The Girl With The Gun (Sydney Rye Book 8)

by Emily Kimelman

  Dan shook his head. "No, it's a great idea." He turned to his computer for a moment. “I’ll put a tracking beacon in Blue’s collar.” Blue raised his head at the sound of his name. “I’ve been working on something new that will allow me not only to track you, but also pick up on any communication devices near you and patch into them. So even if they take your cell, which I'm sure they will, we’ll still be able to communicate.”

  “Wait, what? How is that possible?”

  Dan looked over his shoulder at me and grinned. He was making fun of me and I smiled back, because I liked it when he teased. "Do you really want me to try and explain it to you?"

  I shook my head. “I don’t need to know the details of your genius, Dan. Just how I can use the damn thing."

  He laughed. "Basically," he turned back around, crossing his foot over his thigh, "the beacon will allow me to patch into any cell phone or other form of communication device near you. So you're holding a walkie-talkie, I can cut in. You're with someone who has a cell phone, I can call you on it. Or just patch into the line."

  "That's pretty cool."

  “Actually,” he grinned. “It's revolutionary.”

  "A revolutionary idea for a revolutionary. That works."

  Merl’s eyebrows conferred above his nose. "Sydney, I want to ask you something and I want you to be really honest with me." Lightning sizzled at the edge of my vision. I knew what he was going to ask and I knew that I would lie. "Are you seeing things?”

  The lightning leapt across my vision and danced on the ceiling. I smiled. "Don't worry, I'm all good."

  Chapter Two

  A week later, as I followed Declan Doyle's broad back down a florescent-lit hallway in the bowels of the Tokyo airport, I almost hoped we'd have to fight. He was a worthy opponent, but one I knew I could take. Taking Declan Doyle actually sounded like a lot of fun.

  Declan wore the same ensemble he'd donned on our first date about five years earlier; a white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up, top button left open, dark jeans that hugged him in all the right places, and a gold watch on his wrist—inherited from his grandfather.

  He'd intercepted me in baggage claim—leaning against a wall, all casual. That chestnut-brown hair of his kicking off gold highlights in the sun streaming through the plate glass.

  "I thought we'd agree you'd come alone."

  I smiled. "You didn't really expect that, did you?"

  "You can't take Blue with you where you're going."

  "Oh," I frowned a little, holding Declan's gaze. "I'm pretty sure I can do whatever I want."

  He smiled, but a light blush crept up his open collar. "I'm calling the shots here Sydney."

  The baggage claim area was huge, about ten carrousels spilling luggage out. People were filtering in, others waited, some struggled with their bags. Children, adults, geriatrics, so many people totally unaware of the conversation happening in this little corner of the room.

  "We both know I'm not here to turn myself in."

  "You're not?"

  A grin pulled at my lips. "You're not going to waste an asset like me, Declan." I held his gaze. His eyes were the same, deep brown they'd always been, his skin showed a few more lines, but the man was still devilishly handsome. Devilish being the primary term there.

  "You need me."

  "Need you?" His eyebrows rose again.

  I shrugged. "Is 'want' a better term? I'm sure that Homeland Security has everything under control. Perhaps you just ‘want’ someone like me to help with your dirty work."

  His smile faltered.

  I stepped closer to Declan, leaving only a few inches between us. Blue stayed at my hip. "I know what I'm worth, Declan. And I'm ready to play."

  The room Declan led me to was white, either freshly painted or rarely used. A white, plastic table with four chairs sat at its center. I glanced around, looking for the two-way mirror, but didn't see it.

  In the upper corners, I spotted small cameras. "Have a seat." Declan pulled out a chair for me.

  I dropped my small duffel at my feet and sat. Blue took up position on my left side, his chin hovering just above the table. I placed a hand on his back, rubbing between his shoulder blades. Declan sat across from me. "The camera's on?" I asked glancing up at the recording devices.

  Declan shook his head.

  "I was never here."

  "Basically."

  "So what do you want?"

  "Always straight to the point."

  I leaned back, stretching my hands over my head, reveling in the pull on my sides.

  Blue yawned, his giant jaw unhinging, exposing large, sharp teeth.

  "Long flight," I said with a smile as I lowered my hands.

  "Tell me about Joyful Justice operating systems." Declan leaned back, leaving one hand—the one with the gold watch— resting on the table.

  "What does that mean?"

  "Who’s in charge?" He flipped the hand over and back.

  "No one."

  "Okay." He shrugged one shoulder. "Who are the players?"

  "You don't know?"

  "Answer the question."

  "I'm not telling you shit about Joyful Justice." I leaned forward, quickly. Declan didn't flinch and I smiled.

  Blue let out a low, almost inaudible growl. A warning that my movement was merely a prelude to our joint attack.

  "I'm here because you need something from me, and it's not information. No one comes to me for facts or details. I'm not the strategist, and you know that. You know me, Declan." I sat back in the chair. "So tell me what you want me to do. And I'll let you know if it's possible. Then we can each go our separate ways." Declan didn't move. "Or maybe you want more time with me for personal reasons? You did always like me."

  Declan shook his head, his eyes burning. Anger? "You'll answer my questions or I'll expose you."

  "Bullshit. Where's your boss?"

  "My boss?" He smiled.

  "You have one, don't you? This is, after all, a J.O.B for you, Declan. You're not the head honcho."

  "Head honcho?"

  "Stop stalling."

  Declan placed his large forearms on the table—dark hair over tan skin, that gold watch glinting at me, reminding me of his power—but I wasn't impressed.

  Not anymore.

  It took a lot more than strong arms and fine things to get me to react.

  "I want information about Joyful Justice. And you're going to give it to me. Then we will discuss what you're going to do for me."

  I bent forward, letting my forearms touch his—an electric charge heated me and a flicker of lightning danced in the corner of the room, flashing so fast I hardly saw it.

  "Either lock me up," I smiled, feeling thunder rumbling in my veins, the aftershock of that twist of opposing ions, "or tell me what you want. I'm not giving you any information. If you thought I was going to, then you severely misunderstood the situation. The whole reason I'm here is to keep information hidden, not let more leak out. Duh."

  He barked out a laugh. "This isn't a game. You're in the custody of Homeland Security and you're going to give us what we need."

  "I'm not giving you shit, Declan. I'm not even here. So how long does this pissing match need to go on before you get to the point?"

  Declan looked over at Blue. "We have ways of making you talk."

  "Are you threatening my dog?" I asked, my voice low and dangerous. "I hope you're not threatening Blue. That never ends well."

  Before Declan could answer, the door opened. A woman in her late forties with blonde hair cut into a neat bob, wearing a navy skirt suit tailored to her trim figure, entered.

  She crossed the small space and offered me her hand. "Mary Leventhal." I stood and we shook: strong grips but not man-crushing, proving-shit hard. "Let us have the room, Doyle."

  I smiled. So, here was his boss—a woman.

  Declan rose, his chair legs scraping against the floor. I watched him go, looking for that blush I loved so much, but it didn't appear. He didn
't mind her taking control. Classic Declan: He liked a strong woman—until he didn't.

  Mary sat down across from me. "Please." She indicated the seat I'd vacated. Blue sniffed the air, getting a taste of her. "Incredible dog. I'd heard of him but I don't think the pictures do him justice."

  "Sure."

  She smiled at me—politician, friend, ally—it said all in one splitting of lips. "You're right. We do need something from you, and it's not information. Though we'd like that too."

  I didn't answer.

  "Sydney Rye, aka Joy Humbolt. Seems your alias is in almost as much trouble as your birth name."

  "I didn't know there were any warrants out for me."

  "The intelligence community is aware of your role in Joyful Justice."

  "You're Declan's boss."

  "Superior."

  "Oh, I like that even better. So what's your official title?"

  "Do you need to know that?"

  I shrugged. "I guess not, why? Don't you have one? Or is this whole thing off books, including you?"

  It was her turn to shrug. "I'm here for one reason and one reason only. I'm here to recruit you. I think we can work together."

  "You and me or our organizations."

  "Both. I hope that we will have a long and fruitful relationship."

  "You're going to scratch my back?"

  "I have information about possible targets that I think your organization would love to get a hold of. I'm willing to offer my help in exchange for yours."

  "I'm listening."

  "There are a lot of rules when you're the most powerful nation on the planet."

  "And here I thought if you were the biggest bully on the playground, you got to do whatever you wanted."

  Mary frowned. "You think we’re in a playground? I might have overestimated you. Perhaps Declan is blind to your true personality due to your personal connection. But he told me you were smart and ruthless."

  "I wouldn't deny either of those attributes."

  "Then obviously you recognize the incredible complications involved in international relations."

  "I'm not good at relationships. I'm better at blowing shit up. Both literally and figuratively."

  "Then let me be straight with you. What we are looking for is to have you blow some shit up that we can't."

  I smiled. "I like it when you talk like that, Mary." She couldn't quite keep the smile off her lips but it only flashed for a moment. "Why don't you tell me what you want exploded and I'll let you know if I can do it."

  Mary nodded. "Daesh."

  "Daesh. As in the Islamic State? As in the guys who control a goodly portion of Iraq and Syria?"

  "Yes, I want you to help kill their leadership.” I didn’t respond. "They've taken thousands of women captive.”

  I recognized the cold anger in her expression. It matched mine. The story of the women Daesh brutalized and controlled hurt in our bones—in our very marrow. They were the perfect example of our sex’s vulnerability—what men always had over us.

  "And killing their leaders is going to help? Won't more just pop up in their place?"

  "You don't want to do it?"

  "Look," I put my forearms back on the table. "One of the things we do at Joyful Justice is let the injured, the wronged, bring us cases. We don't just go in and start fucking with random situations. See, cause that's how you get a Daesh."

  "Excuse me?"

  "If the USA in all its school-bully wisdom had never gone into Iraq, Daesh wouldn't even exist. Fighting for freedom, for rights, for anything, has to be done—at least in part—by the people who are going to benefit."

  Mary nodded. "Exactly. That’s why I want you to work with the FKP. Kurdish female freedom fighters. There is nothing Daesh fighters hate more than getting killed by a woman. They think it keeps them out of heaven."

  "Work with them how?"

  "You're an inspiration."

  I laughed. "Don't go blowing smoke up my ass. I'm no such thing."

  "Joy Humbolt is."

  "She's dead."

  "Martyrs make the best inspiration. Didn't you know that when you killed her?"

  "No. I was hoping I'd leave her behind."

  Mary looked me over, slowly. "You're unrecognizable. And it's not just the scars." I felt the ruined flesh tingle when she mentioned it. They'd faded over the last five years but were still obvious; a dark line under my left eye tightened the skin across my cheekbone. Another scar over that same eye sliced through my eyebrow, across my temple, and disappeared into my hairline. I wore bangs to cover it but the scars were a reminder every time I looked in the mirror of what bad men will do if you don't stop them. "You were a girl, and now you're a killer."

  I raised my eyebrows. "You can just look at a person and tell?"

  "Can't you?"

  I assessed Mary for a moment: hard, blue eyes, controlled movements, even breathing. She'd killed before and could do it again, and with the right weapon it probably wouldn't even wind her. I nodded in answer to her question.

  "I'm offering you the opportunity to do what you love. Go after the worst kind of scum, the darkest, most foul dredges of humanity."

  "Guys you can't go after."

  "It's not that I can't. We can kill them—we have. Drones are a powerful weapon. But like you said, more just pop up in their place. We are losing the more important battle."

  "Hearts and minds."

  "Exactly. Young, Muslim men are pouring out of the Western World and going to fight for Daesh. Do you know why? It's the same reason people are joining Joyful Justice. They want to believe they are involved in something worth fighting for. They want their lives to mean something—to matter."

  "Even if I am some kind of 'inspiration,'" I used air quotes (which I hardly ever do but if you're referring to yourself as an inspiration and you don't use hand quotes then your ego probably needs a punch in the balls), "I'm already dead, so how can I inspire all over again?"

  "You can help, trust me." She leaned forward, her suit moving flawlessly with her. "And, I don't mean to sound like I'm pressuring you here. But it's not like you have a choice." She smiled.

  I smiled slowly back at her. "Oh, Mary, don't you know, you always have a choice?"

  “Do those women Daesh is holding?"

  "Everyone has a choice. They choose to live. I respect it."

  "They could chose to die?"

  "That's often an option."

  "What are your other options right now?"

  "I could leave."

  She shook her head. "No, you can't. It's this or we're going to lock you up."

  "And you say you're not a bully."

  "Bullies don't lock you up. They take your lunch money. I'm talking about solitary confinement." She looked over at Blue. "As in all alone."

  I shook my head. "I feel like I just had this conversation. The one where I made it clear threatening my dog was a real, real bad idea."

  "I'm not threatening your dog. I'm threatening you. With incarceration." Her gaze held mine.

  I smiled and let out a small laugh. "You know something, Mary?"

  "Hmmm?"

  "I like you."

  "Glad to hear it. Now, let's get to work on your assignment."

  "Assignment. Does that make me a spy?"

  "Like you said, Sydney: You're an asset. A very important asset."

  Chapter Three

  It was night when we landed in Kurdish-controlled Iraq. The lack of light pollution let the cosmos come out and play. The Milky Way curved above us, all those stars forming a band of light across the black sky. The hugeness of the Universe was much more obvious here than in the light-polluted clouds over Tokyo.

  The war waging in the mountains that surrounded us could almost be thought of as insignificant if you let your mind open to the vastness of space. Nothing smaller than a planet could seem big in that wide an angle.

  But as our plane landed, the wheels making contact with the smooth pavement of the runway built by American
money thousands of miles away from our own soil, this conflict could seem like the center of it all. Certainly, it was for this region.

  And all of it was so stupid—so important and so fucking stupid. Fighting over how other people should live. Common sense didn't exist here. The golden rule was twisted into nightmare proportions.

  Waging war because of the words in a dead religious tome—one that was interpreted by each sect differently—so much death and misery because of one fucking book.

  As we taxied under that big, beautiful sky I tasted the rotten flavor of hypocrisy in my mouth. It was zealotry that fueled this wasteful massacre of humanity. It was zealotry that got my butt in this seat.

  I was as uncompromising in my pursuit of justice as the men hiding in the hills were about their warped interpretation of Islam. They took their ideas from a book; it made them confident they had the right to treat women as objects to be covered, or violated, to leave their seed inside them, to force them to do whatever they wanted. I didn't have a book, but I had faith in my right to kill every last one of them.

  Mary unclipped her seatbelt and stood. "Ready."

  I grabbed my bag, and with Blue by my side, deplaned onto that flawless tarmac glowing black under the light of the Universe.

  The air smelled of burning plastic and crisp mountains. Blue touched his nose to my hip, reminding me he was there. I laid a hand on his head as a Humvee approached our small plane. Declan came and stood next to me. "You ready for this?"

  I craned my neck slightly to look up at him. He was watching the Humvee. "I was born ready."

  He glanced at me and smiled. Two figures climbed out of the vehicle. They were women wearing sand-colored uniforms that hid their curves.

  Mary greeted them in Kurdish. She turned to me. "Sydney Rye, this is Sergeant Sazan Rashid and Private Mujada Taib. They are going to be working with you. Sergeant Rashid is your translator and Private Taib is your bodyguard."

  My translator took my hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Rye." Her accent was elegant, lyrical, like her native tongue.

  "Thank you; I look forward to working with you."

  Private Taib stepped forward. She was bigger than Sazan by about four inches, her shoulders broad, and her jaw square. "Good to meet you."