I'm driving north, up the coast of Spain toward the French border with no destination in mind and no plan. Am I nuts? No. I need a break, with no strange men following me.
"How are things there?" Anita asks.
Do I mention Camera Man?
"Sydney?" Anita prods me.
"I had an… incident in Barcelona."
"What kind?"
"Well, I was followed by a man who looked… professional. I might have been being paranoid, but I don’t think so."
"That doesn't sound good." She sighs. "I'd be more comfortable if you'd go to a secure location. Really, it would be so much easier if we didn't need to worry about you."
I grit my teeth, annoyance raising my hackles. “You don't need to worry about me," I snap with more vehemence than I mean. Blue whines softly and shifts to rest his head on my thigh. The warm weight of him grounds me.
"Oh, really?" Anita's attitude rises to meet mine. "That's so nice of you to offer. I thought we were friends. I thought we cared about each other, but if you don't want—"
"Anita," I cut her off. "I'm sorry. You're right. That was dumb of me to say." She doesn't answer. I'm not known for my reasonableness or apologies, so she's probably stunned into silence. "I promise, if anything else happens, I will go to a secure location."
"Okay." Her voice is unsure, as if I've surprised her. Look at me, growing and shit.
I sip an espresso, savoring the bitter sweetness. The plaza of this medieval village two hours north of Barcelona is mostly empty, just sunshine reflecting off sand-colored, foot-smoothed stone and pigeons. I stopped to pee but stayed for coffee and to enjoy the emptiness. It probably gets packed on the weekends, but in the middle of the week, it's just me, Blue, and a few locals on the sun-filled square.
Blue watches the birds with his ears swiveled forward and front paws crossed in front of him—a combination of alert attentiveness and restful anticipation, like an audience enjoying an entertaining show. The waiter returns, and I wave him away, just wanting the coffee today. My stomach can't quite stand the scent of food at this moment, though I may be ravenous in thirty minutes… and I'll probably have to pee again.
I leave a few coins on the table next to the empty cup. It’s not customary to tip but leaving nothing makes my skin itch. Too many years spent in the service industry, my wages decided by the mood of my guests, or my own, have made me a fastidious tipper.
Blue and I wander out of the square and down one of the twisting stone streets. It's colder here amongst the residential buildings than in the open square. The sun slants, hitting drying laundry fluttering above the sidewalk. I crouch further into my thin down jacket.
We pass shops closed for siesta, their gates pulled down and windows darkened. It’s nice to be in a place so relaxed; there is no hustle and bustle here. They take three hours for a nice lunch, followed by a nap.
We come out into the parking area where I left the car, just beyond what was once probably the village wall. I turn back to look at the centuries-old village. Built on a hill in the bend of a river, it is constructed of pale gold stone—a few bars over on the color wheel from the rich red earth of the farm fields that spread out to the distant mountains.
The buildings seem to pile up on themselves, each layer building upon the next, all climbing toward the substantial cathedral at its top. Beautiful. Peaceful.
No one would look for me here.
“Would you like to live here?” I ask Blue. He taps his nose to my hip. "I guess anywhere you are is home.” His wet nose brushes my fingers.
Blue and I reach the car, and as I settle into the driver’s seat, I look at the church in front of me, one of the smaller ones, not as grand as the cathedral. “Why not live here? Why not stay in this small place and join this community? All I’m looking for is a break, a respite. Why not here?”
Blue doesn't respond. I climb out of the car, grab my duffle from the back seat, and we head back into the village.
"I'm looking for an apartment to rent," I say in English to the elderly woman sweeping the sidewalk. I know a little Spanish from my time in Costa Rica, but that wouldn’t be much help here. The independent-minded people in the region around Barcelona speak Catalan and have no love for the dominant Spanish.
She squints at me through her glasses. I point to the sign in three languages above her door. Tourist apartments. Her gaze drops to Blue, then returns to me. "No pets," she says, her voice heavily accented.
Ms. Friendly returns to her sweeping. A fine mist of construction dust dirties her sidewalk from the renovation happening in the building next door.
"I will pay extra," I offer.
She looks up at me again, raising one brow. "You pay double."
Would paying double buy me her silence or start her mouth running? "Not double," I say. "But I'll give you an extra deposit."
She shakes her head. "Double or nothing."
I glance up the block. We are the only two people out. "I'll pay two weeks in advance. And an extra third."
She leans on her broom, the apron tied around her thick waist clean but worn. A strand of the white hair pinned at the nape of her neck curls free and floats around her face, lifted by a light breeze. Ms. Friendly nods once and turns to the door, beckoning me to follow.
It's dark in the building, and she doesn't turn on a light as she starts up the narrow stairwell. Two flights up, she leads me to a door and pulls a wad of keys from inside the folds of her skirts. For all the darkness of the hall, the apartment is the opposite. Facing the street but high enough that sunlight storms in through the tall windows, it looks out onto the rooftops of the village, the fields beyond, and opaque white-tipped mountains in the far distance. It has a living room, a nice-sized bedroom and a minimal kitchen—all that I need.
I count out the Euros Ms. Friendly requires, and she leaves.
The bed is as hard as a rock, but the room is airy and bright. I open the windows, and a sun-warmed breeze carries the scent of orange blossoms. Exhaustion overwhelms me—in the way it has since my pregnancy began—and I curl up on the bed. Blue leaps up next to me, lying so that our spines align, each of us watching the other’s back.
I wake to a darkened room and the reverberating chime of a church bell. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I look out over the rooftops. At the end of the sixth ring, I stand and make my way back to the kitchen sitting area with its tall windows and narrow balcony. As I rifle through my bag, looking for a bottle of water, banging starts up next door.
Construction. Heading out to my balcony, I discover equipment and tools piled up on the neighboring balcony. Ms. Friendly totally played me. I can't help the smile that twists my lips. Tough old bird.
Blue and I hit the street, quickly finding a butcher where I get him some bones and fresh meat. I drop it off at the apartment and then head back out to try and find some dinner. I'm not one to cook at the best of times, and the apartment’s kitchen is barely serviceable for a cup of tea.
But I’m filled with a sense of optimism. This is going to work out…
Chapter Eighteen
Lenox
The safe house is a renovated mansion on the Bosporus, the narrow body of water that separates Europe from Asia, with Istanbul straddling the two continents. The view is spectacular, the position fortified, the architecture Mediterranean. Hans called in more Joyful Justice members, and we now have ten guards on the property, including the three men Robert brought with him. We are at war with Yusuf now—all out. It will be a bloodbath. And I still don't know what Robert wants or why he faked his death.
"You can't tell Joyful Justice about this yet," Robert says, referencing his resurrection.
I shift on the couch, reaching forward for my glass of water, my wound sending shivers of pain over me and breaking sweat along my hairline. The numbing agent the doctor used is fading. The few hours of sleep I caught were not enough. "I will not betray Joyful Justice," I say.
Robert nods, agreeing with me. He's removed the
dark glasses—his eyes, a strange blue green, are even brighter when surrounded by the red skin. He may have faked getting shot, but that canal water really was toxic. That is what convinced me he really died. A calculated risk on his part to take that plunge. The skin is blistered in some places but looks as if it's healing. It shines in the low light, as if he's recently applied ointment.
"Of course I don't expect you to betray Joyful Justice," Robert says. I suspect we have different definitions of betrayal. "It is not a breach of faith to keep some of your own business private though. Just for a time."
"You are a man of faith?" Petra asks. She is at the bar, pouring scotch over a large cube of ice. Her black leather pants, a black turtleneck and sports coat make her pale skin and red lips that much more dramatic. The lump under her jacket shows how close she is keeping her gun now.
Robert shifts his attention to her. "In my way."
She moves to join us, taking a place at the far end of the couch and crossing her legs, resting the glass on her knee, her eyes watching Robert the whole time—waiting to catch him at something.
"You are a slippery man, Robert Maxim," I say. He smiles as though that is a compliment. "I will hear you out, and if I think it's important for the council to know, I will inform them. If secrecy is for the greater good, then so it shall be."
Robert nods, a gentle smile playing over his lips. "Fair and reasonable. Sydney Rye could learn from you."
I grimace as I sip the water. "She does quite well on her own."
Robert shrugs. "She is in Spain. I don't understand why."
I suppress a laugh—the look on his face is almost comical. As if Robert Maxim not understanding something means the matter in question makes no sense. It must be hard to be so smart and sure of oneself and run up against a woman like Sydney Rye.
Running up against someone you can't understand and who makes you unsure of yourself and your world view can do… things. I feel Petra watching me as I ease back into the couch cushions. I meet her gaze. There is so much in her eyes that I want. It makes my chest ache as much as the wound in my side.
"I don't know why Sydney is in Spain either," I say, returning my attention to Robert, “but I assume she has good reasons”.
He shakes himself, as if throwing off the worries and thoughts of her, though I doubt he can let them go for long. "As you know, I recently found out I'm a father," Robert says.
"Yes, it was supposedly your son who had you killed and who plans on assassinating as many members of the Joyful Justice council as he and his co-conspirators can identify, while simultaneously working to destroy our reputation." I wave a hand at Robert. "Clearly, there is a misunderstanding on some of the basic facts."
Past Robert, the French doors leading to the terrace are shut. A guard, his Uzi hanging from his shoulder as casually as a purse swings from a rich woman's arm, protects the entryway. Beyond the elegant white iron furniture and stone parapet, the Bosporus glimmers in the moonlight.
"My son—" Robert clears his throat. "—and his mother are heads of a powerful criminal organization. They are a part of a Columbia-based cartel that is intent on destroying Joyful Justice." His gaze flicks to Petra. "I believe you are aware of this."
She nods. "Yes, Lenox knows all that I know."
"I understand you took over the McCain brothers’ brothels and trading routes."
"They were my routes," Petra reminds him. "We partnered for a long time."
"But you did not know they were dealing in war slaves?"
"No." Petra meets Robert's gaze. She shows no shame.
He nods and returns his attention to me. "Now you're in a turf war with Yusuf."
"You know a lot for a dead man," Petra says.
Robert smiles. "I have my ways."
"What do you want?" I ask. My side is hurting, and I want to rest.
"I want to help you take over my son's enterprise, to dismantle the cartel and bring it all under your umbrella." He pauses, watching me. I keep my face impassive. "A new criminal king for a new era. You'll promise—as you've proven you can provide—fair wages and a stable, voluntary work environment where all can prosper."
What a shiny, lovely apple he offers. "You want me to kill all the men and women who are fighting against Joyful Justice, take over their networks, and profit from them."
Robert shakes his head, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. A lock of his dark hair falls over his brow. "I don't plan to kill them all. That would be far too difficult and attract the wrong kind of attention." A smile plays over his lips. "I'm going to have them all taken into custody, tried for their crimes, found guilty, and sentenced appropriately."
Petra laughs. "You want to take down all of them. Some of the most powerful heads of organized crime on the planet?"
"Yes." Robert nods. "I do. And I will." The confidence in his voice is absolute. "That is why I faked my death. I am the only person who can pull this off, and no one will see it coming if they think I'm gone."
"You're working with law enforcement?" I ask.
Robert nods. "A special task force that works across several agencies and in coalition with Interpol. This is all in an effort to keep my son out of my way, but not dead."
"You're a wonderful father," Petra quips.
Robert ignores her. "I need your help to avoid a power vacuum. If we don’t have a powerful organization ready to step in and take over operations, then I believe we will see a bloodbath amongst subordinates as they clash to be king."
"Why not let them fight it out?" Petra asks. "It will cull the herd."
Robert shrugs. Sydney would not like it. But will she like this plan any better? "Obviously, drugs will continue to move across borders, and sex work will never stop. The question is, do we want the most exploitive and bloodthirsty in charge or you?"
Petra raises both brows. "Me?"
"As Lenox's partner, of course," Robert says.
"What are you asking for exactly?" Petra asks, pinning him with a hard stare.
"I will take out all your competition, even people you never competed with. You will use the manpower you already have, and the inside information I will share with you, to rule them all. We will use your reputation to seize power when the vacuum opens." He sits back in his chair. "Like Genghis Khan, you will use the existing power structures within the organizations to rule effectively from a distance."
My head pounds. "Genghis Khan used rape, mass murder, and existing power structures. He used threats of extinction to gain obedience. He also had an army."
"Khan never tried to enforce cultural or religious changes—that is important—but he did have a set of laws that reached across his entire empire. More than anything, he kept things peaceful. He, to put it in modern parlance, made the trains run on time. If you can show that everyone can still make money, with peace and good practices—" Robert smiles, his eyes brightening. "—you'll change the world, Lenox Gold."
The burns on his face give him an air of horror that makes his words more powerful. Only Robert Maxim could use gruesome facial burns to his advantage. "I believe that you can convince criminals to stop the most abhorrent of their practices."
"No one has ever successfully run an international criminal organization the size and breadth of which you describe," I say. "Also, Petra and I don't have an army."
"Don't you?" he asks, gesturing to the gunman by the door.
"Members of Joyful Justice are not going to fight for us if we become an improved version of the criminals we rally against," I point out.
"People want to be a part of something larger than themselves," Robert says. "They are willing to kill to end the practices that we are talking about ending—but they are not willing to be the standing army that keeps the peace? I think you underestimate them."
"You can't expect me to agree to any of this without speaking with the council. You're talking about using Joyful Justice as an army to destroy your enemies."
"They are Joyful Justice's enem
ies, Lenox. I'm just caught in the middle, really."
Petra snorts. "You are something else, Mr. Robert Maxim."
He grins at her, his white teeth stark in the dark beard. "Let me show you what I can do. I want to prove myself."
"How?" she asks.
"Let me solve your Yusuf problem."
"Solve it?" Petra asks. "You mean have him arrested?"
"Yes."
"But why would anyone in the city decide to do as we say if we are not the ones who take him down?" Petra says, pointing out the dog-eat-dog reality of life and how pack animals work.
"This will be the testing ground for my theory. If I'm right," he says it with more humility than I suspect he truly has, "then, Lenox, you can speak with the council and we can move forward."
Silence descends as he lays the proverbial apple on the table. Petra looks at me and raises a brow.
"Okay," I say.
"Good." Robert nods. "I ask one more thing."
"Yes?" My voice is weary, and Robert smiles congenially—the friendly doctor who just has to run one more test.
"Let me tell Sydney I'm alive. I don't want her to find out from someone else."
"I will not promise you that."
"Fair enough for now. But if I prove myself and my theory, will you grant me that request?"
"Yes," I say, biting into the sweet juice of the apple, not tasting the poison yet but suspecting it's there.
Chapter Nineteen
Dan
"A private jet," I say as Sanchez and I move across the tarmac toward a small plane complete with Homeland Security seal. "I must be important."
"Or I am," she points out.
"Touché. Are you?" I know the answer: no. If she were, I'd know more about her—I keep track of important figures in Homeland Security. From what I can remember of her file, she's the daughter of a New York City cop. The task force she started is now headed by a man, and she was demoted to his deputy… hence me starting to ignore her. Something I won't ever do again.
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