“It’s a setup,” Sydney says, her eyes scanning the screen. “According to her manifesto, she was also a follower of the Her prophet. They are trying to tie Joyful Justice to the shooting and”—she scrolls some more—“possibly even to the bombing of the Incels a few months back.”
“Someone is trying to make us look bad. Maybe the same someone who’s been trying to kill you and Robert.” I tell her briefly about what happened after she left us—the trip to the police station and the ship off the coast.
“Did Dan figure out who owns it?” she asks.
“No, shell companies upon shell companies. Robert flew out to it, but they were well-armed, and he couldn’t get any information.”
“Bullshit. Robert’s lying. He would get the info. I know him. And there is no way he just gave up.”
“You sound so sure of him.” Anger is pressing at me again, just begging me to do something stupid.
“Robert knows what’s going on, and he has a reason for not telling us. I’m sure of it.”
“So, call him,” I say, my voice betraying my anger.
Sydney ignores it. “No, this is better done face to face.”
“Let’s go see him then.”
Sydney turns to me. “I need to go alone.”
I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood. “On your own, sure.”
Except she won’t be alone, she’ll have Blue…and our dancing bean with her. Just not me.
Chapter Twenty-One
Robert
The helicopter descends slowly toward the ship. The Escape Plan is steady in the gentle swells. Only two weeks ago, the ocean raged like an angry beast, picking up entire neighborhoods and swirling them away—dragging detritus back into her depths, leaving a trail of destruction behind.
Entire sections of the city are gone, my own home on an island in Biscayne Bay barely standing. The wind ripped off sections of the roof, the rain beat at the interior, and the sea rose, carrying away what was left. The walls still standing are waterlogged, and I’m going to have to do a full rebuild.
My piano is the only thing of real value my people could not move in time. I have not personally seen the destruction yet, but José gave me a report. I’ll head there after meeting Natalia.
An elegant Hispanic woman in her thirties greets me. “I am Seraphina.” She bows slightly. “Ms. Rojas welcomes you, Mr. Maxim. She will meet you in the salon, if you’ll follow me.” Her accent is slight but lyrical.
She leads me through French doors into a room the width of the ship. We are on the top deck, and the view is just sea and sky. Intimate seating areas and a bar fill out the large space. The decor is beige and blues, nautical and expensive—standard yacht fair.
A barman wearing a vest with the ship’s emblem embroidered on the breast offers me a drink. A seltzer with lime in hand, I lean against one of the barstools. He wipes down the bar, shining the already reflective surface and then at some unseen signal, leaves.
Alone, I even my breaths and clear my mind, the anticipation of seeing Natalia again after all these years building in my chest.
Footsteps on the stairwell raise me from my seat so that I’m standing when the top of her head appears. She is revealed one step at a time. The silky, dark hair I ran my fingers through now streaked with elegant silver, the forehead I butterflied with kisses now crisscrossed with fine lines, the eyes I fell into and out of and through…just the same. Framed in thick lashes, twinkling with intelligence and inner fire.
The nose she nuzzled along my neck, the lips I kissed with unbridled, desperate passion—turned now into a soft smile that expands into a wide grin as she stops on the top step, every inch of her small frame exposed. A ghost in all white—pressed pants and button-down blouse—elegant and timeless. She is still fit and strong, she still makes my heart race. Still Natalia.
“Robert,” she purrs in the accent that drove me wild.
“Natalia,” I answer, my own voice grating against the memories locked in my throat.
“It’s been so long.”
All I can do is nod and offer a shy smile. She’s thrown me back to my twenty-year-old self. Puzzle pieces slide into place before my eyes. Losing her is how I learned ruthlessness. Learned that pain and sacrifice can only hurt if you let them.
And yet, here she is; and that wound, so fresh and tender at first blush, is back. I bleed for her all over again.
Natalia walks slowly toward me, hips swaying. Seeing her, aged and in civilian clothes, is surreal. She only ever wore fatigues—or nothing—when we knew each other in the jungle.
She must have changed as much as me.
Natalia takes a deep breath, looking up at me.
“It’s good to see you,” I say, because it is. Achingly good.
“You look the same, almost.” She smiles, her hand raising to brush against my temple where silver grows.
I hum with the need to lean into her touch but control myself. Her hand drops to her side, though she continues to hold my gaze.
Sea birds caw, the ship rocks gently, but I’m standing in the jungle. I’m staring at the girl I loved, and I’m the boy I was then.
“I’m sorry,” I say. It slips off my tongue—as planned as falling for her in the first place.
She blinks and looks down, her lashes pitch black against silky brown skin. “Me too.”
“I thought you died.”
“Yes.” Her voice is quiet. “You sacrificed me for your freedom. I understand.” She looks up at me. “I might have done the same.”
“Would you have?” I sound like a frightened child who wants his mother to tell him burning the ants with the magnifying glass was normal—not the instincts of a real killer.
I am a real killer. Heartless, hungry, and concerned with no one but myself.
Natalia raises her gaze again and then steps away, perching on one of the bar stools. I sit next to her. She rests her hands in her lap—nails long and painted a soft pink. In the jungle she kept them short with her buck knife.
“It was so long ago now.” She looks past me out to the sea.
“You’re angry with me still, though,” I say. You’ve been trying to assassinate me.
She shakes her head and smiles. “I am not.”
“Then why,” I am careful with each word. “Are you trying to kill me?”
She shakes her head. “I’m not.”
I let the words hang between us, hoping that she will continue—explain why the helicopter from her yacht shot at me on the beach. Why a group of mercenaries ambushed my home.
Footsteps on the stairs interrupt our conversation. I stand, muscles tensing, as I watch another figure appear from below.
Dark hair, just like Natalia’s when we met, but on a man. A forehead smooth with youth, green-blue eyes that stop my breath. A nose I have not seen since my father’s death. Natalia’s lips formed into a tight line of anger.
He is my height.
He has my father’s nose, my eyes, and Natalia’s lips.
“Hi Dad.” His voice is dripping with sarcasm and…hate.
I have a son. And he’s been trying to kill me.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sydney
“I’m going to go to Miami to talk with Robert,” I announce to the rest of the council. Mulberry and I are in a hotel room, still a day’s drive away from Miami. The council members are up on my computer screen.
Dan sits alone in his office on the island. Anita is mid-flight, en route to Miami for damage control. Lenox sits in the sun somewhere on the Mediterranean. Merl is in his office off the dojo.
“You think he’s lying that he doesn’t know anything about the ship?” Dan says. I nod. Dan shrugs. “I never trust him.”
“Do you think he is in some way involved with this shooting?” Anita asks.
“I don’t think he’s behind it, but he probably knows something about it. He knows everything.”
“The man’s not omnipresent,” Mulberry grumbles.
> I ignore him. “Face to face, I can tell when he’s lying.”
Lenox cocks his head. “Do you think he will confess the truth to you?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll know if he is trying to kill me.”
“Because he will actually try to kill you.” Anger sharpens Mulberry’s tone. “I think I should go with her,” he says, turning to the computer.
“I’m sitting right here,” I snap.
He purses his lips. “Sorry.”
“Robert isn’t going to talk to me if you’re there. You two will probably just end up trying to beat each other up, again.”
Mulberry’s neck flushes red. I put a hand on his thigh, under the small desk so the rest of the council can’t see. I want to reassure him that I care about him. Even if I don’t always listen to his advice.
“Obviously, someone is trying to set us up,” I say. “This is designed to turn public opinion against Joyful Justice and the Her prophet—and to put even more pressure on the government to destroy us.”
Dan nods in agreement. “The Incels are talking about ramping up the war. ” He shakes his head. “They are all riled up online. I wouldn’t be surprised to see more violence from their side soon.”
Anita chews on her lip for a moment. “I’m going to do my best to get out in front of this, but obviously a lot of damage has been done.”
“Isn’t it dangerous for you to come stateside?” I ask.
Dan makes a hand gesture that implies Anita and he already had this argument.
“I need to find the person who duped that poor woman into thinking they represented Joyful Justice.”
“I doubt they are just sitting around waiting for you in Miami,” Dan says.
Anita narrows her eyes. “Trust me, will you? I’m also going to speak with reporters off the record. I still have a lot of contacts.”
Chastised, Dan slumps in his chair and gives a small nod.
“Sydney,” Anita says. “Your mother is headed to Miami as well.”
“What? Why?”
“To speak. She wants to make the public case that this slaughter does not represent the Her prophet. She does not preach violence against the innocent.”
“Great.”
Mulberry puts his hand over mine on his thigh, offering his support. “I’ll go to Miami with you,” he says. “You can see Robert alone, but I’ll be there if you need me.”
“Thanks.” I look over at him and he smiles, lifting his chin, urging me to tell the council about my pregnancy. We discussed it on our drive to the hotel, after I told him about what happened with the van full of Incel would-be assassins. Mulberry didn’t push for me to tell the council, but he urged me…they are our friends.
I turn back to the council. “There is something I should tell you. Well, Dan and Merl already know.”
“What?” Anita asks, frowning.
“I’m pregnant.”
She looks stunned—her face frozen, mouth slightly open, eyes wide. Lenox nods slowly. “Congratulations,” he says.
“Thank you,” Mulberry answers, making it clear he is the father.
Anita clears her throat and smiles. “Yes,” she says. “Congratulations.”
“This doesn’t change anything right now,” I say. Mulberry doesn’t argue. “Let’s deal with this crisis, and then we can talk about it more.”
Lenox nods again, his movements regal. “Of course,” he says.
“Any news on Ian?” I ask desperate to change the topic.
“We’ve isolated him,” Lenox says. “Petra has brought most of his establishments under our umbrella, and we are in the process of talking with each sex worker to make sure they are happy in their position.”
“What do you do with the ones who aren’t?” I ask.
“They are free to leave with a small severance or a ticket home.”
“That’s not much of a choice.”
Lenox frowns, there are new deeper grooves around his mouth—this is taking a toll on him. “I agree. But all we can offer them is their freedom. We cannot change their history. Many of them were sold by their families; those that were kidnapped want to go home. The ones sold…they are—” He shakes his head. “Most of them cannot imagine any other kind of life. That is something I’d like to change. But I don’t know how.”
Silence descends on all of us. We can fight with our fists, with weapons, but we can’t climb inside the minds of traumatized victims and convince them that their lives are worth living.
“What about offering them training?” Merl asks. “Here. What if we could turn them into fighters?”
Lenox sits forward. “That’s interesting.”
“They could become instructors or operatives.” Merl goes on. “If nothing else, we could instill some confidence in them.”
“I’m not sure it’s so simple,” Anita says. “They need therapy. What they’ve been through isn’t something you can just get over. Not without help.”
“Fighting helps,” I say.
Anita gives a small smile. “If we want to do this, we need to bring in some professional mental health help.”
“Agreed,” Merl says.
Dan turns to another monitor on his desk and starts typing. “Let me see who I can find in our membership.”
“Very good,” Lenox says, his voice hopeful.
Our meeting done, Mulberry and I get into our separate queen-sized beds. Frank jumps up on his, and Blue on mine. Nila sleeps with her back against the door.
Despite my exhaustion, I can’t sleep. Lying awake, I stare at the ceiling, my brain a mouse on a wheel.
Can we really help those women by training them?
Will Robert tell me the truth?
Is he behind this shooting?
Will he help me?
Does he still want me?
Or will he try to kill me?
I slip into dreams of shadows and mist—I’m being hunted but can’t see the beast on my heels. I run, my heart hammering, feet sucking into mud. I fall forward, and the monster jumps on my back, pushing me into the ground, sinking me deep into the earth…I can’t breathe.
“Sydney!” Mulberry is shaking my shoulders. I gasp for air. His eyes are glittering in the dark hotel room. “It’s just a dream,” he says, his voice quieter.
A sob escapes, and his arms come around me, hard and strong. “You’re safe,” he promises. “You’re safe.”
But I’m not. And I never will be.
We can’t win this war. It will never end. Justice is always under assault. Evil is a many-headed beast, and when you cut off one, another grows in its place. All we can do is keep fighting.
I wrap my arms around Mulberry and bury my face against his neck.
Death is inevitable.
But so is new life.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Robert
The piano, folded up on itself like an accordion, is hunkered in a corner of what used to be my living room. I lay my hand on the buckled wood, warm from the sun streaming in through the open ceiling, and a sigh slips free.
My mother taught me to play on this instrument. I close my eyes and hear her voice, gentle and loving, as she guides me through the scales.
Pressure behind my eyes pulses. I rest my head in my hands but do not cry.
“Robert?”
My head snaps up at her voice. Sydney Rye stands at the top of the steps leading down into the living room, Blue by her side. She wears rubber boots and jeans—the uniform of those filtering through the rubble of their lives.
But Sydney left nothing here. She came to my house with just her dogs and she took them away, too. Her memories are not crushed, waterlogged, or destroyed. She owns nothing so has nothing to lose…except for the ones she loves.
I owned many objects and loved no one for so long. And for good reason.
Love crushes you as easily as a storm surge crumples a piano. I learned that lesson in the jungle, and I held onto it for the decades that followed, but somehow Syd
ney Rye pried it from my grip, leaving me exposed and in danger.
“Are you okay?” She steps down into the room, picking her way through the piles of debris.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I wanted to see it…and you.” She pauses in her trek to me and surveys the damage. “I’m so sorry.”
“Just objects,” I say dismissively. “Easily replaced.” She returns her attention to me. She knows I’m lying. “I see you extracted yourself from the basement of the hospital.”
“Yes, with the help of some witches.” She smiles.
“And you’re in Miami now to gawk at the ruination.”
“That’s not the only reason.” She frowns at my unkind words. She’s forgotten how cruel I am. How strong. Because she makes me weak.
“The shooting,” I suggest.
“You know it had nothing to do with Joyful Justice. We wouldn’t just hand a powerful weapon over to a distressed woman.”
“I know,” I say, looking back at the piano.
My mother died before I truly became a man. She passed while I was stuck in the jungle—a prisoner in love with his captor. A cliché.
Sydney’s hand touches my arm, and I jump, not realizing she’d come so close. “You sure you’re all right?” she asks.
“You care?” I sneer.
Her mouth firms into a line of discontent. “Of course I do. We’re friends.”
I bark out a laugh. “We most certainly are not.”
Her hand drops from me, and I miss its warmth. I step away, creating more distance between us. “It’s not safe for Blue here.” I gesture to the destruction. “There are all sorts of things that could cut his paws.”
“I know.” Sydney is watching me, her silver eyes glinting in the sunlight. “That’s why he’s wearing booties.” Blue stands next to her—his paws covered in rubber slippers that tighten at his ankles. “You’re acting really weird,” Sydney says.
I take a deep breath and look out to the bay, calm and sparkling but thick with debris. “I’m a father,” I confess.
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