Hans is trying to reach us over the radio—it crackles and pops with his voice.
Petra's gaze lands on my side where the white-hot pain sears. Breath comes again. She eases my hands away and rips open my shirt. Warm blood meets cold skin, and I shudder.
Petra rolls me to the side, so she can see the back. "It passed through," she says with the calmness of a surgeon. A warrior. She reaches up and grabs a pillow off the bed, ripping off the pillowcase and shoving it onto the wound. I groan.
She grabs the radio off my belt and pressing the comm button while holding it up to my mouth. "Tell Hans," she says.
"Shooter across the way," I say.
"Yes," Hans answers. "We’re on it. You've got incoming."
Petra nods, her eyes hard as emeralds. She is so beautiful. She hauls me up so that I’m sitting against the side of the bed—it’s between me and the door. There are spots of light in my vision. "Here." She takes one of my hands away from the wound, pressing a pistol into it. "Be my backup," she tells me. I nod.
The door flies open. Petra's slim body coils before she springs up, her elbows landing on the mattress, gun firing in two quick pops. A spray of bullets shreds the curtains behind Petra, blasting out what was left of the window. The noise assaults my ears. Adrenaline thunders into my system, shaking off the shock that cloaked me.
The assassin’s heavy footfalls enter the room. Petra fires twice more. The thunk of a body hits the wall—the slippery slide to the ground sends shivers of disgust up my spine. Petra drops next to me. There is blood seeping from her cheek. Her mouth is a thin red line.
The bed shakes as bullets pound into it.
She flattens herself, pressing her face to the carpet, and slides her gun arm under the bed. Her shoulder jerks when she fires. A scream and footfalls retreat beyond the door.
Petra rises slowly, her eyes meeting mine for a moment as she shifts position. There is nothing there but pure intent. She will win. Protect what is hers and take what is theirs. She drops the magazine out of her gun and, pulling another from the small of her back, slams it home before flashing me a grin. She will have fun doing it all.
Petra sidles to the end of the king-size bed and, gripping her pistol with both hands, takes a breath before rolling out from behind the protection. She stops, her arms extended, body pressed to the floor, aiming at the door. But she does not fire.
I tip to the side, getting onto my knees and craning around the side of the bed. A body is slumped in the doorway, but there is no one living, no one aiming, no one to shoot.
Gunfire in the hall and a gurgling sound indicate there is a secondary battle happening beyond our room. Must be Hans.
Petra rises to stand and moves carefully toward the door, picking her way over the broken pieces of doorway that blew into the room, her arms extended, the gun aimed at the door. "Lenox?" a man's voice calls into the room.
Robert Maxim?
Petra presses up against the wall by the ruined door, gun up and ready.
"Robert?" I yell back.
His laugh reaches us. "Don't shoot," he says.
I nod to Petra. "It’s okay..."
Robert Maxim, wearing one of his well-tailored gray suits, steps over the dead body in the doorway. He wears dark glasses. A black beard glinting with copper and silver covers the bottom half of his face. The skin I can see is a ravaged, angry red. Anita said he fell into a toxic canal— I guess it didn’t kill him after all.
He smiles when he sees Petra. "I'm Robert Maxim," he says, holding out a gloved hand.
Petra cocks her head and narrows her eyes. "I thought you were dead."
He grins as she accepts his offered hand and they shake. "Not yet." He shifts his focus to me. His smile turns to a frown. "You're hurt?"
"I'll be fine."
"He needs a doctor," Petra says.
Robert pulls a phone from his suit jacket pocket and speaks rapidly in Turkish as he moves toward me. He crouches, keeping his pants from touching the blood-spattered carpeting. "I have a safe house we can use."
"We can provide our own safe house," Petra responds.
Hans appears at the doorway. "Who are you?" he asks, his gun trained on Robert's back.
Robert raises his hands and smiles. "An old friend of Lenox’s. Let's move to the safe house, and we can discuss in more detail there."
I nod to Hans, but he does not lower his weapon. Smart man.
I struggle to stand; Petra helps. She moves under my arm on my uninjured side, and we head toward the door. We have to maneuver over several dead bodies to make it out of the building and into the waiting van.
"May I ride with you?" Robert asks. "I’ll have my men follow."
"Your men?" Hans asks.
"We can trust him," I say. Robert is a snake but one I know. He is not here to kill me. More likely he will offer me a poisoned fruit. Hopefully the scent will not be so delicious that I bite into it.
Chapter Fifteen
Sydney
Catrina's father's practice is in a beautiful old building not far from my apartment. His office is warm and inviting, nothing like the cold, sterile hospitals where most of my prenatal care has happened until this point.
There are bookshelves and a big desk. When he takes me for my ultrasound, he performs it himself, accompanied by a nurse, in a well-appointed room that, if you removed the equipment, could be used for a houseguest.
That's what I feel like: a guest. Not a patient. A friend they are welcoming. The nurse excuses herself to greet the next patient while Dr. Bonet looks through the images from the ultrasound, his glasses perched on the tip of his nose and his white eyebrows drawn together in concentration.
"A very healthy little boy." He smiles.
"A boy," I parrot back.
"Yes." Dr. Bonet looks up from his computer screen. "Congratulations." He points to the screen, angling it toward me. "See."
A giant head curls into a round little body. He is starting to look like a person, not just a bundle of cells. My eyes prickle. A boy. I'll name him James. Tears blot my vision, and a smile spreads across my face. It's not a smile I've felt before—this is a kind of happiness I've never known.
Blue nuzzles my hand, and I reach out to run my fingers through his fur. Fear trickles up my throat. If anything… when something happens to this child… I don't know…
The doctor smiles back at me. "He looks great. About fourteen weeks, as you said."
I stare at the tiny, curled creature on the screen. Last time I saw him, he was just a bouncing bean. And now… now he has—I lean forward—he's got little tiny hands and legs tucked into his belly. My smile widens into a face-eating grin.
"My daughter says this is your second. You have a daughter."
"Yes." I clear my throat, remembering my lies. "My family will be here soon."
"It is not good for a pregnant woman to be alone. Now is a time to be cherished, yes? You and your family must revel in this moment."
Mulberry would like this guy.
I don't respond because there is nothing to say.
He sends me home with a clean bill of health—no hemorrhages in sight.
The main drag is thick with pedestrians. Blue and I duck down into one of the narrow side streets, the buildings rising up high on either side, the sky a slice of perfect blue above us. Ferns and other ornamental plants burst from the balconies, along with drying laundry.
In front of me, a man pushes a metal cylinder on a cart, clinking a stick against it, the sound ricocheting around the narrow street. A woman pops her head over a balcony and yells to him. He waves back, and she ducks inside while he heads to her door.
I pass him as the door opens. What is he selling? I can't tell.
Blue's nose taps my hip twice, and he lets out a low growl. My focus sharpens, and I casually glance behind us. A man strides down the street ten lengths back. He's wearing a dark suit, a ball cap pulled low over his brow, and a camera suspended around his neck.
I take the
next left, weaving my way through the maze of streets toward my new apartment. Camera Man follows.
I get out the fistful of keys Catrina gave me—one for the front door, one the back, one the mail box, one the bike room, and one for the apartment. Which is which, I have no idea yet. I take long strides down the block. Hopefully, I can get into my apartment before Camera Man catches up with me. If he breaks in, then I have every right to defend myself. But I need to avoid this fight if at all possible.
Maybe I'm just paranoid.
I glance over my shoulder. He's still there, just a few lengths behind me. Better paranoid and alive, than relaxed and dead. I should needlepoint that onto a pillow for the nursery.
The door to my building opens as I step up to it, saving me from having to figure out which key I need. An elderly woman smiles at me as I hold the door so she can maneuver her grocery cart out.
Camera Man is crossing the street toward us, walking leisurely, like he's a tourist, his attention on a cafe next door. I pull the large front door shut behind me, the heavy deadbolt automatically clicking into place.
Blue and I take the stairs, running into another neighbor on the way out. We smile at each other and nod—the international language of hi, how are you, fine, and yourself, good, thank you.
Blue and I continue up the marble stairs. My neighbor’s voice echoes up the stairwell as she greets someone at the front door. I pause, listening.
It's a man's voice. Shit. Is it Camera Man?
Hard-soled shoes start up the steps behind us.
I hurry upward, grabbing at the railing to propel myself toward the second floor. I need to get in my apartment now.
Reaching the front door, I try the first key. It doesn't fit.
Shit, shit, shit. Which key is it?
Running from a fight is not my bag. Not my bag. The footfalls echo, so it's impossible to judge how close, but they can't be far. Icy fingers of fear trail up my spine. My hand shakes as I shift to the next key, the others jangle, the sound echoing off the tile, and combine with the footsteps, turning the fingers of fear into claws.
The keys fall. I dive after them. Oh, fuck this.
A calm washes over me, cleansing the anxiety, leaving behind the clarity of impending battle. Life or death. Fate decides.
Instead of grabbing the keys, I remove my knife from its ankle holster and step back, moving silently up into the shadows of the next stairwell. Blue stays close by my side, warmth radiating off him.
The footsteps stop. They must be at the landing below my apartment, able to see the door and the discarded keys.
Cloth slips against cloth. Getting out a gun?
An errant bead of sweat slides down my nose. My breath is slow, even, almost silent. But you cannot be alive without creating sound. Life doesn't work that way. It's loud, it's messy… and it ends.
But not for me, not today.
Hard-soled shoes tap on the marble step. But they are moving away. I strain to hear. Another step.
They are retreating. Speeding up now, jogging down the narrow staircase.
I move out of the shadows and approach the hall window. Pulling back the shutter, I use it to shield my body as I peer out. A man exits the building, pulling his phone from the interior pocket of his suit jacket. The stark black of Camera Man's suit stands out in the muted colors of the street.
A ray of sunlight hits him, and the suit practically sparkles. He turns toward the building, and I step back, hidden from the street. His eyes are shielded by sunglasses so black they seem to absorb the light. A shiver of fear tingles over my skin again. He's a professional. Anita and Mulberry were right: people are trying to kill me.
Chapter Sixteen
Dan
"Tell me about this one." Sanchez turns the tablet to me. On the screen is one of my memes: a gorgeous blonde woman smiles out at the viewer. Her conservative white blouse is unbuttoned one button too far. She looks almost like a yoga mom, except for that extra swatch of skin. On the top it says: Sex work is honest work. And on the bottom it reads: Like and share if you agree we should have control over our own bodies.
I look up at Sanchez. "I'm pretty sure it's self-explanatory."
Her lips tighten, and her nostril's flare as she breathes in through her nose. "It went viral."
I glance at the tablet, to the statistics below the images. It was shared over 50,000 times and reached several million people. "Appears so," I agree.
"That's all you have to say?"
"You didn't ask me anything." I raise my brows, all innocent prisoner trying to be useful.
She narrows her gaze… so not going for the act. "How did you come up with it?"
I shrug. "The way I come up with anything." I smile. "I just keep trying until I get the results I want." Us in bed, whispering sweet nothings to each other.
Her jaw ticks with annoyance, as if she's read my mind and doesn't appreciate the sexual innuendo while at work. "Look," I relent, "I get that you're trying to pick apart how I did this, but it's not going to work that way."
"What do you mean?"
"I didn't do anything complicated. I just kept trying different things until I hit on stuff that worked. The more I threw at the wall, the more things stuck, and once I learned what stuck, it was easier to make new ones."
"Okay, so what sticks?"
"People feeling like their rights are being taken away. That life is unfair. I start with stuff anyone would agree with—so not this." I wave at the image. "Things like, 'Dogs are a man's best friend. Like and share if you think all dogs should be protected from harm.’"
"Okay..."
"Once I get them to like the page and begin to trust it, then I start to lean a little more in my direction. I'm not going after people who are pro-life with this meme. This is the language of pro-choice—women controlling their own bodies, whatever the purpose. And I target accordingly.
So, for what you want to do with the incels, we have to start with what they think is unfair. For example, ‘Women get custody of children 98 percent of the time in custody battles. Like and share if you agree men and women should have equal rights.’"
Sanchez sits back in her seat, nodding. "That is one of their complaints."
"Yeah, they think women are the ones with the advantage. They like the idea of things being 'fair.'" I use air quotes around fair. "But the thing is, the real key is targeting." Conseula nods. "Do you have an app for that?"
Her lips twitch into a small smile. "Maybe."
Our deal has been finalized—I get immunity, and she gets a campaign targeted to incels whose minds can be changed—but she is still holding back. "Let me take a look at it," I prod.
"When we get to our secure location."
"Where is that?"
"You'll find out once you're all healed up."
As if on cue, Dr. Travis walks in. Sanchez stands as though the headmaster just entered the classroom. I bet she went to Catholic school. I curse myself for the hundredth time for not researching her thoroughly—stupid. When she started the task force, I should have done a deep dive.
"Mr. Burke," Dr. Travis says, smiling, his gaze quickly shifting to the monitor on the far wall. He taps in his password and reads through the latest notes. "Looks like you're doing a lot better. Less meds today."
"That's right."
"Where is your pain at?"
"A five."
He nods, narrowing his eyes at the screen. "Okay, well, I know Ms. Sanchez wants you out of here as soon as possible."
"Yes," she agrees, crossing her arms over her chest.
"All your scans look good." He turns to me then. "You're lucky there wasn't more permanent damage."
"Yes," I agree, "but unlucky that I got beat up in the first place." I smile at him. Dr. Travis shrugs. Criminals get what criminals get, I guess.
He excuses himself to complete his rounds, and Sanchez sits back down, pulling the tablet close. "What are you going to do once I give you all my secrets?" I ask, a teasing ton
e to my voice. Even though we have a legal document between us, I want to know she will stand by it. That she will fight to make sure the US government doesn't try to just throw me in a hole when this is all over.
Her gaze flicks to mine. "That's in our agreement."
"So, you'll just let me walk away?"
She meets my gaze. "You're my asset, Dan. I take care of what's mine."
A shiver runs down my spine. I like that answer more than I should.
Chapter Seventeen
Sydney
I leave a message for Catrina. "Our plans have changed, and I'll be returning to America. Thanks for all your help. I've left the keys in the apartment. I don’t expect any of my money back."
I call Anita as Blue and I head out of the city in a rented car, having made my way to the rental agency without further sight of the Camera Man. "How is Dan doing?" I ask when she picks up.
"Cops beat the shit out of him." Anita's voice is hard—she's pissed. "I got him a lawyer, and we are negotiating. They want him to help with some social media stuff—convincing incels to not hate women."
"Well, if anyone can do it, Dan can."
"Yes, and it won't hurt us to have done something useful for the US government."
"How severe are his injuries?"
"He'll be fine. On a lot of pain killers still but snarky as ever apparently."
"That's good to hear."
"He's going to be working with a Special Agent named Consuela Sanchez. She was on the same task force as Declan Doyle—tracking the Her Prophet followers and incel members. Used to run it but got demoted. Declan left around the same time to work on an international organized crime task force. We don't have much in our files about her, but Rachel is working on building a profile."
"Sounds good. Keep me informed, will you? I'm not giving up my seat on the council."
Anita doesn’t answer for a long moment. "Okay," she says finally.
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