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

by Emily Kimelman Gilvey

  "Let's not worry about that for now, though," Petra says, beginning to pace again. "We need some information from you."

  "I'm not telling you shit, you fucking bitch," Murphy says.

  "You don't appear to know anything dear," Petra says. She turns to Sydney, raising her brow. "Can you take Murphy into the bedroom? He looks like he could use a nap."

  "Sure," Sydney says, looking at me. Grab the meds from the car will you? her gaze asks.

  I nod before heading for the door. "You her errand boy?" Murphy calls after me. I can't help the smile that creases my face. He is such a Neanderthal. As if getting something for a friend makes me her servant. Sadly, he may never know the pleasure of worshiping a woman from head to toe.

  I don't bother responding, just head to the car and grab our bags. Bringing them in the front door, I go to the kitchen, putting the smallest duffel on the empty counter.

  Inside, I find the black case, and entering the code into the lock, I open the dart holder. There are two tranquilizer guns inside and ten rounds. We have more in the duffel. Robert Maxim's own design, the weapons have long barrels and large stocks. With exceptional aim, they deliver a dose of tranquilizer large enough to take down a man of three hundred pounds in 1.7 seconds.

  I load both guns with the largest vial—one that will make the victim sleep for approximately six hours—and return to the living room. Nodding to Sydney, she turns to Murphy. "Come on," she says. "Time to go."

  Blue follows her as she moves behind him and works on the knots Petra made. Murphy tenses as his hands are released, but I'm standing right in front of him, my weapon trained on his chest. He stands slowly, keeping his gaze on mine. "You're going to die," he says.

  "We will all die," I remind him.

  "Down that hall to the left," Petra tells us, pointing to a darkened doorway at the far side of the room. Sydney and Blue go first, the restraints dangling from her hand. She flicks on a light, illuminating a bare hallway. Murphy follows her, and I bring up the rear.

  Sydney finds the bedroom and steps into it, turning on another light. A single bulb in the ceiling glows to life, bringing into focus a naked mattress and stained pillow.

  "Have a seat," Sydney says.

  Murphy shakes his head. "Rather die standing," he says.

  "I'm not going to kill you now,” Sydney assures him, pushing him toward the mattress. He takes a step forward but does not lower himself. “It’s your call,” Sydney says, firing the tranquilizer into his back. He lets out a sound, not a yelp of pain or surprise, more a grunt of annoyance, before folding up like an accordion, his head landing on the mattress, his legs splayed on the floor.

  I pull out my phone and set a timer. We have six hours until he wakes.

  Sydney crouches at his ankles and begins to tie them together, her movements sure and graceful. Her ponytail has come loose and sprays of blonde hair—brightened from her time in the sun—dance around her face as she works.

  Should I help her? A smile plays on her lips. Then it would be harder to admire her. And I do so enjoy the artistry that is Sydney Rye. A woman who is so soft-hearted it has made her hard, strong, and dangerous.

  She pulls Murphy’s ankles up so she can bind them to his wrists. Sydney wraps the rough rope around him, her focus complete. When done, she stands, pulling the band from around her ponytail and scrunching her fingers into her scalp for a moment before wrestling it all back under control.

  I laugh when she looks at me. “What?” she asks.

  I step forward, and she does not flinch away. She trusts me. Her scent wafts over me as I pull the band loose again: the musk of effort, the sweetness of soap, and the spice of a beautiful woman. Inhaling, I run my fingers through her hair, and she stays still, letting me care for her.

  The locks detangled, I pull them into a tail, gripping it strongly as I wrap it tight. “There,” I say, stepping back. “That’s better.”

  She raises a hand and feels the flat planes of her head. “Thanks,” she shrugs. “I’ve never been good at that kind of stuff.”

  “Yes.” My voice is low and warm. “I know. It’s one of the things I enjoy about you.”

  The slap of palm against flesh draws our attention to the living room, and we move in unison toward the doorway. Petra stands over Michael, her breathing heavy as she raises her arm again, the next slap louder than the last. “You lying son of a bitch,” she says, her voice tight with anger and edged with despair.

  The sound of a phone pinging comes from Michael’s pocket. Petra leans forward and digs around in his jeans, pulling out a slim handset.

  She turns to me, her eyes lighting with victory. Holding out the phone, I take it. A text on the screen reads: Shipment to port at midnight.

  I pass it to Sydney as Petra looks back to Michael. “Is it slaves?” she asks him. Michael, blood staining his lip, does not respond. “Are you using my channels? My houses?” He still doesn’t answer.

  She holds out her hand for the tranquilizer gun. Sydney hesitates. We don’t know where Mitchel’s mother is yet. Petra lifts her chin, a silent request for Sydney’s patience and faith. Sydney turns her gray eyes to me. Can we trust Petra?

  I give a nod, sending up a prayer that I’m right.

  Sydney hands over the weapon, and Petra shoots Michael in the chest. He slumps forward against his binds. “I know where the shipment is arriving.” She starts toward the door.

  “But what about Mitchel’s mother ?” Sydney asks.

  “They are all hostages,” Petra reminds her. Sydney grabs Petra’s arm, dragging her to a startled stop. “Trust me,” she says. “They are moving slaves tonight. We stop them, and we will get more answers.”

  “You said they could be hiding Mitchel’s mother anywhere in the city,” Sydney reminds Petra of her warning before we left on this mission.

  She nods. “But we are getting closer. I promise.”

  Sydney narrows her eyes. “You better be right. If this is a trap, I’ll kill you myself.”

  “I’m not like them,” Petra says, indicating the brothers. “I am a woman of my word.”

  “We’ll see,” Sydney says, letting her go.

  I follow them out into the night, believing both of them, but unsure of what dawn will bring.

  Sydney

  The sea is black as ink, the clouds a gray mist, pale and swirling. The wooden dock extends into the fog, disappearing into its depths.

  The rumble of the engine reaches us, traveling across the water as clear as a bell calling the faithful to pray. The black bow of a ship emerges from the wall of white, a fog light mounted on the bow barely penetrating the thick mist.

  Sitting in the van, hidden by the dark shadows of the parking lot, we watch men jump down to the dock, rope lines stretching behind them. They move quickly and elegantly—choreographed dancers on a dark stage—tying the boat to the dock. The engine cuts, and the night falls quiet again.

  Petra climbs out of the front seat. Lenox, Blue, and I follow. The four of us stand in the cool night air, watching. "These men work for you?" Lenox asks Petra, his voice as low a rumble as the ship’s engine.

  She nods once sharply. "Some of the women will work in my places to pay their passage.” By her places she means brothels. "Others are passengers paid for by the McCain brothers."

  "What are we waiting for?" I ask. These men work for Petra, shouldn’t we just walk up to them and find out what the hell is going on?

  "The McCains’ transport should show up soon. I want them here before I reveal myself." She checks her purse, looking inside the compartment for something then closes it. "I think if they see me, they won't stop."

  Time ticks by, and soon a van, bigger than the one we rented, enough seats for probably about fifteen, pulls down to the dock.

  Two hulking figures climb out and make their way down the dock, greeting one of the men from the ship. A soft laugh carries to us, then the men from the van head up the gangway onto the boat. To retrieve their goods.

>   Petra starts forward, her breath blooming white around her. Lenox, Blue, and I follow, the gravel of the parking lot crunching beneath us.

  As we approach the dock, a guard there, a young man with a thick neck wearing a pea coat, shouts for us to stop.

  "Dimitri, it is me, Petra," she says, stepping onto the dock. It sways under her weight, sending ripples out across the water. The guard’s shoulders relax, and he grins, his teeth white in the lowlight.

  "Petra, what a wonderful surprise." She stops in front of him and takes the clipboard he’s holding. "How many do we have tonight?"

  "A total of thirty-two. Twenty for our own locations, and then twelve for the McCain brothers."

  “Their people are on board getting the girls?” Petra gestures with her chin toward the boat. It's about sixty feet long with a wide beam and rounded at both ends—good for open ocean passages. Dmitri nods in answer to Petra's question.

  "And where are the passengers coming from?" Petra asks.

  Dimitri’s brow furrows in confusion, as if she should know this. "They are coming from Gibraltar."

  "Okay, I will wait for them to come out." Petra looks back at us. Her eyes are hard with unspoken anger. The clinking of boots on the deck precedes a tall man appearing at the top of the gangway. Catching sight of Petra, he startles slightly but quickly regains himself. "Who are you?" he barks down the gangway.

  "I am Petra Boken,” she says, her voice traveling clearly over the still water.

  "What are you doing here?" His accent is Irish and thick, his shoulders broad, and a bulge under his coat indicates that he's armed.

  "A woman can check on her own business, can't she? Who are you ?” Petra places a hand on a cocked hip.

  “Seamus O’Donnel,” he answers. “I work for the McCain brothers.” A line of shrouded figures, indistinguishable from each other in the night, file behind the man, driven by a second man in the rear.

  Seamus starts down the gangway, and the women follow. He reaches us, bringing the scent of tobacco with him. His teeth are stained yellow and his eyes are deep brown. “It's nice to meet you." He holds out his hand, and Petra takes it, shaking once.

  "Where are you taking them?" she asks.

  Seamus gives her a half smile. "Not at liberty to say."

  "Tell me,” Petra demands, her voice sharp.

  He just shakes his head, laughing it off. "Is this some kind of test?"

  "Tests don’t usually have such dire consequences if you fail,” Petra says. Seamus shifts on his feet, his hand moving closer to his jacket.

  "Don’t,” Petra says, slipping a small silver pistol from the folds of her purse. Lenox and I both stiffen, not expecting it to go this way so fast.

  Dimitri, standing beside me, is even more surprised. Seamus’s back-up is leaning over the side of the boat behind the line of women, trying to figure out what the holdup is.

  "We are going with you,” Petra tells Seamus.

  He narrows his eyes. "Don't threaten me,” he says, keeping his voice low and calm.

  "It's not a threat, it's a fact,” Petra says. "This is my ship and my passengers. I demand to know where they are being taken."

  “The McCain brothers pay the bills for this group. Get your information from them.”

  "My gun says differently." Petra steps forward and reaches into Seamus’s coat pulling out a gun. He puts his arms up, a smile on his lips. Almost like he enjoyed her touch. Petra waves with her weapon, stepping aside so Seamus can lead the way to the larger van. Lenox and I move over, both drawing weapons. Seamus starts forward, Petra stepping close behind him while Lenox and I wait for the man in the back.

  The women file past, stinking of body odor and fear. They wear dark, oversized clothing, and their hair is tangled.

  Big brown eyes, dark skin, full lips. These women look like friends of mine. They look Yazidi; the preferred religious ethnic group to be enslaved by Isis.

  Seamus’s back-up pauses halfway down the gangway, pulling a gun.

  “What the fuck is going on?" He asks in a broad North English accent.

  "I'm not entirely sure," I answer honestly. “Petra is here, and she wants to know where these women came from and where they are going.”

  He frowns. "Petra?"

  "Yeah, it's her boat,” I say, gesturing with my gun. “Put the gun away, and I promise we won’t hurt you as long as you don’t do anything stupid."

  The guy is young, with blue eyes and crooked teeth. He looks at the retreating back of the last girl as she makes her way down the dock. I point my own weapon, gesturing for him to follow. He is still holding his gun, a good ten feet from me. I don't ask him to give it up, just to come along.

  “It’s fine,” Dimitri yells to him. They must know each other.

  The guy continues down the gangway, pausing in front of me for a moment. I keep my weapon down, holding it casually. He does not put his away as he moves past me. Lenox follows, raising up his pistol and clocking the guy in the back of the head hard enough that he drops.

  Dimitri lets out a grunt of displeasure.

  "Tie him up. Keep him away from phones and weapons until Petra calls you," Lenox says. Dimitri nods.

  We follow the women off the dock to the waiting van. They are climbing into the back as we reach the road. Seamus is in the passenger seat, the door open, Petra keeping her gun on him.

  "You'll drive,” she says to him as we approach. Seamus nods, his expression sullen as he goes around and climbs into the driver’s seat. Petra keeps her gun trained on him as she gets into the passenger seat.

  Lenox, Blue, and I climb into the back with the women. Their scent fills the enclosed space, their fear ratcheting up now that they've seen the guns. Clearly, something has not gone to plan, but they don’t yet realize it’s a good thing for them.

  I turn around to face them and smile, trying to look nice. Trying to look like I'm there to help them.

  "Everything is going to be okay,” I say, grinning like an idiot. None of them respond. "Anyone speak English?"

  Again, no response. Lenox turns in his seat. “Parlez vous français?”

  One girl stirs, seeming to understand, but does not speak up. Her eyes latch onto Lenox, though.

  "Tell them we are here to help. Explain we’re not going to hurt them,” I say.

  Lenox speaks in French, and the girl sits forward, her hand coming to rest on the seat back in front of her. She only has three fingers. The girl next to her places a hand on Three Fingers’s arm, trying to hush her. Three Fingers tightens her lips for a moment, her gaze determined. She answers Lenox, her voice high—she sounds like a child.

  Lenox interprets for me. “She asked who we are."

  "Tell her we are from Joyful Justice,” I say, a knot in my stomach. How old is she?

  Seamus turns in his seat slightly to look back at me. Petra gets his attention with the gun, gesturing for him to watch the road. “You’re working with Joyful Justice?” Seamus hisses at Petra.

  “You’re dealing in war slaves,” she spits back, disgust dripping off each word.

  Seamus stiffens but does not respond. Lenox speaks with the girl more, her gestures becoming animated. Blue leans his weight against me, and I close my eyes for a moment and breathe deeply, welling with gratitude that I am me. That I chose this life. That I am here to help these women. That I am not a slave. That I have the power to make the men who did this pay.

  The van turns into a narrow alley behind a block of townhouses. We are in a residential neighborhood, where the windows all need painting and the stoops droop from decades of use.

  Seamus stops the van and cuts the lights. “This is it,” he says, meaning the two-story home we’ve parked behind.

  Squares of light from the windows fall onto trash cans where rats scavenge. When Petra clicks her door open, they rise up on their hind legs to watch but do not flee. This is their home.

  “I’ll stay here,” Lenox says. “We shouldn’t leave them alone.” He is turned
in his seat, looking back at the women. They won’t be going into this house.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  Petra nods and climbs out, coming around to open Seamus’s door for him. Lenox gets out to let Blue and I onto the street. He waits by the open door of the van as we join Petra and Seamus on the other side.

  I glance back at Lenox; he gives me a nod and a breath of a smile. His dark skin almost sparkles in the low light, and his eyes are bright. That is one powerful man.

  The rats finally flee, bald tails held high, nails scratching on the broken concrete, as Blue starts toward the back door. Unpainted wooden steps wheeze under Seamus’s weight as he climbs them. His knock is loud, and the bark of response that comes from the other side is angry.

  Clomping footsteps and low grumbled curses filter through the door. The curtain shifts, and a woman peers out at us: sagging cheeks, gnarled knuckles, dull russet brown eyes that narrow as she takes us in.

  The lock thunks, and she eases the door open slowly. “You brought friends, Seamus?” Her voice is sharp and rough—like whiskey before it’s had time to mellow in a barrel for a decade or two.

  “Let us in, Mary, I haven’t got time for this tonight. Petra here”—he jerks a thumb at the petite woman holding a gun on him—“wants to see where her cargo lives.”

  Mary raises a brow and quirks a smile, exposing the dark hole of a missing tooth. “Petra, eh?” Mary’s eyes travel down to the pistol in Petra’s grip. “You here to take over?” Mary leans against the door, her stained shirt pulling tight against her lumpy body. “Finally getting rid of the McCain brothers.” Seamus stiffens and clenches his fist. “You kill them yet?” Mary asks. “Or did you want to see their whole operation before deciding what to do next?”

  Petra doesn’t answer. She looks almost bored. “Let us in,” she says, her voice flat.

  “By all means,” Mary says, opening the door wide. “We’ve got nothing to hide, do we, Seamus?” She grins at him, exposing the rest of her yellow teeth—there is another dark hole on the bottom row. The McCain brothers are not paying this woman enough, clearly.