“I’ll find her and head to the helicopter,” I tell him.
“Understood. I’ll stop those coming toward the front. I’ve got men at the back as well. The roof doesn’t have coverage at this time. We may have already been penetrated.”
“Understood.” We hang up, and I take a steadying breath before calling out. “Sydney!”
A floorboard creaks behind me and I duck, spinning around. The low whistle of a bullet flies over my head. There is a woman, clad in black, a ball cap shadowing her face, standing in the doorway. She grips a pistol with a long silencer at its tip. I raise my gun to fire but she dives into the room, sheltering behind the couch.
I lunge behind the matching leather chair, the one I sat in moments ago when I realized Sydney Rye is pregnant. Don’t think about it now. Wiping my mind of anything but this present moment, I listen for movement.
My attacker is still, producing no sound except for a quiet, even breathing. An explosion outside shakes the room, making the chandelier tinkle and plaster dust rain from the ceiling. A beam of sunlight catches the drifting motes and time slows. My heart beats. The would-be assassin behind the couch shifts, giving away her position. I rise slowly, silently, and aim at the couch.
The bullet explodes leather and fluff, blasting through the wooden frame. Her body topples onto the carpeting in a quiet jumble.
Keeping my gun up, I stay low as I come around the chair and circle the couch. She is splayed on the floor, her face obscured by the hat, blood pooling around her head. One down.
I kick the weapon away from the assassin’s limp hand before crouching next to the body. Resting my fingers on her throat, I confirm my initial assessment. Pulling back the hat, I find a pretty face, porcelain skin, and long lashes. There is a radio in her ear, which I take, fitting it into my own. It is quiet, so these are not total morons.
A lot of people want me dead. Almost as many would like to spill Sydney Rye’s blood. I pat down the body but find no identification. I’ll try to keep the next one alive long enough to ask some questions.
Sydney
There are fresh cut flowers in my room.
Pink and lush, globs of orange pollen flocked to the stamen. I rub one of the delicate, velvety petals between my fingers…it reminds me of Blue’s ears.
My father brought my mother flowers every week. She’d smile and kiss him with a breathless thank you. He’d growl low in his chest and tug her close—his strong arms holding her as if he’d never let go.
Her laughter drifted through the house like pollen on a summer breeze…they were happy.
When Dad died, Mom couldn't handle it. Couldn't take care of two kids on her own—couldn’t be on her own.
So she drank.
I turn away from the bouquet and look out the window.
I don't expect a man to buy me flowers…I expect him to die. My love is a death sentence. That's why I pushed Mulberry away. That’s why I’m best on my own.
I could end this life growing inside me before it really has a chance to get going.
But I won’t. I can’t. I don’t even want to…
Because some part of me does want flowers every week…brought to me by someone who loves me, who thinks of me on their way home from work.
I almost laugh out loud, but the weight on my chest is too heavy. Like I’ll ever be with someone who moves to the rhythms of a regular job. It is impossible for me to have a normal life.
I destroyed that option long ago. And I don’t want it now.
So what do I want?
Tears blur my view of the city outside my windows. Damn hormones.
Blue’s teeth graze my clenched fist. The low thrum of Nila’s growl raises hairs on the back of my neck as a shock of recognition jolts through me: we are under attack.
I was so damn busy imagining my future that I stopped paying attention to the present.
There’s the familiar pop of a gunshot below.
Blue is looking up at me, his mismatched eyes observing. There was a time when I lost his trust. When he became the leader. I refuse to go back there again.
With a jerk of my chin, I send him to the door. His sensitive nose presses to the narrow opening and his tail gives a wag. The hall is clear of unknowns.
I pad down it in bare feet, almost silent against the worn wood, Blue trotting in front of me, Nila and Frank on either site.
Blue stops short, his ears perked…his hackles slowly rise. We’ve got incoming.
I flatten myself to the wall—making as slim a target as possible. Knees bent, dogs at attention, I’m ready. There isn’t a thought in my head as the quiet of battle descends upon me. This is where I’m meant to be. I’m good at this. At fighting and killing and surviving.
Blue, still in front of me, gives a happy wag of his tail. The sound of bare feet on the steps, inaudible if I wasn’t holding my breath listening, stop. Blue’s tail goes again. We know this person. Must be Robert.
He steps into the hall, so quick the man is a blur, arms straight, pistol searching for a target. The brutal gaze of a killer shifts—the blue-green warming into the familiar eyes of a friend—when he sees me. We don’t speak, don’t need to know who’s after us or why, not in this moment. All we have to do is make it out alive.
Robert starts down the hall back the way I came. There is blood on the hem of his linen pants. The dogs fan out behind me as I follow him. We are headed for the roof. I bet he’s got a helicopter up there next to his pool.
We pass my bedroom on the right, the open atrium to our left, the fountain below tinkling. Black ropes drop into the space. The zing of nylon rope passing through a belay has Robert pushing into the next room. They are coming down from the roof.
He closes the door softly behind us, then steps close, listening.
The sounds of the quiet movements of killers pass through the door—the whisper of fabric, the creak of weight on old floorboards.
Our breaths come in long, even, almost-silent-but-not-quite draws. Life makes noise.
Robert looks to the French doors and small balcony of this bedroom, the same as mine. We can’t climb up or down with the dogs. His lips press tight, and the lines around his eyes deepen. The subtle tells of worry quicken my heartbeat.
He moves deeper into the room, I wait by the door with the dogs. There is no crackle of a radio—no evidence the killers are communicating.
A nearby explosion shakes the house as Robert pulls back the curtains, looking down onto the street. He draws me forward with a small wave of his hand, the way I’d direct my dogs. Clear communication between partners who know each other well.
Blue moves with me, recognizing the command as clearly as me. Nila and Frank stay close, the warmth of their bodies at once a comfort and a weight. I am responsible for them.
Shoving that thought aside, I step up to Robert. He looks down at me. We are close enough that I can smell the soap he used in the shower and see the glitter of white stubble among the black along his jaw. His lips turn up into a sly smile as his brows raise. I can’t help but return the expression. This is what we live for…what we are meant for.
He leans close, his breath warming the shell of my ear. “We are going to have to fight our way to the roof.” I nod. The lobe of my ear brushes against his lips, sending a shiver down my neck. Rapid gunshots echo in the atrium, jerking my head toward the door, and my mouth meets Robert’s.
His arm comes around my waist and he tugs me close—so fast and hard that I gasp, opening my lips, and letting him in.
An accident.
He kisses me like it is at once the first and last time…but it’s not the first. The heat between us ignites in a terrible ball of furious lust and heart-banging need. Why does death so close make life so good?
Robert’s mouth tears from mine, his body angling toward the door. He pushes me behind him as the door flies open. The jerk of Robert’s gun vibrates through his body—I feel it in his chest where my hand still grips his shirt, and in the fingers h
e has wrapped around my hip holding me behind him.
But I’m not some damsel in distress.
Blue is already moving, and I step out from behind Robert’s protection, following the giant dog into the hall, grabbing the gun off the dead man in the doorway. Lips tingling, body thrumming, I move toward the roof, Robert behind me with Nila and Frank.
A shout, and the wall next to me splinters with a bullet hole. Ducking into the dark, narrow spiral staircase that leads to the roof, I take the steps two at a time, then pause before the sunlight hits me. Robert fires down the stairs behind us. A shadow flickers at the top of the steps, and a bead of sweat breaks free from my hairline, sliding down my nose as the shadow forms into a man.
I fire, the figure falling with a painful yelp. His scream pitches higher as he grabs for his crotch. I aim for his head, firing and ending his suffering.
Robert shoots behind me again. “Two bullets left,” he grinds out.
Time slows—taking on that dream-like quality that only happens when my world is in danger of ending. As if time knows there is only precious moments left, so we better enjoy every last one of them.
I move into the sunlight, scanning the roof. At its center is the opening to the atrium—green vines climbing out and black ropes dropping in. The pool, aqua blue water ruffling in the ocean breeze, is just past the atrium, and beyond that sits a helicopter. A four-seater—modest for Robert Maxim. And I used to think owning helicopters was impractical.
“We’re clear,” I say, moving fast now, time speeding up again, heart racing, victory a taste on my tongue.
Blue passes me, his stride longer than mine. He recognizes our escape plan. “Wait,” Robert yells as I reach the atrium. I stop, spinning to him. He hands me his almost empty pistol and then pulls a knife from an ankle holster. I’ve got to get one of those. He glances over the edge of the atrium and then begins to cut the ropes.
Nila barks and a figure appears at the top of the steps. I fire a round, and the figure dives back into the safety of the stairwell. “Come on,” I say. “The ropes don’t matter.”
A scream echoes from the atrium, followed by a sickening crunch, and Robert is standing again, shrugging with one shoulder. I try not to smile but fail. Gallows humor takes on a new meaning in these situations.
Robert starts the helicopter while I stand next to it, covering the stairs. The blades thump through the air, blotting out all other sounds. I climb on it but don’t belt in, holding onto a strap and hanging out the side of the copter as we lift off, my gun aimed at the stairs.
We rise straight up into the air and then bank toward the ocean. Free and alive.
God, I love this life.
Chapter Four
Robert
"The compound is ours again, Sir." Brock's voice is gravelly. He's tired.
“Good,” I answer. “We are headed to the Panama City apartment.” The wind whips Sydney’s hair out of her ponytail and ruffles the thick fur of her dogs. We are standing on the tarmac waiting for them to fuel my jet. There is a plush sitting area at this private airport, naturally, but Sydney needed the air. Because she’s pregnant. An unfamiliar zing of emotion speeds up my spine, settling in my throat and making my jaw tingle.
“I’ll clean up here and meet you. I’ll send Stevens and Jones ahead with your and Ms. Rye’s luggage,” Brock says.
“Any idea who they were?”
“Hired mercenaries, Sir, I recognize the woman you killed. We worked together years ago. This was a professional crew.”
“Local authorities should be covered.” I pay enough. I don’t want questions being asked about the dead bodies littering my house.
“I’ve already spoken with our contact. It’s taken care of.”
“Excellent. See you soon, Brock.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Slipping the phone back into my pocket, I step up next to Sydney. “I don’t believe you’ve ever been to Panama City. It’s fascinating. I think you’ll like it.”
Her eyes search my face. I keep it totally neutral. We don’t have to talk about anything…yet.
“I’ll need to speak with the council,” she says.
“Of course,” I tilt my head in deference to her “council,” Joyful Justice’s governing body. I’m not a member—they’d never invite into their inner circle a man they consider morally compromised.
Hypocrites. Their justification for killing—protecting the innocent—is no more honorable than my own—surviving at the highest level. I don’t just subsist, I revel in life. Something those do-gooders can’t quite handle. But they will accept use of my resources, and they will even occasionally take my advice.
I’ve survived more perilous situations than any of them.
Sydney’s eyes narrow. I raise my brows and offer a subtle smile. “What?”
She purses her lips. “Just watching the wheels turn, Bobby.”
I bark out a laugh. “You know me so well.”
Her eyes narrow further. “Something like that. Do you know who sent them?”
“Not yet.” She nods, almost to herself, then looks out at the airport. Surrounded by lush tropical foliage, the tarmac wafts lines of heat into the air. “Do you have any ideas?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Lots of people want us dead,” Sydney turns to me, a full wattage smile, so rare, lighting up her face. “We make a hell of a challenge.”
“A hell of a team,” I say.
The smile falters, a shadow crossing her eyes. She hates to admit how alike we are…how she feels about me. I’d planned on giving her time, unlimited time to realize it for herself. My patience a gift to her. But the pregnancy changes everything.
My timetable must be moved up. I grin at her, and she narrows her eyes again, sensing my shifting plans but powerless to stop them.
Sydney
Robert sets me up in his office for the council meeting. I have my own laptop and hotspot—Dan would never let me use another man’s equipment. Far too easy for Robert to spy on us.
My screen is split into four boxes. In one square, Anita and Dan sit next to each other in his office. They are on the private island in the Pacific Ocean that Joyful Justice uses as a headquarters for our strategic operations. Merl is in Costa Rica at our training center, set up in his small office off the dojo with sparring pads piled behind him. Lenox, somewhere in Ireland at the moment, is in the third square, and I can see myself in the fourth.
I tell them about what happened in Cartagena—leaving out my pregnancy and the kiss. “According to Brock, they were professionals. So a hired hit.”
Merl nods slowly, his long, tight curls loose and damp, like he just got out of the shower. “Do you think it’s Ian?” Merl asks the group.
Ian McCain. Ian and his brothers orchestrated an attack on our island headquarters, blackmailing some of our people into helping them. They created a cabal of criminal organizations to fight back against our justice-seeking ways.
Lenox’s dark skin glows in the light of his computer screen, and white headphone wires snake out from his ears. “Ian is pissed, as expected.” Lenox’s Senegalese accent dances over the words. “He’s attacked one of Petra’s—” He pauses, his lips firming. “One of our brothels, and I’m sure he plans on more.”
We killed Ian’s brothers, then Lenox, along with his new partner, Petra, took over the man’s prostitution business. But the McCain organization is a many-headed beast, and we’ve only lopped off two of them.
“Any casualties?” Anita asks, her own accent almost as lyrical as Lenox’s. Born in Gujarat, India and educated in the United Kingdom her voice mixes the upper crust of high society from both nations.
“No,” Lenox responds, “but one of our guards was injured. He’s recovering.” Lenox glances to the side, looking at something off screen. He nods slightly and then returns his attention to the council meeting. “Petra is going to visit him in the hospital now.”
“Is that safe?” I ask.
“She has guards.” L
enox voice stays flat—unemotional. He’s not worried about her. Is it because he doesn’t care or doesn’t believe she is in danger?
Lenox isn’t totally comfortable with his new role—he’s been in the business of “pleasure”—as he puts it—for decades but only ever sold men. Petra convinced him that he should join with her to create a network of brothels run responsibly. He’d agreed, but I knew it bothered him still.
Dan voices my concern. “Are you worried about Petra’s loyalty?” he asks, leaning slightly toward the screen, his pale green eyes narrowed. Petra, a longtime associate of Lenox’s, was working with the McCains against Joyful Justice before she switched to our side.
Lenox gives a half smile. “Yes and no. She had me at her mercy—drugged and vulnerable—and she kept me safe. But it could all be a long game…I don’t know what she’d do if she felt threatened.”
“Bite,” I say, the thought escaping out loud.
Lenox raises a brow. “Yes, I suppose any of us would.”
“And have,” Anita says.
Merl clears his throat. “Would Ian hire mercenaries to go after Sydney, though? The last assassination attempt was the Incels.” The Incels are involuntary celibates—a men’s rights activist group which recently escaped the confines of internet forums and began taking action in the real world.
“That’s right,” I say, “and thanks to Declan Doyle, it wasn’t a problem.”
“Maybe you should reach out to him,” Merl suggests. “See if he’s heard anything. Dan, didn’t you say he’s on a new task force?”
Dan nods. “That’s right. Doyle joined a task force focused on the Incels and the violent factions following the Her prophet. The Incels have taken credit for several mass shootings, and it was a follower of the Her prophet that blew herself up at a recent Incel rally in Savannah, killing five and injuring twenty-five more. Homeland Security sees a link.”
Savage Grace (A Sydney Rye Mystery, #12) Page 3