Betray the Lie (A Sydney Rye Mystery, #11)

by Emily Kimelman Gilvey

  “What do you want?”

  “Good question.” I look down into the beer, its amber depths offering me nothing. “How about if I win, I get to do the talking?”

  “We kill them no matter what?”

  I nod. “After we get the information we want.”

  She grins. “I’ll take that bet.”

  Blue comes out from under the table as we stand, making our way to the darkened back room. Petra flips a switch, and a low light over the pool table flickers to life, bathing the red felt in a warm yellow. Its glow reaches the few tables around it but doesn’t penetrate the dark corners of the room.

  The bathroom door hangs open on drooping hinges, the smell wafting over us. Petra’s nose wrinkles as she pulls coins from her purse—a small red satin thing with a gold chain for a strap.

  Grabbing a pool stick, I find the chalk and rub it over the tip. Petra pushes in the coins, and the balls are released in a clatter. Blue sits beside me as Petra gathers the balls into the triangle. Her face is expressionless, her eyes concentrating on the task at hand.

  "Do you play often?" I ask her.

  A smile creeps onto her lips, as though a memory is crossing her vision. "Not as much as I used to." All the balls in their place, she looks up at me. "I started hustling at a pool hall when I was thirteen. It was something my father and I did together." How nice.

  We agree on a game of 8-ball. She plucks a pool stick off the wall then turns and, with a wave of her hand, offers me the break. I shrug and step up to the table. Petra takes chalk off the rail and steps back to give me room.

  I grab the cue ball and line it up. Bending over the table, I aim and then fire.

  The balls come apart in a satisfying crack, racing across the table, but none of them sink into any of the pockets.

  "You play often?" she asks me, humor in her voice.

  "No, haven't in years. Never was much of an aficionado."

  I think back to the few games I played when I frequented bars in Brooklyn. I was always half drunk and terrible.

  This wasn't a bet I particularly wanted to win.

  Petra bends over the table, her leather pants lending her an air of sophistication and danger. She looks perfect like that, her gaze fixed on the ball, her hands holding the stick gently. Like a real professional.

  The white cue ball strikes a striped ball and sinks it. She moves around the table, wetting her lips and lowering herself near the cue ball again. She doesn’t bother calling out her shots, but she sinks them all. A second striped ball, a third, a fourth. I drink my beer and wait.

  The pub door opens, and my heart leaps for just a second until I spot two women coming in; teased hair, short shorts, and halter tops. They aren’t here for us. They are here to get free drinks and maybe play some pool. Just girls out for a night.

  They frown at the empty bar, but when the bartender puts down his paper and greets them, they perk up.

  He’ll keep them busy until the rest of the crowd arrives.

  Having finally missed a shot, Petra speaks to me from across the table. "Your turn."

  "Is there any point?" I ask with a smile.

  "You don't strike me as someone who gives up, no matter how bad your odds."

  I let out a short laugh. "And I always wanted to be one of those people who knew how to pick their battles."

  She laughs, leaning against the wall, her pool stick in front of her, eyes tracking the women at the bar.

  Turning my attention to the table, I find the solids well outnumbering the stripes. I pick a ball that looks like an easy shot—the deep-green 6-ball sitting right next to the side pocket. One more sip of my pint, and I put it down on the ledge. Blue's nose touches my hip in a gesture of support. I lean over the pool table, knowing my jeans don’t look nearly as alluring as Petra's leather pants. Maybe I should get a pair.

  I sink my ball and smile at the small victory. Petra nods at me, encouraging. I move around the table and take aim at the 3-ball, missing this time. The cue ball bounces off my intended quarry and rolls slowly toward a pocket, stopping just shy of the edge.

  "Your turn,” I say.

  Petra sinks the rest of the stripes and has only the black 8-ball left when the door opens again. Her head rises toward the sound and, standing to her full height, a predatory smile crosses Petra’s face.

  Four men, two of whom I recognize from the photos we looked at before we left Miami, stand in the entry—the last rays of the sun outline them in a brief golden glow before the door swings shut.

  Two of the three McCain brothers: Murphy and Michael. The older one, Michael, is shorter and darker than his younger brother, Murphy, but more striking. With his thick black curls and eyes so blue they seem to pierce through the gloom of the pub, Michael surveys the space like he owns it. Maybe he does.

  Murphy’s blond curls, wide shoulders, and impressive height are softened by an easy, dimpled smile and wide aqua blue eyes that sparkle with good humor as he nods to the bartender.

  Both are wearing pressed denim with faux fading and crisp button-down shirts.

  The two other men are broad and tall, their heads square and their brown hair cut short. Their muscles bulge against thin black T-shirts and their heavy brows hunker over narrowed eyes.

  "Just one more shot, and I win,” Petra says, pulling my gaze to her.

  "True," I answer.

  She leans over the table, her gaze remaining on the men as they head to the bar and order pints. She strikes the cue ball, and the eight disappears in a corner pocket. Petra stands and leans the pool stick against the wall and picks up her empty pint. "Can I get you another?" She asks.

  I look at my half-full mug and refuse. Swaying her hips in that way she has, Petra heads over to the bar.

  When the McCain brothers see her they smile. Murphy opens his arms, and she steps into them. He dwarfs her. His hands span her lower back, and Petra’s thin arms barely reach around his neck.

  The henchmen are introduced, and she nods at them but doesn't offer her hand. The men stand back from their bosses, no drinks in their meaty fists.

  A fresh pint in her grip, Petra leads the brothers back to the poolroom where Blue and I wait in the shadows, surrounded by the stink of urine.

  "Sydney, this is Michael,” Petra gestures to the dark-haired, medium-height brother with the striking blue eyes. “And Murphy.” The younger brother with his blond curls, paler blue gaze, and big smile reaches out a thick-fingered hand, and I take it. His skin is calloused, his grip strong. But not that I'm a man and I'll crush you strong. More I’m such a powerful man that I don’t need to crush your hand to prove it strong.

  Michael takes my hand next and gives me a tight smile, not as jovial as his brother, more suspicious and harder. Where Murphy is big with rounded muscles, Michael is wiry with corded strength and hard angles.

  Petra sips her drink and gestures for us all to take a seat at a four-top in the corner of the room. The henchmen close the pocket doors, sealing us in the pool room, then stand with their backs to us, facing the closed doors, hands clasped behind them in what could be mistaken as a military stance.

  "So," Michael starts, addressing Petra. “While it's always lovely to see your beautiful face, I wonder what we're doing here."

  He's not nervous. This is his turf.

  Petra leans back in the old wooden chair, her smile friendly. "Sydney here has been telling me about some things you boys have been up to."

  Murphy lets out a half laugh. "And how exactly would she know?"

  "She says," Petra continues, ignoring Murphy's question, "you've been buying women from Isis. Using my channels to move them, then selling them for a profit." She gives a little shrug. "Of course, after earning a little off them yourself."

  Michael's brow furrows, and his bright blue eyes go stormy. "Those are lies." His gaze is locked onto Petra's.

  She shakes her head no. "I've seen evidence."

  Michael's attention shifts to me. "Who the fuck are you?" he asks
, his tight muscles stiffening even further, a vein in his neck beginning to pulse.

  Murphy's knuckles are white around his pint, but he keeps his relaxed pose, leaning back in the wooden chair, long legs stretched out in front of him.

  "I'm Sydney motherfucking Rye,” I say.

  "What the fuck does that mean?" Michael asks, his voice dropping an octave as his accent thickens.

  "That means," Petra leans forward, her elbows on the table, fingers wrapping around her pint. "You shouldn't fuck with her. And that I believe her."

  Murphy folds his hands onto his stomach, keeping up the appearance of a man who's not nervous—who's not coiled for a fight. "Petra, we've worked together for years. Why would we start doing something so stupid as that?”

  "Because you're greedy. And you're men. And you think with your dicks instead of your heads."

  Michael tenses, while Murphy laughs, putting his hands behind his head, making his broad chest one big-ass target. There is no fear in either man’s gaze, but in Michael’s I see the recognition that Petra did not come here to talk. That this will end in blood.

  Murphy seems to still be under the impression that this can all be worked out. That we can resolve this in some way that is not violent. If only that were true. If only violence was a choice instead of a destiny.

  I take a sip of my flat, warm beer and wait for Petra to give me a cue. These men are going to die, and I'll do my part in killing them. But first we need to get some information.

  Dan

  It will release the names and locations of all our operatives to Interpol, Homeland Security, and the CIA.

  Mitchel is a bastard. A coward.

  But brilliant.

  The bug is wound through our system like DNA through a cell. In order to stop it, I will have to destroy the entire system. This is not a cancer that some amount of poison can burn out. This is a fatal flaw.

  I sit back in my chair and stare out the glass walls in front of me to the wide screen displaying surveillance video, maps, and other information vital to Joyful Justice’s mission.

  What are we without data?

  My hands are shaking, tapping against my desk, so I bunch them into fists. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Opening my eyes, I check the time. Thirty minutes until either Mitchel puts in his code, or our people are exposed.

  I can’t let that happen.

  My phone vibrates, drawing my attention. My mom. “Hey,” I answer, trying to sound normal.

  “Oh honey, I’m sorry to bother you.” I can hear her fiddling with something in the background, cans clink against each other. She is in her pantry. The scent of it comes over me suddenly—the dry powder of flour mixed with the bite of spices. I should bring her some cardamom…

  “I love talking to you, Mom, thanks for calling.”

  A pause in her movements. “Well, that’s nice to hear.” There is a smile in her voice, and I fight sudden welling emotion. Would I kill for her? Yes. But not my own people.

  Mitchel had to betray someone—he chose me.

  “I’m going to come visit soon,” I say, not thinking it through, just needing it to be true.

  “That’s wonderful!” Her joy pierces me, leaving a burning pain. “I can’t wait.”

  “Me either.” My voice sounds strangled.

  “You okay, honey?” she asks.

  “Yeah, just tired.” I run a hand through my hair and sit up, forcing myself to sound normal.

  “I’d love to come visit you some time.” Her voice is quiet, like it’s not really true, but she wants it to be. Mom is not a traveler—she’s a cat lady who likes to watch her shows when they are live, none of that DVR or streaming for her.

  “You would?” A smile pulls at my lips.

  “I want to see how you live.” Her voice is stronger. “I try to picture you, and it’s like you’re in this void all by yourself. Just a black space. I can’t see anything around you.”

  My chest clenches. “It’s not like that. It’s beautiful here. Tropical. Bright. Lush.”

  “Well, I need to see it for myself. Maybe I could come visit you instead of you coming here?” Her tone pitches up in question.

  “Sure…” Should I tell her the truth about my life and move her to the island? That would keep her safe.

  A crash on her side of the line makes my heart jump. She lets out a yelp. “Mom! Are you okay?”

  She laughs, light and airy. “Oh, I’m fine. Rascal just got into the pantry with me and knocked down a bunch of cans.” She tsks at him and laughs again.

  “I’ll let you go Mom, but we’ll plan a trip soon.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes.” And I will.

  “I love you, Dan. Be good.”

  “I love you too, Mom.” I don’t promise to be good. I can’t. Not right now. There is too much at stake.

  Grabbing Mitchel’s phone and my laptop, I shove them in a bag and head to the elevator. The guard outside Mitchel and George’s makeshift prison nods to me as I walk up. She opens the door, and I step into the bright space.

  The two men are sitting on the couch, and both stand when I enter. George’s hands are still bandaged but in less gauze than before, so he no longer looks like a sad bear.

  His sister’s rescue lifted his spirits, and from the tentative smile he offers, I assume he does not resent his imprisonment.

  Mitchel, on the other hand, glares at me. As if I’m being unreasonable. “George, give us a minute,” I say.

  The younger man nods and heads into the bedroom.

  I pull out my laptop and put it on the coffee table then place Mitchel’s phone next to it. Fifteen minutes until all our people’s information is released.

  “Put in your code,” I say. We are standing across from each other, the low table between us.

  Mitchel glares at me. “I can’t risk my mother.”

  “I found your bug, and I’ll destroy everything before I let you expose us. Either way, you don’t win. Either way, your mother dies.”

  His face pales but he shakes his head.

  “You’ll risk all of us for one person?” My voice is a low growl.

  He gives one strong nod. “Yes.”

  I shake my head. “You are a coward.”

  Mitchel’s face goes red. “You’re the coward,” he says, his voice venomous. “With no real connections to anybody. You sit up in your office above it all. You don’t know what it is to love.”

  Anger rushes through me, and I’ve grabbed his shirt and hauled him close, banging his shin into the coffee table before even thinking about it. Mitchel’s bright blue eyes go wide for a second but narrow quickly. He doesn’t try to defend himself. “I know what love is,” I say.

  “You’re afraid of it because you got hurt. But I’m not. I won’t kill my mother to save you.”

  “It’s not just me!” I shake him, and he pulls at my fist holding his shirt. When I release him, he stumbles back, falling on the couch. “Reset the damn clock.”

  He just shakes his head.

  “Fuck you.” Sweeping the laptop and phone back into my bag I storm out. I have no choice. I will destroy all our servers, all our information. Joyful Justice will just be the people. The network must be destroyed to save them.

  Half way down the hall, my legs pumping, my face hot, eyes burning, I stop.

  The world around me disappears, and I’m sucked into space. A solution clicks into place before my eyes. Fake it. I have to fake it.

  When I burst back into the room, Mitchel is standing by the window, staring out at the ocean, but he turns quickly as I cross to him.

  “We will find your mother. And we will save her. You know we can do it. We did it for George.” Mitchel opens his mouth to speak, but I keep going. “But until then, we fake our demise. Like a predator fakes an injury to lure its prey closer. We can do this, Mitchel. You and me, we can do this together. Reset the clock.”

  Confidence oozes through my blood. This is a brilli
ant idea.

  Mitchel’s brows are raised, and I can see him thinking. I know him so well. “We release fake information?”

  “Yes, and we shut down all our websites. We go dark. As if you won, and I panicked.” A slow, predatory smile is pulling at me—it is reflected on Mitchel’s face. I put the laptop on the coffee table again, next to his phone. “Reset the clock. Give us a little time.”

  Mitchel hesitates for only a moment then joins me, picking up his phone and entering code.

  Joyful Justice is not just people or a network. We are an idea. An ideal. And nothing can stop us.

  Chapter Twenty

  Sydney

  I sip my beer and eye the beefcakes guarding the closed doors to the pool room. They are almost the same height and width, though one has a curl to his hair—it laps at the collar of his T-shirt—whereas the other has a buzz cut. There is a scar on the back of his head in the shape of a C. The short hair shows it off. Does he like people to know that he can get knocked on the head and keep going? Why else keep his hair so short?

  My attention is pulled back to the conversation at the table when Petra says my name. "Sydney has proof.”

  Michael shakes his head. "You’ve got this all wrong. Petra, you know us. We don't deal in slaves."

  I sit forward, and Blue shifts under the table, tapping his nose against my knee. "You brought Elsa to Petra. Told her Joyful Justice was threatening you—"

  Michael cuts me off. "Are you a member of Joyful Justice?" His lip sneers in disgust. "That stupid packet you sent us. What a joke."

  Murphy laughs and sits forward, his big forearms coming to rest on the table. "We didn't do those things you accused us of."

  "Yes, you did."

  "Sorry, sweetheart but you've got the wrong guys. We don't deal in slaves. All our girls are there by choice. Some of them even love it."

  Bile rises in my throat at the tone in his voice. "They love it?" I raise my brows. "Are you sure?" He just nods, a twinkle in his gaze. My fists tighten in my lap. "You are a dumbass."

  He laughs and takes a sip of his drink. "We might be dumbasses, lass, but we do not deal in war slaves."