting vehicles.

  We start for Star Island, Blue’s weight heavy against my side. Santiago, his energy sapped, quickly falls asleep, snoring softly next to me.

  I wake with a start when Robert’s hand touches my arm. I fell asleep?

  Blue is watching me. “We’re here,” Robert says. Out the window, the familiar gardens of Robert’s front yard glow under the warm light of strung lanterns. They swish back and forth in the sea’s breeze, throwing shadows. It’s beautiful.

  Santiago climbs out his door, and I open mine, joining him on the path. Blue leaps out and leads the way toward the house’s front entrance. The door swings open, and Hugh bounds out. His hair is wild and his eyes wide.

  He lunges down the steps, and Santiago races toward him. Robert takes my elbow, slowing me to a stop. The two men embrace, a shared sob rising up between them.

  Tears prick my eyes and I turn away, giving them p
rivacy. Robert tugs on my arm, leading me away from the main entrance and around to the front patio, where the sea wind blusters hard enough to pull a tear from my eye. We enter Robert’s office through the sliding glass doors, and he closes them behind us, silencing the wind.

  The room is dark, the familiar furniture and bookcases just shapes in the dimness. Robert moves around and turns on the desk lamp.

  The tears start slow and hot. I swipe at the first, but two take its place. Robert’s jaw tightens as he watches me, his fists on the desk, shoulders hunched forward. I take a stuttering breath, desperate to banish this swelling tide of grief, but it rises like a storm surge—unstoppable, powerful, and impermanent.

  Robert moves around the desk so fast my breath gets caught for a moment—a brief pause in the midst of the cyclone.

  “Don’t cry,” he says, close to me, his voice a deep rumble. Robert’s strong chest, straining against his black T-shirt, is right at my eye level.

  I cover my face and turn to him, falling against all that strength. His arms come around me, gently at first, but as my tears transform to sobs he holds me tighter, squeezing me, crushing me against his chest.

  “Shhhh, it’s okay,” he tells me.

  I shake my head. I’m not crying because anything is wrong. It’s just all so much.

  His hand rubs up and down my back. My hands leave my face and scrunch into his shirt, pulling the soft material, crushing it in my fists so I can feel his muscles underneath.

  Robert’s lips brush my forehead—once, twice…warm and soft. The bristle of a day’s stubble is sandpaper against my skin.

  I raise my gaze to look up at him. His eyes hold mine. God, he’s so human. There is hunger in his expression, along with deep sadness and sharp intelligence. His hands still on my back, fingers curling and gripping my shirt as mine hold his—knuckles digging into muscle and skin.