Sydney
The abandoned parking garage’s gray, decaying concrete floor is littered with broken glass, empty beer cans, and the occasional glinting, spent needle. A burnt spoon lies next to a stained mattress separating our two groups.
Petra is surrounded by ten hulking men, accentuating her diminutive size. High-heeled boots give her a few inches, but she’s still shorter than me in my soft-soled sneakers. Petra wears all leather: black, shining slickness hugging every tight curve. My T-shirt and loose linen pants let me move like water; her leather protects her like a second skin.
You only need multiple skins if you fear getting cut.
“Nice spot,” I say, gesturing to the crumbling walls and broken light fixtures. The sun pierces through the holes in the walls, lighting our meeting in dramatic spears of gold. There are three floors above us, the ceiling open in many places.
Blue is pressed tight to my left side, Nila to my right. Robert stands to my left, Merl to my right, with his three dogs fanning out from him. Dust sprinkles from above, and Petra’s gaze is drawn to it for just a moment before returning to me. She hasn’t guessed we have snipers up there.
She doesn’t know who she’s up against.
No weapons are drawn, but I can see the bulk of pistols under the ill-fitting suit jackets of the men ringing Petra.
“Let’s talk,” I say, waving a hand between Petra and myself. “Privately.”
She shakes her head slowly, smiling. “No, I am not here to talk. And you— you are here to die.”
I can’t help the grin that pulls at my lips as her men begin to fan out. “You forgot something, Petra,” I say, as the first man drops, his neck exploding with blood. She spins toward the dying figure as her other minions try to pull weapons, only to be dropped in their tracks. The thudding of bodies is louder than the soft pops of the silenced sniper rifles.
Suddenly, Petra is all alone. A pistol gripped in each fist, lips drawn back over her teeth, eyes narrowed. She is ready to fight but not to die.
“It didn’t need to go down like this,” I say quietly, the silence of so much death around us seeming to make my voice louder. “Are you ready to talk?” Her eyes, bright green, lined with charcoal black, hold my naked gaze. “Drop your weapons.”
She straightens, her chin high, eyes never leaving mine. “You”—she nods slowly—“You were right. I underestimated you.” She drops the pistols; they land with a clatter onto the filthy floor.
“I’m trying not to return the favor. From what I understand, you’re a good woman. Smart. Ruthless. Yet fair. Moral.”
She gives me a half smile. “You compliment me, and yet the scent of blood is thick in the air.”
“You should have talked with me.” I take a step forward, my dogs moving with me. Her gaze drops to them for just a moment and then comes back to me. “I think we can come to an agreement without any more bloodshed.”
Petra shrugs, looking almost casual despite the slumped, lifeless corpses surrounding her. “The McCain brothers will never stop coming at you. They will never relent. We are not doing anything wrong. All the women we work with want to change their lives. They want to be free.”
I nod. “Yes, they want to be free. But what they are is slaves. Prisoners.”
She shakes her head vehemently, loosening a curl from the tight bun at the back of her head. “No. I do not trade in slaves.”
“You might not, but the McCain brothers do.” I step around the abandoned mattress, with its depressing stains and forgotten tools of addiction. I’m only a few feet away from her now. “Come with me. I can prove it.”
She lets out a jaded laugh. “As if I have a choice.”
“There is always a choice.” I say it quietly, so she can barely hear. And I hold her gaze. You can die. She shrugs again, looking cool and unaffected in all that black leather. “I’ll need to search you before we go.” Petra raises her arms without protest, her gaze challenging me. Touch me, I dare you.
As I run my hands over her body, I can’t help but remember that I’m supposed to be at Hugh and Santiago’s wedding right now. This woman totally fucked with the new normal life I’m building.
A tickle of rage blushes up the back of my neck as I feel a knife in her boot. Extracting the long, thin blade, I toss it onto the mattress. “That was a gift,” she says.
“You can come back for it, if you live.” Grabbing her bicep, I jerk Petra forward. She matches her stride to mine. Merl and Robert fall into step with us as Robert speaks quietly into his radio, controlling his men.
Blue’s nose taps my hip, reminding me he is there. Nila stays close to Petra, her blue eyes trained on my prisoner. She won’t get away. And I will get Santiago back.
Petra’s arm feels thin in my hold. She follows me easily, her expression defiant.
We walk down the nondescript hallway of the office building, and I push open the unmarked door. Inside there is a black metal folding chair facing a TV screen and a security camera blinking in the corner.
Leading Petra over to the seat, I push her into it. She lands with a thump and a hiss of a threat. Try me. Just try me.
“You are going to show me a movie?” Petra asks, her voice thick with sarcasm.
“Yeah, The Princess Bride, ever seen it?”
She makes a sound of disgust and crosses her arms, staring at me with narrowed eyes. The screen glows to life, showing a paused video. The footage, from an HD camera hidden within Lenox’s clothing, is crisp. Through shoulders and heads we see a young woman kneeling on a low stage.
Her bound hands lay limp on her thighs. She wears loose-fitting clothing in dark colors. Her thick black hair is tied back at the base of her neck. Tears stream down her young face from under closed lids.
I hit play, and an auctioneer’s voice speaks in rapid Arabic. Subtitles translate on the bottom of the screen. I’ve seen the video several times. Lenox made it three months ago while researching the McCain brothers—Petra’s sometimes partners and recent crusaders against Joyful Justice. Nothing like getting called on your shit to bring the bad guys together.
I don’t watch the video. Instead I stare at Petra. She shifts in the metal folding chair, sitting up straighter, her eyes focusing on the screen. Her gaze flicks to me and then back to the image of the girl now being led off screen as her new owner makes his way through the crowd toward the pay station at the side of the stage. “What does this have to do with me?” she asks, challenge lacing her accented voice.
“One of your buddies is about to make a star appearance,” I say.
Her lips purse and she shakes her head. “They would never. The McCain brothers are good men.”
“Joyful Justice doesn’t go after good guys. We are the good guys.” I smile at her. I’m a good guy who’s going to punch you in your evil-doing-fucking-face.
Petra settles back into the chair, recrossing her arms, her gaze drawn back to the screen. It’s mesmerizing, the way the auctioneer stands so still behind his podium as two more girls are brought onto the stage. They are pale with fear, wearing that same dark clothing, hair drawn back. Everyone in the room shifts to get a better look. It’s fascinating the way they can just pretend the girls are salable objects. That they can fool themselves into believing they are better than them. So much better, in fact, that they deserve to own them.
My blood heats at the self-imposed superiority. I want to kill them all. Taking a deep breath, I consciously relax my clenched fists and return my gaze to Petra. Spots of color have appeared on her cheeks, and she is slumped in the chair, her arms over her gut, as if she is trying to protect herself. As if there is any protection from the world we live in.
The auctioneer points to the winner, and the camera turns to him. I glance back at the screen briefly. This is the moment. A white man in a sea of brown stands up, his light hair, blue eyes, and wide shoulders making him a stereotype of an Irishman. All he needs is a four-leaf clover pinned to his chest.
Petra shifts, sitting forward, her eyes riveted to the screen, her face transforming. A moment ago she looked sick, now deep anger is sharpening her features, glittering in her eyes, and blushing up her neck. She uncrosses her arms and grips the edge of her seat, as if she is ready to launch herself at the screen and kill Ian McCain herself.
“Enough?” I ask.
“Not yet,” she answers, her voice low…not trembling, but not steady either.
On screen, Ian McCain stalks toward the stage as the war prisoners are lead off. The camera captures him paying for his new merchandise. “When was this shot?” Petra asks, her voice quiet and cold.
“About three months ago.”
Petra sucks in a deep breath and turns from the screen, where another woman, this one older and limping is being forced onto the stage, her hands bound behind her back, teeth bared at the crowd.
“And you did nothing to stop it?” she asks me, her voice filled with accusation.
I let out a bark of a laugh. “Says the woman on Ian McCain’s side. The woman who is holding a totally innocent man hostage to let that shit—” I point the screen—“continue. You just tried to kill me to protect that guy. I’m the one trying to take him down.”
“You were there,” she says, her voice rising, pointing to the TV. “Why didn’t you stop them?”
“We did,” I say quietly.
She starts, her eyes going wide, and recognition blooms in her gaze. “He said he got into a bar fight.”
“Our operative freed those girls, maimed Ian, and destroyed the auction house.” Lenox is what we refer to as a bad ass.
“Good,” Petra says.
“So, you’re on our side now?”
“I understand your position. Lenox should have been honest with me. Men always lie.” I can practically taste the bitterness in her voice—it’s like dark chocolate if the chocolatier forgot to add the sugar.
“I’m sure he would have if he wasn’t so busy trying to save your prisoner.”
“I was told she was an operative for Joyful Justice.” Petra’s voice turns defensive, and her legs tense as if she is about to stand.
“Her name is Elsa. And she’s a sixteen-year-old high school student from Texas.”
Petra does not look repentant. Her eyes on the paused screen, she looks pissed. “I want to kill him.” She is staring at Ian McCain’s broad back.
“Fantastic. Let’s do it.”
“Do his brothers know?” she asks, her eyes still on the screen.
“We believe so.”
“But you have no proof?” Her eyes find mine, a spark of hope igniting. Maybe she isn’t the only one who got fooled.
“What do you think?”
“Ian is the only one who speaks Arabic.”
“Wouldn’t you notice if all the women your brother brought home from the Middle East were young, terrified, and crying most the time?”
“Many willing girls cry, too.” She says it calmly. It’s just a fact.
“Nice business you’re in.”
Petra almost stands this time, but a sharp growl from Blue gets her butt back in the seat. “I provide an escape for many women who are trapped at home. They can prostitute themselves and get paid, save up and do what they want in the future. Or have their parents give them away to the first man who offers enough cattle. There is more than one way to be a slave.” I grind my teeth, knowing she’s right but hating it anyway. “But this,” she points to the screen. “This is unacceptable. And they must pay.”
I nod, feeling our missions align. “So you’ll work with us?”
Petra turns her green gaze to me, her eyes are sharp, angry. “Abso–fucking–lutely.”
I can’t help the smile that stretches across my face. We are going to kick some ass.
“Now tell me where you’re holding my friend.”
“At the Bay Shore Marina. On a yacht—The Tempest.”
“Let’s go,” I gesture for her to lead the way.
Two of Robert’s men escort her down the hall, and I hang back to talk with Merl. “I’ve spoken with Lenox,” he says. “He is on his way. Should be here by morning. Looks like she is going to be helpful.”
“Yes,” I agree. “Once Lenox gets here, we can come up with a clear plan. You spoke with Dan?”
Merl nods. “Yes, he is relieved that we have her in our control but is still concerned about the breaches in his security.”
“Understandable.”
“He still hasn’t found any other moles?” Merl shakes his head. “I guess that’s just another question for Petra.”
“Yes, if she knows. It looks like she is just one spoke in this wheel.”
“Right, we need to talk to the hub. The person at the center of all this.”
“Ian McCain and his brothers,” Merl says, absentmindedly tracing a hand over Chula’s head. The dog leans into him with a sigh.
“I’d like to go to Ireland with Petra for that conversation.”
Merl’s focus returns to me, his eyes sharp. I’m not known for my conversation skills. “We need information from them.”
I smile with only one side of my mouth and raise my brows. “What? You don’t think I’m a good conversationalist?”
Merl watches me for a long moment—so long I begin to grow uncomfortable. “You’ve changed,” he states.
“Yeah.”
“Maybe this will be good for you.”
“What?”
“Getting back in the field.”
“I think so.”
“Sydney!” Robert calls from the end of the hall. “We need to go.”
“Coming,” I squeeze Merl’s arm in farewell and jog toward Robert, Blue tight to my side.
Time to go save Santiago.