God was calling to her.
April swiped her face and stood. Slipping her shoes back on, she grabbed the metal case and went down to the lobby. The bell had silenced, but the church must be close.
At the concierge desk, a young woman wearing a headscarf and a polite smile greeted her.
"Where's the closest church?"
The woman pulled out a map of the local area and using a pen showed her the way.
April left the hotel following the map. The air in Istanbul smelled like incense and smoke and grilled fish. Darkness had fallen, and the outdoor tables were filled by men smoking and drinking. Their gazes passed over her, ignoring her swollen eyes and thin frame. She was invisible.
But their eyes flashed onto the metal case. Money drew attention. She needed to get a new bag, something less ostentatious.
The church rose up from the street, its bell tower reaching for the heavens. Worshippers streamed in through the propped open doors. She fit into the flow and slipped through the entrance. The church enveloped her. The smell of it, the murmuring voices, the familiar flickering lights, all wrapped around her like an old friend's embrace.
She made the sign of the cross before stepping into one of the pews.
The service was Catholic, and in Turkish, so she didn't understand a word but her mind stilled in that space. She closed her eyes and took deep breaths, reconnecting to God, feeling His presence all around her in these people, these walls.
When it came time for communion and the worshippers stood up, approaching the priests who held the wafers and the goblet of wine, the body and blood of Christ, April joined them.
The priest's white robes shimmered in the candlelight, his brown eyes warm and welcoming as she knelt before him. He placed the wafer on her tongue, and it melted there, flavorless and yet nourishing. He held the wine to her lips, the jammy sweetness of it laving her tongue as she swallowed deeply.
April’s eyes closed, and a moan escaped her lips.
The priests cocked his head and wore a nervous smile.
Something awoke in April. That creature she'd been keeping in amber stirred. The wine melted that solid stuff away, leaving just the beast unfurling inside of her.
A smile caressed April’s lips, and the priest stumbled back. She stood, her grip tight on the briefcase, and turned, leaving the church and entering the night, hungry for more.
Chapter Eight
Robert
Bobby maneuvered his Jeep through thick traffic. The whisper of air conditioning dulled the yelling and honking, but the scents of fresh meat, trash, and dust passed through the filters.
It always smelled like dust in this country.
He pulled up into an alley and parked. The old Jeep, with its rusted body and bald tires, disguised his wealth and status. Robert’s worn clothing, the scarf around his hair, and the dark sunglasses made him difficult to describe and hard to notice.
He entered through the back door of the cleric's building, pulling off his glasses in the dark, shadowed hall. Sounds echoed in other parts of the building—footsteps running, a child's high-pitched squeal, quickly followed by a low, gruff condemnation.
Everyone had to stay in line around here.
Bobby patted his inside pocket, feeling the hard rectangle of cash.
This was his last stop for the day. Hopefully, Abu Hussein would have intel about what happened to Sydney. Robert's usual patience, his ability to allow events to unfold without judgment or panic, had eluded him since Sydney's disappearance two days earlier.
Driving around the countryside, visiting his contacts, asking if any of them had heard of an injured woman being taken in by a goat herder, had proved fruitless.
Not a single one of them knew anything. They weren't lying; Bobby could tell when people were lying. His contacts just didn't know…nor did they care. But they would. In a day or two, when word got around that he was looking for her, they'd all start to care.
Robert's combat boots thudded on the cement floor, the sound dampened by thick rugs hanging on the walls.
A guard Robert recognized as Abu Ahmed stood at the cleric's door. Broad shoulders, deep-set eyes, and an AK-47 over his shoulder, made him an intimidating presence.
Abu Ahmed would die for the cleric.
The way they raised these boys over here, instilling belief in a vengeful God who'd left a clear set of rules for them to enforce—it led to zealotry. Made them think that life here, now, didn't matter. They looked forward to the end.
A shiver ran up Robert's back. Religion was a powerful drug. The most addictive of them all.
Abu Ahmed nodded at Bobby and opened the door. Abu Hussein, the cleric for the Rabil region, sat on a thick cushion, the cement floor covered by an intricate rug. The man's beard, streaked with silver, reached his round belly.
Abu Hussein raised a hand, motioning for Bobby to enter, a small smile parting his lips. Turning to a young boy, he ordered tea.
Bobby slipped off his shoes and sat on a cushion across from the cleric. "Assalamualaikum. Peace be unto you." He bowed his head, slipping the money out of his inside pocket. He passed the silk-wrapped bundle to the cleric. "For your school."
Sydney Rye would kill Abu Hussein if she knew the things he'd done, the violence he preached. She would break his neck with her bare hands.
She was so fierce.
The cleric took the package, weighed it in his palm, and nodded before pushing it under a pillow by his knee.
"Good to see you. It's been some time." Robert usually sent his men to do these deliveries. Once he made the initial contact, Robert rarely took the time to come himself. But this was different. "It's heavier today. You have a request?" The holy man raised his eyebrows; did Robert want someone killed or information?
"Yes, I'm looking for a woman."
The ghost of a smile crossed the cleric's lips.
The door creaked open, and the boy entered with a tray. They sat in silence as the kid, never making eye contact, placed tulip-shaped glasses in front of them. Steam scented with mint hovered above the dark amber tea. The boy left, closing the door behind him.
"A woman?" the cleric asked. "I never thought you had trouble in that department, but there are several markets nearby. I can give you a list."
Robert kept his face still, hiding his disgust. "This is a very specific woman. Dark hair, gray eyes, has a dog that looks like a wolf. She was injured, and I think a herder took her in. Have you heard of anything like that?"
The cleric lifted his tea and blew at the steam. Robert picked up his own glass and sipped at the strong stuff. "I have not heard of this woman."
Robert nodded and sipped his drink. He waited, letting the silence sink in, letting his nonchalance permeate the room. "Please do let me know if anything reaches you."
The cleric nodded, his beard brushing the top of his stomach. "She means something to you, personally?"
Robert shook his head. "I just need her."
"I'll ask the herders in my community. But if an injured woman was taken in, as I'm sure you know, word would have reached me."
"Of course. You are very well respected." Robert bowed his head in deference.
He left a few minutes later after finishing his tea and exchanging more pleasantries with the cleric. Back in his Jeep, Robert pulled into traffic, his eyes, shielded behind the dark shades, scanning the streets. The Daesh flags fluttering on the buildings sickened him. But he needed to be here. Needed to make more contacts, go deeper, if he wanted to find Sydney Rye.
How far would he have to go?
A group of soldiers grabbed a man and dragged him into traffic, blocking the road. The soldiers forced the civilian onto his knees. One of them brought out a video camera. Another pulled out a hatchet.
Fuck.
The horns quieted, the traffic stopped, and the world stood still as that blade sliced through the air and sunk into the civilian's neck, almost decapitating him. The hatchet flew again, and this time the head came off
, rolling awkwardly across the pavement, blood arching out of it.
Robert forced himself to watch. Forced his face to stay expressionless. He must not reveal any weakness.
Chapter Nine
Mulberry
Charlene looked good; her auburn hair flowed in sensuous waves to her shoulders. Her emerald green eyes lit up when they landed on him.
Mulberry stood up off his barstool to embrace her.
She smelled like coconut and lavender: exotic and comforting in the same breath.
"It's good to see you," Charlene said, stepping back but keeping her hands on his shoulders. "You look good. Tan." She cocked her head "But tired."
Mulberry shrugged. "I haven't been sleeping great. It's good to see you. I'm happy to see you so well."
"Should we sit?" Charlene gestured into the restaurant. They'd chosen to meet at the Ritz—Charlene loved the wine list, and it had top-notch security.
Mulberry picked up his drink and followed Charlene to the hostess stand. Their table pressed up against the large, plate glass window. The moon hung low and full at the horizon, casting its blue glow over the Nile. They settled at the white cloth-covered table, and Mulberry stared out at the water. The lights of the city spread for as far as he could see. On the banks of the Nile, men hawking souvenirs waited for customers.
What was life like for those men? Did they think about the geo-political forces that so crowded Mulberry's existence? Was their life simpler? Or was that just a fantasy? Everybody had problems.
Charlene ordered a glass of wine and then turned to Mulberry. "So, you finally come for a visit. But, of course, there is business involved." A smile teased her lips.
"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner. I've been busy."
They'd never been close—didn't grow up in the same household, though they shared a father. Over fifteen years separated their childhoods. Charlene's mother resented their father, a New York cop killed in the line of duty. She'd begged him to leave the force before his death and felt that his refusal meant he didn't love her and Charlene enough.
Mulberry thought it meant he was an honorable man, one willing to die for what was right, to protect his family and everyone in his city.
He’s never asked Charlene what she thought—she'd been a baby when their father died.
A pang of sadness passed through him, that old grief aching like the shrapnel in a long healed wound.
"Of course," Charlene turned her gaze to the window. "I understand." She looked back at him. "I'm only teasing you."
Mulberry rested his elbows on the table and leaned toward his sister. "Sydney Rye has gone missing."
Charlene frowned. Sydney had saved her life back in New York. Charlene's lover was murdered by the same man who killed Sydney Rye's brother. Mulberry met Sydney while investigating the crime.
Mulberry and Charlene shared blood, but a wide gap separated them, spanned by only a narrow bridge. A bridge that Sydney Rye had helped to build.
"I'm sorry to hear that. Where?"
"In Daesh territory." Charlene's eyebrows rose. "You have connections there?"
Charlene bit off a laugh. "Why would I have connections in Daesh territory, Ralph?" Mulberry flinched…nobody used his first name.
"There are sex slave markets there and—"
Charlene interrupted. "You know I have nothing to do with that."
"Of course not." Mulberry shook his head. He was messing this up. "But, it's a part of your business."
"It's completely different. I'm a dominatrix, Mulberry; all the people who work for me dominate. Sex slaves are prisoners—they’re powerless."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Charlene smiled and leaned forward, pushing it back into place.
"You look almost like a wild thing, with that long hair and dark tan."
The tension in Mulberry eased a little. "I didn't mean to insult you."
"I know." Charlene sat back, looking over her shoulder. "Where is that wine?" She smiled at Mulberry. "I need a drink for this conversation."
Mulberry held out his bourbon to her. She took it and sipped, watching him over the lip of the glass.
"I know you'd never buy slaves or have anything to do with that. But you could get information. Couldn't you?"
"You think she's been sold into slavery?"
"It's a possibility." Mulberry gritted his teeth.
Charlene handed him back his glass as the waiter returned with her wine. They ordered, and once the waiter left, Charlene sipped her drink, her brows drawn together. "I don't know what her worth would be. She's dangerous, she’d never submit. Wouldn't she be able to escape?"
"She was gravely injured."
Charlene's mouth turned down. "They probably wouldn't bother with medical care then. Sounds like she should just be dead somewhere." Charlene shook her head. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that she should be dead, just that she could be." Her voice got quiet, and a shimmer came into her eyes. Mulberry's throat tightened. Of course Charlene was right. But Mulberry just couldn't believe it. Refused to give in to that obvious, logical conclusion.
"Just ask around, okay?"
"Sure, I'll see what I can find out."
If nothing else, they could use the information to target the slave markets and free other women. He'd raid every single one of them on the hunt for Sydney Rye, freeing as many women as he could in the process.
After dinner, Mulberry sat on his bed, the curtains drawn and the TV on, his mind and body exhausted but refusing to rest.
Robert Maxim called. "Where are you?"
"Hello to you, too."
"Oh, sorry, did I hurt your feelings?" Robert's tone pitched up. Mulberry and his silly feelings.
"What do you want?" Anger made his voice harsh. Robert led the mission Sydney didn't come back from—he should've been looking after her, made sure she returned alive. This was all Robert’s fault.
"April Madden is in Istanbul." Shit. "She's determined to find Sydney."
"That's ridiculous." Mulberry stood, crossing to the window and pushing the curtains aside so hard that they rattled on their rod.
"I know that. You know that. But she doesn't. Go to Istanbul and convince her."
"Do you think I work for you?" Mulberry paced away from the window.
"Of course you don't work for me." He said it like he'd never hire him. "But you care about Sydney. And therefore you don't want her mother getting killed trying to enter Daesh-controlled territory."
"How did she even find out her daughter was missing?"
There was a pause on the other end. It was long enough for Mulberry to pace back to the window and stare down at the street, still clogged with traffic. Long enough for Mulberry to figure it out. "You told her? Why in God's name would you do that?"
"Just go find her."
Frustration and anger shot through Mulberry, and he gripped the phone. Robert Fucking Maxim. "She'll never love you." He immediately wanted to take the words back.
Silence ticked by, Mulberry’s heart thudded loudly, his gut roiled, as heat infused his face and throat.
"You think she'll love you?" Robert's voice was as flat as a windless ocean—the kind a sailboat could be marooned in for days, weeks, months—a lifetime of stillness.
"She does love me." He refused to hide it. Wanted to yell it from the rooftops.
"You're wrong." Robert's voice was quiet but firm…almost like he felt bad for Mulberry.
"She told me."
"She lied."
The line went dead.
Mulberry pulled the phone from his ear and looked down at the dark screen. He'd made a tactical error by exposing his emotions to Robert Maxim. Now he had something on Mulberry. Maybe even something on Sydney. Shit.
A text pinged with the address of a hotel in Istanbul. Another followed: it's on your way, after all…
Robert was right; Mulberry planned to fly to Istanbul, then make his way to Zerzan's camp in Kurdish Iraq.
&n
bsp; Dammit. He had to find April Madden and send her home before he could continue the hunt for Sydney Rye.
Chapter Ten
Nadia
Nadia's owner called for her in the evening. She crossed the compound, her body, head, and face covered in black. She watched her feet through black mesh.
Shoes. Socks. Ankles. Toes.
She recited English to herself, trying to lose herself, to disappear.
But her mind kept slipping into the past. Nadia's father handed over their guns to the Daesh soldiers. The mayor stood next to them, his black hair had gone mostly silver since the Daesh forces began to march across Iraq and deep stress lines creased his sunken cheeks.
What choice did they have? Her small village could not defeat an army.
Her mother bounced Hassan, Nadia's youngest brother, on her hip, watching with a deeply furrowed brow.
The soldiers tossed the guns onto the back of a pickup and continued down the street, the truck following slowly behind them. Nadia's father closed the door, the mayor waving to them, a small, tense gesture—trying to be reassuring and failing.
Nadia reached her owner's container. The metal door stood ajar. The soldier escorting her didn't even have to push her forward into it. She had no fight left.
"Come, Nadia, let's prepare dinner," her mother said, putting Hassan on the ground. He walked over to his father and hugged his leg.
"Papa?" The four-year-old boy turned his face up to look at his father. "Who were those men? Why did you give them our things?"
Nadia's father grimaced—he looked pained. She'd never seen him like that. His expression haunted her as she entered the dark, stinking room of her captor.
"Come, Nadia," her mother barked, her voice harsh, angry, upset.
Nadia followed her into the kitchen and threw herself into helping prepare dinner.
In Sheep's Clothing Page 4
