"Yeah, this region's just full of awesome stuff."
The glow of light grew larger, and we soon stepped out into what looked like mid-morning. To the south, a storm front of massive and gurgling, dark clouds above a sand-colored explosion blotted out the sky and horizon. I'd never seen anything like it. It was moving toward us, the wind picking up my hair and playing with it.
"I think we should wait in the cave till it's done," Robert said.
I looked north, the direction that Robert had said the prophet's cave was.
"The guys looking for us, they'll probably give up during the storm right?"
"Probably," Robert said. "It's not like they can fly in it."
I looked at his profile; he was staring at the storm. The lines around his eyes deepened as he squinted at the approaching clouds. Silver and black stubble coated his jaw and neck, giving him a roguish air—like he was a pirate or a marauder.
"You know, back in 2015," Robert said, "a storm similar to this one but stranger...narrower…hit the border between Israel and Syria, creating a wall that kept a surprise Isis incursion out of Israel long enough for the Israelis to mount a defense. People said God did it. That God protected Israel from Isis."
"Oh, yeah, you think God's doing this, to protect us now?" I asked him.
He shook his head. "No. But I think that people will take anything and make it mean something. If that meaning makes them right. If it helps them to reinforce their ideas." He looked over at me, his green blue gaze sharp.
"What are you saying?"
"Just what I said. No other meaning."
"Do you think I’m making up a meaning? About you?"
"I think you believe that I'm your enemy. That I can't be trusted. Because if I could—" He stepped closer to me, his hand reaching out and taking my elbow lightly. "Because if I could be trusted, if you could lean on me, then so much of what you've believed would be wrong."
There was no right and wrong, only here and now.
"I want to keep moving." I gestured my chin in the general direction where the prophet should be. "I think we can make it before the storm."
Robert raised his brows, and a small smile twitched onto his lips. "You think we can move faster than that storm? At minimum, it's moving at 20 miles per hour. Could be up to 60." He raised his gaze to the storm again, narrowing his eyes. "It's dangerous. It can suffocate you."
"Are you afraid, Robert Maxim?" There was teasing in my voice, and he looked back at me, smiling, his eyes glittering in the morning light.
"I'll do as you ask. But please remember that I did. That I have faith in you."
I swallowed, uncomfortable with his words, with the lack of guile in his gaze. Could he be sincere? No, Robert Maxim probably had an ulterior motive. He always did.
Robert
We moved north because she wanted to. The storm clouds chased us, the sound of the sand in the wind screeching through the valley, the threat of death howling all around us.
Sydney led with Blue by her side, their steps in sync, the path apparently known to them. Had she remembered something? Or was this a habit, something subconscious—she'd walked it so many times that she didn't need to know how to go, she just went.
The small, pebbled sand crunched under our boots. We couldn't make it. But we wouldn't die. That storm would surround us, beat us up, suck us dry, but we'd come out the other side.
That was my faith: in myself.
As the wind caught us and the first sting of sand cut at my jaw, I sealed my lips and followed closely.
A crack of lightning and the landscape jumped into sharp relief—giant boulders, steep passages, a terrain perfect for hiding in. A terrain difficult to navigate in the best of conditions.
Another low howl joined the winds, and Blue stopped walking, straightened his neck, and called back, the sound eerie and powerful. In the distance a bark came in return: deep and gruff and mournful.
Blue whined and looked up at Sydney. She reached out a hand and touched his shoulder before flicking her wrists. He left her side like a bullet exploding from the barrel of a gun, streaking up the hill and disappearing behind a boulder.
The storm engulfed us; the sand blasted my exposed skin and tore at my clothing. The wind screamed in my ears. I reached out blindly and caught Sydney's hand. She twined her fingers with mine, and we leaned into the wind, walking uphill, eyes closed against the assault, the earth beneath our feet and Sydney's touch my only guiding posts.
Sand clogged my nose, and I coughed, sucking in more grit. Sydney stopped, and I bumped against her. She stepped back into me. We'd reached a cliff…I could just make out an edge beyond her feet.
Where did that come from?
A hand gripped my elbow, and my head whipped around, shocked by the human presence so close. My eyelashes battled the sand as I took in a black, cloaked figure—a woman in a full burka stood behind me, her hand tight on my arm.
She pulled on me, and I followed her lead, Sydney's hand still in mine.
The stranger ran her gloved hand down my forearm and grasped my hand. I could feel the warmth of her through the thin material.
This must be Her. The powerful, enigmatic figure who'd convinced—how many now? A million?—that she spoke for God, and that her message was one of equality for women.
Was she mad? Or brilliant? Really, she must be both.
Thunder rumbled through the air, and another crack of lightning lit up the storm around us—all ochre and burnished gold. The landscape had lost all definition, replaced with this whirl of color.
The prophet led on, her step steady and knowing. Suddenly, a cave mouth yawned in front of us. We passed through its archway, and the storm was at our backs. My skin burned, the thrashing of the storm lingering in a million small abrasions. The wind echoed in my ears as the prophet lead us deeper into the cave. Sydney's hand stayed wrapped in mine—it felt fused to me, like we could never be apart again.
I looked back at her. Her skin was roughened and red, her hair a tangled, confused mess. Sand filled every crease of her clothing, piled in the crook of her collarbones, and clung to her lashes. She blinked, dislocating grains of sand that tumbled down her cheeks.
A presence at my knee drew my attention—a giant mastiff, golden as the sand, larger even than Blue, walked next to me. It helped shepherd us here. The dog's black muzzle was stained the same ochre as Sydney and me.
The prophet squeezed my hand, and I looked forward. She stopped and turned to me. Through the mesh of her burka I could see a glint of eye—the shimmer of a living thing under all that cloth. "Welcome," she said, her voice deep for a woman, her accent English.
I blinked and took in the cave around us. About 40 feet deep and 20 wide, with a curved ceiling and a rock cropping covered in fur blankets. A darkened fire pit sat at its center. Large golden mastiffs lay on the bare ground, their heads up and ears perked, watching me. A bright white mastiff sat in the far corner, Blue by her side, puppies squirming around her.
"Joy, how are you?" the prophet asked Sydney.
"Joy?" I said, turning to the masked woman. "She told you her name was Joy?"
She nodded. "Yes. Joy Humbolt. I'm Rida Dweck. And you are?"
I turned to look at Sydney. She'd gone pale, her eyes wide, mouth parted in surprise. Blue bounded over to her and leaned against her leg.
"Joy is dead," she said, her voice low.
The prophet shook her head. "No, I saved her, and in return, you saved me."
"But…" Sydney stopped speaking, her eyes going hazy with thought.
My God. Her mind had split. Sydney Rye and Joy Humbolt—the hardened warrior and the frightened, vengeful girl—now lived simultaneously inside that one body. She was switching back and forth between her current and former self.
How did I miss it?
Chapter Seventeen
Slipping Through
April
I pulled in a slow deep breath and felt calm wash over me. "I want a lawyer," I said.
Declan's expression didn't change. That I know more than you smile stayed on his face. But one dark brow inched higher.
"Do you? Why's that?"
"I want a lawyer," I said again.
He sat back, wincing slightly. Did he have some sort of injury?
"April." He used my first name, trying to get me to feel comfortable with him. So masculine, to one moment threaten and the next coddle. He was hoping to trick me into revealing something. To somehow incriminate myself.
"Am I under arrest?"
He shook his head slowly.
"In that case I'd like to leave."
"I can't let you do that."
"You can't just keep me here. It's against the law." My voice sounded stern and steady but my heart was beating as fast as hummingbird's wings.
"Ma'am, this is a case of national security."
We were back to ma'am.
"I'm no threat to national security. I'm a mother, a wife, and a preacher."
The left side of his mouth curled up just slightly, and his eyebrows both rose this time. "Yes, a preacher. I just watched your sermon. Interesting stuff."
"Are you a believer, Mr. Declan?"
He shook his head slowly.
"Well, neither was my daughter."
"Is she now? A woman of God?" His voice peaked with curiosity. And there was something more than professional interest there. I cocked my head staring at him. Where had I seen him?
"I know you," I said.
He nodded slowly. "You might recognize me. I was the lead investigator on Joy Humbolt’s case. After she killed the mayor of New York."
I tried to keep the surprise off my face, but I could see that he saw it. "So you have it out for her," I said.
"I'm interested in justice. I'm interested in the truth."
"The truth is His word. There is no other truth."
"Let's talk about your daughter. How did she seem when you saw her in Syria?"
He had evidence that I'd been there with her. But I still didn't want to answer him. Didn't know if I'd broken any laws of man. Didn't want to get locked up now. I had too much work to do. On Thursday, Bill and I were meeting with radio producers. I had a message to spread.
"What do you need from me to let me out of here?" I asked.
Sometimes you must make a deal with the devil in order to serve the Lord.
"Just your full cooperation. Tell me everything that happened. And you can walk out of here."
"Really? I'd like to speak to a lawyer about that. Get something in writing."
Declan nodded slowly. "All right, do you have a lawyer in mind?"
The only lawyer I knew was Bill's attorney. We used him for all sorts of things, but nothing criminal. Would he be able to help me here? If not, he'd probably be able to recommend someone at least.
A knock on the door interrupted us. Declan looked up as it opened and a woman entered. She wore a black suit and a curly clear wire came out of her ear, clearly some sort of communication device. "Sir."
Declan stood up. "I'll be right back," he said, his voice tinged with annoyance. He didn't like being interrupted.
The door clicked shut behind him, and I waited in the brightly lit interrogation room.
I would tell him the truth. I would get a lawyer to help me make sure that none of it could incriminate me and then I would tell the truth. It would be good to have it on record, so that when mankind looked back at this moment, they could hear my story. So that it would be in the official records of the US government.
Filled with a sense of purpose, I waited patiently. Doyle returned moments later, his brow deeply furrowed and eyes stormy.
"You're free to go," he said.
"I am?"
"Yes." His answer was curt, a knife slicing through butter.
I stood, unsure. What was this? Were they going to track me or something? It didn't matter if they did. They were welcome to watch. They were welcome to see me change the world.
I was escorted back upstairs by Sunglasses. Cynthia was already waiting in the SUV.
We greeted each other quietly, but neither of us spoke, both realizing that something strange had happened. Why had they let us go?
They returned us to the street corner where they'd picked us up, without a word. Cynthia and I, back on the street, surrounded again by those crowds and bright lights of the city, turned to each other.
"What happened?" I asked Cynthia. "Did they ask you questions?"
"Yes, they were asking me all about you. How we met. And then, all of a sudden, they let me go."
"Something very similar happened to me. Except that my interrogator, Declan Doyle, had photos of me and Joy in Syria. Taken at that awful place—" I choked on the memories of Nadia's death: the scent of dust and debris from that moment, the blood pulsing from her wound, warm and gushing against the cloth I pressed into it. Anguish rippled through me.
Cynthia squeezed my hand, seeing my hurt, and I pulled in a deep breath, finding comfort in her touch and in the faith Nadia and I had shared.
"Why did they let us go?" Cynthia asked.
"I don't know. I had agreed to answer their questions, to tell them the entire story. I just wanted to talk to an attorney first."
"Of course," Cynthia said. "We have nothing to hide."
"But why did they let us go?"
"It must have been God's doing," Cynthia said, nodding to herself.
But while I could see God's hand in all of this, there was something else. There was another hand in motion here.
Anita
"Hey, hey, hey—slow down."
It was Tom. Adrenaline thrummed through my system, my heart hammered, and my throat was raw from the scream that I had released.
But as I looked up at him, at his concerned expression, his beautiful eyes, the small smile on his lips, I felt suddenly, inexplicably safe. His arms around me didn't feel like they were imprisoning me, they felt like they were supporting me.
Tears welled in my eyes, and I shook my head. I had to leave him, again.
"What is it, what's going on?" he asked, his brows furrowed and his gaze concerned.
"I have to go. I have to go right now."
The brief moment of respite I felt in his arms evaporated. The apartment had been ransacked. Whether it was one of Joyful Justices' enemies, a law enforcement agency, or something else entirely, I didn't know.
"What are you talking about? We just..."
"My place, it was…" Instead of explaining further, I pushed the door open. Tom looked past me into the space. His mouth formed a small O of surprise.
The ding of the elevator pushed me forward. I needed to go. I tried to brush past Tom, but he turned and followed as I headed for the stairs.
"Anita Brown?" a deep voice asked from down the hall. I turned toward the elevators; two men in overcoats approached us.
Tom straightened next to me, and I despised myself as I moved behind him. Hiding behind a man.
"Can I help you?" Tom asked, taking control of the situation immediately.
The man in front, wearing a gray fedora and a sour expression, stared past him to me.
"Anita Brown. We'd like to speak with you."
The other man, shorter and broader, was bare-headed, and his curly dark hair was cropped short.
"Who's asking?" Tom asked Fedora.
The man reached into his overcoat and pulled out an ID. Flipping it open, I saw the badge of an MI5 operative. Oh, shit.
"MI5," Tom said, his voice even, as though he wasn't worried. "Well, it's lucky her attorney happens to be here."
Tom reached into his own overcoat pocket and pulled out his wallet. He withdrew one of his cards from inside the fine leather. He passed it to the man.
Fedora's brows rose. "You two were married, right? Mr. Brown." He looked up at Tom, a smirk pulling at his lips. "She left you."
I glanced up at Tom, who returned the man's smirk with one of his own. "Yes, I see you've done your research. But that doesn't mean I ca
n't represent her."
"We'd like to speak to her."
"I'm standing right here," I snapped, stepping next to Tom. Talking about me like I wasn't even in the room.
Tom turned to me, and his eyes glittered. He was asking me to let him handle this. It was his domain. He was the barrister.
"We just have a few questions, ma'am, if you'll come with us."
Tom put his arm out, blocking me, and Fedora caught his gaze.
"Is she under arrest?"
"No," Fedora almost growled. "But we have some matters of national security we'd like to discuss with her. I think she'd want to help."
"She'd be happy to help. At a time of her convenience. You can call my office to set up a meeting. We have dinner reservations."
Fedora settled back on his heels. His partner, Curly, stepped forward.
"You think you need an attorney?" he asked me.
I didn't answer.
"Have you done something that you would need legal representation for?" He cocked his head, all innocent curiosity.
I pressed my lips together, refusing to answer.
"Like I said." Tom smiled. "Call my office to set a date. Now, if you'll excuse us?"
He took my elbow and began to lead me toward the elevator.
"You forgot to lock your door," Fedora said, as I passed him. We were so close that his breath brushed my hair. "That's dangerous in a city like this." I looked up at him. "You never know who's wandering around."
"You don't need to worry about her," Tom said, pulling me down the hall. "We've got everything under control."
As we waited for the elevator, the two men watched us. Tom checked his watch, looking completely casual—as though he was concerned about a dinner reservation.
He was playing it so cool, and I was shaking with fear.
I shouldn't have come here. I wasn't part of the investigative arm of Joyful Justice. I belonged behind the curtain. But something in me didn't want to stay hidden anymore. I didn't just want to manipulate from afar, I wanted to get in and fight.
Tom looked over at me and smiled, his eyes sparkling as the elevator opened. We stepped in and turned toward the closing doors. Fedora and Curly still stood in the hall, watching us. As the doors closed, Fedora tipped his hat to me.
Flock of Wolves Page 16
