Blue's growl fades, and I look down at my dog. He glances up at me, licking his lips, ears flat. Submissive to Robert Maxim. Ugh.
"Now, as you were saying," Robert says. "You don't trust me. But the thing is, you do." I meet his eyes and shake my head. He takes another step toward me. "You know me—what motivates me. So you can trust me to act in certain ways."
"Selfish ways."
"Yes, selfish..." That same something slides behind his eyes again. "I protect what is mine."
"I'm not yours," I am quick to point out.
"Well," Declan interrupts us, "he's still trying to protect you."
"I thought I knew what was best for me and the baby,” I say to Robert.
"Don't you want to know what we've been up to?" Robert asks, his head cocking slightly, as if he is genuinely curious.
"No. I'm on leave. All I want is peace and quiet."
Robert laughs out loud. Declan chuckles. "A leopard can't change its spots, Sydney. And you can't stand peace and quiet," Declan says, grinning.
"We are taking down a powerful criminal organization that Joyful Justice also wants a piece of. I think you'll like this." Robert smiles.
"Do you know what I am really, truly sick of?" I ask the two grinning idiots in front of me.
They both shrug. I take a step forward, Blue close, sensing the shift in my mood. The grin on Robert's face falters, slipping slightly. He is almost as perceptive as Blue. Declan is still toothy—thinks of himself as untouchable. Rich, powerful, white man. I want to hurt him just to prove it's possible. "People telling me what I want or need."
Declan sighs. "We are offering you something here."
"Really, because it looks like you lied to me." I stare daggers at Robert. "Letting me think you were dead for months."
"Did you mourn me?" he asks.
"Shut up." He grins again, and I turn my attention to Declan. "And you, you're here on official business. With a dead man. You two are plotting some kind of extra-legal action against a criminal organization, and you want Joyful Justice's help. This is just rich."
"No." Declan shakes his head. "I'm here to make you an offer, one you should not refuse."
"The way you all made Dan an offer?"
Declan meets my gaze, his eyes bland. "He has done good work. His country appreciates it."
"Fine." I jut out my chin. "What do you want from me?"
Declan gestures to the couch. "Sit," he says. "Let's talk."
"Please," Robert says.
I round the couch and sit, resting the gun on the cushion next to me but keeping my hand close. Blue sits by my side, his focus on Declan. Robert perches on the far arm of the couch, offering me plenty of space. "We need you to act as bait," Robert says.
"Bait?" I ask. "What a lovely offer."
"We want to let the organization we've been hunting know about Robert's resurrection," Declan continues. "We know they've been tracking you."
Sure, yeah, tracking. Trying to kill me.
"So we will have dinner," Robert says.
I laugh. "Only you could turn a game of cat and mouse with murderous criminals into a dinner date." He winks at me and another laugh escapes. "You are too much."
"Many have said the same of you," Declan points out.
"Why do you want to reveal Robert’s return at this moment?" I ask. Neither man answers. "You don't want to tell me?"
"We have laid a trap," Robert says. Declan shifts his focus, his eyes narrowing. Cluing me in was a part of their original plan maybe. "My death gave them a false sense of security."
"Who is them?" I ask.
"My son, his mother, other parties. As you know, a cartel of criminal organizations has joined forces in an unprecedented effort to take down Joyful Justice."
"They are still trying," I say. In the past few months, the attempts at ruining our reputation have continued to ramp up. They want to turn us into criminals in the minds of the public.
"Yes," Declan says. "They are trying to prevent you from gaining new members while at the same time killing key members of your organization. The price on your head is high." An honor I'm sure. "But if they discover Robert is still alive—and it looks like he does not want them to know—the flurry of communication will help us pinpoint certain individuals, allowing us to move in partnership with other law enforcement organizations to take down the entire network."
"Wow," I say, because it is an impressive plan.
"So," Robert says, "dinner tonight?"
I turn to Declan. "Will I be free to go afterwards, or do you plan to try to arrest me?"
Before he can answer, Robert interrupts. "I will personally escort you to the airport. Where"—he raises a brow—"your plane will be waiting to take you anywhere you want."
I roll my eyes. "You don't want your plane back?"
Robert shrugs. "Not yet."
A shiver runs over me—familiar and yet always exhilarating. What is he planning now?
"Will you join me?" Robert asks as the waiter pours his wine. I shake my head. He shrugs. "In Europe, they recognize it's safe for a woman to have a glass of wine while pregnant. It is not frowned upon like in the States."
"The smell grosses me out." The waiter leaves the bottle on the table and departs. The umbrella heater glows coal red next to us, pumping off heat that keeps the evening chill at bay. Beyond the warm bubble of our table, pedestrians huddled in their coats walk arm in arm. Holiday lights twirl around the palm trees fronting the cathedral dominating the village plaza.
"I'm surprised Mulberry didn't tell you. I didn't realize he had such duplicity in him."
"What didn't Mulberry tell me?" I ask, feeling like a fish chomping onto a hook—but the worm just looks so freaking tasty.
"That I was alive. That he helped fake my death.” I don't respond. Just stare at Robert. A slow, roughish smile teases his lips into a crescent moon. He picks up his wine and takes a sip. I watch him swallow, watch his Adam's apple bob and resist the urge to punch him in it. “He is the one who shot me.” Lucky guy.
Strains of accordion music start up. Robert glances past me to where the melancholy music is coming from. I don't turn around. I can always trust Robert to have my back. The music moves closer, and Robert reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a ten Euro note.
The accordion player steps up to our table—a middle-aged man wearing a fedora, dark overcoat, and resting his instrument on an ample stomach.
He plays a few bars, smiling. Robert extends the bill, and the musician dips to accept it. He moves on to the next couple at a wave of Robert's hand. "I'm sure Mulberry had his reasons," Robert says, casual, unconcerned.
"You both always do," I say, my focus still on the accordion player. Blue lets out a low growl, and I nod, agreeing with him.
Robert doesn't stiffen, but there is a subtle shift in his demeanor. He listens to Blue almost as closely as I do.
His hand dips back into his jacket, but this time instead of pulling out a bill, he flashes the matte black barrel of a pistol briefly before lowering it to his lap.
Tension thickens the air. The smattering of other couples at the tables don't notice, but Robert and I have snapped into survival mode. Where a moment ago we were cruising down a calm, winding river, now a waterfall looms.
"Did I tell you about the assassin in Barcelona?" I ask, just as casually as he assured me of Mulberry's intentions.
Robert raises a brow as I reach for my water glass. "Assassin in Barcelona? This is different than the one who met the wrong end of your curtain rod."
I shrug. "It was a length of pipe. They were doing construction on the building next door." Robert lifts the fingers of his free hand off the table and tilts his head in a silent, teasing apology. "Maybe assassin is the wrong term for the man in Barcelona. He didn't try to kill me, just followed me. That's what made me move out of the city. I wanted to get away from the city. From prying eyes."
Robert flashes a smile. "Small places are always harder to blend into,
Sydney, you know that."
"That goes both ways though. This is a touristy area, and I can look like a tourist," I say. "But an assassin would stand out more—at least this guy would have. Dark suit, glasses, you know the type."
"Yes," Robert agrees, giving nothing away.
Was my Barcelona stalker one of his men watching me?
The accordion player turns away from the restaurant toward the center of the plaza. "Also," I continue, "an assassination attempt in a small community is riskier. You can't pretend it was a random mugging or attack. That kind of thing doesn't happen. And if it did, the investigation would be easier. They could narrow down the culprit."
"Culprit." Robert smiles. "I like that. Culprit," he says it again, rolling it around in his mouth.
To the outside world, he appears totally relaxed, but he is focused on the accordion player, on the space behind me—the dark alley that leads down through narrow streets to the river. He's watching the group of men sitting on a bench not far away who at first glance might be waiting for a friend but could also be here to harm us. They could also just be watching… waiting to report back to their bosses the way that Robert and Declan plan.
"You can only love someone as much as you love yourself. And Mulberry doesn’t love himself enough to be the one for you," Robert says, his eyes locking onto mine. "I love myself a lot. And I love you just as much."
My heart roars—a wild stallion set free from its pen galloping to the horizon. I stand. Blue is already on his feet, anticipating my every move. My chair tips over behind me. The other diners startle, and gazes dart our way.
Why am I standing? Robert smiles, as if he knows the answer.
"Fuck you," I hiss.
His smile becomes an invitation. "Any time. Any place." He leans back in his chair, creating room to look up at me more fully.
I turn, righteous indignation ringing my ears and clenching my neck. Blue's nose taps my hip, a gentle brush. I am beside you. You are not alone.
My hand lands on his head as I walk away from the table, my peripheral vision tracking the group of men and the accordion player as I step into the darkness of the alley… luring my prey into the hunt.
They don't follow, though. Instead, I wind my way alone down to the river where Declan waits in a boat. I climb aboard, and we sit together in silence under the bright moon. He keeps his focus on his phone—waiting for confirmation that our plan worked. I focus on keeping my breath even and my mind empty.
Mulberry knew. He lied. Motherfucker.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Dan
"Good to have you back, boss." Rachel grins at me, her eyes making a quick run over my form. "You look like crap." She laughs. "Guess being a prisoner will do that to a man."
"I was an asset."
“Oh, hello grumpy. Miss captivity, do you?"
"Something like that." I am grumbling, which is super attractive and productive.
"Okay, grouchy. I was thinking we'd go over what's been going on in your absence, but you need a paddle."
I rub my eyes, knowing she’s right. It's my rule. We are not allowed to just live underground in the hollowed-out mountain that is Joyful Justice’s Pacific base. When we feel pressured or upset, we go out into the sun. What's the point of living in a tropical paradise if we spend all our time in the bunker? I've been traveling for almost thirty hours. I need to use my body.
"You're right."
"Oh, say it again," Rachel coos. "I just love those words." I can't help but smile. "Get changed," she says. "I'll meet you at the beach."
"I see you got comfortable giving orders while I was gone."
"Sure did." Rachel strides out of my apartment, and the door swings closed behind her.
I look around the sterile space, and my chest aches. I miss Consuela. Closing my eyes, I see her face. She's smiling at me the way she did when I showed her data she liked… when she saw the way we were subtly shifting minds. I groan.
There is a knock at my door, and Rachel yells from the far side. "Get changed!"
I can't help but let out a short laugh before heading to my bedroom and doing as my subordinate commands.
Fifteen minutes later, we are fighting the breakers to get out to the swells. My arms burn, salt spray mists my skin, and the powerful waves absorb my attention. I need this.
A wave crests in front of me. I take a deep breath before pushing my board down, letting the ocean roar over me, pulling the stiffness from my limbs and the painful thoughts from my mind.
I emerge back in the shallows, water sluicing off me, and gasp, tasting the ocean on my lips and tongue. "Come on," Rachel yells at me. I glance up to see her already standing on her board, beyond the breakers, paddling out toward the horizon. "You're getting slow in your old age."
I laugh as I set off again, this time clearing them, then hop to stand and begin paddling. We move in silent synchronicity, our arms rising and falling along with the swells as we move parallel to the shore. The sun blazes down on us, making me squint even under the brim of my floppy hat.
Consuela would like it here. I push the thought aside, forcing my mind to focus on my movements, the burn in my muscles, and the gentle undulation of the ocean.
Hours later, Rachel offers me a beer from the fridge in her apartment. I take it and follow her to where she's set up chairs in front of the large picture window. She's got it propped open, the salty breeze blowing into the small sitting room. The sun is setting and throwing off bright oranges and pinks that the ocean reflects.
"So," she says, settling into her chair and opening her can of beer, "let's talk business now that you've had a chance to unwind."
"Thanks for covering everything here."
"You read the files, I'm assuming." Rachel sent a laptop and phone along with the plane that picked me up. I nod. "We have a lot going on between the Sydney situation and what Lenox has been up to—which is a whole can of worms."
"I know. I read Merl, Lenox, and Mulberry's memos on the flight. Robert Maxim is alive and taking down our enemies for us. Lenox has known about it and didn't share. We have a meeting tomorrow to discuss in detail Lenox's outlined plan."
"What do you think about it?" Rachel asks, her voice quiet, unsure. Not like her at all.
I turn to look at her. She's changed out of her swimsuit into a pair of cutoff jean shorts and a T-shirt. Her short hair is still wet from the shower she took down at the beach. She watches me with wary brown eyes.
"I'm worried about it," I admit. "I get the theory. We take over the sex trafficking, brothels, and the drug running, so that we can do it the right way and use the funds to continue our operations."
"We have plenty of money," Rachel points out.
"I know." I'm the one who’s managed our finances since the beginning. "But let’s not forget Joyful Justice started with a crime. Sydney stole the gold bullion from a long-sunken ship that served as the seed of our endowment."
"When a man is denied the right to live the life he believes in, he has no choice but to become an outlaw," Rachel quotes Nelson Mandela.
I smile. "I don't think taking over the brothels of the world and buying up Isis sex slaves to free them is exactly what Mandela had in mind." I sigh. "The thing is, I always thought it was important that the change come from within. So if a sex worker came to us and said, 'I was held prisoner, come and help me free my fellow prisoners,' we would supply training and expertise to get the job done. But we were not going out and finding trouble. Now we are putting ourselves in the line of fire."
"Inviting Fire," Rachel says. "That is the name of Merl's martial art."
"Yes," I agree. The martial art he developed invites attack so that the opponent’s energy can be used against them. Similar to Aikido, except that with Inviting Fire, you search out the attack to draw fire from those less equipped to handle it.
"The cartels we are opposing are not just made up of the criminal class," I say. "The governments of sovereign nations are involved. If we d
estabilize those governments without inspiring grassroots resistance to replace them, we risk creating anarchy. That goes way beyond our original intent."
"Why can't we find leaders, more honest politicians to take their place?" Rachel asks.
"I guess we can. It's just not how we’ve ever operated. We are supposed to be from the ground up, not the top down." I sigh. "That's what's supposed to keep us honest. But at the same time, I can see how we got here. We are under attack. So what can we do?"
"Absolute power corrupts absolutely," Rachel says.
I take a long drag off the cold beer, staring out to the Pacific Ocean. There is nothing beyond the horizon but thousands of miles of water. "I guess we will find out," I finally say.
"So you'll go along with it?"
"I don't see how I can argue against it, really. As much as it is a power grab, it is also defending ourselves. We tried to shift the way these organizations behaved based on the complaints we received from those they abuse. We threatened them. But instead of doing as we proposed, they came at us. Now we are using the US government and its international partners to take them all down. I think it will save lives and change others for the better. Declan Doyle will get one hell of a promotion."
"What about Consuela Sanchez?" Rachel asks.
"Our work together will probably help her career."
"If she keeps working after the marriage," Rachel says casually, as if she assumes I know all about it.
I turn to look at her. She cocks her head. "You didn't look at my research on her?"
"What research?"
"I left it in our shared file."
"I didn't have time to check that yet." Was too busy reading Joyful Justice business. "Who is she marrying?" I fight to keep my voice even, to hide how much the answer matters.
"I guess you two didn't talk much."
"Not about her personal life."
Rachel snorts. "They announced the engagement just yesterday, but they've been dating for years. She's marrying Senator Richard Chiles, the head of the Intelligence Committee. Word is he is going to run for president." My head starts to spin. "I bet they looked at your algorithms on how to persuade the unpersuadables and figured they could use them for his campaign."
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