Scented of butter and garlic, Amelia’s is bustling with brunch customers on this sunny Sunday. The worn wooden tables and Ball jar water glasses contrast with the elegant height of the ceiling and fine linen napkins. It’s the kind of dichotomy America loves at this moment: the old and new, the rustic and urban, the casual and formal all mixing together.
Below me on the square, a few guys are gathering around the statue of a Confederate leader known for his bravery on Civil War battlefields and dedication to his country: the Confederate States of America.
Organized by a blogger who calls himself Darth Vengeance, the Men’s Rights rally is set to begin in about thirty minutes. My contact within the movement, Troy Richardson, will be there. Troy agreed to meet when it’s over so I can talk to him about why the fuck Nathan Jenkins is following Sydney Rye.
Consuela Sanchez’s theory that the MR movement might be more organized than we think is niggling at the back of my mind. They seem like such a rag-tag team of losers. But with two mass killings and an assassination attempt under their belts, maybe what we’ve been seeing as lone actors is actually much more. Could they really have their shit together enough to organize—and raise money for—terrorist operations?
My waiter, a tall, slim African American man with a big smile, interrupts my train of thought. “How are you today?” he asks brightly. I glance back down at the all-white crowd of men swirling below us and suppress a sigh.
“I’m good, and you?”
“Very good, thanks for asking.” His accent is local, lyrical, and friendly. “Can I tell you our specials?”
“I’ll have the shrimp and grits; it’s my favorite.” I smile, letting him know I’m a returning customer.
“Wonderful. I love that too. Anything to drink?”
“Just coffee.”
He takes my menu and moves away, navigating the tightly packed tables as elegantly as a dancer sashaying through a crowded nightclub.
I pull out my phone, checking again to see if there is an ID on the woman Sydney took hostage. Almost thirty hours have passed since I sent the images to a friend at Interpol. He owed me one—but if he can tell me her name then I will be in his debt.
As my email loads, I glance at the crowd below. They have signs I can’t read from this angle, but the women who walk by react with wrinkled noses and dirty looks, which just make the protesters smile. Dickheads.
My phone pings with fresh messages, and I scroll through. Yes! My contact came through. I open the email and scroll past his gloating.
Petra Bokan:
38 years old, Czech-born but resides in Romania. Suspected of human trafficking—she has brothels all over the world.
My eyes narrow as I stare at the brief paragraph. Could she be connected to the McCain brothers? They are in the same business.
Nathan Jenkins attends a meeting with Ian McCain in Istanbul, then I see him in Miami…maybe he wasn’t following Sydney. Maybe he was following Petra.
The waiter appears with my coffee, and I thank him before sending a reply to my friend. Thanks so much, can you check if she has any connections to the McCain brothers—Ian, Michael, and Murphy, Irish Nationals involved in sex trafficking.
I reread the email and hit send. There has to be a connection. This is too big a coincidence. Putting my phone next to my plate, I sip my coffee, returning my attention to the gathering crowd below. There are about twenty or thirty protesters now. A stage has been erected next to a statue of the Confederate officer, and someone is making final adjustments to the microphone and loudspeakers.
My gaze scans the rest of the park. A perfect square in the center of this block of graceful mansions, it is planted with mature live oak trees—their gnarled branches dripping with silvery green Spanish moss. Hundreds of years old, the trees shading today’s rally stood here when the last slave ship to deliver human chattel to American shores docked in Savannah in 1859—a half century after the importation of slaves had been outlawed.
Sitting under the cool whisper of air-conditioning, listening to the clink of silverware and the soft rumble of conversation, a shiver passes over me as I think of the history haunting this city…this nation. My gold watch bumps against my wrist bone as I replace my coffee cup on its saucer.
An inheritance from my grandfather, the Rolex is nothing compared to the vast wealth left to me. Generations of freedom and privilege afford me the luxury to choose my own course. It is my duty to help foster freedom for all.
My eyes drift to the men below again—stirring now, as a speaker steps onto the stage. I lean forward. Is that a woman? Yes. About average height, wearing a power suit in burgundy, with long blonde hair that reaches to the middle of her back, she steps up to the microphone as the men cheer.
I can’t make out her words, but the men press closer to the stage as she begins to speak. Some of them are nodding along. Others clap and whistle.
Local people and tourists are avoiding the men now, taking any of the other shaded paths available to bypass the gathering. The rally is concentrated in the center of the square, the small crowd filling the space between the fountain and the statue.
I’m distracted as the waiter brings my food. The buttery scent of the grits and the brine of the shrimp bring a smile to my face. “Thank you.”
“Enjoy,” the waiter encourages. His eyes pass over the window as he turns to leave, and he pauses for a moment, looking down at the rally below.
I follow his gaze. A dark, draped figure is moving toward the men. It’s a woman in a burka. She is alone, walking slowly but purposefully toward the center of the park. My heart beats faster, and I tense to stand. Something is wrong.
As the covered figure reaches the edge of the crowd, the men she meets step back, surprise evident in their postures.
The waiter leaves me, moving on to another table. Riveted, I watch the woman as she pushes through the crowd. Finally reaching the front of the stage, she raises a hand as if to ask a question. The speaker looks down at her, eyebrows raised in question, her mouth turned up into a condescending smile.
A man in the back yells something, and the rest of the crowd cheers him. A sudden flash of light is followed by a loud bang, causing the casement windows to shudder in their wooden frames. Everything is happening so fast that I’m standing, my chair knocked over behind me, before I even fully realize what I’m seeing.
Men are lying on the ground, smoke is swirling, and the speaker is missing. As the air clears I see her—or rather, a part of her. Bile rises in my throat. Where the burka-clad woman stood in front of the stage is now just a wet, charred horror. A suicide bomber. The woman was a suicide bomber.
Other diners are crowding around me, staring down at the carnage. My heart hammers, and my palms are slick with sweat. Sirens begin to wail in the distance.
Is this the beginning of a war between the Men’s Rights activists and the Her prophet followers?
Chapter Eighteen
Sydney
Hugh and Santiago stand under a canopy of flowers—the fragile blooms windblown and wilted compared to the fresh brightness they presented yesterday. But the two men are radiant, making up for any delay and all the complications.
The crowd of guests is smaller, only the most intimate gathering now, rather than the larger event planned.
Santiago isn't wearing his custom suit—the sleeve was beyond repair at such short notice—but he looks dashing in a blue seersucker, a white flower tucked into his lapel.
Hugh beams at his fiancé—soon to be husband—as the officiant, an African American woman named Maude Flanders, quotes Maya Angelou.
“Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope.” Maude, a justice of the peace that Santiago knows from the soup kitchen where he volunteers, beams at the two men. "Those of us who know and love you can't help but admire the bond you two have formed. And even though this wonderful day had to be postponed"—she smiles—"nothing can st
op the two of you.” The crowd nods in agreement. “Meeting at a support group for people who have lost loved ones to violence, you found not only healing, but also each other. In part, that shared history of pain is what helps you both live so fully today.”
The woman sitting in front of me, Santiago’s aunt, a stout, strong-looking woman who flew in from Colombia two days ago, murmurs her agreement.
“Are you ready for your vows?" Maude asks.
Hugh takes a deep breath. "You help me see beauty every day,” Hugh begins, his voice strong and sure. “In every moment that I have." His lips purse as his eyes well, and my own eyes burn. "Almost losing you yesterday…" He stops, and Santiago squeezes his hands, tears slipping down his face.
"Just a fender bender," Santiago says—the cover story we came up with to explain his absence. "Nothing serious."
Hugh hiccups a laugh and nods. Taking a deep breath, he returns to the vows he prepared for the day before, the day before violence almost ended their relationship. "I've always thought of marriage as a partnership, as having a confidant and friend along on the ride through life with me. Someone who always had my back, and who I'd defend with my life."
Santiago smiles, and the two men just look at each other for a moment. The love between them is almost palpable. It's floating in the air, same as the briny scent of the sea and the sweet floral of the bouquets.
"You are strong, funny, warm, and brave. And I'm honored to take this journey with you. I promise to stand with you, my love, forever."
Santiago bends his head, looking down at their joined hands as he pulls himself together. Maude waits until Santiago looks up again, shaking his head a little and giving a teary smile. "Hugh Defry." He breaks into a grin that sends ripples of laughter through the crowd. "You are my best friend. My favorite person. And your food makes me fall down at your feet." The gathering laughs again. "Your bravery, resilience, and artistry remind me every day that this is a beautiful world." Santiago bites his lip, holding back emotion. "No matter what is happening outside us, what the world is doing, we will always have each other. And that is such a comfort to me."
Tears are falling down Hugh's face, and he lets go of one of Santiago's hands for a moment to swipe at them. "I love you, Hugh Defry. And I'm honored to become your husband."
The officiant smiles, turning her attention to us. "You," she says, "are here to support and witness this union." Someone cheers and clapping breaks out. Santiago and Hugh inch closer to each other. Maude produces the rings and hands one to each man. "Repeat after me, Hugh." He nods. "Santiago Sanchez, I take you to be my lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, for better or for worse, until death do us part."
Hugh repeats the words, slipping the ring onto Santiago’s finger.
"Now you, Santiago,” the officiant says.
He nods, looking the most serious I've ever seen him, and makes the same vow to Hugh. He slips the ring onto Hugh's finger, and I clap along with the rest of the guests.
"I now pronounce you married!" Maude declares. The cheers rise up so loudly that a group of sea birds take off, squawking loudly, from where they'd rested on the bulkhead.
Hugh and Santiago embrace, kissing madly.
My heart aches with joy and a soft sadness. There is a part of me, tiny really, but still there, that can't help but think... that should be my brother's happiness. It was stolen from him. And that thought ignites an old rage—a rage at how many other people's happiness is being stolen as I stand here watching my friends marry.
There is still so much injustice in the world that it is a weight on my shoulders, a heaviness around my soul. What Santiago said, about how no matter what was happening in the world, they could always turn to each other to know that there is goodness...I can see that. But I also know that celebrating the good won't make the bad go away.
No matter how much I wish it would.
Robert comes up to me afterwards, as I stand watching the sun slip below the Miami skyline while the guests sip cocktails in the living room. “Nice ceremony,” he says. I nod, feeling both melancholia and joy while barely tasting the rosé I’m drinking. “I don’t suppose you’ve looked at the news?” I turn to him, my brows raised. His skin glows in the soft light, his eyes flashing green-blue…the same as the ocean. “There was a Men’s Right’s Rally in Savannah today.”
I roll my eyes. “Those idiots.”
“A suicide bomber killed six and injured another twenty.”
“A suicide bomber?” My mouth goes dry.
“Apparently, it was a woman wearing a burka.” He holds my gaze, knowing I’ll jump to the same conclusion he has. It was a Her prophet follower. “Maybe you should call your mother.”
I step back involuntarily, knocking into the railing. “She didn’t have anything to do with that. It’s not her style.”
Robert’s lips tighten, and he looks back into the house where most of the guests are mingling as a musician plays the piano and waiters move through the crowd passing hors d’oeuvres. “Maybe,” Robert says, “but,”—his gaze lands on me again—“I think it’s worth the call.”
“No way.”
Robert’s lip tightens, but he does not argue. Instead he turns to look seaward at the horizon, resting his arms on the rail. I join him, and we silently watch the sky darken and the stars begin to come out. A chill steals through the night, and he moves slightly closer, buffering me against the evening breeze. Blue leans against my other side, warming my leg.
It is then, with lucid certainty, that I know my time here is up. I can no longer hide in this shelter.
I must begin to fight again.
Chapter Nineteen
Sydney
The bartender narrows his eyes when Blue, Petra, and I walk into the pub. It’s in one of the shabbier neighborhoods of Drogheda, a midsized Irish city where the McCain brothers were born, raised, and still reside. The bartender doesn’t close the paper he looked up from. “Can’t bring a dog in ‘ere.” His accent is thick and brawny just like his bulging biceps and hairy forearms.
“Let me take care of this,” Petra says quietly, sauntering toward the barman, her hips, clad again in tight black leather, swinging in a way that only Eastern European and Latin women can pull off—I’ve tried but end up looking like I’m on the verge of a seizure. Not sexy.
We are the first customers, but it’s still early on a Wednesday. The punters are not out of work yet. Petra leans against the bar, practically melting over it, and the barman puts down his paper, coming to rest his elbows across from her, bending down to meet Petra’s posture.
Blue and I take a booth, my banned companion slipping under the table, turning so he can see most of the room. I slide around so my back is to the wall, and my view of the door is clear.
The place reeks of cigarettes, sweat, and spilled drink. Soccer plays on a television crammed onto a shelf behind the bar—it isn’t even a flat screen. What year is this?
The wooden tables and booths are dark and worn. Wide floorboards scuffed and aged with filth match the scent of the place.
Low yellow lighting keeps any of the dirt from being too obvious—it’s a thick, beaten-in crust rather than a fresh coat of dust. Taking in a deep breath, I close my eyes and think back to my life in London years ago. The scars on my face stood out sharp and new, but my body didn’t ache with old wounds…though my heart still burned with the newness of James’ death.
Petra puts a pint of beer on the table, pulling me from my thoughts. It’s piss yellow with a few spare bubbles at its head, warning me the thing is barely carbonated, in the traditional style of shitty Irish or English beer. This place is traditional.
I sip it—noting, as expected, that it’s room temperature—with a smile. I like this pub; no pretense, no updating, none of that fancy customer service with a smile or beer with the kind of fizz the rest of the world seems to prefer. Who needs perfumed cleaning products, or artisanal ales, when you can have Mr. Beefcake and a game of footie that fuzzes in
and out of service?
In the back, through a darkened archway, I spot a pool table covered in red felt. “Fancy a game?” I ask Petra as she slides into the seat next to me—her back is also to the wall, her view of the door as unobstructed as mine.
She takes a sip from her own pint, following my gaze to the pool table. “Only if we can make it interesting.”
I smile. “You want to bet?”
“Gamble?” She flashes me a smile, her green eyes bright. “You like risks, no?”
“What are we gambling for?” I ask, my old Madonna-style British accent coming back with a vengeance.
“If I win, we kill them.” I huff out a laugh, but she continues “And you let me do the talking.”
“And what will you say? ‘I’m going to kill you now’?” I smile at her.
“That I know what they’ve been doing, and now they are going to pay.”
“I was joking. But you seriously want to warn them before we kill them? Besides, we have to get information out of them first.”
She nods slowly, taking a sip of her beer. “I like to warn them. That way I can see the fear in their eyes.”
“You think you frighten them?”
“They are not fools. Just liars.”
I nod my head, raising my own pint. It makes sense to be afraid of Petra. “And what do I get if I win?”
“What do you want?”
“Good question.” I look down into the beer, its amber depths offering me nothing. “How about if I win, I get to do the talking?”
“We kill them no matter what?”
I nod. “After we get the information we want.”
She grins. “I’ll take that bet.”
Blue comes out from under the table as we stand, making our way to the darkened back room. Petra flips a switch, and a low light over the pool table flickers to life, bathing the red felt in a warm yellow. Its glow reaches the few tables around it but doesn’t penetrate the dark corners of the room.
Betray the Lie Page 16
