Josh nods and sits back in the chair, his lips tight. Amy goes on. “We’ve gotten a packet from Joyful Justice.”
Damn. I shake my head, putting on an expression of regret. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“We know you’ve protected clients from them.”
“I got out of that business. But I’m happy to help you comply, help you negotiate.”
Josh snorts. “Nothing is the same since the FARC made peace.” He shakes his head, nostalgia for the past thick in his words. The Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia funded their revolution with kidnap ransoms and drug trafficking—it’s dirty work trying to create a utopian society.
“Lots has changed,” I agree.
“And you’re totally legitimate now?” Amy asks, her tone doubtful.
“Yes,” I answer. One of my many gifts to Sydney Rye.
“I never thought I’d see the day,” Josh shakes his head, more of that regretful nostalgia…but he gives me a warm smile. “You took Fortress Global public, must have made a bundle.”
“The details are not important,” I brush off the billion I netted on that move. The SEC is still investigating, after all. Though that toothless organization doesn’t worry me. “Tell me what Joyful Justice is going after you for?”
“Same as always,” Amy says, shifting in her seat. “Drugs.”
I cock my head. “I’ve never heard of them making threats against an organization just running drugs. What does the packet say?”
Amy leans over and picks up a briefcase by her feet, placing it on the table. She pulls out the packet and slides it across the table to me. The logo of Joyful Justice is printed on the cover, a red heart with “Be Brave” written on undulating ribbon across it. I suppress the smile that pulls at my lips. Such sentimentalists.
“We’ve been approached by another organization that wants to destroy Joyful Justice,” Josh says.
I raise a brow as I open the packet. “How do they plan to do that?”
“Apparently they have a few people on the inside.”
Glancing up from the packet, my fingers playing with the paper, I nod slowly. “That’s useful but hardly a full plan.”
Amy sighs. “I agree, Robert. I think these men are underestimating the loyalty of the Joyful Justice members. This isn’t the FARC. They don’t treat their soldiers poorly.”
“The FARC lasted over fifty years,” I point out.
“Exactly. Joyful Justice has a similar fervor but with better conditions. They’ve got deep pockets and high ideals,” Amy says. “The philosophy of the FARC kept it intact, but the kidnapping and drug running took its toll.”
“Greed took its toll,” Josh says.
I sit back in my chair and eye my old friends. “So what exactly are you asking for?”
“We want your help,” Amy says. “Destroying Joyful Justice.”
I spread my hands on the table and look down at them. “Who is the group that approached you?”
Amy snorts. “Some Irish brothers running a sex trafficking operation. They’re aligned with a couple of other groups including men’s rights activists.” She shakes her head. “Not a crew I have any interest in being associated with. But—” She smiles at me. “The three of us…we make a good team.”
“That we do,” I agree. Or at least we did, decades ago. “I have no interest in joining with a men’s rights group though,” I say.
“They call themselves Incels,” Josh says, shaking himself. “Involuntary celibates. Pathetic.”
“The one thing I agree with them about,” Amy says, “is that Joyful Justice needs to be stopped.”
I return my attention to the packet. Very organized. The table of contents lists several infractions. I flip to the first one: rape and murder perpetrated by contractors. Scanning the first few paragraphs, I return my gaze to the siblings. “Your men at the border are raping and killing innocent women?”
“I don’t see how we are responsible for that,” Josh says. “It’s how they celebrate. What are we supposed to do about it? It’s part of their culture.”
Amy frowns and rolls her eyes at her brother. “You come off like a real ass when you say things like that. But, the fact is we don’t have control over the Federales. We pay them to move product, and they celebrate successful deliveries. No one can get drugs across the US/Mexican border without them. It’s impossible.”
“I’m impressed you’re still moving product over land. With all the changes within the cartels, you’ve managed to keep good business relationships.”
“Our US distribution is unparalleled,” Amy says with pride.
They bought mine off me almost two decades ago, and combined with their existing efforts, they must control most of the flow of cocaine in the United States.
“What about air transport? I thought you were using planes.”
“You know how complicated that became after 9/11,” Amy sighs, as if the negative impact on moving drugs through the air was one of the biggest tragedies of that day. Her chagrin brings a smile to my lips.
Josh sits forward. “Robert, you can’t seriously suggest we try to comply with this nonsense.”
I shrug. “Some of it isn’t too taxing,” I wave a hand at the packet. “Containing the Federales’,” I pause, searching for the right word, “celebratory practices would be good for business, right? It would take heat off the border.”
“I don’t think it makes a big difference,” Amy says. “It’s been going on forever, and no one cares—well, people care, but no one with power has done a thing about it until these busybodies,” she points to the packet. “Business is business and this is…well, it’s about morality.” She smiles at me. “You know the two don’t mix well.”
No, they don’t.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “But I don’t think I can help you, unless it’s to mitigate some of these infractions. I’m totally legitimate now. There is no dog in this fight for me.”
“That’s disappointing,” Josh says.
“Why don’t you two get out of the game?” I ask, leaning back in my seat. “Retire. You must have all the money you’ll ever need. Why not enjoy yourselves?”
“We like what we do,” Amy says, her voice tight. “Just because you’ve gone soft—”
“Hey,” Josh interrupts her. Amy’s cheeks flush. “That’s not fair. Robert worked hard for his success. He deserves his retirement.”
“He’s hardly retired,” Amy says, waving her hand around the office.
“I’m not getting packets like this.” I tap the papers.
Amy sighs. “Robert.” She leans over and pulls the papers back to her. “We’ve been through a lot together.” She lets that sentence hang in the air, as if I owe her something.
We carried you through the jungle. You wouldn’t have made it out alive without us, her silence accuses.
And it’s true. But I sacrificed the woman I loved to free us from the cages. If Natalia hadn’t fallen for me so hard, and so true, we would be dead—rotted in the jungle, bones picked clean by that harsh environment. Instead she died, and we survived.
I owe them nothing.
I smile, my eyes communicating as much.
We are even.
Amy puts the papers back in the briefcase. “Is there nothing we can do to change your mind?” she asks.
Warning bells chime in the tone of her voice.
“No,” I say. “But please—” I stand, rebuttoning my suit jacket. “Let me know if you want help with negotiations.”
I walk them through the office and to the elevator. We say our final goodbyes. Josh leans into Amy, speaking into her ear, as the doors shut.
Did they hire the mercenaries to scare me into helping?
Or am I getting paranoid in my old age?
Back in my office, I pull up the surveillance from the elevator and watch Amy and Josh enter. I turn up the volume, trying to make out what Josh is saying, but it’s unclear. She hushes him, and they are silent for the rest of the
ride.
I rewind and play it again, putting on headphones. I think he says the name Natalia, but can’t be sure.
I call my surveillance department and ask them for a transcript—rushing the order.
They get back to me in fifteen minutes. “It’s not totally clear, sir, but this is what I have.” The tech clears his throat. “Inaudible. Natalia wouldn’t…and then she says, quiet.”
I hang up the phone and sit back, steepling my fingers. Why would they be talking about Natalia? The woman’s been dead for decades. Are they hoping to use sentimentality or guilt to persuade me to help them?
I stare at the paused video footage on my computer. What are those two plotting?
Chapter Six
Sydney
Getting from Panama City to Florida isn’t difficult…unless you’re traveling with three giant dogs. Oh, and are an international fugitive. Not to mention the hurricane ravaging the eastern coast of the state.
Of course, I’ve got multiple IDs, so I can travel incognito. The bad weather and three big-ass dogs are the larger problems.
Not even Robert Maxim can change the weather, but flying around in his private jets solved the dog issue for me in the past. Now I’ve either got to travel over land, convince a commercial airline I need three emotional support animals, or hire my own private jet.
I go with the jet.
Time solves the hurricane issue for me. Miami still faces record flooding, but the air is clearing, and I’m headed well to the north.
The plane is a rental, so not as fancy as Robert’s but still… it is a private freaking jet. The flight attendant who brings me my soda water with a slice of lemon grins at the dogs. “They are so cute,” she coos. Frank eats it up, sitting on her foot and making a fool of himself. The disdain on Nila’s face is practically human. Blue sighs and leans against me. Will Frank ever learn?
I hope not. Let him maintain his innocence for as long as possible.
Tallahassee is low-slung strip malls and flat pavement scented of rain and ozone. I drive south toward the gulf, wind buffering the outside of the rental SUV. The town that Mulberry has made home is small and tacky, with neon signs, T-shirt shops, and brightly painted buildings. A motel on the outskirts has vacancies, and the man behind the counter—bulging belly and gold chain nestled in graying chest hair—accepts the dogs for an additional nonrefundable deposit. “If it’s nonrefundable then isn’t it just a fee?” I ask, leaning on the counter.
He holds out a key with a seashell dangling from it, the number three painted on it. “You want the room or not?”
I accept the shell in exchange for a wad of cash. It’s off season, so I don’t see any other guests as I make my way to the room. It is decorated in seaside motif, with fish nets and loops of thick rope hanging from the walls. The bed creaks under my weight when I sit down on the quilt printed with blue anchors.
Blue and Nila perform a perimeter check, ears swiveling, nose to the floor, while Frank goes to drink water out of the toilet. I sigh. “There’s water right here.” I point to the bowl I’ve put out for them. Frank looks up at me, his jowls dripping on the toilet seat.
Nila goes into the bathroom and nips his heel, chasing him out. “Thanks, girl,” I say. She comes over for a pet and rests her chin on my thigh, looking up at me with her ice blue eyes. Her snout is shorter than Blue’s—her mother is a white Kangal Mastiff, so her face is in between the squared-off structure of her mom’s and the long, elegant collie snout of her dad. I rub between Nila’s eyes, and she closes them, sighing appreciatively.
“You’re such a good girl,” I tell her. “Look after your brother for a while. Blue and I have to go see someone.”
My heart slowly climbs into my throat as I navigate to the bar where Mulberry is working. It’s got dark wood siding, the windows thick with neon signs for beer and booze.
I park across the street, the engine still running, and stare at the door, a lump in my throat keeping me from swallowing. Blue, sitting in the passenger seat, his ears brushing the ceiling, whines softly.
“Mulberry is in there,” I say. “Or maybe he’s not working today.” A small blip of hope. Maybe I can hold off on this conversation a little longer. But dread follows just as quickly. I have to get this over with.
How in the hell is he going to react? Will his anger evaporate in the face of his impending fatherhood? Or will it seem like one more betrayal in a slew of them?
I wet my lips and then bite down, trying to ground myself. Shit.
Blue and I start across the street toward the bar, and I stop in the middle of the road as if my feet have morphed into cement and joined with the paved surface.
Blue noses my hand, questioning what’s going on. My vision tunnels onto the bar door, and my heart hammers. I can’t do this.
I have to do this.
A horn honks, breaking the spell, and I jerk my gaze to the driver. He’s got a greasy ponytail and is gesturing at me to move the fuck out of the way. Friendly town.
I back up, returning to my SUV, and the car pulls forward, turning into the bar’s parking lot.
I close my eyes. The briny sea breeze plays across my face, and I turn to look down the block. The beach is close. “How about a quick walk?” I say to Blue. He wags his tail, always up for a stroll, especially when the ocean is involved. “Come on,” I turn away from the bar and toward the beach.
I’m going to tell him—but not right now. Not this exact moment. Soon…
Mulberry
It’s Saturday, so we’re open earlier than normal, catching day drinkers who work during the week. Shirley stopped opening at noon on weekdays in the off season because it got “too damn depressing”. And the bar’s rocking night business makes her plenty of cash. Maybe I’ll buy a bar someday. Yeah, open a margarita shop in paradise somewhere. I’m smiling to myself at the fantasy when the bell above the door jingles.
I glance up and see a figure silhouetted in the sunlight. Oh, shit.
Robert Maxim steps into the bar, the door swinging shut behind him. His eyes find mine, and he gives me a subtle nod before crossing to a stool at the far end. I let him get settled, elbows on the wood, hands clasped in front of him, eyes trained on me.
I make my way slowly to him, scanning the almost empty room as I go. “What can I get you?” I ask.
“Do you have any decent whiskey?”
“Johnnie Walker Black.”
He gives a nod. “Neat.” I take a step backward, keeping my eyes on Robert as I pull the bottle from the shelf. He smirks at me. I place a glass on the bar in front of him. "Make it a double."
“What are you doing here?” I ask once his drink is poured.
Robert wraps his long fingers around the squat glass but doesn’t lift it. “What are you doing here?” he asks back, meeting my gaze and holding it. My lips tighten, and I don’t respond. He’s living with Sydney Rye. They're probably more than friends by now. Fuck, I should have dragged her out of there. No, she— I cut myself off, refusing to run around that maze again.
“I’m working.” The bell above the door jangles, as if to prove my point, and a small man with a greasy ponytail comes in out of the sunshine.
Robert lifts the glass and gives it a subtle sniff before taking a sip. He puts it back on the bar and lifts a brow. “You need money?”
“You think money is what motivates me?” I can’t help the huff of a laugh that escapes me. “For a smart guy, you’re pretty dumb sometimes, Bobby.”
“What do you want, then?”
“Who said I wanted anything?”
“Hey, bartender, can I get a beer over here? Jesus!” Greasy Ponytail wants my attention. I grab a Bud from the ice bucket and turn my back on Maxim—a dangerous move, but I like to live dangerously.
“Sorry about that,” I say, popping the top and putting it on a fresh napkin. “This one’s on me.”
Greasy Ponytail gives me a smile as he grabs the beer. I take in a fortifying breath before returning to
Robert.
The bar is mostly empty and dusk dark. Sunlight ekes through the windows, tinted and littered with neon signs provided by beer and liquor companies.
Robert’s spinning his glass on the bar. “You know Sydney’s been looking for you.”
“Well aren’t you a supportive friend, coming to find me.” My voice is thick with sarcasm. He wants her to be his. But she’s mine. Hard to say that when you’re hiding behind a bar and haven’t called her since you left in the middle of the—stop thinking.
Robert is watching me, probably reading my damn mind. His eyes drop to the bar. "You're no good for her." He says it as if it's a fact. One I'd agree with. But I don't.
The bell above the door jangles again, drawing my attention. I squint against the sun. Speak of the devil.
Sydney walks in, Blue by her side—his nose grazing her hip as the door swings shut behind them. “Damn!” Greasy ponytail blurts out. “That's one hell of a dog.”
Sydney doesn't look at him. Those storm-gray eyes are on me, shimmering in the low light. Her brows raise, asking an unspoken question.
Robert stands, drawing her attention, and surprise flits across her features, quickly replaced by anger. She's pissed at him. Excellent.
The smug smile I'm sporting doesn't last long as Sydney returns her attention to me. She crosses the near empty room, Blue’s nails clicking on the floor.
“Hi,” she says, giving me a weak smile.
“Hi.” So lame.
Sydney glances over at Robert. He is staring at her with those eyes of his, that strange blue-green—the heat of the jungle and the frozen recess of an iceberg. He raises his brows and shrugs. Not repentant.
“I need to speak to you,” Sydney says, returning her attention to me. “In private.”
“I’m alone here today,” I say, gesturing to my few customers. Jesus, so lame!
Shirley comes in the back door at that moment in a swirl of heavy perfume and thumping boots. “Tyler,” she says, slapping me on the back.
Savage Grace (A Sydney Rye Mystery, #12) Page 5