Betray the Lie

by Emily Kimelman

  “Is there anyone else here?” I ask Mary.

  She nods, folding her arms over sagging breasts. “Two girls who came in last night. From the Ukraine, I think. And that old one we’ve been keeping for a while now. She’s in the cell.”

  “The cell?” Petra asks, her voice a low thrum of anger.

  Mary’s gaze falls on the younger woman and a smile creases her face. “Yeah, the cell. You sure you got the stomach for this business?” Petra doesn’t answer, and Mary lets out a laugh that reeks of liquor. “She tried to escape. Nearly killed herself climbing out the second story window. I didn’t have a choice.” Mary grins enough so that we see both missing teeth. “Can’t have the neighbors asking questions.”

  “Shut up, Mary,” Seamus hisses.

  This “old one” doesn’t sound like the rest of the girls. We may have just found Mitchel’s mother.

  Thumps above yank my attention to the ceiling: cracked and water-stained, it’s vibrating under heavy footfalls.

  "Mary!" A man's voice calls down. "What's the hold up?”

  "Keep your mouths shut," Petra warns, then glances at me. I give a nod, and Blue and I head out of the kitchen through the only doorway.

  We enter a living room. Directly across from us is the front door. It has two deadbolts and a chain. To my left is a sagging couch, covered in part by an afghan. It is indented at one end as if someone had been watching the TV, which is still on but muted. A twenty-four-hour news station plays. Images of refugees in a tent city flash across the screen, then a female reporter wearing a wind jacket with her network’s logo on the breast, and enough make up to hide any humanity, talks into a microphone. To my right are stairs leading to the second floor.

  Thumps warn of a descending figure. I draw my weapon and step close to the wall so that anyone coming down the stairs won't see me. Blue presses to my side. A big man in a wife beater and sagging sweatpants appears, rubbing at his balding head. There is more hair on his shoulder than his scalp.

  He reaches the bottom of the steps and turns toward the kitchen.

  His eyes go wide at the sight of me, his gaze dropping to my weapon. His hands come up automatically. "Hi," I smile. "What's your name?”

  "Tom," he answers. "Who are you?"

  I grin but don't answer. "Come and join us in the kitchen." He nods and passes me close enough that I can smell the stale sweat and old beer that make up his personal cologne. Blue taps my hip as we follow him to the kitchen. "Have a seat," I suggest. He takes Mary's empty chair in front of the gossip magazine.

  "I'll go upstairs," I say to Petra, "And check it out."

  "You'll need keys," she says, her gaze landing on Mary.

  The older woman nods and goes to a drawer in the kitchen. I stiffen as she reaches in, but all she pulls out is a ring of keys. She really appears to have no loyalty to the McCain brothers. Is she smart or so beaten down she doesn’t care who her master is?

  Mary crosses to me and hands over the keys. "Mind if I sit?" she asks Petra. "I'm thirsty."

  Petra nods, and Mary pulls out another chair, reaching for the cordial glass as Blue and I head back to the stairs.

  We ease up to the second floor, moving slowly, cautiously, Blue in the lead, his ears perked forward, hackles raised slightly—ready for whatever we find up here.

  It's warmer on the second floor, the air stale and stuffy. The disinfectant scent of the kitchen is gone, replaced with the fetid musk of unwashed sheets and old pillows. There are four closed doors. The keys in my hand jingle as I stop at the first. It takes two tries to find the right key but then the lock gives with ease. It gets used a lot.

  I open the door slowly, the sound of frightened shuffling warning that there are people inside. Two women are huddled together in the far corner. There is a light in the ceiling, and two single beds made up with patchwork quilts. "Hi," I say as Blue passes me, making his way slowly toward them. They grip each other and close their eyes. Tears leak from one—she looks younger. "Blue," I say quietly, stopping him. "We are not here to hurt you," I say to the girls.

  There is no recognition in their eyes—they don't speak English. They have mousy brown hair, pale skin, and enough family resemblance to make them sisters or at least cousins. The Ukrainian girls, perhaps. Slaves not of war but of circumstance. I back away, leaving the door open. Letting them know they are free to go.

  The one not crying watches me, her brow furrowing slightly, an expression of curiosity fighting the fear. Standing in the hall, I gesture back and forth, some pathetic attempt at miming freedom.

  Maybe Lenox will be able to speak to them.

  Continuing down the hall, I stop at the next door. Finding the right key, I get it open. The lights are off and the air is still. I find the switch and discover an empty bedroom bigger than the last, this one lined with mattresses on the floor. They are made up with a random selection of sheets. It could almost be the setting of a slumber party except for the bars on the windows, which look new. A lesson learned from Mitchel's mother, perhaps.

  Leaving that door ajar, I move on to the third door, and find a very similar scene inside. The fourth produces another empty room filled with mattresses. But no more captives. Mary said “the cell.” Maybe there is a room in the basement.

  There are three more keys on the ring.

  Blue and I head back down the hall, and I peek into the first room, finding the sisters still together in the corner, whispering to each other. They gasp when I poke my head in, but when I smile, the older one returns it tentatively. "I'm going downstairs now," I say. "You're safe. And I'm going to help you."

  They don't respond, but I get the sense that they've gotten I'm on their side. I'm not going to hurt them. What they have not yet grasped is I won't let anyone else hurt them, either. They've fallen under my protection.

  Back downstairs, I find the door to the basement under the stairs. A switch at the top of the steps illuminates a low-ceilinged, unfinished, damp space. Blue goes first, and I hear the scurrying of rodents as they flee him. My steps echo in the narrow space, and when I get down to the concrete floor I have to duck to avoid hitting my head on an exposed beam. Pink insulation puffs between the raw boards. I'm in a dark room with a tiny, filthy window that faces the street out front. To my left is a step down into the utility area, a boiler and pipes snaking to the rest of the house. On my right is a rough wall with a door set into it.

  The cell?

  Blue sniffs at the gap under the door and then sits, his tail swishing along the filthy floor. I fiddle with the keys until I find the right one. The door wheezes open. It's pitch black on the other side. I reach into my back pocket for my phone to use the flashlight when Blue lets out a low growl of warning. I freeze, holding my breath and listening.

  There is tense breathing in the darkness. "I'm here to—" but I don't get to finish my sentence. A figure launches from the blackness, barreling into me. I stumble back, barely keeping my balance before tripping down the one step and slamming into the boiler with a clang that jolts my head.

  A fist strikes out, and I block it, instincts kicking in. Another fist flies as a feral scream fills the basement. I grab the wrist and twist, turning my attacker so she lands on her knees, hand behind her back, arm bone at my mercy.

  She's panting and struggling, her fear and survival instincts making her a powerful opponent. "I'm here to help you!” I yell. But she doesn't seem to hear me, still struggling to twist away. Blue is sitting next to the door of the cell, his head cocked in question. He does not consider her a threat and appears curious as to why she is acting so crazy.

  "Are you Mitchel Swan's mother?" I ask.

  That gets her to slow down. She stops struggling and looks over her shoulder at me. Pain and bruising twist her features, but I can see the family resemblance. Mitchel and I worked together in China, and they have the same intelligent, aqua eyes. I recognize them despite the swelling around her gaze—the woman's nose was recently broken, and a storm cloud of colors h
as ballooned across her face.

  "I'm Mitchel's friend." Or at least I was before he betrayed me. "And I'm here to free you."

  Her entire body sags, and I let go of her arm, letting her fall forward onto her hands and knees. She starts to sob. She's wearing jeans a size too big and what looks like a man's flannel shirt, the hem ripped in places. "It's okay," I tell her, "you're going to be okay."

  She doesn't answer, just continues to cry.

  “We found her,” I tell Dan, keeping my voice down as I stand in the alley next to the van. Blue sits by my side, leaning against me, warming me against the damp night. “She’s safe and not seriously harmed.”

  “Mitchel will be relieved.”

  I glance back at the house, unable to see anything through the drawn curtains. But I know Mitchel Swan’s mother is in the bathroom getting cleaned up. And Lenox is upstairs, trying to speak with the sisters.

  “I’ll send you our GPS coordinates for the pick-up.” Expecting to find prisoners, we arranged with a shelter to take the women in. Joyful Justice has contacts with rehabilitation centers all over the world. We fund several, including one in London, but nothing in Ireland. So, we are working with a local Catholic group tonight.

  A pale gray is leaking over the sky. Day is approaching.

  My stomach twists and lurches, and I have to swallow against the nausea. I’m exhausted, and this alley smells like ass.

  “Let me give you the number instead,” Dan says. “We can’t have any action being initiated from this area. Our systems are supposed to be destroyed.”

  My stomach gives another lurch, and I start to pace. “They are expecting us though, right?”

  “Yes. Don’t worry, it’s all arranged.”

  I nod even though he can’t see me. “Thanks, Dan.”

  “Of course.” He sounds almost insulted; no gratitude is necessary for doing the right thing. He gives me the number, and I put it into my phone.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask.

  “Fine.” He pauses. “Weirdly excited.”

  I let out a breath of a laugh. “It’s always fun when they think they have us on the ropes.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I guess that’s it. How are you doing?”

  “Kind of feel like shit right now, actually,” I answer honestly. The image of Mitchel’s mother’s bruised face, the echoes of her wretched sobbing in that dark, damp space, coming back to me on a wave of nausea. We’ll never do enough.

  “Get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  We hang up, and I turn back toward the house as Lenox opens the door and nods to me. He’s communicated with the frightened girls.

  I dial the number for the shelter and hold my breath as it rings.

  The day will be bright before we are done.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Sydney

  Rolling over, sharp pain in my shoulder cracks through my haze of sleepiness, and I moan. A wet tongue licks at my nose, and I roll again, avoiding Blue’s ministrations. He whines softly. “I’m okay,” I assure him, my breath coming in quick, pain-filled pants. My lungs hurt too. Actually…everything hurts.

  Blue’s nails on the wood floor click around until he’s facing me again. He sits, swishing his tail back and forth, staring at me. “What?” I say.

  He whines again. He needs to pee.

  I nod. “Got it.” I push myself into a sitting position and wait a moment for the dizziness to subside. Getting my feet onto the floor, I stand, reaching out to hold onto the wall as I make my way to the bathroom.

  The mirror tells a sad tale of an abused young woman. My left cheekbone is swollen and there is a gash on my shoulder surrounded by a blooming bruise. Both my hips are bruised. I hit the ground hard a couple of times last night.

  My knuckles are cut and swollen—the knuckles of an abused woman who fought back. There is a splinter in my palm that I didn’t even notice last night. Finding a pair of tweezers in my bag, I pull it loose, sucking air through my teeth. Why does the littlest shit hurt the most?

  I dump some alcohol on the cut, sprinkle a little on the wound on my shoulder, then pop four Tylenol. Dressing in loose clothing not appropriate for the rainy, cold day, I leash Blue—who looks at me like I’m a traitor for the indignity—and leave the hotel room, trying to walk like I wasn’t in a hell of a bar fight last night that ended up with two goons in the hospital and two others tied up in a safe house on the outskirts of town.

  They deserved it.

  On the street, Blue takes care of business, and then we head to the bakery across the way. Yeah, coffee is gonna fix this. The young woman behind the counter is wearing a black apron, thick glasses, and a look of horrified fascination—she pours my coffee and hands me my muffin without mentioning the bruising, but I can tell she’ll be thinking about me for days to come.

  For a moment, I envy her—a life devoid of violence, where the biggest threat to her survival is an accident. An accident. What a wonderful way to live, where fate is the most dangerous adversary.

  I worked in a coffee shop once…and I quit. I chose this life. And I choose it anew every day. Fighting for justice hurts like a bitch, but it’s worth it every damn time. The faces of the women we saved last night float through my mind. I can’t even picture them all clearly. They are a blur of innocence, a sea of features, all worthy of a life free from slavery.

  Back in my room, I find Blue’s kibble and pour him a big bowl, then reconsider. He deserves a special treat. I call down to the front desk and ask for an order of steak and eggs.

  Before Blue’s breakfast arrives, Petra calls. She and Lenox went back out to the safe house after dropping Blue and me off. They needed to talk, and I needed to sleep. I sip my coffee and spit it back into the cup. Gross. The cream must be spoiled.

  “Sydney,” Petra says for the second time.

  “Yeah, sorry, hi.”

  “The shelter expects us in an hour. I’ll knock on your door?”

  “Sure. How did it go last night?”

  “We will tell you on the drive.”

  A bellboy arrives with Blue’s steak and eggs. I pick at the hash browns while he devours the protein. I should have ordered a cup of coffee.

  My phone rings again. It’s Merl. I catch him up on last night. “Glad you found Mitchel’s mother. And it’s great you’re going to visit the girls in the shelter. Always good to see the positive side of what we do, and not just the bloodshed.”

  Yeah. My stomach swirls from the few potatoes I had. Maybe that spoiled milk in the coffee isn’t agreeing with me.

  “Any sign of Mulberry?” I ask, a lump forming in my throat.

  “He hasn’t reached out to anyone.”

  “Okay.”

  “Hey, he’ll turn up. I promise.”

  My gaze shifts to the window—it’s misty out, and I shiver just looking at it. “Yeah,” I agree.

  A knock at the door draws my attention. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Be brave.” Merl ends our call with the saying of Joyful Justice.

  “Be brave,” I answer back before hanging up.

  A wave of exhaustion crashes over me, but I push through it, headed for the door. There is no time for rest now.

  Declan

  It’s like being in a cloud. A cold, miserable cloud.

  The air is white with mist. It isn’t raining. Just wet. A chill has set into my bones, and all my hours of surveillance under the hot Miami sun are looking like a cakewalk compared to the past few days in Ireland.

  Even inside it’s damp. Even pressed up close to the fire, a cup of coffee in my hand, two pairs of socks in my new boots, and a scarf snug around my throat, I can’t get warm.

  My phone vibrates on the table. Consuela Sanchez. “Hey,” I say, guilt stirring. I didn’t call her after the attack in Savannah, just dropped cash on the table for my food and left. I couldn’t explain why I was there without explaining what I was up to…and that was not an option.

  “Declan.�
�� Her slight accent turns my name from something Irish into something Latin, and I like it.

  “Just one more question?” I ask, humor warming me. “You’re a regular Colombo.”

  She snorts, and I settle deeper into the cushioned bench, pressing the phone to my ear, practically smelling sunshine.

  “I’m assuming you heard.”

  “About?” The attack on the McCain brothers’ ship last night? How did she hear?

  “Joyful Justice. It’s gone dark.”

  I jolt into an upright position. “What?” That makes no sense.

  “Their website is gone. Not a single peep in twenty-four hours.”

  “Weird.” I’m trying to sound almost uninterested. “Thanks for letting me know.” I clear my throat. “What does this have to do with your case?”

  “We’ve rolled the suicide bombing into our task force.”

  “What does that have to do with Joyful Justice? Was the bomber associated with them?”

  The creak of Consuela’s chair as she sits back with a sigh reaches across the ocean. “She posted on their forum about 8 months ago, but it doesn’t look like she got further than that. Stacy Marcus. Ever heard the name?”

  It means nothing to me. “Nope. That’s the identity of the bomber?” It hasn’t been released to the press yet. Is she testing me? Or does she trust me?

  “Yes, she was staying at a domestic violence shelter. Left her boyfriend around the time she posted on the JJ forum. Looks like she got into the Her prophet soon after.”

  “From what I’ve read she was wearing a burka, so I suspected as much. She didn’t leave a note?”

  “Can’t say.” That’s a yes. The chair wheezes again. “Just wanted to check in and see if you knew anybody in Joyful Justice you could ask about Stacy.”

  “Not their style,” I say as the waitress approaches with my breakfast. I smile as she puts it down in front of me—a greasy plate of eggs, bacon, and sausage. I wait for the waitress to get out of hearing range before I continue. “Joyful Justice is careful in its targeting. They would never risk civilian lives like that.” Memories of the attack come back to me: the acrid scent of smoldering plastic mixed with the stink of burnt flesh.