Now, more than thirty years later, I stand at the bottom of another towering wave. The same sense of misplaced time and space enveloping me. I followed the prize—justice in an unjust world—and perhaps again failing to see the danger rising in front of me, forming into a towering wall of power that can subvert my sense of direction.
My calculations, my insistence that I use weights and scales to judge rather than guts and vulnerability, has twisted a vigilante organization into a criminal one. I strove to free strangers from slavery and delivered myself and my friends in the process.
"Sydney will be fine," Petra says, rubbing my shoulders, her strong hands digging into the tight muscles. "She told you she has a plan."
"Sydney is strong," I agree. I fear we will murder the ideals Joyful Justice set out to spread.
The image of Petra standing over Boris and Billy's bodies, chestnut hair falling in soft waves around her face, the glittering green of her eyes, flashes in my mind. The wave of love that washed over me then—inspired by her strength and clarity—pulses inside me still, undulating with the same certainty as the sea.
Petra kisses the back of my neck and slinks her arms around to rest on my chest. "You are afraid for yourself then?" she asks. I reach up and cover her hands with mine. My voice is locked in my chest. "Speak to me, Lenox," Petra says. "I love you. I want you to share with me. Please."
I raise one of her hands to my mouth and kiss her knuckles. "I love you," I admit.
She sucks in a breath. "Oh, Lenox," she breathes out, kissing my neck, moving around so that she can sit in my lap and look up into my face. "I love you." There are tears in her lashes. She kisses me, then lets out a low, throaty laugh. "Lenox, you wait so long to tell me." She smiles. "But you know I know."
"Yes," I agree. "You know me well."
"So I also know you fear what we are doing—that you will have too much power and that power always corrupts."
"Yes." She is right again.
"But do not worry, my love," she purrs. "I will keep you in line." It's my turn to laugh. She slaps my arm. "You do not believe me?"
"We have not always shared the same values," I say.
"True," she answers. "But I am a different woman now. You have shown me how to take care of people, not just use them to take care of myself." I blink at her, surprised yet not. "You make me a better woman, Lenox Gold."
Only time will tell if she makes me a better man.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sydney
The orange jumpsuit scratches as I walk down the hall. The chains linking my wrists to my waist clink in time with the ones that link my ankles and waist. My guards each hold an elbow.
We arrive at the visitors’ corridor. I'm the only prisoner here. They are taking this solitary confinement thing seriously—wouldn't want me inspiring a revolution. I see Robert Maxim as they bring me to the booth.
Sitting in the chair provided, I turn to my guard so he can remove my wrist restraints, then pick up the phone between us. Robert already cradles his to his ear. "Sydney," he says, no smile.
"How nice of you to visit." How nice of you to fall right into my trap.
He ignores my sarcasm. "I have a proposal for you." I wish I could raise one brow but never did master the skill, so I just purse my lips. "Marry me."
I cough a laugh. "What?"
He scoots forward on his seat, getting closer to the glass. "You need to marry me."
"Excuse me?"
"My testimony is the most damning against you."
"Nice to know."
"If we are married, then they can't make me testify against you."
"Wow." I sit back, the clink of my chains a not-so-subtle reminder of how much this man has tied me up in binds. "You planned this. I mean, you really fucking planned this." I reach out with my free hand to touch Blue's head, but it isn't there. I swallow the panic rising up my throat. This is not permanent.
"I plan everything," he says.
I suppress a smile and look down at my hands to hide my eyes. He can read me well. I must be very careful. "You faked your own death, you set up your child, the mother of your child, and brought down a huge number of criminal organizations all to marry me?"
"One stone, many birds." He doesn't smile. He's still not sure if I'll do it.
"Robert, even if I marry you, if you force me to marry you, that won't make us husband and wife in the way you want," I point out.
"I will get my fortune back. You will have to be with me for a lifetime to avoid prosecution."
I laugh, letting the ridiculousness of this very serious man roll over me. I knew he wanted to save me; I didn't realize his plan involved marriage. "Do you hear yourself?"
"I am very self-aware."
I fold over myself laughing, tears wetting my lashes. "Self-aware," I say aloud, shaking my head. "You are an idiot." I raise my head to meet his gaze. "You can't force me to marry you and expect it to be a good relationship."
"I expect it will keep you safe. It will keep you close. And those are the two things I want most in this world."
"You're willing to risk my freedom on this gamble?"
"It's not me risking it. I can get you out within days. All you have to do is agree. You are the one risking your freedom. I am the one offering it to you. Is the idea of being with me worse than prison?"
"I'm not totally sure of the difference."
He snorts. "You are not so impractical, Sydney. You can see that living with me—something you've chosen to do in the past—will be far superior to spending the rest of your life alone behind bars. I have Blue, Nila, and Frank. We are all just waiting for you to come home. I can protect you, Sydney. You know that."
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, bringing in the stinking staleness of the prison. He put me here. This selfish bastard will taste the stink of failure soon though.
"What about Mulberry?" I ask, playing along, pretending like I don't have a plan of my own.
"He can see the child, of course. But you will be my wife. I expect you to live with me, to be faithful."
"Faithful." He's fucking crazy. "You think I'm going to sleep with you?" I lean closer, wishing the glass wasn't between us so I could hit him upside the head.
He smiles, this slow, teasing smile, as if he knows how to woo me. As if I'm a bunny with its leg caught in his trap. I will gnaw my fucking leg off and beat you to death with it, asshole.
"I guess that can all be discussed on our honeymoon," I say, sitting back.
"So, that's a yes."
"You've left me no choice, Robert. Obviously, I will marry you to get out of this hellhole."
The smile that steals over Robert's face is like a thief, lightly floating over rooftops, leaving no trail, but taking everything of value with it. It tugs at something in my chest. He is trying to get my heart, but he can't have it.
My son kicks out and spins once in my belly before settling down again. I lay my hand over him and smile at Robert, pretending I'm a bunny, pretending he has caught me but knowing that it is the other way around.
Turn the page for a sneak peek of Fatal Breach, Sydney Rye Mysteries book 14, Coming 2021
Sneak Peek
Fatal Breach, Sydney Rye Mystery Book 14
Chapter One
Robert meets me at the prison gate, his smile predatory and victorious. I blank my mind. If I think about what I have planned, he will see it on my face. The man knows me well. Robert will be expecting something from me—it's part of the fun for him.
Is this fun for me, too?
His hand cups my upper arm as he bends to brush a kiss against my cheek. His beard is soft against my skin and the scent of him engulfs me: low notes of sandalwood and fine leather balanced by a sharp tang of cold metal.
"You look lovely," Robert says.
I'm wearing black cargo pants tucked into boots that lace tight at my ankles—they keep spiders out when you're in the jungle—a black tank top and the parka that Special Agent Consuela Sanch
ez gave me when we flew back to the States. It's cold in D.C., not so much in Costa Rica.
Robert is wearing a camel hair overcoat—it's a shade lighter than his skin, and a few shades more gold than the copper in his beard. The collar is pulled up against the chill, and his cheeks are tinged pink from the cold. A soft wind plays with his pitch black hair gone silver at the temples.
Behind Robert a black SUV with tinted windows idles. Brock, his head of personal security, climbs out of the driver's seat and comes around to open the back door. Brock is big and broad with weathered skin the color of a brushed penny. If his name was Block it wouldn't be off by much. His eyes are hidden behind mirrored sunglasses. His dark coat captures the sunlight and hides it away somewhere it will never be found.
"Good to have you back, Ms. Rye," Brock says in a rumbling baritone as I get into the back seat.
"Thanks, Brock."
Robert joins me. "Where are we going?" I ask. "To my apartment?”
Robert smiles. "Yes," he says.
When Robert faked his own death several months ago he really went the extra mile by leaving me most of his worldly possessions, including his apartment in Washington D.C. Now that he is forcing me to marry him to avoid prosecution—a husband can't testify against his wife—he'll be getting his wealth back.
"I may need you to sign a prenup," I say. "You realize I'm a very wealthy woman."
Robert laughs, his blue-green eyes glittering as we merge onto the highway. "Your wish is my command."
"Yeah, right," I grumble, looking out the window and watching the industrial area we're leaving slide by in a smear of speed.
Robert captures my hand, pulling it into his lap. "Sydney," his voice is serious and I turn to look at him. "I recognize this isn't what you wanted."
I huff a laugh. "You're so observant Robert. Was it the threat of giving birth in prison, or just the regular old forcing me to marry you?" I hold my chin with my free hand, pretending to be really thinking. "I wonder if I'm just being triggered by the fact that you're treating me like an object to obtain rather than a person with a life and heart of my own."
The skin around Robert's eyes tightens. "Sydney," his voice is lower now, a warning. The way you might talk to a child complaining about their bedtime. As if he knows what’s best for me. I have to look away to keep the thoughts bubbling up in my mind hidden from him. You will learn that I am not an object. Only a thinking, feeling, sentient being could ruin you the way I plan to.
"If you don't want to marry me, you don't have to, Sydney."
"You're right," I tell the window. "I could choose to give birth in prison and have my son taken from me." I turn back to him, the idea bringing untapped rage to the forefront. "Do you think that is a choice I'd make?"
"No, you would rather murder me in my sleep."
I can't help the lightning grin that flashes across my face. "That has crossed my mind."
"But I do not think you are so heartless as that. You are angry with me now, but we are bonded."
"Ha, bonded. Is that what you call this?" I try to pull my hand free from him but he holds it tight. "Bondage is more like it." A spark ignites in his gaze and I sneer at him. "Don't even think about it."
His lips twitch into a smile and he gives a small shake of his head. "I'd never want to do anything without your consent."
"Wow, you're a big man. So generous. My consent. Lucky me." He opens his mouth to speak. "You know what?" I cut him off. “Let's just not talk for a minute. You don't want to get punched, I'm assuming." I shrug. "So we should stop speaking." I yank my hand out of his and scoot closer to my window.
"As you wish," he says.
Out of the corner of my eye I see him reach into his jacket. I lunge at him, grabbing his wrist with one hand and pinning it to his body so he can't pull a weapon. My other hand reaches into his open jacket, and slides up his abdominals searching for the gun. I don't find it.
"I keep my gun on my right side, Sydney, you know I'm left handed." His breath touches my cheek. I tilt my face to meet his gaze. He's so close our lips are practically touching. He's staying very still. I'm still pressing his right hand into his body. "Did you really think I'd pull a gun on you?" There is hurt in his voice. "I love you, I keep telling you."
I push off him, creating space between us. "This isn't love, Robert, this is obsession and possession."
He removes his hand from inside his jacket pocket, revealing a black velvet ring box. "We need to make it look real," Robert says, opening the lid.
Nestled in pale blue satin is an elegant, subtle engagement ring—a rose gold band with a round diamond set into it. The ring is not what I expected. His ex-wives wore chunks of diamonds that could drown a puppy. "It was my mother's," Robert says, taking it out of the box. "She was a music teacher, you know."
"Yes." His mom taught him to play piano.
"She used her hands, so needed a low profile ring." Something steals over his face, a memory of his mother, maybe. "She would have liked you."
"What would she have thought of you forcing me to marry you?"
Robert meets my gaze, his eyes are hard now. He's done with this line of conversation. "I offered you an escape—"
"You orchestrated it."
"Yes, that's right, Sydney, I orchestrated taking down your enemies, bringing you immense power and wealth. The price you have to pay is to spend the rest of my life with me as my wife. Is it too high for the destruction of the criminal cartels you fought to destroy? For the freedom of the sex slaves you fought to save? You would have given your life for the cause but won't offer me my happiness for it."
"There is freedom in death."
"There is freedom with me if you will allow it."
Silence fills the car, vibrating with unsaid words, with unspoken truths. I drop my gaze to the ring. He inches it closer to me. I take the box and settle back into the seat, resting it on my belly.
My son moves inside me, pressing against my ribs and making me arch to accommodate him. "Is he moving?" Robert asks, his voice so low I almost don't recognize it—there is something in his tone…
"Yes." I look over at Robert. He's sitting perfectly still, staring at my stomach. "You want to feel him?" I guess.
Robert's eyes jump to mine. "May I?" There is something so incredibly human about him that I'm struck speechless. I nod and he moves closer, gently laying his hand on top of my belly. My son punches out and a smile breaks over Robert's face. I've never seen his expression like this before. It's soft and…vulnerable.
When Robert looks up at me, his hand still resting on my belly, only the thin layer of my tank top between us, I can't understand what I'm seeing. He looks…awed.
What in the actual fuck?
Continue reading Fatal Breach, Sydney Rye Mystery Book 14, coming winter 2021: emilykimelman.com/FBwb
A Note From Emily
Thank you so much for reading Blind Vigilance! It means so much to me that readers enjoy my work. And the fact that you’re having enough fun with my series to keep reading is a big deal to me. I’m so grateful to you.
* * *
Much of this book was inspired by the incredibly sophisticated social media manipulation by Cambridge Analytica—not just in the 2016 election but also in their propaganda campaigns around the globe. Fascinating and scary stuff. If you want to learn more about it, I suggest you read MindF*ck by Christopher Wiley. It breaks down how social media can be used to push us into ideological corners that we think we created for ourselves. It is as Wiley says “weapons grade communication”.
* * *
To put it simply, we are all very easy to manipulate because our lizard brains are not designed to deal with the onslaught of information the internet and social media companies feed us. Each of us is curating our reality—and advertisers are able to insinuate themselves into that stream—which gives them immense power.
* * *
We are easier to control, and sell, if we are blaming each other for our problems
rather than searching for the systematic changes necessary to move into a more perfect union. Blaming “the other” is a time tested way to control a population.
* * *
I hope we can recognize that we are one people, we live on one planet, and we are all responsible for each other. If we look at power and policies, instead of each other, to find the root of our division, I believe we will discover a path forward for humanity that supports freedom, safety, and joy for all.
* * *
I’ll leave you with a Stephen King quote I’ve always loved. “I never opened my mouth and you never opened yours. We're not even in the same year together, let alone the same room... except we are together. We are close. We're having a meeting of the minds. [...] We've engaged in an act of telepathy.” -Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft
* * *
Thank you for reading my words and allowing me inside your head. Without you, I’m just a woman typing into the void. Together we are telepathic.
* * *
Emily
About the Author
Emily Kimelman not only writes adventure, she lives it every day. Embodying the true meaning of wanderlust, she's written her Sydney Rye mysteries from all over the world. From the jungles of Costa Rica to the mountains of Spain, she finds inspiration for her stories in her own life.
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