He couldn't hear anything but the thundering of the helicopter until he reached the ground, where the crackling and sputtering of exploding sap reached him. Racing to the figure laying on the ground, his heart thundered.
But the body wasn't Sydney Rye.
It was a boy, wearing traditional herder’s clothing. He'd been shot in the face, a gaping bullet hole in one cheek, the exit wound leaving a pool of blood that soaked the forest floor. Robert kneeled next to the body and placed his fingertips at the boy’s neck. Still alive.
The flames had engulfed a small stand of trees. Robert stared into the blackened embers surrounded by orange flames. Was that a lean-to?
Robert grabbed the boy by the arms and hauled him toward the landing zone, his gaze raking the ground. Big dog prints. His heart picked up as a jolt of joy raced through him. Blue was alive. He'd been here!
The boy in his grasp groaned, but his eyes didn't open. Clear of the thick smoke and hot flames, Robert kneeled beside him and packed the wound to keep him from bleeding out, while making sure he could breathe.
Then he heaved the boy onto his shoulders, grabbed the still-lowered ladder and began to climb back to the helicopter.
This boy wasn't going to die. He was going to lead Robert Maxim straight to Sydney Rye.
Chapter Thirteen
Mulberry
Mulberry got out of a taxi in front of a narrow, elegant building in the Taksim neighborhood of Istanbul. Hotel O. Surrounded by lively cafes, bars, and enough historic sites to keep a tourist happy for days, April Madden's choice of lodging made sense for a first-time visitor to the city that straddled Europe and Asia.
Painted in chic tones of gray, the lobby smelled of mint tea and floor polish. Mulberry approached the desk clerk, a woman wearing a hijab and a polite smile.
"Hi, I'm looking for a friend. April Madden. Is she still here?"
The woman's smile faltered, and her eyes flicked down to her computer. "She's no longer a guest." She looked back up at Mulberry. "I think you should speak with my manager."
Mulberry waited while the woman stepped through a door. She returned a moment later and gestured for him to follow. A man with shiny black hair and a three-piece suit offered him a seat in his cramped office.
"April Madden is friend of yours?" He asked in a cultured accent. Mulberry nodded. "She left without paying her bill." The desk clerk stood at the door, blocking his exit. Mulberry almost laughed at the idea that the slight woman would keep him from escaping.
"I'd be happy to cover the cost. Can you tell me what happened? Is she okay?"
The manager's eyes flicked to the clerk. Mulberry turned. "She asked me where the closest church was, and I directed her to the Ohan Voskiperan Church. She came back several hours later clearly intoxicated, and then left soon afterwards with just her briefcase."
Mulberry nodded, his mind racing. April Madden was drinking again.
"Did she take her belongings?"
"Some—we went in this morning, after she didn't check out, and discovered her clothing and some toiletry items, but no identification documents or money."
"May I see them?" The clerk looked back at the manager. "After I settle the bill, of course. I'd like to return her things to her when I find her."
The manager nodded, and the clerk left.
"Do you have a list of local hospitals?" Mulberry asked.
The manager let Mulberry use his office to make calls. No one matching April's description had been admitted to the closest medical facilities. In her belongings, he found only clothing and a gold necklace with a cross pendant. No phone, passport, or credit cards.
"I think she's on a bender," he told Dan that evening. "I went and asked around at a few bars; I'll go back out tonight. But no one has seen her for two days. Hopefully, she's sobering up somewhere and will head back to her husband."
But fear niggled at the back of Mulberry's mind. What if he was wrong? What if April Madden was on her way to Daesh territory?
"You're probably right," Dan agreed.
"I'm heading out tomorrow. We haven’t heard anything new from Zerzan or Robert… Sydney's been gone for more than three days. I need to get there."
"Agreed. I don't think Zerzan is making it a priority, and I don't trust Robert Maxim."
"He wants to find her as much as we do."
"I'm sure he does. For all we know he's the one who has her…"
Mulberry hadn't thought of that. "Shit."
"If it's any consolation, Zerzan doesn't think he does. But hopefully, with you on the ground, we'll be able to do more."
Mulberry ran a hand through his hair and grunted.
"Your sister send you any locations yet?" Mulberry could hear Dan typing over the line. The guy was a multi-tasker. Sydney Rye missing mattered to him personally, but in the grand scheme of things, it wasn't the most important thing happening in the world. Dan was responsible for all the missions of Joyful Justice, and they had missions all over the planet. People needed them.
"I'll let you know as soon as I have anything."
"Good."
They hung up, and Mulberry set his alarm. He'd start his journey to Kurdish territory in the morning. Zerzan and her connections seemed like the best hope they had for finding Sydney Rye.
Mulberry carried a backpack and no weapons except his fists as he travelled toward the contested Kurdish area along the Turkish-Syrian border.
The aged bus stank of stale sweat and the ripe, earthy scent of chickens, whose feathers floated in the hot breeze pouring through the open windows.
When Mulberry disembarked in the small village of Saflkalakh, his contact, a man named Dylan, was waiting for him, leaning against a beat-up, gray pickup. His loose-fitting clothing and the checkered scarf around his neck matched those of the locals, but his pale, reddened skin and dark green eyes marked him as an Englishman. The Brit was thin and wiry, his body pure muscle.
Dylan held out a scarred, tattooed, and calloused hand. "Nice to meet you." Mulberry recognized the South London accent from his years living and working in that city.
"Good to be here," Mulberry said, and shook the offered hand.
They got into Dylan's pickup; the upholstered seats were held together by duct tape, and the windshield had a crack right down the center.
They drove over dirt roads, a plume of dust billowing behind them. Dylan parked the truck in front of a modest home of cinderblock, rebar sticking out of the roof, like they'd planned to build a second floor but just hadn't gotten there yet.
Inside, the home was stifling hot, even with all the windows open. Dylan turned on a small fan and offered Mulberry tea.
"Just water, please," he swabbed at his brow with a bandana. The most useful freaking invention ever.
As Dylan ladled a glass of water from an earthen basin on the counter Mulberry stepped up to the window and looked out at the yard. A small kitchen garden bloomed. Though the leaves were coated in dust from the road, the tomatoes shone red in the sun and an apricot tree heavy with fruit gave off a rich, sweet scent that the small fan in the window carried into the kitchen.
"We wait now until dark." Dylan passed him the glass of water.
Mulberry nodded and then drank it down in several gulps.
Dylan showed Mulberry to a room with a mattress on the floor. "I suggest you try to get some rest. It will be a busy night ."
Mulberry stripped down to his underwear and lay down in the sweltering room, watching the sun move across the wall, finally fading into the gray blue of twilight. The room cooled, and he drifted off.
Mulberry dreamed of Sydney. She was close, her face hovering above his, her gray eyes sparkling with humor. She was making fun of him. His chest rumbled with laughter as she leaned close and whispered in his ear…Go home, Mulberry. Or you'll die here.
He sat up with a jolt, the room dark, his body chilled—the sun took all the warmth with it. He pulled on his shirt, trying to shake the dream from his mind.
Maybe he would die. Mul
berry was headed into a war zone, a war with few established rules and where it was hard to tell friend from foe. But it was worth it. What kind of man wouldn't risk his life to find the woman he loved?
She had told him to leave her alone, that they'd never work out. That she was incapable of a relationship. That didn't mean he was going to leave her in Daesh territory, wounded and missing. No, he couldn't live like that.
He'd rather die.
Dylan knocked on the door, and Mulberry joined him in the kitchen where two candles in the center of the table provided the only light. Taking a seat, Mulberry watched Dylan cut up a tomato and add it to plates of sliced chicken.
Dylan had changed into a tight, black T-shirt and cargo pants. His exposed arms crawled with tattoos. The anarchy symbol shared space with imagery of snakes and skulls. Mulberry's eyes traveled up to Dylan’s exposed neck, where a python head graced the man's Adam's apple.
He came to the table, sliding a plate in front of Mulberry.
"Thank you."
Dylan nodded. "I hear you're a very important person."
Mulberry caught his eye. Was he being sarcastic? "Not in the grand scheme of things, but I can help."
Dylan's eyes travelled over Mulberry's arms, thick and corded with muscles, tan from his months in Costa Rica.
"You're a fighter?"
"Recently, I've been training others, and working in more of an…administrative role. You?"
"I'm headed back to the front lines once I drop you off to Z." Dylan picked up his fork and began to eat.
"Back to the front lines? How long have you been here?"
Dylan looked up at the ceiling, thinking. "Soon after Daesh broke away from Al Qaeda, so…three years, I guess."
"You're an anarchist?" Mulberry gestured to the tattoo on Dylan's forearm.
He nodded. "I'm a part of the Rojava Revolution. I believe in a 'stateless democracy'. I'm as against capitalist modernity as I am Islamic fundamentalism."
Mulberry returned to his chicken—philosophical discussions were best to be avoided.
Dylan sat forward. "There are a lot more foreign fighters on their side. Can you believe it?" He shook his head. "My grandfather died fighting fascists. He went to Spain and fought in the Civil War. Tens of thousands of Europeans and Americans went and fought there. You know why?" Mulberry figured it was a rhetorical question. "Because they recognized the dangers of fascism."
"You think people can't see the dangers of Daesh?" Mulberry asked, skewering another tomato with his fork.
"They can, but people don't think it affects them, I guess."
"It affects you?"
"Look mate, I was trained as a sniper by the British government. And I killed a lot of people for them. I followed orders. And when we went into Iraq, we fucked it up." He waved his arm around the small kitchen. "This whole mess started with that invasion."
Mulberry nodded, but didn't respond. The problems of the Middle East, of zealotry, were certainly exacerbated by the US-led invasion of Iraq, but the first caliphate dated back a millennium. The call to form an Islamic State was nothing new.
"The Kurdish people deserve their own state. They’re the only sober-minded motherfuckers around here. All these religious nut bags…" Dylan's fist clenched on the table. "I'm sorry." He cast his eyes down to his empty plate. "I just—" He scratched at his head, then looked up at Mulberry. The small flames from the candles danced in Dylan's green eyes. "I'm just sick of it."
"I hear you."
Dylan pushed back from the table, clearing his plate. "We should go," he said, his back to Mulberry, his gaze directed out to the garden.
They climbed into the truck; Dylan handed Mulberry a pistol and placed his long distance rifle in the space behind his seat. "We shouldn't run into any problems. Zerzan and her troops are stationed up in the hills, far from the front lines. As long as the Turks don't fuck with us, we should be fine."
They left the village behind and began to wind up into the steep mountains. The air chilled even further, and Dylan closed the windows, turning on the heat.
"Thanks for doing this," Mulberry said.
"No problem. Zerzan asked me to." He grinned, a note of humor in his voice. "I speak really good English."
Mulberry laughed. He eyed the sniper rifle. "You prefer working with the Kurds rather than the British government?"
Dylan nodded. "I'm in a mostly international crew. We've got a few Italians—those guys are nuts—some Americans, and a few other Brits."
Dylan took his eyes off the twisting road to hold Mulberry's gaze for a moment. "Z said you were important. That you were going to help us win the war."
Mulberry raised his brows. "Did she?"
"Aren’t you?" His gaze returned to the road. Mulberry watched his profile. The snake’s head tattooed on Dylan's Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed.
Finding Sydney was his focus, but Mulberry couldn't forget the needs of the people around him—of Zerzan and her troops. Sydney would kill him if she found out that he put them in danger, possibly exposing their location, just to look for her.
Joyful Justice had promised money and guns. They were delivering them in part through Dog Fight Investigations, the company Robert and Sydney set up before she disappeared.
"I'm here to look for the woman I love," he admitted. "But I'm certainly planning on doing everything I can to make sure Daesh is defeated."
Dylan laughed. "The woman you love?" He flicked his eyes onto Mulberry again. "Wow, brother. You're in trouble."
Mulberry shrugged. "I have been since the day I met her."
"Tell me about this lass." Dylan's shoulders relaxed a little. He seemed to enjoy gossip.
"She's tough as nails."
Dylan grinned. "Very nice."
"Smart and dangerous."
"Oh, I do like the sound of her."
"She fights for justice with every breath. She's dedicated her entire adult life to righting wrongs."
"Has she now? Good on her. She fighting with Z then?"
"She was."
Dylan glanced over at him. "Oh, mate, is it that Sydney chick?"
To hear her name mentioned so casually struck Mulberry hard; it vibrated through him. "You know her?” His voice sounded almost choked.
"No, never knew her." Dylan cleared his throat and shifted in his seat.
"She's just missing," Mulberry said.
Dylan nodded, his gaze focused on the road.
The night suddenly lit up with an explosion, and a cloud of black smoke quickly enveloped them. Dylan slammed on the brakes. The truck skidded to a halt, turning to the side, the back end sliding toward the cliff to their right.
"Get down!" Dylan yelled, reaching for his gun.
Mulberry's system filled with adrenaline as the car shook from bullet impacts. He pushed open his door, tucking the pistol Dylan had given him into the waistband of his jeans.
Mulberry slipped to the ground, crouching down, the cliff a few feet in front of him. The right back tire of the truck teetered at its edge. His heart thudded as he took in the cliff—the edge disappeared into pure blackness.
"We're gonna have to go down," Dylan grabbed Mulberry's bicep, pulling him toward the ground.
"Down?"
Dylan didn't answer, just stomach-crawled toward the abyss. Bullets pinged into the abandoned pick up. Smoke and dust clogged Mulberry's senses.
The lip of the cliff crumbled as Dylan, the sniper rifle on his back, lowered himself over the edge. The soft soil gave way and Dylan's fingers slipped, disappearing from sight.
Mulberry was going to die.
On this lonely road in the middle of the mountains—he was going to fall to his death or get shot.
"Hurry up!" Dylan yelled. Mulberry's heart surged at the sound of his voice. There must be a ledge down there.
Mulberry maneuvered to the cliff's rim. A bullet hit a nearby rock, shattering it and sending spray into Mulberry's face. Tiny stings lit up his cheeks, but he ignored the
m, the fear of falling far greater than anything caused by a shard of stone.
He stuck his feet over the cliff and began to maneuver downward, his fingers gripping for purchase on the rough, loose ground. A hand grabbed his ankle, and relief washed through Mulberry as Dylan guided him down.
The darkness obscured Dylan's face, and all but a few feet of the ledge they stood upon. Dylan gripped his elbow and began to run.
Stones fell away from their feet and tumbled down, the sound tightening Mulberry's chest. The loud retort of high-powered weapons continued above and behind them.
Mulberry's foot slipped, and he stumbled forward, grasping at Dylan, digging his fingers into the man's shirt. "Come on, mate," Dylan urged, steadying Mulberry with a strong grip. "Don't tell me you've never navigated the edge of a cliff through pitch black while getting shot at before." The Brit's voice was low and filled with humor.
"I'm afraid of heights," Mulberry retorted.
Dylan whistled. "You picked the wrong pursuits in life then, didn't you?" Mulberry's right shoulder brushed against the cliff face as they ran. "This is a goat path, and it gets very narrow up ahead. I'll go first and you hold onto the back of my shirt."
Mulberry did as he was told, gripping the sniper's shirt right under his gun. Mulberry's eyes adjusted, and he could make out the narrow ledge—could see the cliff to his right. The drop wasn't as steep as he'd feared…it wouldn't be a free-fall to oblivion; there were lots of boulders and other outcroppings to grab if he slipped.
They were following the trail down the mountain. Above them Mulberry heard their pursuers following, yelling to each other. "Who is that?" Mulberry panted. "Who is trying to kill us?"
"Turkish army."
"Do they know who we are?"
"They know we are trying to enter Kurdish territory at night. They are trying to capture us, mate, not kill us. They'd have blown us up, otherwise."
"Comforting." And it was. They were not shooting to kill. That was good news. Not that Mulberry wanted to see what a Turkish prison looked like, or experience their interrogation techniques.
"There is a cave up here." Dylan ducked into a crack in the mountain. Mulberry followed, his hand still gripping Dylan's shirt.
In Sheep's Clothing Page 6
