I offer a suppressed smile—one that says, oh honey, I’m so sorry your plan is so silly. “There are several problems with that.” I keep my voice sympathetic—I don’t want to be ruining all her hard work, but someone’s got to tell her. “Besides my earlier points, Declan does not trust me. And, it would be out of character for me to go to such a low-level operative with important information. I dine with the head of Homeland Security. Why would I warn an investigator?”
Amy steps toward me, her eyes holding mine. “Do you want to see Natalia again?”
“Of course, and if you want me to speak with Doyle I will, but it won’t advance your plan.” I raise my hands, palms up. “This is your play, though. I’ll do as you ask.”
“Yes,” she agrees. “It is my play. And you will do as I ask.” Her voice goes hard. Amy is a formidable woman who has used her brother as a front for decades—I am one of the few people who knows where the power really sits in their organization.
Josh shifts in the seat behind me, and I glance back at him. He gets up and, catching my eyes, mutters something about going to the bathroom. Once the door shuts behind him, I turn my attention to Amy. “How long has the drinking been this out of control?” I ask, the way any good friend would.
She may be blackmailing me into cooperating with her, but that doesn’t mean we are not old, dear friends. It does not negate our history.
Her eyes shutter and she turns away, then returns to the previous subject. “I have my reasons for wanting the message delivered to Declan rather than a higher up.”
“Okay, give me more details, and I’ll deliver whatever message you want.”
Her back to me, she opens another file on the monitor and brings up a map of Miami. “I’m sure you’re aware of the massive storm damage in Miami.”
“Obviously. The city may never be the same.” Where is she going with this?
“There are refugee centers set up here and here.” She points to higher ground outside the city. “We have a woman who claims that she was raped at one of them and ignored by officials. She appealed to Joyful Justice, and they arranged to get her a gun.”
Amy doesn’t turn around, so I can’t see her expression, but her voice is flat. “She’ll kill as many people in the center as she can before being taken down. Men, women, children…she’ll claim they were all complicit in her rape. Nobody stopped him.”
Her voice is too flat. For all the horrors that Josh and I endured, Amy endured more. Worse.
“This will have a powerful effect on public opinion. While the woman’s rage is understandable, her slaughter of so many innocent people—people already traumatized by the hurricane’s damage—will create widespread revulsion. And that anger will quickly focus on Joyful Justice, which gave her the weapon. Given Joyful Justice’s reputation for aiding women in avenging themselves against their exploiters, its role in this little drama is…” She pauses, her back still to me, “believable.”
“How will you convince this woman to do as you ask?”
Amy pulls up a photograph of a dark-skinned woman with bruising on her face. “This was taken at the hospital after the rape.” Amy pauses, her fingers lingering over the photograph, and then she drops her hand to her side and turns toward me. “We approached her, pretending to represent Joyful Justice. We’ve worked on her for some time now…she is ready.”
“Ready?”
“Our recruitment techniques are not your concern.”
But I can guess what they are…convincing someone to commit violence in the name of a cause is surprisingly easy. Inside each of us a killer lurks, waiting for the right reason to unleash pain upon our fellow man. I sigh. “Amy, you’re giving me very little here. How can you expect me to work so blindly. I may want to see Natalia again, but that hasn’t made me dumb.”
Her smile widens. “No, but age, my dear friend, is starting to make you soft.”
She brushes past me, heading to her desk, and I turn, following her with my eyes.
It’s not age, old friend, it’s Sydney Rye.
Chapter Sixteen
Sydney
There is a dead body slumped in the passenger seat, my head and upper body are in the footwell, arms up, holding a shotgun aimed at the maniac driving this van at ever increasing speeds.
Elbowing myself into a butt-down, head-up position, I look over the dashboard. Oh great. The van is racing up an on-ramp. We are headed onto a highway, and the driver is not checking mirrors. He’s hunched over the wheel, staring straight ahead.
“Hold on, Mom!” I yell before turning the shotgun around so that the handle is facing the driver. He glances at me, and I ram it into his nose, throwing his head back and forcing cartilage into his brain, killing him instantly. His hands drop off the wheel, and I release the gun to grab it.
He’s big, and I’m leaning over his belly to hold the wheel steady. I can’t get near the pedals with him in the way, and I can’t take my hands off the wheel because the lane we are in is ending. A horn honks as I merge into the next lane, narrowly missing the guardrail.
Keeping one hand on the wheel I try to pull the dead driver out of the seat but he’s too big. “Mom, I need your help.”
“Get off him or I’ll shoot her.” I glance over to see Dennis with the shotgun, aiming at my mother.
“He’s dead, Dennis,” I answer calmly, concentrating on the road again. We are coming up on another car, bearing down on its bumper. I check my mirrors. There is someone to my left, gonna have to go into the right-hand shoulder. I ease us over, the rough surface vibrating the van, pebbles ricocheting off the undercarriage. We pass the car, and I move us back onto the roadway, then make my way into the left lane.
“If you want to live, Dennis, we need to get this guy out of my way. His foot is jammed on the gas pedal.”
“Phil is dead?” Dennis asks.
“Mom, can you please help me out here?”
“Don’t move!” Dennis squeals. I should have killed that idiot. Lesson learned—leave no dumbasses alive. Maybe I’ll needlepoint that onto a pillow for my baby's nursery.
If we survive.
A siren starts up behind us. I actually laugh out loud because this does not look good. Speeding is the least of our worries right now.
Another car is coming up, but I’ve got room on the right this time, so I flick the turn signal and move over, racing past the car at over 80 miles per hour now. The siren is following fast. The left lane is emptying. The cop car races past, all lights flashing. I laugh harder this time as I use my signal to get back in the left lane. The cop is clearing a path for us!
“Why are you laughing!” Dennis screams.
I don’t answer him. Instead I’m working on moving Phil’s leg, trying to get his foot off the accelerator. His thick thigh is pressed so close to the wheel I can’t even see his foot nor can I climb onto his lap.
We reach the top of a rise and I see a traffic jam at the bottom. That’s where the cop car was headed. The traffic in front of us slows, brake lights glowing ahead. “Dennis,” I say, pulling at Phil’s leg harder now. “We are all gonna die if you don’t help me. Grab his leg while I hold the wheel.”
“You’re trying to trick me.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Son,” my mom says. “You have been hurt in the past, I can see that.”
Oh, my God.
“You’re going to get hurt in the very near future,” I say, giving up on Phil’s leg and moving us into the left shoulder as we approach the traffic jam.
We blow by the first stopped vehicles, the carriage rattling, stones cracking against the cars we past.
“Let me help her,” Mom says, her voice all quiet and calm.
“No!” Dennis yells.
I glance back at him for just a second then forward again as the road curves. I’m standing between the two front seats, leaning over Phil’s body, both hands on the wheel. Dennis is out of range. I can’t kick him without letting go of the wheel, and I can’t get Phil�
��s thick leg over without using both hands.
The parking brake.
No, damn, it’s probably a foot pedal.
But the gear shift is right there. I grab it and shift us into neutral. We are still in a descent so our speed does not slow immediately. The road straightens out again, and I see the accident that caused the traffic jam.
Flares glow and police lights swirl where a tractor trailer is blocking all lanes of traffic…including the shoulder. Its rear end is less than a van width’s away from the guard rail.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I punch the horn, drawing the attention of the police. The speedometer reads 50 miles per hour and dropping. “Hold on! We are going to crash. Mom, dump your ID. Now!”
A uniformed officer holds up a hand like that’s going to stop me. I would if I could, officer. I wave him away, hoping he understands I’m not doing this shit on purpose.
His eyes narrow and then broaden in recognition: That chick is leaning over a dead guy to drive that van.
He yells to the other officers, and they all scramble to get out of my path. We hit a flare, crunch over glass, and I hold the wheel steady, gritting my teeth, trying to thread the needle between the tractor trailer’s rear end and the guard rail.
We don’t fit.
The impact comes and I fly forward, the windshield shattering as I am thrown through it. I roll off the hood, landing on the pavement, face toward the sky. My vision is blurred, darkening at the edges. Footsteps crush glass, yelling, and the edges get darker. I blink and darkness takes me away.
Chapter Seventeen
Mulberry
The air conditioner hums. The words on the screen blur. Merl spent the last two days catching me up on Joyful Justice activities. And we have only scratched the surface; I’ve been gone for months.
And the world went on without me.
“We’ve missed you,” Merl says, as if he can read my thoughts.
I give him a weak smile. “You’ve done well without me.”
“It’s designed that way,” Merl says in answer. “We have to be able to go on without any one of us…or more.”
Because what we do is dangerous…and important.
“I know.” Rubbing my face, I sit back in the squeaky chair. We are in Merl’s office, just off the dojo. The subtle thud of blows against bags, along with the scent of stale sweat and orange cleaning products, infuses the space.
Merl’s dogs are out in the dojo, watching the action, keeping guard. He sits behind me, looking at his phone.
“When is the next council meeting?” I ask.
“Tomorrow.” Merl clears his throat and looks up at me. “Dan just messaged.” The way he says it makes it sound bad.
“What?”
Merl meets my eyes. “Sydney’s alias showed up at a Louisiana hospital not far from where her mother spoke last night. Dan is getting information now.”
I’m standing, the chair tipped over behind me, before I even have the conscious thought to rise. “I’m going to get her.”
I turn toward the door, but Merl jumps up and blocks my way. “Hold on,” he says, his voice low and calm. My breathing is heavy, heart pounding. I need to get to her. “I’m not going to stop you—”
I cut him off. “Then get out of my way,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Just listen for one minute before you fly out the door.”
I take a deep breath and nod. “Go ahead.” Nothing you can say will stop me from going to her.
“Please remember, when you see her, that Sydney does not like taking orders.”
“She does from you,” I snarl for no good reason.
He shakes his head, as if to say I’m an idiot. He doesn’t do it quite as condescendingly as Robert Maxim, but they are annoyed by the same thing: stubborn, blind Mulberry. “I’m her trainer, and she will listen to me in practice but not in life. If you push too hard you’ll just push her away.” He takes a deep breath, holding my gaze, making sure I’m listening. “Let her lead. And you may have better results.”
“As if I have a choice.”
“Choose it,” Merl says. “Choose her over everything, and you’ll do better than if you try to make her choose you.”
“More T-shirt wisdom,” I say, pushing past him.
This time he lets me leave. But Merl is waiting for me when I get to the airstrip, bag over my shoulder, scowl on my face, rage in my breast pocket. He doesn’t say anything, just opens his arms for a hug.
I embrace him and emotion wells up, surprising me. “Thank you,” I say, though I’m not sure exactly what I’m grateful for…maybe just that Merl is still alive and still my friend. And that he, and the rest of the council, the rest of Joyful Justice, can provide a safe haven for Sydney and our child.
If she will let them.
Chapter Eighteen
Sydney
Pain settles over me and I groan, trying to blink open my eyes. It feels like gum has glued my eyelashes together. There is the familiar beeping of a heart rate monitor.
Great.
Fear lashes through me, more powerful than the pain. The baby.
My eyes snap open, but my vision is fuzzy. Blinking, I bring the hospital room into focus. The heart rate monitor is speeding up as adrenaline stokes my fear into a frenzied state.
I go to pull off the blanket but can’t. I’m handcuffed to the bed. Of course. When a woman crashes into an accident scene in a van full of dead bodies, you handcuff her to the bed. I’d do the same if I was a cop.
The door opens, and an African American woman with graying hair, wearing purple scrubs and a stethoscope strung around her neck, walks in. “You’re awake,” she says, coming over to check my machine.
“I’m pregnant,” I say. “No meds.”
She nods. “We know.”
“You do? Is it…”
“We are going to take you down for an ultrasound now.”
“Are you my doctor?”
She shakes her head. “I’m your nurse, Glenda.” Her gaze falls on my handcuffs.
“Am I under arrest?”
“I don’t know about that. But the police will want to know you’re awake.”
“Please, can we have the ultrasound first?” My unshackled hand falls onto my stomach. “Please,” I beg.
Her lips purse, and she gives a small nod. “I’ll take you down now. We’ll get you checked out.”
Her hand falls onto my shoulder and offers a comforting squeeze. “Do you know—have you heard anything about my dogs?” I ask.
Glenda shakes her head. “No, sorry. Were they in the accident?”
I shake my head. Blue would know how to hide. They are probably still around the parking garage. I need to get back there.
Glenda hangs my IVs on the back of the bed and pushes the curtain aside, wheeling me through the door and down the hall toward the elevator.
We go down one floor.
The wall has a jungle mural painted on it. We are in the maternity ward. A woman moans from one of the rooms. Holy crap, she’s giving birth. Right here. Right now.
Glenda wheels me past an open doorway. I glance in and see a new dad in a chair holding a bundle in his arms. The pure adoration and love on his face catches my breath. He’s totally absorbed and astounded by the person he helped make.
Glenda wheels me into a room with an ultrasound machine. “I’ll be right back, going to check on the tech,” she says before leaving.
I take the moment alone to further investigate my handcuff. It’s looped around my wrist and then around the bed rail. Leaning over I try to find a way to take the bedrail off—it’s held on by six screws.
Glenda returns accompanied by a woman with curly blonde hair and square glasses, whose white coat hangs off thin shoulders.
She glances up from the chart in her hands and her eyes go wide. Oh shit. Did she just recognize me?
“This is Samantha,” Glenda says.
I give her a weak smile. Samantha clears her throat and
wrestles some control over her face. “Hi,” she says. “Grace Smith?”
“Yes,” I say with a practiced smile. “You can call me Grace.” So, they found my ID.
“Well, Grace, let’s check on your little one,” Samantha says, settling onto the stool next to the machine.
“I’ll be back to get you in bit,” Glenda says, hitting the lights on her way out leaving us in semi darkness—the glow from the ultrasound machine the only light.
Samantha pulls back the blankets to expose my stomach. “Let’s see how we are doing here,” Samantha says. “How far along are you?”
“About two months I guess.”
She squirts goo onto my belly, and I shudder at the chill. Taking her wand out of its holder, Samantha places it against my stomach and the screen in front of her lights up in a semi circle of black and white. My heart leaps into my throat. I’m going to see my baby. Dead or alive, I’m about to see it.
Please let it be alive. Please.
A rapid heartbeat thumps out of the speakers and Samantha stops moving the wand, pointing to the screen with her free hand at a small curled blob wiggling on the screen. “There it is.”
She pushes some buttons and lines appear around the little thing. “Looks like about 8 weeks to me. Good guess.”
“It’s okay?” I ask through the lump in my throat.
She moves the wand. “I’ll check the placenta.”
I watch her profile as she stares at the screen. She leans closer and clicks more buttons. My heart beats in my throat.
“The placenta is intact.” She turns to me and smiles. “Everything looks great to me.”
I release a long breath and close my eyes. “Thank you.” My voice comes out scratchy with tears.
“You’re welcome.”
She clicks more, and I hear a printer whirl. “I’ll get you a picture to take home.”
Home. An image flashes behind my closed lids of a refrigerator with the ultrasound photo held to it by a magnet—maybe one in the shape of a pirate ship or some other silly memento. I can almost feel Mulberry’s arms around my waist, his chest against my back, breath on my hair, as we stare at the picture together.
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