"I am free." She slowly raised her arm, her face twisting with pain as she laid a finger to her temple. "Here I am free."
"I see."
"You saved me. God sent you to protect me."
Robert swallowed and did not respond. He'd pay for her medical treatment, and hopefully the money would be enough to keep the doctor’s mouth shut, but Robert had no intention of taking responsibility for this woman's well-being. She'd return to the harsh world she lived in. And more than likely, the family of her husband would kill her.
As a man who'd spent a year in a small cage, he knew the power of one’s mind. But he also knew that it didn't free you. Only negotiations or violence did that.
The woman in the video wasn't Sydney Rye, though. He'd have recognized her voice. Besides, she wasn't religious. Her mother had seen to that. Nothing like a zealot for a parent to either send you into the arms of God or running from Him.
"This is not the woman I seek." Robert held up the phone. "Where is the…," he had to force himself to say the words, "the Miracle Woman?"
"She is free."
"Where can I find her?" His voice rose with frustration, and he tamped it down, straightening his face, holding onto his patience, a snake tightening around its prey.
"Go to the mountains, to the place where she almost died. If she wants you, she will find you."
"How do you know that?"
"The wolf told me." Her voice faded, and her breath deepened. She was asleep.
Robert watched her, his hand lazily playing over his knee, rubbing the stiffness out. He'd seen thousands of women dressed like the one in the video, dressed the way this woman was when he saw her in the prison cell, and he'd wondered why they did it. He'd researched it, found the passages in the Quran that calls for modesty in dress for both men and women, but that left a lot of interpretation.
The amount a woman covered herself was cultural.
Why was it that women in the West had thrown off their long skirts, demanded the right to vote, fought for their freedom, and here, in the birth place of Jesus, in the cradle of humanity, the same land that nurtured the first civilizations, they were covered? Even more so than in the past.
When Robert first visited Egypt back in the ‘90s, women wore short skirts. A lover of his passed through Robert's mind: golden skin; long, thick black hair; eyes that danced with mischief as she led him back to her room. Cairo had been a wild and fun place. The last time he was there, more than half the women on the street had their heads covered. Islam was becoming more conservative. And the women appeared to want it that way. Why?
It offered them peace…a form of power. They thought they knew what to do—follow the Quran. It laid everything out, how to dress, what to eat, when to pray. Clarity and purpose were key ingredients for power.
He stood, the chair wheezing, and turned to the door. The doctor's wife waited for him in the hall. She grabbed his forearm, and Robert stiffened.
"Are you going searching for the prophet?" The woman asked. Robert didn’t answer. "She is dangerous. Look at that." She gestured to the woman in the bed. "We've seen so much of that lately."
"Of what exactly?"
"Women going against God, against their husbands, against their religion. It must be stopped." Her eyes glinted in the dim hallway.
"Why?"
The woman stepped back. She wasn't covered, wasn't a Muslim, and yet here she was defending another faith. "Look what happened to her. She is almost dead."
Robert nodded, refusing to argue. But admiration for the wolf woman unfurled inside him. She fought back.
He turned away from the doctor's wife and walked into her husband's office. "Keep her safe," he told him.
The doctor smiled and nodded. "We will do our best."
"If she is taken back to prison, I'll kill you." Robert held the smaller man's gaze.
He swallowed, his throat convulsing. "I can't help it if—"
Robert cut him off. "Help her or die."
He turned toward the exit, unclenching his fists. Damn. Why did he do that? Because it’s what Sydney would have wanted. Because it was the right thing to do. Because he could. What was the point of power if you never exercised it?
Robert packed a small bag of supplies. He told Martha that he'd heard of a new route to bring in weapons, and he wanted to check it out.
Martha eyed him across her desk.
"Have you seen the video?" he asked.
"Which one?” She blinked at him, her fingers steepled in front of her.
"The woman."
"Her?" Martha nodded, holding his gaze, examining him. "I've seen it."
"Your thoughts."
Martha leaned forward, her nostrils flaring. "Interesting stuff."
"You've heard about the uprisings," Martha went on, pulling a report from inside her desk. "A slave market in Saudi Arabia just went up in flames." She tossed the file across the desk to him.
Flipping it open, Robert scanned the first two pages. "You think Joyful Justice is involved?"
"Yes."
"This evidence is slim. A single source."
"Reliable though."
Robert shrugged, unconvinced.
"It's in their wheelhouse," Martha said. "A female prophet? Fits pretty nicely into their narrative."
It was his turn to raise his brows. "You think Joyful Justice is involved with this prophet?"
"Yes, why not?" she asked.
"So they just got lucky that someone nearly killed Sydney Rye, and she barely survived?"
Martha's lips tightened. "Or they knew it was going to happen, so they were prepared."
"Maybe they are creating havoc at slave markets because they are despicable, and that's Joyful Justice's thing, going after the despicable."
"Do you think they are looking for Sydney Rye?"
"I'm sure they are. But remember, Sydney Rye's disappearance wouldn't slow down Joyful Justice. She was just one member." Robert sat back, leaving the file on the desk.
"Right." Martha's smile showed her doubt.
"Women's rights have always been at the center of their mission. The very first attack..." Robert left the sentence hanging. Martha knew about the group of sex slaves in Miami who, with Joyful Justice's help, destroyed the clubs they were being forced to work in. Tanya, the leader of that uprising, made a viral video that still circled the globe, inspiring others. "They might not even have been involved," Robert said with a casual shrug. "Maybe they just saw Tanya's video. Or the new Her video."
Martha nodded. The CIA made videos, too. Everyone did these days. Social media was the best way to control and incite the masses.
"This route you're going to explore—why are you going alone?"
Martha was fishing. It wasn't unusual for Robert to explore different regions by himself. He could hide, blend in, disappear. Become a silent observer. "If I'm wrong, I don't want to be obvious about it," he smiled. "A bunch of armed men, or even men who move like soldiers but are dressed like herders…you know I prefer stealth."
A smile pulled at her lips, painted coral today. Robert stared at the lipstick. Did she like wearing it? Did it feel like the paint he applied to his face on night raids—a powerful mask that let him move, deadly and hidden, through the world?
"What did you think of the Her video?"
Martha pursed those coral lips. "Interesting. New."
"New is dangerous."
"Exactly."
"But, what if it works?" Robert leaned forward, enthusiasm for a twist in the fabric of humanity tightening his gut. "What if women everywhere did rise up and demand to be equals?"
"It would be nice to have the company."
Robert laughed. "I imagine so."
She raised her eyebrows. "Would you be afraid of the competition?"
He shook his head. "I'd welcome it. I'm sick of men's games. I'd like to play with some women."
Martha nodded. "That's why we enjoy each other so much."
"You are one of the smartes
t people I've ever met." The compliment landed without a sound, not even a twitch from Martha. Damn, she was good. Robert stood. "I'll see you in a few days."
"I look forward to hearing about your findings." Martha pulled the folder back across the desk, and Robert left without another word.
He rode his motorcycle to the place where he'd last seen Sydney alive. Hiding it in a crevice in the mountainside, he began to climb. When he reached the place on the plateau where Philip and Sydney fought, Robert rubbed his fingers against one of the splintered bullet holes in a tree trunk, listening to the sounds of the forest. It was so much quieter than the jungle. In Colombia the noise was overwhelming, making it hard to think.
The freedom that Her spoke about…he'd found it in all that noise, all that heat, and all that fear. But it wasn't what saved him. Seducing one of his guards, strangling her, and running saved Robert Maxim's life.
Did Sydney have the freedom that Her spoke of? Robert doubted it. He'd only known Sydney to be tortured; wild with anger and starving for justice. Especially recently. A year and a half earlier, Sydney Rye had been doused with the powerful hallucinogen Datura. The drug left Sydney trapped in a nightmare, one that left her body behind, completely pliable.
She spent weeks in a private hospital in Miami. Robert had arranged everything, the very best care money could buy.
He'd spent a lot of time with Sydney then. He told her about his time in Colombia, about his parents. Told her things he'd never told anyone.
She'd listened, her eyes a dull glaze.
Robert told Sydney how much he missed her spark. He willed her to come back to him.
But she ran away.
Joyful Justice broke her out of the hospital, and when her mind returned, she’d kept her distnace from him.
Robert turned into the woods and began to walk. What made him think she would want to come to him this time? Had he changed? Had she?
They'd come to a peace agreement after the Datura incident. Trekking together through the dense Costa Rican jungle Robert convinced Sydney to let him help her…they'd come to understand each other. Or at least, Sydney had stopped hating him. Had been willing to let him help Joyful Justice.
Never in his life had Robert wanted to help someone so much or been refused so often. But when Sydney later found herself trapped inside China, she’d called Robert. And he’d saved her.
The rush of water up ahead slowed Robert's pace, the hair on the back of his neck rising. He wasn't the only predator in these woods. He crouched low, listening, sending his senses out through the trees.
A small twig snapped. Robert zeroed in on the sound. The even, quiet breath of men. Then his eyes found them— three black-clad figures moving carefully through the trees, making their way along the stream bank.
These were not the average Daesh soldier. They moved like panthers, well trained, deadly. Not the disheveled, arrogant forces that waved flags and chopped off heads.
What were they doing out here? Searching for the prophet.
The cleric had said it would become a priority of Daesh to destroy her, and to remove any proof of her miracle.
Robert kept his breathing even and almost silent. They wouldn't be expecting a lone man in these woods. They thought they were the apex predators. Robert followed them, hiding in the shadows of the trees, blending into nature. He let his conscious mind go and just moved through space, his instincts guiding him.
The soldiers didn't speak; they moved in a single line, each carrying a large pack. Young and in good shape, there was no way Robert could take them out while they were awake. He'd follow them until they made camp and then…
The soldiers filled their canteens, their eyes roving over the forest, not expecting an attack but prepared for it nonetheless. They headed north, leaving the wooded area and climbing down to lower elevations, where boulders and sparse vegetation provided less cover.
Robert dropped further behind them--their black clothing and the tread of their boots in soft sand making them easy to follow even from a large distance.
The terrain shifted again, into a long, open plane, with no coverage. Robert stayed hidden and watched the shrinking black figures move across the plane and then up into the hills. He waited until night, a low cloud cover intensifying the darkness, before following.
The thrill of the hunt zinged through him as he tracked his quarry. The cool night air chilled the sweat beading on his forehead.
The Daesh soldiers had nestled themselves among several boulders, hidden and protected… but all asleep. They had no natural enemies here. The three men didn't even know that Robert Maxim existed.
Robert climbed to a high vantage point and crouched on a boulder, looking down at the dark shapes. He pulled out a tube of black face paint and smeared it across his forehead, down his nose, and under his eyes, blending it to cover his pale skin. The smell of it filled his senses. To be hunting again.
He left his pack, taking only a knife with him down the steep grade. He stepped carefully to keep the loose soil from shifting dramatically; the slipping sound of rocks tumbling might wake them.
Crouching directly above his enemies, Robert paused, letting his breath grow even, letting his presence become a part of their dreams. Then he climbed down until he stood right next to one. The man rolled over, flinging out an arm, almost hitting Robert's leg. Adrenaline sped into Robert's veins, sharpening his vision.
He pounced, his body one fluid, silent motion. Robert's hand covered the man's mouth, the prickle of his enemy’s beard rough against Robert's calloused palm. Dark eyes burst open, and Robert's knife sliced across an exposed throat, the cut deep, powerful and deadly.
The man struggled under Robert's weight, his gaze sharp and terrified. But he stilled quickly, his eyes rolling into the back of his head, the tension of his limbs seeping away as blood poured from the wound.
Robert rose, a dark shadow in the pitch of night, his breath even, heart steadily thumping, knife sticky with blood, power coursing through him.
The next man lay curled on his side, his eyes shifting underneath closed lids. Robert's hand pressed over the soldier's mouth, the rack of the knife across his throat, wide eyes snapping open, staring up at him. Robert glared back, forcing himself to acknowledge the life he was taking. It was his.
The third man shifted, coming awake as his fellow soldier died. Robert lunged but his prey rolled away.
The soldier raised into a crouch, the barrel of his pistol glinting in the dark of night. Robert rolled and his enemy fired, a thunderous crack in the quiet. The bullet sank into the earth, spraying dirt into the air.
Robert's heart picked up pace and his muscles tensed.
A fair fight.
Before the soldier could aim again, Robert dove behind a boulder, pressing his back to it, staying low, his knife ready. Come and get me. The enemy did not follow.
Patience settled the rapid beating of Robert's heart and evened his breathing.
His ears strained to hear the enemy’s movements. The Daesh soldier waited with as much patience as Robert. A smiled pulled at Robert's lips. Not a total fool.
An untrained combatant would have followed Robert, run right into his blade, but this enemy waited.
Robert wiped the knife on his shirt, and placed it between his teeth. Turning to the boulder, he reached up and found a fissure in the rock with his fingers, then began to climb.
His quick and silent ascent gained him elevation above the enemy. The soldier, his gun leveled at the giant stone, waited, his concentration intense.
A flicker ran through the soldier’s body, and his gaze darted to where Robert perched. Robert threw the knife fast and sure, end over end, and it sunk into the man's gun arm, twisting him to the side and releasing the weapon from his grip. The pistol landed with a soft thunk into the sand. Robert leapt, his boots scraping against the rock as he propelled himself.
The enemy cried out, a muffled gasp of pain, as Robert knocked him to the ground. He rolled, forc
ing Robert onto his back. Not a good place to be.
A knife appeared in the soldier’s left hand. The guy was fast. He thrust it toward Robert's ribs, but Robert grabbed the enemy’s wrist and held him back.
The blade shuddered between them. Two trained men, two animals desperate to live, one with the belief that he would go to heaven and the other with the crystallized certainty that there was no hell.
Robert's muscles trembled. Blood from the knife embedded in the enemy’s shoulder dripped onto Robert's brow, filling his nose with its irony tang.
The man in black rolled away, scrambling to his feet, the knife still in his grasp. Robert jumped into a crouch, his knees deeply bent, his fists up. The enemy's right arm hung useless, Robert's blade sunk deep into the shoulder. Sweat poured down the soldier's face, into his beard, as his eyes glinted in the darkness, darting around, searching for the gun.
He quickly spotted it, right where he'd dropped it only a few feet from Robert. Robert didn't want to use the gun. He wanted to fight.
The soldier lurched for the pistol, the knife still tight in his grip. Robert leveraged his weight and kicked, landing a blow to the man's ribs as he bent for the weapon. The enemy fell onto his back, bringing the gun up, the knife left in the sand.
Robert kicked again, sending the gun wide as another bullet flew loose, the bang reverberating within the boulders, the bullet speeding into the sky.
Robert dropped onto the man's chest, pinning his arms with his knees. Tearing his knife free from the man's shoulder, a snarl rumbling from his lips, Robert plunged it into his chest, striking through the breastplate and piercing the heart.
Robert twisted the blade in that most precious organ, the generator of our lifeblood, the mythical place of our emotions.
Robert panted over his enemy, now his victim—an empty husk, all loose limbs and boneless weight. Then sat back, pushing away from the corpse, leaving the knife protruding from his chest. Robert regained his breath, calmed his own rapidly beating heart, and then rose to stand.
Searching through the Daesh soldiers’ packs, he found a map. They had intelligence, placing the prophet only a few miles away. He folded the map and slid it in his pocket. Using the soldiers’ water supply, he washed his hands and face, cleaning the blood off. Then Robert pulled his knife free from his victim and, after cleaning it, climbed back to where he'd left his own supplies.
In Sheep's Clothing Page 13
