“You’ve got that meeting with the Fellowship of the Blood,” a woman’s voice reminds my mother.
“Oh, right. Give me a few minutes. Please apologize for me.”
She closes the door and turns back to me. “The Fellowship of the Blood?” I ask. The group Declan asked about.
“Yes, they are a wonderful new church that is bringing the word of the Her Prophet to this area. I’m meeting with their pastor and several members to discuss putting together a text.”
“A text?”
“Yes, a written document for followers to refer back to.” She clasps her hands in front of her, twining the fingers.
“Like a bible?”
“No, no.” She shakes her head. “The Bible is the word of God. This is the word of a prophet. It’s different.”
“This is another subject I’m thinking we should avoid.”
“If you want.” She steps away from the door. “Can you stay?”
“I didn’t plan on it.”
“Where are you headed?”
“That’s probably another topic to avoid.” I give her a sad smile.
She chews on her lip for a moment. “I’ll cancel with the Fellowship. I want to spend as much time with you as I can.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“But we have so much to discuss,” Mom steps forward, grabbing up my hands in hers. “When is your due date? Where are you going to have the baby? And”—she clears her throat—“if you wouldn’t mind sharing who the father is?” My brain is stuck back on my due date…and stuttering toward where I’m going to have the baby. “Joy?”
I blink my mom into focus. “I don’t know.”
Her lips pinch with disapproval but she nods. “Well, how many men is it between?”
I cough out a laugh. “No, Mom, I know who the father is.”
She lets out a breath, a blush spreading over her cheeks. “And it would be fine if you didn’t. It’s your body.” She pats my hand.
I laugh, taken aback. “Wow. I never expected to hear that from you.”
“I’ve given up a lot of my old beliefs, Joy.”
But still define your morals from an outside source. Add that to the list of topics not to discuss. “I don’t know my due date. I haven’t been to a doctor.”
“Oh.” She glances down at my flat stomach. “How far along do you think you are?”
“Almost two months.”
“How have you been feeling?” She squeezes my hands. “I had the worse morning sickness with your brother.” Her words steal my breath. James. Are we talking about him now? Is this a safe topic? “He was an easy baby, not like you.” She shakes her head, eyes unfocused, obviously seeing that long ago time when she was a young mother…and my brother a new life. A miracle. “James was always smiling. And boy could he make you laugh.”
Tears well in her eyes and she sucks in a breath, shaking her head and closing her eyes. Her baby is gone. It’s a fresh stab wound in my heart. I’ve mourned my brother’s loss and resented my mother for the way she acted after his death—as if his life was wrong, a sin, as if his love for another man made him evil. My hand covers my stomach as the reality of her loss sinks into me, touching some deep place in me…a new place.
“I miss him,” I say, grief welling. James won’t meet my child. Another dagger of pain. My grief has dulled over the years, worn by time as sharp glass is smoothed by the sea. This is a new pain, a fresh wound. A loss I never recognized before.
“Me too,” Mom says, her eyes meeting mine—magnetic gray, the silver of mercury and the slate of a brewing storm, the same as mine. For so long I’ve thought we were such different people.
But I didn’t always feel that way—when I was little, I wanted to grow up to be just like her. Since my father’s death, I’ve believed her to be weak. But maybe it was the strength of the love she had for him that made her so weak. Love can destroy us as easily as it lifts us.
I pull back, but her grip tightens on my hands. “Let me help you, please.”
Tears escape, warm and slow, easing down my cheeks. “Okay,” I whisper.
She embraces me, her smell saturating me, pulling me back to my childhood, the girl I was and the woman she was and all the fierce love that we shared seems to blossom anew between us.
Chapter Fourteen
Sydney
The air in the parking garage is cold and wet, tainted with the scent of gasoline. Mom links her arm through mine, our feet echoing in the space. The dogs trail behind us, Blue’s nose rhythmically tapping my hip.
The sound of an engine comes up from the first floor, and headlights flash around the corner. We pause to let the van pass. It slows and Blue lets out a low growl. I back up a step, pulling Mom with me. The navy blue van stops, the door sliding open, and two men wearing ski masks leap out, followed by two more.
They move fast, coming at us in a wall of black garb and muscle. Blue and Nila launch themselves at the two in front. They go down, scrambling on the ground.
The next two stop, their eyes going wide, as their friends struggle against my dogs. “Get her in the van!” a voice from inside the vehicle commands. As if emboldened by that voice, the two men advance toward Mom and me, where I’ve positioned us between parked cars. Mom stands behind me, her fingers digging into my shoulder. “Let me handle this,” I say under my breath as I sink into a fighting stance, adrenaline rushing through me, a smile curving my lips.
One of the men on the ground screams. Frank’s bark echoes in the space as he hops around.
“April Madden, you’re coming with us,” the one in front says, his voice gravelly and low. The other man spares a glance back at where his friends are getting mauled.
“No, she’s not, Bozo,” I say. His eyes narrow and his lips tighten.
“You dumb bitches.” He steps forward and I kick out, catching him under the chin, he stumbles back into his friend who oofs out air but neither goes down.
I take advantage of their momentary unbalance and throw a jab at Bozo’s chin, following it up with a hook to his gut, then power into an uppercut. His eyes lose focus before he drops.
Bozo’s accomplice catches him but let’s go as I step forward. Wearing a black T-shirt and cargo pants, pale blond hair curling from under his mask, he puts up his fist just in time to block my jab.
Blondie's green eyes light with success. They flick around my face, and his right shoulder tenses, telegraphing his counter punch. I catch his wrist between my own and twist until a sickening crunch sounds. He lets out a high-pitched scream that makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
“Freeze or I’ll shoot.” A fifth black figure steps around the front of the van. He must have been in the passenger seat. His lips are glistening with spittle and surrounded by a bronze beard. He’s holding a shotgun, barrels aimed at me. I put my hands up and smile.
At my feet, Bozo lays still, and Blondie has dropped to his knees, cradling his injured wrist. “I think she broke it,” he mews to no one in particular. Blue and Nila each hold a man by his neck, razor-sharp teeth pressed against pulsing arteries. The scent of piss floats on the air. Not professionals.
Behind me, my mom is whispering…probably praying.
“Get in the van,” Shotgun says.
Blondie glances back at the man and starts to stand. “Take Gunther with you.” Gunther?
“But my wrist—”
Shotgun cuts him off. “All of you get in the van!” His voice goes high, and a flush breaks out over his neck. Blondie struggles to drag Bozo aka Gunther toward the open van door, past the two prone figures held on the ground by my dogs. Shotgun swings his weapon toward Blue. “Come,” I say sharply, bringing both Blue and Nila to my side and releasing two more would-be kidnappers.
Shotgun swings the barrels back toward me. “I said, get in the van,” he says, all macho dumbass.
“Leave now, and I’ll let you all live,” I respond.
“Wait,” Mom says, stepping out from behi
nd me. “I’ll come with you.” She slides past me, her shoes scraping on the dirty cement floor.
Shotgun smiles and nods to himself. His focus stays on Mom as she walks toward the open van door and the four men waiting inside. I grab her arm. “No,” I growl.
“Shut up!” Shotgun yells, his eyes wide and glittering with emotion.
Mom turns back to me, laying her hand over mine. “It’s okay; I’ll be fine.” She smiles at me and nods. God is watching over me. But I don’t believe in that. If she gets in that van, she’s dead. I’m not losing her. Not today. Not when I just got her back.
She pulls away, and I follow her. “Mom, stop.”
She steps up to the van and hands reach out, sucking her into the shadowed interior. Blue growls, warning me not to follow, but I step closer, letting them haul me in after her. The door slides shut and the dogs go crazy—barking, growling, their nails scraping on the cement as the van lurches forward.
They’ve got Mom and me on the floor, Bozo propped up against the back doors, Blondie curled up behind the passenger seat, holding his wrist like it’s an injured puppy.
A mask comes off, exposing a young man, his neck bleeding from teeth marks, his eyes glinting in the near darkness. “Pass me the tape,” he says.
Duct tape—these guys are real original.
He grabs my ankles, pulling the tape to wrap it around, but I kick out, hitting him once in the gut, then bringing my knee up to my chest, I kick out again, striking his throat. His eyes go wide, his mouth working like a fish out of water as he falls back onto Bozo, his throat crushed, his life over.
The tape rolls across the van floor. I snatch it up as a body slams into my back, hunching me over the tape. The scent of cheap aftershave and cheese puffs envelops me, along with flabby arms. I twine the length of tape meant to bind my ankles into a cord before elbowing Aftershave in the ribs.
He expels rancid breath but holds tight, his lips close to my ear, his weight bending me over my legs, the rope of tape trapped in my lap.
“Get her under control!” Shotgun yells from the passenger seat. “Hey, no! Get off him or I’ll shoot!”
Aftershave rears back, and the clank of a body hitting the side of the van vibrates through the cramped space. Must be Mom. Pivoting, I’m on my knees, the twine of tape around Aftershave’s thick neck, cutting off his air supply before he can come back at me.
“Let him go!” Shotgun screams. He’s hanging over the passenger seat, the shotgun aimed at me…but the gun is not so maneuverable in that cramped space, and I’ve got Aftershave in front of my body. Blondie has pressed himself up against the back of Shotgun’s seat and squeezed his eyes shut. A real hero, that one. My mom is behind the driver’s seat, holding the side of her head, blood trickling from between her fingers, gray eyes bright and powerful, watching me and smiling, like she’s proud.
Aftershave struggles harder, tearing at the tape with dull nails as I pull it taut, sinking it into the folds of fat. His body shudders, and Shotgun’s eyes go wide, realization dawning that I’m strangling his friend to death.
“Dennis!” Shotgun screams. Blondie shakes his head, squeezing his eyes even tighter. Guess his name is Dennis…like the menace but without the gumption.
Aftershave kicks wildly, his long legs flailing. He connects with the door, sending another loud clang through the space. He tries to heave himself forward, but I’ve got him tight against my body, legs wrapped around his waist—he is a fly in my spider web.
With one more awful spasm, Aftershave goes limp. Shotgun swings his weapon to aim at Mom. She keeps her eyes on me. I push Aftershave forward, bringing my legs behind him, and Shotgun looks over at me.
“Tape yourself and her”—his chin juts toward mom—“or I’ll shoot her.”
I slip the knife from the ankle holster I bought in D.C.—it’s not as fancy as Robert’s but does the trick—and keep it hidden behind Aftershave. Dennis opens one eye then slowly lifts his head to look at Shotgun.
The van swerves wildly, throwing everyone off balance. Aftershave slumps to the side as we slide into the side of the van, exposing me. Shotgun falls onto the driver, the barrel of the gun aiming at the ceiling. Dennis collides with my mother, crying out in pain.
The van swerves the other way, overcorrecting. We all tumble to the other side, my mom landing on top of Dennis, Shotgun slamming into the passenger side door, Aftershave rolling onto me.
I push him off, scramble over his body and grab onto the passenger seat headrest. Shotgun struggles to bring his gun up. I step on Dennis, propelling myself over the seat and driving my knife into Shotgun’s neck.
His eyes go wide behind the mask. His weapon drops into the footwell. I dive for it, my feet kicking off the headrest. As my fingers close around the weapon, I twist, aiming it back up my body at the driver.
He’s another masked man, his seatbelt crossing a large pot belly, his hands gripping the wheel, foot pressing onto the accelerator. His eyes dart to me for a moment, then return to the road. The van’s tires throb over the rough surface.
“Pull over,” I say. His foot presses harder, his lips firm. “Stop the fucking van.”
He shakes his head, speeding up even more.
Fuck me, he’s going to crash this thing.
Chapter Fifteen
Robert
Amy lives in one of the modern apartments overlooking the ocean. The penthouse has a private pool on the balcony, a helipad on the roof, and marble floors that click under her low heels as she leads me to the office.
Josh waits for us, standing next to a large touch screen monitor. The curtains are drawn against the sun, leaving the room in half shadow, the monitor glowing softly.
I can smell the booze on Josh—his eyes are red-rimmed but sober, so the alcohol is sweating out of him from last night. Amy stands next to him, her wide-legged pants and white button-down shirt crisp. The gold necklace at her throat looks almost like a collar. She is no one’s pet, though.
Amy’s effortless elegance contrasts with her brother’s rumpled sports jacket and jeans as she brushes a finger across the touch screen, bringing up the Joyful Justice logo. Another swipe of the hand and the emblem of the Her prophet appears next to it—the silhouette of a woman’s face set into the snarling profile of a wolf.
Josh steps aside, ceding the monitor to Amy, and she opens a file of photographs that spread out across the screen—images from the bombing of a Men’s Rights rally in Savannah from weeks ago. “I’m sure you know about this,” Amy says, not turning to me.
“The bombing, yes.”
“And the shootings,” she pulls up more photographs, including one of Sydney’s mother, bleeding on a stage, along with a mug shot of the shooter.
“Yes,” I say, again. “I’m aware of the two groups. What do they have to do with Joyful Justice?”
Amy turns to me, leaving the images on the screen, her smile small and knowing. “I’m sure you’re aware that while Joyful Justice is pursued by international law enforcement, there is a tentative peace based on the fact that they are both going after—” She raises her fingers into air quotes. “Bad people.”
“To a degree, yes,” I say. “But there are more reasons than that.”
She raises one brow. “Such as?”
“While Joyful Justice has a central command, the missions are always brought to them by the”—I wave a hand of dismissal—“injured parties. And often those parties are then trained to deal with the issue themselves. Even when given more concrete support, it still remains a community-led action. So, law enforcement can go after members of Joyful Justice for conspiracy, but it is very hard to prove, and those committing the violent acts are so often victims who are defending themselves that it wouldn’t look good to have international enforcers of justice, in effect, acting to protect the oppressors.”
“You sound like you admire them,” Josh says. He’s taken an armchair by the window slightly behind me.
I’m standing in front of th
e monitor and have to look over my shoulder to address him. “Joyful Justice is well organized. Smart. Determined. Keeps the players at the top protected. Much like we’ve always run our businesses.” I smile at him. We are on the same side. “It’s one of the reasons they are so hard to beat.”
“Exactly,” Amy says, drawing my attention back to her. “One of our biggest hurdles is their reputation for protecting the innocent. Of being ‘the good guys.’ ” I nod my agreement. “So, we plan to tie them to the Her prophet’s most violent factions.”
“Interesting approach. You believe this will entice law enforcement to take a harder look at them?”
“Yes, and turn the public against them.”
“Tell me more.” I glance at my watch to imply that while interested, I also am important, and have other tasks to attend to this afternoon.
“A mass shooting,” Amy says, her voice quiet, as if she’s just dropped a bomb and is eager to hear the explosion.
I look up and raise a brow. “A mass shooting?”
“Yes.” She’s slightly breathless, excited by her plan. “A mass shooter who claims allegiance to Joyful Justice.”
“Like the shooters in Paris did to ISIS,” I say.
She grins. “Exactly.”
“But the target would have to be innocents for your plan to work. Hard to make it believable. It would be like Robin Hood and his merry men massacring the good folks of Nottingham.” I shrug. “You might be able to fool the public into hating them, but those tasked with watching Joyful Justice know their M.O. and won’t fall for a false flag event.”
Amy turns back to her screen and opens another folder, a photograph of Declan Doyle and me appears on the screen. It’s from when we were friendly back in New York, and I was trying to woo him to work for me. “We want you to convince Declan Doyle that the mass shooting threat is for real. In fact, we want you to warn him it’s going to happen.”
Savage Grace (A Sydney Rye Mystery, #12) Page 12