“No thanks,” I say.
He shifts forward, his large leather chair creaking as he puts his elbows onto the empty desk top. “Temperance is still alive. Get rid of him, or I’ll expose you.”
“I’ll expose you right back,” I snap.
“You’ll be dead.” He says it like it’s final, as if there is nothing I can do to stop him. He is a powerful man, and I am just a woman. My chin juts up, and a spark of anger ignites in my chest. I am so sick of this power dynamic. So done with it. “I’ll expose you to our enemies,” he goes on. “Let them know you are an asset. That you are dangerous to them.”
“What makes you so sure I’m not dangerous to you?” My voice is quiet and sure. I am dangerous.
My hand takes the pistol from between my breasts without even really thinking about it. The anger made me do it.
There is power in women’s rage.
He grins when he sees it, bright teeth flashing in the darkness. “You can’t shoot me.”
“Can’t I?”
“No,” a man’s voice says behind me, followed by the cocking of a gun. It sounds bigger than mine. But it’s not the size of the weapon that counts. It’s how you use it.
“I may not be able to shoot you and survive. But I can shoot you.”
A side door opens, and a man, his white head bent over some paperwork, strides in. “Numbers in Michigan are looking great,” he says, raising his eyes to Grand, sitting behind his desk. He then scans the room and quickly finds me, the gun in my hand, and then the man behind me, and the gun in his. What a picture. The man's face goes almost as white as his hair. “What’s going on?” he asks. Then his head cocks slightly. “Aren’t you Angela Daniels?”
I smile my movie star smile at him. “Yes,” I answer. “Do you know that your boss is a Russian puppet?” His eyes widen but not enough. The man is a bad actor.
Grand laughs and stands, moving toward the employee, my aim tracking him. “Trying out her role for an upcoming movie, Philip. We are going over lines together.” Philip takes a step back as Grand’s thick hand lands on his shoulder. “Why don’t you see Angela out,” he says, turning to me.
My options are limited: shoot Grand and die. Or leave with Philip and hopefully survive. Our threats to expose each other are as menacing as Moscow and Washington’s threats of nuclear annihilation. We both want to live.
Grand raises his brows, and I take a step backward, my gun lowering. “I hope to see you again after the election, Ms. Daniels,” Grand says as I turn towards the door. “We will have much to discuss then.”
Philip approaches to escort me out. He’s tall and lanky, the opposite of Grand’s short and stout. I can feel Philip struggling not to shy away from me. “I’m sure we will see each other again soon,” I say to Grand, making it sound like a promise.
I turn my gaze to Maloney, his back to the door I need to pass through, his gun still in his hand but no longer aimed at me. I wink at him before turning to Philip and lacing my arm through his.
My stomach is in knots, my throat barely open enough to breathe as I watch the returns two weeks later. I’m alone in my apartment. Julian wanted to get together but I begged off—afraid I’d expose my deep connection to the outcome. Archie raises his head off my thigh and stares at me with those big brown eyes of his—but the dog’s got nothing to say. “The popular vote doesn’t count.” My voice is a whisper. “Millions of votes in California were just wasted.” Archie sits up, his tail thumping once. Reginald Grand has won the electoral college.
Temperance may have been technically right to have faith in our people—Stone is narrowly winning the popular vote nation-wide—but a whole lot of people went for Grand and he’s going to be our next president.
I want to throw something. Punch someone. Puke. I want to give up but at the same time strike out.
This is why I don’t want to care about politics.
But I don’t have that luxury anymore.
My phone rings. It’s Synthia. “This is horrendous,” she says.
“I can’t even.”
“I’m moving to Canada.” I try to laugh but it comes out scratchy—like bare tree limbs clacking together in a winter storm. “I can’t believe she lost. This country is so misogynist.”
“She had skeletons in her closet.”
“So does he! The man was accused of sexual assault by dozens of women. He’s been married three times and is an admitted—nay—a proud philanderer. He makes fun of disabled people and is an unabashed freaking racist!” Synthia lowers her voice. “And it sounds like the Russians were involved with getting him elected. Did you hear about that?”
“A woman’s old bones are not as accepted as a man’s,” I say, repeating Natalie Stone’s words, my gaze locked onto the TV screen.
“That’s for damn sure.”
A knock at my door pulls my attention away.
“I have to go,” I say, my voice sounding wooden.
Synthia sighs. “Me too. I’m going to get drunk.”
I hang up the phone, my vision clouded with tears, but I take a deep breath, steadying myself, and then stand.
Archie follows me to the door. I check the peephole and find Temperance filling it. I open the door, sighing. He steps into the living room, that predator’s gaze of his taking in the space. It looks the same as it ever was. My bedroom, on the other hand, has new hardwood floors.
“How are you?” he asks as I close the door behind him.
“Terrible, you?”
He gives me a tight-lipped smile. “Got anything to drink?”
I point to the open bottle of wine on my coffee table. “I’ll get you a glass.”
When I return from the kitchen, Temperance is leaning back into my couch, Archie resting on his thigh. Filling his glass, I hand it to him. He clinks it against mine.
“How can we keep fighting, risking our lives for a country that would elect him—” I point at the TV as I flop onto the couch next to Temperance. “Russia might have interfered, but a lot of people cast their vote for that monster. A sexual predator. A racist, misogynist…” My voice fades.
Temperance’s face is shadowed. “This country is bigger than any one man.”
“Sure, but I wouldn’t have fought for Hitler’s Germany. Would you?”
His jaw tightens. “He’s not Hitler.” Yet, his voice seems to imply.
I wave my hand. “Look, I’m not political. Never have been. Okay? All I ever wanted was to act. Not exactly a unique dream.” My voice is rising, the apathy that’s been sucking at my bones all evening lifting as anger spreads her wings.
“People show up in this city every day with the same aspirations as me. But then you barged into my life and made me a part of this—” I struggle for the right words. “Machine,” I spit out. “A cog in this wheel, but I’m not metal or wood, Temperance. I’m a woman. And I’m not going to follow orders from that man. Ever.” I’m breathing heavily, my chest heaving. Temperance doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at me, keeping his eyes fixed on the red wine in his cup. “Say something,” I demand.
His lips tighten before opening. “This machine is about keeping our population safe. What matters are the lives of the American people.”
I slam my glass down onto the coffee table so hard that wine spills over the rim and Archie jumps off Temperance’s lap. I lean over, getting right in Temperance’s face, force those tiger eyes to meet mine. “That’s bullshit, Temperance. A war criminal’s excuse. I’m not going to work for a corrupt, power-hungry, insane man. I’m going to keep the American people safe by resisting.”
“Yes, but quietly.”
“Women have been quiet far too long.” My voice trembles but sounds strong anyway.
“We can’t expose him, for all the same reasons I explained before.”
“Why can’t we kill him? Make it look like a heart attack—like we planned.”
Temperance shakes his head. “Look, we have to play the long game here. There will be an inve
stigation. There are proper channels to deal with this sort of thing.”
“You wanted to kill him a few weeks ago.”
“That was before he won.” Temperance’s voice is quiet; it sounds almost betrayed.
“You were promised he’d lose,” I remind him. Temperance eyes meet mine, and I see the truth in them. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Fear ripples through me.
“I need you to be in—one hundred percent in,” Temperance says quietly. “We can fight this, but we have to do it quietly. This is a long game.”
“As long as it ends with him dead or in prison, I’m in,” I answer, the conviction in my voice vibrating straight from my chest.
Temperance nods. “Good.”
“I’ll take it,” I say, turning away from the spectacular view—the city, the Hollywood sign, and the sparkling ocean all on display for me—to the real estate agent.
His eyes glow with success. “Do you want the furniture too?” he asks.
“No, thank you.”
He nods. “I can recommend a fabulous interior designer.”
Mary walks out onto the patio, the clip-clop of her heels mixing with the pleasant rushing sound of the water feature of the infinity pool.
“It’s perfect,” she decrees. “I love everything about it. You should take the furniture too.”
I look back into the modern home behind her—three bedrooms, two baths, a long drive with a big security gate. “No,” I reiterate. I’m making this into my home.
She shrugs. “You start shooting next week. You’re not going to have time to decorate. At least take the bed and some kitchen stuff.” She makes it all sound so reasonable, but that’s not what this decision is—I need something that is mine. Where I feel safe. Where I can be myself, all the disjointed, dangerous parts of me.
I’ve found my citadel. I am a queen. I am a girl. And I’m going to run this world.
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Unleashed, A Sydney Rye Mystery Book 1, or purchase it now and continue reading Sydney’s next adventure: emilykimelman.com/Unwb
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Sneak Peek
Unleashed, Sydney Rye Mysteries Book 1
My dog once took a bullet that was intended for me. A bullet that ripped through his chest, narrowly missing his heart, and exited through his shoulder blade, effectively shattering it. This left him unconscious on the floor of my home. Amazingly, this bullet did not kill him.
Ten years ago I adopted Blue as a present to myself after I broke up with my boyfriend one hot, early summer night with the windows open and the neighborhood listening. The next morning I went straight to the pound in Bushwick, Brooklyn. Articles on buying your first dog tell you never to buy a dog on impulse. They want you to be prepared for this new member of your family, to understand the responsibilities and challenges of owning a dog. Going to the pound because you need something in your life that's worth holding onto is rarely, if ever, mentioned.
I asked the man at the pound to show me the biggest dogs they had. He showed me some seven-week-old Rottweiler-German shepherd puppies that he said would grow to be quite large. Then he showed me a six-month-old shepherd that would get pretty big. Then he showed me Blue, the largest dog they had. The man called him a Collie mix and he was stuffed into the biggest cage they had, but he didn't fit. He was as tall as a Great Dane but much skinnier, with the snout of a collie, the markings of a Siberian husky, the ears and tail of a shepherd and the body of a wolf, with one blue eye and one brown. Crouched in a sitting position, unable to lie down, unable to sit all the way up, he looked at me from between the bars, and I fell in love.
"He's still underweight," the man in the blue scrubs told me as we looked at Blue. "I'll tell you, lady, he's pretty but he's skittish. He sheds, and I mean sheds. I don't think you want this dog." But I knew I wanted him. I knew I had to have him. He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
Blue cost me $108. I brought him home, and we lived together for ten years. He was, for most of our relationship, my only companion. But when I first met Blue, a lifetime ago now, I had family and friends. I worked at a shitty coffeehouse. I was young and lost; I was normal. Back then, at the beginning of this story, before I'd ever seen a corpse, before Blue saved my life, before I felt what it was like to kill someone in cold blood, I was still Joy Humbolt. I'd never even heard the name Sydney Rye.
Chapter Two
My foot tapped against the spotted linoleum as the subway squealed over the Manhattan Bridge, and clacked up the East Side. I scolded myself for my constant tardiness and vowed that from that day forth I would change my life. I would get organized. I would become better.
Three hours later, a pastel-clad woman with bad hair asked if she could have a macchiato, which didn't make any sense. A woman wearing pastels, obviously from a place where they still wore scrunchies, asking for a shot of espresso with a touch of frothed milk on top. She should have been asking for a Frappuccino just like all the others who walked into the shop assuming that it was a Starbucks, because who could possibly imagine that there was coffee that was not Starbucks?
"Do you know what a macchiato is?" I asked.
The woman smiled benignly. "Yes, I want a caramel one." She obviously had no idea what she was talking about. You don't put caramel in a macchiato.
"So what you're saying is that you would like a shot of caramel and a shot of espresso with a touch of frothed milk on top."
"Why not? Let's give it a go." She smiled at me and I thought, this is amazing. She is willing to try a new drink--not only a new drink but a drink that she practically created for herself. Had anyone else ever ordered this? I swear, in that moment, I was filled with a renewed sense of life. I had been wrong--not all dowdy women dressed in pastels were unadventurous lemmings.
"Oh, this isn't what I ordered," she said, looking down at my small cup of perfect caramel macchiato from above her two chins.
"Yes it is. It is a shot of caramel and a shot of espresso with a touch of frothed milk on top." I had been wrong. She was like all the rest of them.
"No, I've ordered this before at Starbucks and it's iced and in a very large plastic cup with a straw. It's not at all like this," she said as she waved her pudgy hand at my creation.
"Actually, this," I pointed at the little cup, "is exactly what you ordered. Exactly." I looked at the line of tourists that snaked out the door behind her onto 60th Street and continued, "I asked you if you wanted a shot of caramel and a shot of espresso with a touch of frothed milk. You said, 'Sure, let's give it a go.' "I used a high-pitched nasal voice to imitate her. "Now, I will make you a new drink," I said, "but it won't be any Starbucks knockoff and you won't get whatever it is you want unless you first admit that you are an idiot." The woman's face turned red and all her features made a mad dash to the center, leaving her with only cheek, forehead, and chin.
"That's right," I was really rolling now, "an idiot, a dumb-ass who has no idea what is in her coffee. I bet you don't know that Frappuccino is a Starbucks name, not the name of a real coffee drink. Frappuccino is a trademark, not a beverage." I was still explaining the finer points of coffee in an outdoor voice to the tourist when my manager, a guy named Brad who always seemed to be staring at my tits, came out from the back and fired me. Although the way I stormed out of there, you would think I had quit. I threw my apron on the floor and told Brad to fuck himself and stop masturbating in the coffee grounds. Yeah, the customers liked that one.
By the time I got home, I was crying.
It is not often that the weight of daily existence catches me in public. I usually have to be in bed, alone, in the dark. But this time I was standing outside my apartment crying so hard I could barely get my key in the door. The thing is, I wasn't crying because I got fired or because I'd broken up with my boyfriend, Marcus. My job was stupid, and Marcus was an ass. Breaking up w
ith that dick-wad was something on the list of "shit I've done lately that I can be proud of," but it was pretty much the only thing.
I got the door open and Blue whined and circled me, desperately happy at my return. I sat down, my back against the door, crying. Blue nuzzled me and licked my face. I hugged him and he squirmed. "You've only known me less than a day and already you like me this much, huh?" I asked him, sniffling back my tears. He flopped onto his back, exposing his belly and warbled at me in answer.
Blue followed me down the hall and into the kitchen, where my answering machine sat blinking. "Five messages," I told Blue, wiping my face with the back of my hand. He leaned his weight against me and nuzzled my stomach.
I hit play and heard Marcus's voice. "Hey, listen." I heard Marcus's tongue slip out to wet his lips. My chest tightened. "I was thinking I'd come over later and we could…I don't know…talk or something. Call me back." Beep. "Hey, it's me again. Look, I'm in the neighborhood. I guess you're not home yet. I think I'm just going to head over…all right, um, bye." Beep. "What the fuck, Joy. I was just at your house and there was a huge fucking dog trying to kill me. I--" Beep. "Your fuckin' machine sucks, and where the fuck did you get that vicious dog? I mean, we just broke up last night and you already have a new dog. I don't know what that means, but I just don't know about you anymore." Beep. "Listen, just call me, OK?" Beep.
I exhaled. "Did you really attack him?" Blue wagged his tail and sat. "I suppose it would be your natural instinct," I hiccuped. "He was invading your home, right?" Blue looked at me blankly. "You don't look mean." He really didn't. He was tall and very skinny. I could see his ribs under his thick fur coat. With the snout of a collie, the markings of a Siberian husky, and the body of a wolf, with one blue eye and one brown, he was a very unique mutt. It occurred to me that I knew nothing about this dog. Our history was barely 12 hours long. I'd basically moved a large, hairy stranger into my house. The phone rang as I stared at my new dog, a little confused.
A Spy Is Born Page 20
