The bed is made, and the room tidy. A dress is draped over an armchair. That must be what she’s wearing to Hugh’s wedding.
A smile pulls at my lips. Sydney Rye is helping plan a wedding. Maybe she is finding some peace. A knock at my door makes me jump, and I quickly turn off the feed, guilt making my fingers clumsy.
Taking a deep breath, I stand and head to the door. It’s Mitchel. “Hey, man,” he smiles. “I’ve been sent to drag you outside.”
I lean against the doorway. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, your mom”—he laughs—“I mean Anita, pointed out you’ve been missing your paddleboarding.” He punches me on the shoulder. “How you gonna think clearly without exercise?”
I shake my head, smiling. “Fine, let me get dressed.”
“I’ll wait in your living room. I don’t want you trying to weasel out of it.”
I laugh again, leaving the door open and stepping back into my space. “Fine.”
“Anita is scary when she’s serious,” Mitchel says, following me in.
“Tell me about it.” I head to my room to get changed.
It’s good to have people who care about you. Watch out for you. That’s all I’m doing with Sydney. Keeping an eye on her.
Sydney
A storm blew in this morning, the sky churning with clouds and lightning flashing, illuminating the sky in deep purple, pale yellow, and the sickly green of a fading bruise. Gray swirls still hover off the coast, turning the ocean into glinting silver, ruffled and dangerous, the wind pressing down upon it—almost as if the sky has taken temporary dominion over the sea.
Hugh paces nervously, sweat lining his brow. The heat and humidity surround us like an electric blanket with the dial turned all the way up. “Where is he?” Hugh asks, his voice high and worried.
“I’ll find him,” I say, standing up from the loveseat, my skirt swishing around me. Hugh nods, his eyes worried.
Stepping out of the guest room, I make my way down the hall and peek out to the patio where Hugh and Santiago’s wedding guests are gathered. Santiago’s mother and grandmother are here—he must plan on showing up. He wouldn’t stand Hugh up at the altar. Would he?
No. No way.
He’s probably in traffic. Or something happened to him…
Footsteps behind me draw my attention. Robert is coming down the hall. He’s wearing a light gray tailored suit and his green-blue gaze flashes with concern. He pulls at his left cuff, straightening it, and frowns at me.
“Santiago?” I ask.
“There’s been an accident.” My heart hammers. “He’s on his way to the hospital. Get Hugh. We’ll take him there now.”
I nod but don’t move. “Was it really an accident?” I ask.
Robert doesn’t answer for a moment, the lilac on his lapel making his gaze almost violet. “I don’t know.”
“Could this be our fault?” I ask, my voice low, a whisper.
“I don’t know,” he says again, his eyes hard. Robert does not like not knowing. “Go get Hugh.”
I suck in a deep breath and nod again, turning back to the bedroom where Hugh waits. “Did you find him?” he asks as I enter. Hugh’s hair has fallen over his brow, and his eyes are frantic.
“There was an accident.” Hugh’s face crumples into a pained grimace, and tears well in his eyes. I hold out my hand and Hugh grips it. “Let’s go. We need to get to the hospital.” I tug, leading Hugh forward. He follows blindly, holding onto me like I’m a life preserver and he’s just pitched overboard.
My phone rings as we climb into one of Maxim’s SUVs. Brock is driving, Robert sitting in the passenger seat. I pull my phone out of the little clutch—it’s a blocked number. Fuck me.
“Hello.”
“Ms. Rye,” it’s a woman with a thick accent.
“Who is this?” My voice comes out harsh and low, almost angry except with a note of fear that I loathe.
She laughs, low and quiet. “You are as brash as they say.”
“Who says?”
Robert turns around in his seat and is watching me, his gaze sharp, the flower on his lapel fluttering in the air from the vents.
“Your friend…Santiago. I have him.”
My breathing slows, and I force my eyes to stay straight, to concentrate on the flower. To not look at Hugh. I can’t be responsible for another person he loves getting killed. No fucking way. Nope. I refuse.
“What do you want?”
I hear her shifting, the sound of leather wheezing as if she’s resting back into a chair. “Your organization. What do you call yourselves?”
“I’m a Rotary Club member. Used to be in the Girl Scouts, but they kicked me out. Couldn’t sell enough cookies.”
She laughs, louder this time. “Oh, you are fun.”
“Am I?”
Robert begins to text on his phone, his jaw tight. He’s guessed what’s happening.
“Joyful Justice.” She drops her voice—there’s almost a sneer in it. She’s not a fan of vigilante justice.
“Bless you.”
“You are the one who needs a blessing.”
“You’re the one who sneezed.”
Robert is smiling, his fingers flying. I’ve got to keep her on the line. Somehow Robert is going to trace this. Somehow he is going to figure out where Santiago is being held. And we are going to get him back. Somehow.
Faith is a powerful drug.
“Do not play games with me.” The first hint of anger edges her voice.
“Then how about you cut to the fucking chase?”
“I have Santiago. And he will die unless you back off.”
“Back off who? What? I have no idea who you are or what you want. Is this your first time blackmailing?” Hugh turns to me quickly, but I refuse to look at him. “Get to the point and stop wasting time. I am busy.”
My free hand is fisted so tight that my nails are cutting into my palm. “My associates received one of your packages.”
“Your associates must be scum bags.”
“Your friend will be dead if you don’t listen closely.”
“Threatening me and the ones I love never works out for anyone. You know my name. Do you know my reputation?” Anger wells in my chest, and suddenly my mouth is running with it. “You will die. Your associates will die. Don’t fuck with me, bitch.”
“You don’t know my name.” Her voice is quiet, still, flat…dangerous. “You don’t know my reputation. And that’s because I am wise, I am dangerous, and I am the boss. So, you will stop any and all activities against the McCain brothers. You will pack up your little operations and go back to the Brooklyn hipster neighborhood you crawled out of, and you will disappear.”
These McCain boys are going down.
“You need all that before you return Santiago?”
Hugh lets out a little whimper.
“You do all that, and I’ll consider letting him go. I’ll consider letting you live.”
“Petra, Petra…you underestimate me.” She doesn’t react to my using her name. Have I guessed wrong? “Usually it’s just men who do that. But I guess that’s because women are usually on my side. The McCain brothers are buying women from Isis.” The same bastards who took George’s sister.
“They are not.” She snaps at me, that edge of anger cutting through like a samurai sword slicing butter.
“Believe their lies or believe my truth. Either way, you’ll die, and Santiago will live. This is my city. You can’t hide him from me.”
“I don’t need to hide him. I can just kill him.”
“But then you’ll have no leverage. Let’s meet. I can show you evidence of what your business partners are doing. Then you can decide if you want to fight me…or join me.”
“You are a fool.”
“Really, Petra?” I decide to double down. How many female super villains with thick Czech accents can there freaking be? “You choose the location. I’ll show you what your friends are up to. Then you can return my friend and
the wedding I’ve squeezed myself into a tight ass dress for can go on.”
She laughs. “He’s in no shape to wed today.”
“If he dies, you will suffer.” My voice comes out strange, strangled yet terrifying in its own way. Petra doesn’t answer. She can hear the truth in my words.
I stare at the flower on Robert’s lapel—so delicate yet strong, holding its own against the force of the air trying to loosen it—as I wait for her reply.
There is more shuffling. “Okay, I’ll meet you.” There is a smugness in her tone. “There is an abandoned parking structure at the shuttered mall.”
My eyes jump up to Robert and I mouth pen. He produces one from his inside pocket and I write the address on the palm of my hand. “Meet me there in an hour,” Petra says.
We hang up, and I glance at Hugh. His eyes are wet, his hands shaking, and I swallow the lump in my throat, banishing my emotions. There is no place for them here, now.
Turning to Robert, I show him my palm. “It’s Petra,” I say. He nods, his eyes scanning the address. A smile plays across his lips, and he turns to his phone, texting quickly. “We have sixty minutes.”
“Take us to the office, Brock.”
The security officer nods and exits the highway, headed toward downtown Miami and Robert’s offices there.
“What’s happening?” Hugh asks, his voice wavering.
“Santiago is being held; we are going to get him back.” I don’t tell him not to worry because that’s impossible, but I do reach out and take his hand. I hold his gaze. “I will not let him die. I promise.”
Hugh takes a stuttering breath and nods, my promise sinking in. He trusts me.
I will prove I am worthy of it.
Chapter Fifteen
Sydney
The abandoned parking garage’s gray, decaying concrete floor is littered with broken glass, empty beer cans, and the occasional glinting, spent needle. A burnt spoon lies next to a stained mattress separating our two groups.
Petra is surrounded by ten hulking men, accentuating her diminutive size. High-heeled boots give her a few inches, but she’s still shorter than me in my soft-soled sneakers. Petra wears all leather: black, shining slickness hugging every tight curve. My T-shirt and loose linen pants let me move like water; her leather protects her like a second skin.
You only need multiple skins if you fear getting cut.
“Nice spot,” I say, gesturing to the crumbling walls and broken light fixtures. The sun pierces through the holes in the walls, lighting our meeting in dramatic spears of gold. There are three floors above us, the ceiling open in many places.
Blue is pressed tight to my left side, Nila to my right. Robert stands to my left, Merl to my right, with his three dogs fanning out from him. Dust sprinkles from above, and Petra’s gaze is drawn to it for just a moment before returning to me. She hasn’t guessed we have snipers up there.
She doesn’t know who she’s up against.
No weapons are drawn, but I can see the bulk of pistols under the ill-fitting suit jackets of the men ringing Petra.
“Let’s talk,” I say, waving a hand between Petra and myself. “Privately.”
She shakes her head slowly, smiling. “No, I am not here to talk. And you— you are here to die.”
I can’t help the grin that pulls at my lips as her men begin to fan out. “You forgot something, Petra,” I say, as the first man drops, his neck exploding with blood. She spins toward the dying figure as her other minions try to pull weapons, only to be dropped in their tracks. The thudding of bodies is louder than the soft pops of the silenced sniper rifles.
Suddenly, Petra is all alone. A pistol gripped in each fist, lips drawn back over her teeth, eyes narrowed. She is ready to fight but not to die.
“It didn’t need to go down like this,” I say quietly, the silence of so much death around us seeming to make my voice louder. “Are you ready to talk?” Her eyes, bright green, lined with charcoal black, hold my naked gaze. “Drop your weapons.”
She straightens, her chin high, eyes never leaving mine. “You”—she nods slowly—“You were right. I underestimated you.” She drops the pistols; they land with a clatter onto the filthy floor.
“I’m trying not to return the favor. From what I understand, you’re a good woman. Smart. Ruthless. Yet fair. Moral.”
She gives me a half smile. “You compliment me, and yet the scent of blood is thick in the air.”
“You should have talked with me.” I take a step forward, my dogs moving with me. Her gaze drops to them for just a moment and then comes back to me. “I think we can come to an agreement without any more bloodshed.”
Petra shrugs, looking almost casual despite the slumped, lifeless corpses surrounding her. “The McCain brothers will never stop coming at you. They will never relent. We are not doing anything wrong. All the women we work with want to change their lives. They want to be free.”
I nod. “Yes, they want to be free. But what they are is slaves. Prisoners.”
She shakes her head vehemently, loosening a curl from the tight bun at the back of her head. “No. I do not trade in slaves.”
“You might not, but the McCain brothers do.” I step around the abandoned mattress, with its depressing stains and forgotten tools of addiction. I’m only a few feet away from her now. “Come with me. I can prove it.”
She lets out a jaded laugh. “As if I have a choice.”
“There is always a choice.” I say it quietly, so she can barely hear. And I hold her gaze. You can die. She shrugs again, looking cool and unaffected in all that black leather. “I’ll need to search you before we go.” Petra raises her arms without protest, her gaze challenging me. Touch me, I dare you.
As I run my hands over her body, I can’t help but remember that I’m supposed to be at Hugh and Santiago’s wedding right now. This woman totally fucked with the new normal life I’m building.
A tickle of rage blushes up the back of my neck as I feel a knife in her boot. Extracting the long, thin blade, I toss it onto the mattress. “That was a gift,” she says.
“You can come back for it, if you live.” Grabbing her bicep, I jerk Petra forward. She matches her stride to mine. Merl and Robert fall into step with us as Robert speaks quietly into his radio, controlling his men.
Blue’s nose taps my hip, reminding me he is there. Nila stays close to Petra, her blue eyes trained on my prisoner. She won’t get away. And I will get Santiago back.
Petra’s arm feels thin in my hold. She follows me easily, her expression defiant.
We walk down the nondescript hallway of the office building, and I push open the unmarked door. Inside there is a black metal folding chair facing a TV screen and a security camera blinking in the corner.
Leading Petra over to the seat, I push her into it. She lands with a thump and a hiss of a threat. Try me. Just try me.
“You are going to show me a movie?” Petra asks, her voice thick with sarcasm.
“Yeah, The Princess Bride, ever seen it?”
She makes a sound of disgust and crosses her arms, staring at me with narrowed eyes. The screen glows to life, showing a paused video. The footage, from an HD camera hidden within Lenox’s clothing, is crisp. Through shoulders and heads we see a young woman kneeling on a low stage.
Her bound hands lay limp on her thighs. She wears loose-fitting clothing in dark colors. Her thick black hair is tied back at the base of her neck. Tears stream down her young face from under closed lids.
I hit play, and an auctioneer’s voice speaks in rapid Arabic. Subtitles translate on the bottom of the screen. I’ve seen the video several times. Lenox made it three months ago while researching the McCain brothers—Petra’s sometimes partners and recent crusaders against Joyful Justice. Nothing like getting called on your shit to bring the bad guys together.
I don’t watch the video. Instead I stare at Petra. She shifts in the metal folding chair, sitting up straighter, her eyes focusing on the screen. Her gaz
e flicks to me and then back to the image of the girl now being led off screen as her new owner makes his way through the crowd toward the pay station at the side of the stage. “What does this have to do with me?” she asks, challenge lacing her accented voice.
“One of your buddies is about to make a star appearance,” I say.
Her lips purse and she shakes her head. “They would never. The McCain brothers are good men.”
“Joyful Justice doesn’t go after good guys. We are the good guys.” I smile at her. I’m a good guy who’s going to punch you in your evil-doing-fucking-face.
Petra settles back into the chair, recrossing her arms, her gaze drawn back to the screen. It’s mesmerizing, the way the auctioneer stands so still behind his podium as two more girls are brought onto the stage. They are pale with fear, wearing that same dark clothing, hair drawn back. Everyone in the room shifts to get a better look. It’s fascinating the way they can just pretend the girls are salable objects. That they can fool themselves into believing they are better than them. So much better, in fact, that they deserve to own them.
My blood heats at the self-imposed superiority. I want to kill them all. Taking a deep breath, I consciously relax my clenched fists and return my gaze to Petra. Spots of color have appeared on her cheeks, and she is slumped in the chair, her arms over her gut, as if she is trying to protect herself. As if there is any protection from the world we live in.
The auctioneer points to the winner, and the camera turns to him. I glance back at the screen briefly. This is the moment. A white man in a sea of brown stands up, his light hair, blue eyes, and wide shoulders making him a stereotype of an Irishman. All he needs is a four-leaf clover pinned to his chest.
Petra shifts, sitting forward, her eyes riveted to the screen, her face transforming. A moment ago she looked sick, now deep anger is sharpening her features, glittering in her eyes, and blushing up her neck. She uncrosses her arms and grips the edge of her seat, as if she is ready to launch herself at the screen and kill Ian McCain herself.
Betray the Lie Page 13
