“It sounds almost like you respect them,” Consuela says.
“They are a worthy adversary.” She gives a harrumph I can’t quite interpret. Either she agrees or thinks I’m being a romantic. “Anything new on your theory?” I ask, my gaze wandering to my iPad. The minivan is still where they parked it last night in the hotel parking lot. Sydney Rye came home alone…where did Petra and Lenox go? Silence stretches. Consuela is not supposed to talk to me about it. But she wants to.
“I’ve confirmed a connection.”
“Wow. I’m impressed.” Does she know about Petra? “How?”
“Can’t say.”
“Of course not.”
“How are you enjoying your vacation?” She changes the topic.
“I’m in Ireland; it’s cold and wet. But the landscape is beautiful.”
“Discovering your roots?” she says, a smile in her voice.
“Something like that,” I answer, my eyes drawn to the iPad as the van begins to move.
“I’ve got to run,” I say. “My tour bus is leaving.”
“Enjoy the sights.”
“Good luck with your case.”
We hang up, and I take another sip of coffee before turning to my breakfast, one eye on the van as it starts through morning traffic.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lenox
Dark circles shadow Sydney's eyes, but she gives me a warm smile as she climbs into the van. "How did it go?" she asks.
I shrug. No decisions were made. We left them tied up. Petra wanted to kill them, but without knowing for sure what Murphy knew, how involved Michael was...I just can't murder them. Not like that.
Sydney reaches out a hand and squeezes my forearm, giving me a soft smile. I bow my head in gratitude for her silence. She does not push me.
Petra climbs into the back seat, and I catch her eye in the rearview mirror: sparkling green emeralds in a porcelain mask. She is a classic beauty, delicate features and sharp lines. Her hair is spun up into an elegant twist, and she is wearing a dark, cashmere coat that gives her an air of wealth and sophistication.
Petra didn't want to come to the shelter today, but I made it clear we needed to be on the same page. If we are going to take over the McCains’ business operations, we are going to do it knowing what the wrong path reaps.
Traffic is light as we move through the village. The shelter is attached to a Catholic church, a grand and imposing structure. The bell tower rises, disappearing into the mist. Made of huge blocks of granite with delicate stained glass windows, the church is impressive.
Blue hops out and stretches, opening his mouth in a wide yawn then tilting himself forward, stretching his back legs as well. A giant creature of almost unnatural beauty, he matches his mistress perfectly. He moves to Sydney’s side, and she rests a hand on his head as we walk toward the church.
In the back is a new structure, and it is here that the shelter resides. The priest who arrived last night to pick up the former prisoners was a short, pudgy man with gentle eyes. He answers the door now, looking more tired than he did at dawn.
"Thank you for taking the time to show us around," Sydney says. He nods, pulling at his cardigan sweater in a small sign of nerves.
"We are very appreciative of the donation."
"It's our pleasure to help an organization such as yours." Sydney reaches out and touches the man's arm. He meets her gaze. "Your work here is very close to my heart."
Her words make my own heart beat faster. This is why I joined Joyful Justice—to help exploited women get to places like this. To make sure they can be safe. To make sure they don't end up as sightless corpses on the beach because of some sick fuck.
I realize my fists are clenched and take in a deep breath to relax them. Sydney and the priest are moving down the hall. Petra touches my arm. "You are tense," she says.
"Tired,” I answer.
"We can help many places like this," she says, her gaze scanning the hallway. There are closed doors on either side. We come out into a common area where young women watch TV, read in overstuffed chairs, and play cards.
It's as if a record skips when we enter. I feel suddenly huge and powerful and dangerous among these battered women. Frightened eyes take in my broad shoulders, my dark skin...my very maleness.
I shouldn't be here.
Sydney looks back at me, and I see the same conclusion in her eyes.
"I'll wait in the car," I say.
Petra moves with me, and Sydney gives a nod, turning her attention back to the priest, who is explaining the rehabilitation methods of the center.
Outside, in the fresh air, I take a deep breath and close my eyes. "You are a good man, Lenox Gold," Petra says, standing close to me. I glance at her—she is staring out into the almost empty parking lot. "You will do the right thing."
"But what is the right thing here?" I ask. "If we kill Michael and Murphy—"
"We will have done the world a favor." Petra cuts me off, her eyes landing on mine. "And you know it. Will you not take a little darkness into your own soul for the greater good?" Her question strikes me with the force of a blow, and I am stunned into further silence. "Sydney is not afraid of it. She is brave. Truly brave. That woman will do what it takes to make the world a better place."
"Killing isn’t always the answer."
She holds my gaze. "Sometimes it is. If we let them live, they will keep doing what they have always done. But if we end their lives, then end Ian’s, we can take over their business and change it the way Joyful Justice wants it changed."
I don't answer, still not sure what to do. Is Petra right, or is the fear in my gut?
A child's laughter from inside draws my attention. There are children here? The voice comes again, and I see a figure in the window. It's the younger Ukrainian girl, Viktoria. The McCain brothers promised her secretarial work…a visa, a life. She did not expect to be forced into prostitution.
"What if we could do more?" I say aloud, my thoughts floating out on my voice.
"We can do anything," Petra says, her tone sure.
"Girls like that," I say, gesturing with my chin toward Viktoria in the window.
Petra follows my gaze. "What about them?"
"Girls who just want a better life but don't want to work in the sex industry. Who want to be secretaries and waitresses. Anything in the West. What about them? What if we could help them too?”
"They must help themselves," Petra says, her voice edged with bitterness. I return my gaze to her. She is watching the girl in the window. "I was like that. I did not want to sell my body, but I did. And I freed myself. No one can free you, Lenox. No one but you."
"We freed those girls last night."
She shakes her head. "No, Lenox. We moved them from one situation to another. Now the real work begins. They must free themselves." Petra meets my gaze. "I will fight with you to open doors for girls like that. I will fight with you to make sure every woman who passes through our hands will step through the door with wide-open eyes. But I cannot promise you anyone else’s freedom."
Her honesty strikes a chord in me, and I lean toward her—toward those hard lips, those hard eyes, that hard shell around such a human woman. My arm wraps around her waist, and I pull her tight to me, pressing my lips to hers. She melts into me with a soft moan.
So many contradictions: so strong and so supple, so wise and so dangerous.
"Is that a yes?” she says, breathless against me. "You'll work with me?”
Our foreheads press together, me bending down to her, Petra stretching on her toes to reach me.
"Yes," I answer.
"And we will kill Michael and Murphy?” she asks.
I kiss her again, and she bends to me as I bend to her. A partnership is born.
Declan
Sydney is in the garden with the priest. A low stone wall covers them to their waists. Just Blue’s head pokes above it.
Sydney looks all concerned and noble.
Damn.
A woman's shelter. When I lost her last night at the dock, she must have taken that van full of women here...to this shelter...to be helped.
I lean against the building behind me and turn up my collar. Still doesn't make it okay she shot me. That she is a vigilante. Even if sometimes she does some good.
God, those girls are young...and now free because of Sydney Rye.
Sydney shakes hands with the priest, and after waving goodbye to a few young women enjoying the morning air, heads out the side gate onto the sidewalk.
I follow her, shadowing her on the other side of the street, light traffic between us. My hat is pulled down low, and the collar of my shirt hides my jaw line. Sydney is pale, tired looking. She was out late last night. The bitter taste of defeat is sour in my mouth.
She's a zealot, and I need to take her down.
She's saved all those women.
Fuck.
My hand wanders to my side, the old wound aching in this wet weather. I bet she has a lot of wounds that ache too.
A man crosses the street behind me toward Sydney, tall and lanky, wearing a hat low on his brow. There is something familiar about him. A streak of sun fights through the clouds and catches on a tuft of hair coming from under his hat. It's copper red.
Oh shit.
I'm running at him before I even have a chance to think. He reaches the other sidewalk, his attention riveted on Sydney. Blue turns back and, seeing him, let's out a bark of warning. Sydney spins on her heel, gray eyes flashing in the ray of light.
The redhead's arm comes up, and I smash into him from behind. We fall forward, landing hard onto the pavement, so that his wrist knocks against the curb, and a pistol spins out of his grip and across the sidewalk.
He struggles under me, all long arms and wiry strength. I grab at his wrist and yank it behind his back, getting my knee between his shoulder blades. My hat's come off, and a chill breeze cools my heated face as I find his other hand and pin it as well.
"Declan?" Sydney's voice is right above me.
I glance up, squinting against the white sky. Shit.
"Sydney, always a pleasure." I give her a charming smile.
She breaks into a laugh. "What the hell is going on?”
"I just saved your life."
She raises her eyebrows. "Thanks," she says, almost unsure. Sydney doesn't look well. Pale. Sickly, almost.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Better than that guy." She gestures toward the man on the ground. He is breathing hard but has stilled. "Who is he?"
"I'm an avenger!" the man yells.
"Sounds almost like you," I joke. Sydney gives me a wry smile.
"You will pay," the guy sputters. I take a closer look at his face. It's definitely Nathan Jenkins, Billy Ray Titus’s right-hand man, last seen in Miami. Shit. I need to tell Consuela about this...maybe I can get on her task force. "Men won't take this anymore. We are rising up!"
Sydney rolls her eyes. "Seriously," she sighs. "If it's not one line of bullshit, it's another."
"I'll take care of him," I say, getting to my feet and bringing him with me.
"Here," Sydney reaches into her bag and pulls out a zip tie.
It's my turn to raise my brows at her. "Why do you have that?" I ask, even as I take it and loop it around Nathan’s wrists. One is swollen from where it hit the curb, and he lets out a yelp of pain when I tighten the plastic.
"Want me to grab his gun for you?" Sydney asks.
"Don't touch it," I warn.
She takes a step back. "Nice seeing you and all, but I've got to go."
I narrow my eyes at her but just nod. Of course she isn't going to make a report. I'm actually saving Nathan Jenkins’ life right now...so he is going to owe me.
Sydney gives me a tired smile. "Nice to see you looking so well. I owe you one,” she says before turning and hurrying along the side of the church and disappearing around the corner. Maybe it is better for Sydney to owe me than for me to imprison her.
"You can't hold me," Jenkins says. "For I am not one man but many. The revolution has come!"
Oh Jesus. Another fucking revolutionary. Like there is anything that wrong with the status quo.
I pull him back and, unwrapping my scarf to cover my hand, pick up his gun, shoving it into my jacket pocket. Then I pull out my phone, and as I push Nathan Jenkins across the street toward my rental car, I call Consuela.
She picks up quickly. "Declan?"
"We need to talk," I say, a smile pulling at my lips.
Lenox
Broad daylight makes the safe house where we left the McCain brothers look rumpled, like a throw carelessly tossed over an old couch. The stone facade, wet from the almost-constant misting rain, gives off a chalky scent of mortar and age. Gray clouds swirl in the sky, the tall stands of wheat that surround the house wave lazily back and forth in the wind.
Petra climbs the steps first and unlocks the door, stepping into the dim space and holding the door for me to pass through.
My pupils contract, trying to pull the space into focus. Something is wrong. There should be a sense of life in here—the sound of breath.
We left the brothers tied up, gagged, and drugged. They should not be awake yet. Does a second dose not last as long?
My hand finds Petra’s thin arm as she goes to close the door, stopping her progress. Those green eyes find mine, a question in them. My gaze communicates the concern, and her lips dip into a frown.
Leaving the door ajar, the pale light of a rainy day seeping into the hall, she pulls a gun from her purse. Small, feminine, with a mother of pearl handle, it sends my mind reeling back to the box that held the key to free Elsa.
Petra’s betrayal, her dip into the dark side of our profession, rises unbidden, clenching my stomach and sending tendrils of doubt through my mind.
A soft sound, one neither Petra nor I made, yanks my attention back to the hallway, to the house, to the moment I’m standing in. I am in danger. But are my only enemies the men we left here…or is Petra still working with them?
Another creak sends my heart thumping and I tense, slowly reaching for my weapon. The blood rushing in my ears deafens me, and I sip in a long breath, endeavoring to calm down. Now is not the time for panic.
Petra moves past me, toward the living room, as I pull my gun from the holster under my jacket. Flicking off the safety, I raise it and follow Petra into the darkness.
Her movements are smooth and practiced, her black cashmere coat velvety in the dull light. She steps to the threshold of the living room and pauses, head swiveling toward where Michael should be tied to a chair. She gives a shake of her head. He’s gone.
Petra scans the room—only dull shapes and blind spots to me. We are targets here, with the light on our backs. A sound in the wall, the scampering of clawed feet, sends shivers over my skin, drawing sweat down my back. It’s just a rodent.
The brothers would probably run. Weaponless, wounded, the McCain brothers are better off coming for us later rather than lying in wait. This is their city.
Petra reaches out and turns on the overhead light, moving into the room. I follow, taking in the empty chair, the ropes hanging loose. Michael must have woken up and worked off the rope.
She moves slowly through the living room, bare except the few wooden chairs, toward the hall that leads to the bedroom we left Murphy tied up in. Pausing at the top of the hall, Petra takes a steadying breath, her arms still up, gun focused into the darkness. She inches forward and reaches out to hit the hall light.
It baths the narrow space in yellow, exposing nothing and no one. My shoulders relax. It makes no sense for them to lie in wait.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickle with sudden awareness, and I turn quickly, dropping low, my knee hitting the hard floor as my eyes focus on the living room behind me. Murphy is backlit by the open doorway, barefoot, holding one of our tranquilizer guns—the long barrel aimed for where my back was moments ago. He must have followed us in the
front door.
I fire my weapon before he has a chance to react, the sound ricocheting through the old house—so loud, so wrong, in this dull, still setting.
The bullet hits Murphy in the center of his broad chest, widening his pale blue eyes as he stumbles back from the impact. He hits a chair, knocking it over, then falls with it, both crashing to the floor, the wooden chair splintering under his weight.
Labored breaths echo from Murphy as blood pools around him. I stay low, my ears desperate to hear past the pounding of my heart, the dying breaths of the man I just shot, and the blood rushing in my ears. His brother is next.
My eyes rake over the entrance hall where daylight still pools. I drag my eyes over the room one more time before turning slowly to check on Petra. She stands behind me, her weapon trained down the hall. Watching my back.
Neither of us speaks, both knowing Michael is here. We have one more foe to face…unless they called for reinforcements. The thought sinks leaden weight in my stomach, pinning me to the floor. But there is no cell service or land line.
Petra advances forward, the strands of hair that have escaped her twist floating around her. Careless, beautiful girl. No such thing.
I blink, centering my thoughts back onto the moment. Rising slowly, I send out my awareness, trying to sense into the rooms that line the hall. There are three. The door of the bedroom where we left Murphy bound is ajar.
As I step forward to follow Petra, the labored breathing behind me stops. I turn back. Murphy’s eyes are still open, but he’s gone very still. I swallow, staring into those unseeing orbs, a wave of nausea and guilt washing over me, a gentle lapping of the sea, not the rough surf of an angry ocean.
He deserved this fate. The world is better off without him.
Petra makes a noise, small, subtle…surprised. I whirl around. She stumbles, her black coat absorbing the light, making her skin look terribly pale as she hits the wall, her gun still up.
Betray the Lie Page 21