Savage Grace (A Sydney Rye Mystery, #12)

by Emily Kimelman Gilvey

  Now, as the helicopter banks hard toward shore, the safety belt biting into my chest, I realize that she did have a plan—Natalia made it out of that jungle alive. And now she wants me dead.

  Sydney

  The front door opens, and hard leather soles clack on the wood floor. The hall light goes on. Keys jingle as they get hung on the hook. Declan appears as a dark shadow in the entryway to the living room. He flicks on the light and jerks, his eyes going wide when they land on me.

  Recovering quickly, he starts to reach into his suit jacket. “Don’t,” I say, the pistol in my hand stilling him. “Sit.” I gesture with the barrel at the armchair across from me. He puts his hands up and smiles, moving into the room.

  Declan is wearing a suit way more expensive than a man in his position should be able to afford—he comes from money, and it’s written all over him, from the confidence in his gait to the gold watch glowing on his wrist. His wealth is a bubble that protects him from almost everything.

  “You’ve made yourself at home,” he says, eyes tracing the dogs around me as he sits in the leather armchair. Frank wags his way over to Declan.

  “That’s Frank,” I say. Frank makes himself at home on Declan’s foot, giant tail thumping on the floor. “He’s friendly.”

  “I see that.” Declan frowns as Frank rests his massive head on the man’s lap.

  “Sorry to just show up like this,” I say.

  Declan settles back into the chair, laying a long, well-muscled arm across the back of it, ignoring Frank’s plaintive whine for pets. “You could have called first…or knocked.” He smiles, his brown eyes glinting with amusement.

  “Yes, but then you could have called law enforcement.”

  “I am law enforcement.”

  I shrug. “I hardly think of you that way.” When we first met Declan was a mounted police officer in New York City, he was promoted to detective soon after I fled the country, then joined Homeland Security. We dated in New York, when I became a fugitive he hunted me, and since he saved my life we’ve had an unspoken truce between us.

  Declan laughs. “So what are you doing here?”

  “I’ve got a few questions.”

  Declan raises one brow. “Me too.”

  “Maybe we can help each other out.”

  “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” His grin widens. He’s having fun.

  It’s my turn to laugh. “Excellent. I understand you’re on a new task force focused on the Incels and the Her prophet followers.” He nods slightly, his smile fading. “The man who tried to kill me is in prison awaiting trial.” An Incel working with the McCains to traffic Isis prisoners as sex slaves, my would be assassin was a zealot hell bent on punishing women for his celibacy.

  “That’s right.”

  “Has he shared any information with you?” I know the answer to this question—the man confirmed that Ian and his brothers were the source for the sex slaves that the Incels were importing. And he gave up several men who had bought girls. But, I want to see how genuine Declan is about sharing information.

  “Yes,” Declan’s gaze darkens. He tells me what I already know and ends his summary with, “Creeps.”

  “It’s nice when we can agree,” I say. “They are real creeps.”

  “My turn.” Declan sits forward and Frank shifts so that Declan is forced to pet him or lean back again. One of Declan’s hands lands on the dog’s head and stays there. Frank wriggles, the motion creating the petting session he so desperately wants. The dog is persistent.

  Nila lets out a quiet sigh, and I control the smile trying to twist my lips. She’s totally embarrassed by her brother.

  “Is Joyful Justice working with Her prophet followers?” Declan’s eyes are intense.

  “Not officially, but I’m sure some of our members believe in her…divinity.”

  His lips pinch. “That’s not an answer.”

  “It is, just not super detailed.” Declan shakes his head and sits back again, leaving his hand on Frank’s head. “Have you heard any rumblings about Incel hiring mercenaries?” I ask.

  He frowns and shakes his head. “No, why?”

  “Because I’ve got mercenaries after me. They’ve made two attempts on my life in as many weeks. And that’s over my quota.” I smile.

  Declan’s eyes drop to my body and back up. “You seem to have survived unscathed.”

  “I usually do.”

  “My turn—”

  I cut him off. “Actually, you just asked me one.”

  He smirks. “Fine, your turn.”

  “Is Joyful Justice a part of your investigation?”

  “Not a focus.” I open my mouth to ask a follow up but he waggles his brows. “My turn. Is your mother working with the Fellowship of the Blood?”

  “I have no idea what that is. Or if my mom is involved. But it does sound like her crowd—I’m guessing the blood has something to do with Christ.” He goes to answer, but I hold up a hand. “That’s not one of my questions. Don’t answer it.”

  He laughs. “Your mom’s been making a lot of waves since heading back out on the road.”

  “She’s known for wave making.” A devout follower of the Her prophet, mommy dearest is largely responsible for her growing popularity in the Western world. An Incel shot her a few months ago, but she’s made a full recovery and is back on the road preaching her truth. After years of marriage to a televangelist preacher, proselytizing comes naturally to her.

  “Are you worried about your mom?” Declan asks.

  “She’s a survivor.”

  “Like mother like daughter.”

  “Something like that. My turn again.”

  “I think it’s mine.”

  “You asked if I was worried about my mom. I’m not. Moving on. This new task force—you’re looking at Incels and Her prophet followers. Why combine the two? They’re pretty much opposites.”

  He cocks his head. “Because a Her prophet follower blew up an Incel gathering. And an Incel follower shot your mother.” He says it like it’s obvious, and he’s pretty sure I know it.

  “So you think the two groups are equivalent?”

  He shakes his head. “No, but I think they’re going to war with each other. Now I get two questions.”

  “Shoot.”

  “What is Joyful Justice doing about Ian McCain?”

  “Ian?” I say, acting confused. “I don’t know who you mean.”

  “I thought we were scratching each other’s backs here. Do you think he might be the guy behind your mercenaries?” I don’t respond. Declan rubs the top of Frank’s head, causing his left leg to thump with appreciation. “Or do you think he’s too busy trying to get revenge on his old partner, Petra Bokan?”

  “I don’t know, Declan, like I said, I spent the last few weeks dodging bullets. I have not had much time to think about anything else.” My pregnancy flashes across my thoughts, and I shove it back down, but Declan saw something.

  His eyes narrow. “What’s going on?” he asks.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” I say, ignoring his question and rising to stand. Declan stays seated, Frank’s head still on his thigh. “You’ve been following the Incels and have not heard any chatter about me?”

  “Nope. I think it’s my turn though. Please sit.” He gestures with the hand not petting Frank.

  “What about my mom?” I persist. He doesn’t answer. “You have someone watching her.” Again, no answer. “Someone undercover or just surveillance?” His face stays neutral, but that tells me something nonetheless. They have her covered.

  “Sydney, it’s my turn to ask a question.”

  “I’m done with this game.” I start to move toward the door, Blue and Nila at my heel, Frank tripping over himself to follow.

  Declan stands. “Hey, wait a second.” I turn back to him. “Let me see what I can find out about these mercenaries. If I hear anything, how should I contact you?”

  “What do you want in return?”


  He shrugs. “Anything you can get on the Fellowship of the Blood would be very helpful.” Declan gives me a sheepish smile—which, even with all his arrogance and machismo, works for him somehow.

  I take a deep breath, reminding myself that Declan saved my life. That even if he is investigating Joyful Justice, my mom, or me, he’s actually kind of a good guy.

  “I have no plans to see my mother, but if I hear anything I’ll let you know.”

  “And I should reach you…?” He leaves the rest of the question unasked.

  Just send an email to yourself and Dan will see it… “I’ll call you,” I say.

  “Fine,” he relents. “Give me a few days.”

  “Will do, boss.”

  He laughs as I step out his front door.

  Mulberry

  I watch Sydney leave Declan’s apartment building and follow at a safe distance as she heads down the block. The rain has stopped, and the streets smell like wet cement. Water beads on the parked cars, glistening under the streetlights. People are out, heading home from work, or to happy hour.

  A brief pang of longing for my old anonymous life tightens my chest—my biggest concerns were being on time to the bar and making sure the register came out right at the end of the night. But those memories, and the facade of simplicity they embody, drift away as I pick up my pace when Sydney rounds a corner.

  She’s wearing a black fedora with her hair up underneath it and a long raincoat that hides her body. The dogs are on loose leashes, staying tight to her sides.

  People eye her, their heads turning to follow Sydney’s progress. A dangerous flash of possessiveness rumbles in my gut. She should be all mine. Anger clenches my fists. How could she just disappear after telling me she was pregnant and turning down my marriage proposal? What kind of person does that?

  A selfish person.

  Or a selfless one who thinks everyone she loves dies.

  Shit.

  Sydney ducks down an alley, and I stop at the entrance, waiting for her and the dogs to reach the other end before following. The rancid scent of garbage mixes with the stink of urine. What a lovely capital we have. Sydney turns the corner and disappears from sight.

  As I reach the end of the alley, Sydney steps out in front of me, a knife glinting in the streetlight a millisecond before it’s pressed to my throat. She’s got me pushed up against the building next to a dumpster before she recognizes me. Her eyes narrow. “You’re following me now?”

  “What did you expect?” I ask, clearing my throat.

  She lowers the knife and takes a step back. “I could have killed you.”

  I nod my agreement. “But you didn’t. Silver lining.” She lets out a small laugh and backs up, giving me space to move off the wall. “We were in the middle of a conversation.”

  “How did you find me? Was it Dan?”

  “Good old-fashioned detective work.”

  “Sure, right.” She bends down, slipping the knife into an ankle holster.

  “Can we go somewhere and talk?”

  Sydney stands up and meets my gaze. “So me running off didn’t deliver the message that I don’t want to talk?” Her voice is as cold as the steel she just pressed to my jugular.

  “I asked you to marry me.”

  She sighs and looks out of the alley to the residential street beyond. “My rental is close.”

  We walk in silence, Sydney leading the way to a brownstone. She goes through the gate and around to the basement entrance, unlocking the door with a key code. Slipping off her coat and hat, she hangs them in the entryway next to a sign that reads Welcome Guests!

  I follow behind her dogs down the narrow hall to a small living room-kitchen combination. A door offers access to a tiny backyard. There are three dog beds next to the door and another sign. This one says Welcome Furry Friends!

  The dogs settle onto the beds, all three of them curled up together—like a family. My chest aches watching them.

  Sydney goes over to the stove and puts on a pot of water. “Want tea?”

  “Sure.” I sit on the futon, the only piece of human furniture in the small space.

  She pulls down two mugs. “All they have here is mint, that okay?”

  “Anything is fine. I just want to talk.”

  Without her coat and hat, she looks smaller. She drops a mug, and it clatters across the counter. She catches it before it falls off the edge. “You’re tired,” I say.

  “I drove here.”

  “Me too.”

  Nerves force me to stand. Sydney doesn’t look over at me, but Blue raises his head, watching as I cross the small space to stand behind her. “You can lean on me,” I say, quiet and true.

  Her body tenses when I place my hands on her shoulders, but then she sighs and rests against me. Her back on my chest is warm and welcome. We stay like that, quiet and together, until the kettle whistles and she moves to grab it, pouring boiling water into the mugs.

  Steam rises, bringing the scent of mint with it. She’s an arm’s length away, and I don’t move to close the distance, fighting against every instinct to grab her and throw her over my shoulder and just make her mine.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, surprising me. I bite my tongue, trying to be patient, to let her talk. “You guys were just acting like such macho assholes.” She looks up and gives me a tired smile. “I had to bail.”

  I give her a half smile. “Okay.”

  Her lower lip trembles, tears welling in her eyes, and I can’t hold myself back from reaching out to her. “Come here,” I whisper, pulling her into my arms, holding her against my chest again, petting her hair. “Everything is okay,” I say.

  “No, it’s not.” Her voice is muffled by being pressed against me. “Someone is trying to kill me. And I’m crying about it. I don’t cry about this stuff.”

  “That’s okay, you can cry when people try to kill you.” I can’t help the smile that turns my lips. She’s so funny, in her own morbid way.

  Sydney pushes back just enough to see me. Her eyes are red rimmed, and she looks so tired it actually hurts me a little. “No,” she says, firming her voice. “It is not okay to cry when someone is trying to kill you. I don’t have time for this. I need to find them. And destroy them.” Her voice vibrates with conviction.

  “Okay, but how about a good night’s sleep first?” She starts to protest, but I keep talking. “Merl always says that sleep is paramount. You’ll be able to think better in the morning. Besides, Sydney”—I lower my voice just a little, as if I’m talking to a skittish animal—“You’re pregnant. You need more rest.”

  She sighs and drops her head against my chest. I swell with hope. Maybe she will listen to me.

  “Okay,” she says.

  “I’ll stay, if you want. No funny business, I swear.” I say quickly, before she can protest.

  Sydney nods her head. “Is that the only bed?” I ask, looking over at the futon.

  “No, there is a bedroom.” She steps out of my arms. Sydney doesn’t look at me as she heads back down the hall. I follow her into a small bedroom with a double in it. She goes into the bathroom and closes the door. I find extra sheets and pillows in the closet and am making up the futon for myself when she comes back into the living room.

  She’s in an oversized T-shirt that comes to mid-thigh and hangs off one shoulder. It’s a pale cream silk, and I grit my teeth, guessing it belongs to Robert Maxim. Sydney’s hair is down, the tips brushing her shoulders as she walks to her cup of tea. “Can we talk in the morning?” she asks, leaning her back against the counter, her mug in both hands.

  “Sure.”

  I lay awake, staring out the barred window up at the sky—it’s bright, the city lights reflecting off the low cloud cover. Frank climbed into my bed the second I laid down and refused to decamp. He is snoring like a locomotive and occasionally whimpering, his legs shaking—probably burying bones in his dreams and losing them.

  This dog is kind of an idiot, but I can’t help but like him.<
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  Blue and Nila are in with Sydney, and I hear them stir, their collars jangling, then the bedroom door opening.

  I sit up as Sydney comes in. She stands in the entryway. “Everything okay?”

  She doesn’t answer, just comes over to the bed and pulls back the blanket, climbing in next to me. She rolls over, facing away from me. I lie back down and tentatively put an arm around her waist. She takes my hand and pulls it up to her chest. I take a deep inhalation of her scent and sigh.

  Blue nips at Frank, who rolls over and tries to climb up the bed, escaping his dad’s condemnation and getting ready to spoon me. I elbow him away, and he jumps off the futon, going over to where Nila has settled on one of the dog beds. She bites his ear when he tries to cuddle her, which does not faze him, and soon he’s snoring on her.

  Sydney’s breathing grows deeper, and I close my eyes, just enjoying this moment, ignoring all the unspoken words and all the ones that have been hurled.

  Sydney’s grip on my hand relaxes, and I move it slowly down to her stomach, splaying my fingers over it. My child is growing in there.

  My heart gives a hard thud, and a painful joy swells in me.

  I’m going to be a father.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sydney

  I go to sneak out from under Mulberry’s arm, but he pulls me closer, nuzzling my neck—still asleep and yet still possessive. Like a dog with its bone.

  When I pull free this time he lets me go, curling up onto himself. I tiptoe away, heading to the bathroom, Blue’s eyes watching me, something reproachful in them. Or maybe that is just my imagination.

  I dress in the bedroom, and when I come out, Blue and Nila are sitting up, waiting for me by the back door. Frank has climbed onto the futon and is splayed out at the foot of the bed, snoring. Mulberry’s on his back, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath.

  I trace the outline of him under the covers. My stomach shudders when I reach his left leg… what’s left of it.