THE GIRL WITH THE GUN
A Sydney Rye Mystery, #8
Emily Kimelman
Copyright ©2016 by Emily Kimelman Gilvey.
All rights reserved. No part of this eBook can be used or
reproduced in any manner without written permission. 1st Edition
Cover Illustration by Autumn Whitehurst
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
The Girl With The Gun (Sydney Rye, #8)
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
A Note from Emily
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Two years ago this month, the Islamic State attacked the Yazidis, a Kurdish religious minority who live around Sinjar Mountain in Iraq. The militants came down on unprotected villages like Byron’s wolf on the fold, slaughtering the men and taking away thousands of women and children to be sold as sex slaves.
Any Yazidis who could escape fled higher into the mountains without food, adequate clothing or even, in some cases, shoes. They remained trapped there for days, in harsh conditions and with little international support. Those who had originally promised to protect them, the pesh merga soldiers of Masoud Barzani’s political party in Iraqi Kurdistan, had melted away in their hour of need.
It was Kurdish guerrillas from Syria and Turkey who eventually fought their way over the mountain through Islamic State territory, opening a corridor to bring Yazidi survivors to safety in the self-declared autonomous area of Syria called Rojava, the Kurdish word for west.
Many of these guerrillas were women, for a basic principle of the decades-long Kurdish liberation movement is that women cannot wait for others to defend them, but must themselves fight to be free. Indeed, some of these women say that they fight for other women, because they know what horrors await those captured by the Islamic State.
Meredith Tax
The New York Times
August 18, 2016
Chapter One
Suds slipped down my body and gathered at my ankles before traveling in a flotilla to the drain. The white, iridescent bubbles jiggled as droplets of water crashed around them. They popped one by one, the mass sinking into the pipe as each individual bubble lost tension and let go.
Letting go is an art.
And I am not an artist.
I'm a killer.
It's not for pleasure, though there is some of that. Lady Justice is tantamount to my god. I serve her single-mindedly, but there is no blindfold. I am prejudice, human—so human.
Would the world be safer with me under lock and key? One less terrorist wreaking havoc. Or more dangerous? One less soldier fighting for justice.
Blue barked. I looked through the fogged glass seeing nothing but gray shapes in the mist. Blue barked again and I turned the water off and opened the shower door, a cloud of steam coming with me into the room.
Another bark, a "hello,” a "there is someone here," a "someone we trust" bark. Grabbing a towel off the rack I left the bathroom; making wet prints on the carpeting as I padded through the bedroom into the living room. Blue sat by the door, his large tail swishing back and forth.
He barked again, turning to look at me, his mismatched eyes bright with excitement. He pushed his large head against my hip, urging me toward the door with a soft whine.
Mulberry stood in the hallway, his broad shoulders taking up the width of the doorway. He wore a subdued yellow and green plaid shirt that brought out the same colors in his eyes. Silver and black stubble covered his jaw.
Blue pushed past me and wriggled his body against Mulberry's legs. The former New York detective broke his gaze from mine and looked down at my dog. He ruffled Blue's head. "Hey, boy."
"I wasn't expecting you."
Mulberry looked up at me, his hand still on Blue. "That's the first thing you say?"
"Hi."
He smiled and gave off a little laugh. "I figured I'd stop by and see you. We left things a little ..."
"I thought I was pretty clear."
"I'm not sure it's entirely up to you to decide."
"I'm not sure about having this conversation in a towel."
Mulberry raised an eyebrow. "I don't think you need it."
"Come on in; I'll get dressed."
He followed me into the living room, clicking the door into place.
I dressed in a pair of dark, indigo jeans and a white T-shirt, one of the few I had without any stains. Blue's tail wagged and his tongue lolled out. "Don't look so excited,” I told Blue before returning to the living room.
Mulberry waited on the couch. "You want a drink?"
"Sure."
I crossed to the small kitchenette and grabbed us each a bottle of sparkling water; cracking one open, it released that fizzing sound.
Mulberry came up behind me and placed his hand on my hip. I turned to him and opened my mouth to protest, but he shook his head.
He stepped closer so that our bodies brushed. His face was right above mine, his chin angled down, as I stared at his collarbones.
He fisted the short locks at the base of my skull and pulled gently so that my chin rose and our lips touched. His kiss was achingly familiar and electrifyingly new. The smell of him brought back memories I was afraid to face.
The pain of my brother's murder lanced through me; the paleness of his skin, the vivid red of his blood as he died—the gaping wound his loss left in me.
Everybody I love ends up dead. And not some gentle kiss into the night. They leave this world in violence and suffering; they end in misery.
I couldn't watch Mulberry die.
Was the pain of loving him and denying him worse than the ache I feared?
Mulberry's hand squeezed my hip, pressing our bodies together. His heart thumped so hard that I felt it against my breasts. Light danced behind my closed lids. My hands ran over his strong shoulders, caressing the corded muscles, before curving around his neck, intertwining and pulling at him.
Everything about it felt right, except for the consequences.
Mulberry's hands slipped under my shirt and he groaned against my mouth as the rough callouses of his fingers found my bare flesh.
"Stop thinking so much." His lips moved against my neck.
"I'm trying to be smart."
He laughed, his breath hot against my shoulder. "You've never been good at that."
"Hey."
"You're all instinct." A shiver ran from his lips over my skin. "You're overthinking this thing." I closed my eyes and relished the way we fit, the familiarity and the danger, the tugging of my heart toward him. This love wasn't a controllable force. "Stop trying to keep us all safe, Sydney."
"I have to."
He brought his head up, his steady gaze held mine. "You have to keep yourself safe."
"I'm—"
His eyes narrowed as my voice failed me. He shook his head and smiled a lazy, sexy grin. "You're not going to prison. Only a fool would waste an asset like you."
"What?" Fear spiked through me. "How do you kn
ow?" Blue was whining. "Just a minute, Mulberry." I shook him and he just kept up that grin, that all knowing, glinting-eyed smile.
Blue's whine pitched up.
"Stop!" I yelled, rolling over, my sheets tangled around me.
I stared across the expanse of the king-sized bed at Blue, who stood next to it, a soft whine pulling me fully out of the dream. The height of a Great Dane, with the coat of a wolf and the long, regal snout of a Collie, Blue had one blue eye and one brown. His eyebrows were raised and pushed together, creating a crease at the top of his long snout. He was worried about me.
I relaxed into the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. Just me and Blue were in the room. Mulberry was thousands of miles away.
My dreams were getting more vivid. The soft rumble of thunder sent a shiver of panic through me.
I didn't look at the window, not wanting to see that the sky was blue and the Pacific Ocean placid. Not wanting confirmation that my mind was tricking me, again. That I was broken, delusional. Crazy.
I threw off the blankets. Blue pranced happily and licked at my bare knee as I crossed the room to my chest of drawers and pulled out jogging clothing. Blue swung his tail, tapping his feet with excitement.
I shook my head, trying to dispel the unease that throbbed in my body.
I didn’t bother with a leash for Blue. Here on the island, it wasn't necessary. I took the elevator down to the ground level and made my way through the warren of passages that led to the outside. Pushing through the final door, the sun glared into my eyes and I squinted against it.
Would this be one of the last times I saw the sun? Would Declan Doyle lock me in a cell without windows? I looked down at Blue and my chest tightened. How could I leave him?
Blue stayed at my hip as I walked along the dirt path. It wound around the volcano. The trail was over thirty miles long so I usually just jogged out for five miles and then back.
I broke into an easy run, my limbs warming up. The day wasn't hot yet, just very warm, the air moist and salty. As we came out from under the tree covering, the Pacific Ocean glittered in front of us. Blue touched his nose to my hip. Did he know how beautiful it was? Even in his black-and-white vision, was the ocean awe-inspiring?
I picked up my pace and the trail curled around the mountainside, the volcano rising to my right, and an almost sheer cliff of black, volcanic rock that ended in the Pacific Ocean to my left. Waves slapped against the rocks, spraying white foam.
The island was the headquarters of Joyful Justice, the vigilante network named after my birth name, Joy Humbolt.
Dan Burke, our head of operations, purchased the island from the estate of a billionaire. A prepper, paranoid about the fate of the world, he'd designed and constructed a safe haven that could house almost a hundred people, inside the inactive volcano.
Now, the basement levels were used for our headquarters, and the top floors were housing. This was where all of the missions for Joyful Justice were planned and led from.
Most of the people who lived and worked here didn’t know I was the inspiration for the organization. I faked Joy’s death years ago, hoping to end the fascination with her, but all I did was make her a martyr. Now, Declan Doyle, a former New York Police detective and current Homeland Security asshat was blackmailing me, threatening to reveal my true identity and other secrets about my past.
I picked up my pace, my feet pounding against the soft, dirt path, my breath long and steady, my muscles beginning to burn. Blue sprinted ahead of me, looking back over his shoulder, his tongue lolling out, his smile infectious. The pure delight he experienced on a run was half the reason I did it. The other half was to steady my mind and keep myself sane. Too bad it wasn't working the way that it used to.
My trainer, Merl, taught me to run when he first met me. When I was sprinting, my lungs fighting for air, my muscles on fire, there was no room in my head for questions or fear. It was just me in my body, racing.
Blue barked and I picked up my pace, legs flying, extending to their full length. We came around a bend; the wind whipping off the ocean kicked my hair around my face so that it stung my cheeks. Blue barked and I slowed. Someone was coming in the opposite direction.
Merl’s three Dobermans came charging down the path with him close behind. He wore his long, tightly curled, black hair up in a bun. Mirrored aviators sat on his nose.
We both came to a stop as the dogs greeted each other. The path was narrow here and a frisson of fear jostled me as the dogs pranced around each other. Of course, they could handle it; they knew where the edge was. They knew how far to push it. I wish I shared their insights.
"Good morning," Merl said. I returned the greeting, the “good” sticking in my throat. "You okay?" Merl took off his glasses. His big brown eyes framed by thick lashes caught my gaze.
"Sure, yeah. I just didn't sleep well."
Merl nodded slowly. "You sure? You've been kind of off lately.”
I looked away from him. The wounds on Merl's wrist had healed, leaving fat, red scars. He'd recently been imprisoned himself, taken hostage in China while trying to rescue his love, Mo Ping. I'd saved him—the way that he had always saved me.
Could he help me now? Was there any help for me?
"How is Mo Ping?" I asked, changing the subject, looking out to the sea, hiding from him.
"She's good. Are you?" Merl reached out and touched my forearm, trying to get me to look at him. I kept my gaze averted. "Are you seeing things again?"
Merl knew what it was to love from afar; he'd spent years pining after Mo Ping before admitting his feelings. I could tell him about Mulberry. That was safe. "I dreamed about Mulberry last night."
Merl nodded, his lips set with empathy.
"Why don’t you go to Costa Rica? Go see him." Mulberry was at our training camp deep in the Central American jungle half-way around the world. Merl was headed back there soon himself. If I hadn't promised to meet Declan Doyle in Tokyo so that he could lock me up in exchange for keeping my secrets, I'd have that option.
"Maybe I will,” I lied.
"You could use a break. You’ve been going nonstop."
I nodded and looked over at him. Merl smiled, raising his eyebrows, trying to remind me that we were friends, that I could trust him.
"I'll see you at the council meeting today." I started to move past him.
"Sure, sounds good."
I picked up my pace again, just a gentle run. Blue tapping his nose rhythmically against my hip. Mulberry’s kiss flirted through my mind and his words resounded inside my skull.
An asset? I stopped running, my feet freezing to the ground. Of course! I might not know when thunder was real, but I was an asset. Declan would be a fool to lock me up and throw away the key. There were things I could do that no one else on the planet could, connections I had that no one else did, and that made me way too important to disappear. I turned around and ran back toward Merl, his dogs alerting him to my approach. Merl turned and cocked his head in question.
I was out of breath when I reached him. "Merl, there is something I’ve got to tell you.”
***
We sat in Dan's office, five stories underground, overlooking the headquarters of Joyful Justice. Through the interior window, I could see the wall of screens and banks of desks facing it. There were no active missions at the moment, but the screens displayed several aerial shots, places we were watching, reconnaissance missions.
I had just finished telling them about the deal I had made with Declan Doyle. Doyle was a New York City cop when I first met him and was now an important operative for Homeland Security. He was the only person in authority who knew my secrets—that Sydney Rye was Joy Humbolt; that Joy the Martyr was thus still alive; and that it was Bobby Maxim, not Joy, who killed the mayor of New York City—the celebrated act that had made Joy an inspiration to so many.
Maxim had tried unsuccessfully to assassinate Doyle. Now Doyle was threatening to expose the truth about Joy/Sydney, destroying the mytho
logy at the core of Joyful Justice, if I didn’t turn myself in to him and go to prison for my various crimes.
"So, you're telling me that Declan Doyle isn't dead,” Dan said. His sun-bleached, brown hair was long, and he pushed it out of his eyes as he sat forward, his back to his desk that was covered in computer monitors. Merl and I sat on the black, leather couch, facing him. Our dogs lounged around the office, Blue by my feet, his eyes closed and breath even.
"That's right. He killed the assassin Robert Maxim sent after him and then made his offer to me.”
Dan sat back in his chair; it creaked under his weight. He was over six feet tall, and pure wiry muscle. He led a stand-up paddleboard group four days a week, his way of getting the "computer nerds" out of the basement. His light-green eyes seemed even brighter against the dark tan of his skin.
"And you waited a week to tell us this?” Dan raised his eyebrows. A host of accusations were in that one sentence: you don't trust us, you’re not a team player, you don't love me.
"It just occurred to me that he's not going to lock me up."
"I agree with her,” Merl said. "I'm sure that Homeland Security wants something from her. Otherwise, there would be no reason to keep it secret. They'd want to announce her capture.”
"So? What do you want to do?" Dan asked.
I was surprised he wasn't giving me more shit. Then again, maybe he'd finally realized what I was capable of. Or, more to the point, not capable of.
Dan and I had spent about six months together enjoying something very similar to love. Living in a small bungalow in Goa, India, he tended a garden and smoked hash while I read paperback novels. We shared a deep intimacy during that time, something I’d never had before, or since. The memory of his touch gave me strength. Dan was gentle and firm, strong and vulnerable: a wonderful man. It was the simplest my life had been since my brother's murder. The most peaceful. But, I couldn’t live that way. There was no simple happiness for me. Unfortunately for Dan.
"I think we should let her go, and see how it plays out,” Merl said. "You can track her, stay in touch. I don't think having a working relationship with Homeland Security is a terrible idea."
The Girl With The Gun (Sydney Rye Book 8) Page 1
