Dan
I’m sitting in my office, looking out at the command center, still buzzing with energy and purpose. I’ve checked our system repeatedly and found no breaches…not even an attempt.
Maybe they are waiting until we calm down, until we think we’ve averted a crisis. Or maybe their plan went wrong somewhere. Maybe they hurt themselves in the explosion.
I pick up my radio. “Sick bay, come in.”
“This is sick bay.” A female voice I recognize as one of our nurses, Camilla, answers.
“This is Dan. Tell me, what kind of injuries do you have up there?”
“Nothing serious, a few cuts and bruises from falling in the dark. And George burned himself on hot coffee.”
“Hot coffee?”
“Yeah, all over his hands, knocked the pot over.”
“Where?”
“Where? His hands.”
“No, which pot of coffee? In his room, the cafeteria?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I’ll be right up. Don’t tell him I asked.”
“Yes, sir.” Her voice comes out unsure…almost frightened.
George. He was supposed to meet me at the beach. Could he possibly have gone to Battery Room C and set off a device in an attempt to distract us, with plans of infiltrating our servers, but then hurt himself and had to abort his mission?
My mind rebels at the idea. George is loyal. He has worked with me since early on. He looks up to me. I’m his freaking mentor.
I sit back in my chair and close my eyes, letting my mind go blank for a moment. Too many thoughts are pushing at me; I’ll never see clearly with so much clutter.
Several deep breaths later, I open my eyes then stand and begin to pace. If it was George, then someone has something over him. And I’ve got to find out what. I wrestle with the rage and hurt that is trying to rear up and control me. This is not the time to indulge in personal grievances. I have an entire compound, seventy-two people, and an international justice operation to protect. My feelings don’t matter.
I jog down the spiral staircase and stop by Mitchel’s console.
“I’m just going up to check on George. He burned his hands on some coffee in the dark. Hold down the fort here.”
Mitchel nods, his expression grave. “Rachel should have something soon from that video.” His knee is bouncing with anxiety under his desk.
If it was George, there won’t be anything to see. He’s one of the best. I trained him.
Mitchel turns back to his screen, sun lines around his eyes standing out in the glow of his computer. When I met him, he didn’t have any wrinkles. Time takes its toll on all of us.
The infirmary is on the fifth floor, too far for the steps. As I get into the elevator I take a deep breath and close my eyes again, letting my mind go blank as I’m carried skyward.
I find George in one of the private rooms, his hands bandaged in white gauze. “Hey,” I say. He turns his head slowly and meets my gaze with eyes fuzzy from the pain meds.
“Hi,” he says back, tension pulling at his mouth.
“How are you?” I ask, taking a seat next to his bedside.
George looks down at his hands. “I’ve been better.”
“What happened?”
“Spilled some hot coffee.” His voice is low. George is lying.
“Where? In the lobby?”
He clears his throat, still staring at his hands. “In my room. I ran up there to grab something—some sunscreen—and remembered my pot was still on. The power went out as I reached for it, and I’m not totally sure what happened next.”
“But you managed to burn both your hands?” He just nods. Anger sizzles in me. He’s lying. My hands itch to grab his chin, to force his gaze to meet mine.
Why not?
I give in to the instinct, standing up and reaching for him, digging my fingers into his jaw and making him look at me. “Don’t lie to me,” I hiss.
His glazed eyes focus, then blur with tears, but he does not speak.
“George,” I lean close to his face. “Tell me what you did…now.”
He hiccups a sob. “I can’t,” he whispers.
I rear back, staring down into his face—at the man I’ve trained, mentored…trusted. Fuck.
“I’m so sorry, Dan.” Tears begin to stream down his face, and his body shakes. “They have my sister. They’re going to kill her. I failed, and now they are going to kill her.” He breaks down, his voice gone, his body shuddering under the pressure of his sobs.
“Who has her?” I ask, keeping very still, refusing to react emotionally.
He doesn’t answer; he’s sobbing uncontrollably. Sympathy and anger war in my chest. I let go of his face and sit back down, clenching my fists. “Tell me who has her. We will save her.”
He shakes his head. “It’s too late.”
“George,” I clench my jaw. “It’s never too late, talk to me.”
“I’m so sorry.”
I bite my tongue to keep myself from railing at him. “George,” I keep my voice low. “Tell me everything.”
He nods and swipes at his running nose with his bandaged hand. I grab a tissue from the box next to his bed and pass it to him. He can barely hold it as he wipes at his eyes. George won’t look at me, and that’s fine. I don’t think I can stand to meet his gaze right now.
He betrayed me.
“My sister, she’s only sixteen.” I nod. I know that. George is from Texas. His parents are both Mexican immigrants, but he and his sister were born in San Antonio. He’s ten years older than her—he has a savings account for her college fund.
The picture George showed me from her quinceañera last year comes into my mind’s eye. Young-looking for her age, she was dressed in a white gown, poofy and bedazzled, grinning at the camera from between her parents and George.
“What happened to your sister, George?”
“She called four nights ago.” I knew that. But I didn’t listen in on the call. We need to change some policies. “She is being held—I don’t know where. But she said if I didn’t destroy our servers and cut off power they’d kill her. At first they wanted to know the location of the island.”
“But you don’t know that.”
George shakes his head, his face red with shame and eyes still welling with tears. “But I would have told them, Dan. I’d do anything for her.”
“I know, George.”
“They said if I told anyone they’d kill her.”
“How would they know if you told anyone?”
His eyes widen, and he shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
I stand up so fast the stool I’m sitting on falls over. Shit. George isn’t the only mole.
My eyes scan the empty room. No one can hear us in here.
“George.” My voice is quiet. “Shut up.” He sniffles and looks up at me, his breath coming is sharp pulls. “No one can know you’ve told me.” He nods. “But I need every detail.”
“I’ll tell you everything.”
I pick up the stool and sit back down next to him, gathering my patience. I will remain calm and steady…I will figure this out and defeat my betrayers.
Lenox
In the morning, Petra wants to go riding. The stable is grand. Original to the property, it’s built of stone and wood, scented of hay and leather. A smile brightens Petra’s face as we step into the aisle between the horse stalls.
Velvety noses and majestic heads pop over the stall doors, and a black Friesian, at least seventeen hands tall, whinnies to her. She grins and waves to him. He stomps in anticipation. “Tarzan,” she coos. “I’ll be right there.” I wait as she steps into the tack room and grabs a handful of treats from a bin by the entryway.
Petra passes a few to me. “You’ll ride Jane,” she says, pointing across the aisle to a gypsy horse—just as tall as Tarzan, with the black and white markings her breed is known for. She is working the latch to her stall with her lips, trying to escape. “I figured you’d want a mare,” Petra laughs, stepping up to Tarzan, who lowers his giant head and pushes it into her chest.
Jane snorts and bobs her head, eyes narrowing at me. You think you can ride me? I approach her stall, hand extended, two of the oat treats on my palm.
Petra taught me to ride. A true gentleman can handle a horse.
Jane sniffs my hand, her breath warming and whiskers tickling my skin. Her lips fumble over my palm as she takes the treats. Crunching them down in two bites she raises her gaze to mine. More?
I smile gently, reaching out to pet her nose. She lets me, even leans in a little. A groom appears at the far end of the barn and, seeing Petra, hurries over. He speaks to her in rapid Romanian. She answers, and he hurries to the tack room, calling to another groom who comes into the barn at a jog.
Through the open barn door I can see the kennels on the other side of the yard. Two German Shepherds pace behind a tall chain link fence and muffled barking from inside the handsome brick structure reaches us. “What do you use the dogs for?” I ask.
Petra comes to stand next to me, following my gaze. A handler is entering the side door and the dogs head inside, presumably for breakfast. “Protection,” Petra says simply, walking back to her horse.
“Ah,” I say. “Is there a lot of crime out here?”
“Enough,” Petra answers quietly, clearly wanting the conversation to end. A sick feeling stirs in my gut as I stare at the kennels. Something doesn’t feel right.
Our horses are tacked quickly, and we mount, heading across the giant lawn at a walk. Both horses have long strides and gentle mouths. They keep their necks curled, step their feet high, and carry themselves regally—as if they are the beasts of a queen, not one of the most powerful pimps in the world.
Petra’s organization is a web of human trafficking that spans the planet. Though ruthless and powerful, she always struck me as ethical…which has a different meaning in my world than others. Many people think exchanging sex for money is immoral. But it’s not. If both parties are consenting adults, and the transaction is equitable, then selling one’s body is a perfectly reasonable way to make a living. And buying a body to pleasure oneself is far preferable to more coercive courses of action.
However, recent intel about a scheme to move Isis sex slaves out of their territory and into other markets suggests Petra may be involved. I hate to believe it.
“How is business?” Petra asks as we move deeper into the woods. We ride side by side, entering the forest where light plays between the leaves and sparkles on the dew-covered ground.
“Good. You know I don’t work much anymore.”
She smiles, glancing over at me, then back to the path. “Only for very special clients, I’m sure.”
“It’s true,” I say. “I have not taken on a new client in years.”
“You have many men working for you though.”
I nod, reaching forward to pet Jane’s neck. “Yes, you taught me well.”
“Still no women, though?” she asks.
I nod. “That’s right.” My business is selling men to women. I understand it and prefer it because of my firsthand knowledge.
“It pleases me that you still come to me,” Petra says.
“I am forever grateful for your guidance.” I turn to look at her, and she is watching me.
Petra nods, her eyes holding mine. She is suspicious. “Is that why you called?”
I hold her gaze, keeping the lies that flow from my lips from entering my eyes. “I heard about your marriage and wanted to check on you. Why are you questioning me?” I do not let any accusation tinge my words—only innocent curiosity.
Petra turns away from me, staring over Tarzan’s head at the path before us. “These are dangerous times, Lenox.” She pauses, pulling her lower lip between her teeth. “Do you have any trouble with Joyful Justice?” Her eyes flick back to me, and I smile at her.
“Joyful Justice? The vigilantes? Why would I have any trouble with them?”
Her brow furrows. “Lenox, do not be so blind. They are against what we do.”
“Are they? I know very little about them.”
Her fingers tighten on the reins, and Tarzan snorts in complaint. Petra loosens her grip but her jaw is still clenched and body stiff with tension. “Maybe they do not mind you selling men. But women selling themselves…” She snorts. “It’s not allowed.”
“You’ve had trouble with them? How unfortunate.”
“No,” she shakes her head. “Not me, but associates have told me.”
“I see. And you trust these associates are…being respectful.”
She nods aggressively. “Of course. Lenox, you know how I operate.”
“I do. You taught me well.”
She smiles and her shoulders relax a little. “You’ve picked up a few of your own tricks along the way.” Her gaze travels down my body, and she laughs, the last of her tension leaving.
“Yes,” I agree, smiling at her. “Of course, but you showed me how to make this business work for me, rather than me for it.”
Petra nods but does not respond. We continue in silence, the sounds of the forest a symphony around us. My gaze scans the woods. The first signs of spring are unfurling. Sprouts of green push up through the dark soil, buds wait on branches, coiled in their hard shells, preparing to explode into summer. My eyes catch on a stone archway, some kind of old building.
“What is that?” I ask, pointing to it.
“An old cell, a dungeon I think, from when this was a real castle.”
Petra is frowning, peering through the woods at the half hidden stone structure. Patched in moss with a wooden door, the dungeon blends into the forest, looking as though it has not been used in decades. But then the sun glints off something shiny. I narrow my gaze. The dead bolt is new.
A shiver runs over me, and I keep my face averted, knowing that my expression of horror cannot be contained or covered up. Petra is keeping someone in that cell.
Dan
Eight hours after the initial attack, and I still have almost nothing. I’m pouring over the communication in and out of the island, but while we record every transaction, we don’t keep the content of the conversation. That is going to change.
My fingers shake as I scroll to the next page of calls, my eyes blurring. It’s been about twenty-eight hours since I last slept.
A knock on my door brings my head up. Anita, holding two steaming coffee cups, her hair loose and falling like a sheet of black silk over one shoulder, is framed in the glass. She’s wearing a bright green, thigh-length tunic and a pair of dark jeans. Her bare lips raise into a smile as I stare at her.
She looks well-rested, even with the lines of concern around her eyes.
I swivel my chair around and wave Anita in. Using her hip, she pushes open the door. "How are you doing?" she asks, crossing the office and extending one of the mugs.
I can smell it's chai, not coffee. Anita makes an amazing cup of chai: strong black tea, cardamon, cinnamon, and a heavy pour of whole milk.
The milk comes in tetra packs. It does not need to be refrigerated until opened. Our last shipment arrived six weeks ago; another will come next week. The company name and our contact there flashes through my brain, falls under brief suspicion, and then fades. We helped bring his mother’s murderer to justice. He has no family left. Besides, he’s not here enough to monitor George’s behavior.
I take the proffered mug. "Thanks, I'm okay."
Anita sits down in one of the other office chairs and spins back and forth on her toes, cupping her own mug. "When's the last time you slept?" She says it with curiosity rather than reproach, but I can't stop the hairs on the back of my neck rising like hackles. Leave me alone so I can figure this out.
"I'm fine," I say, my voice harder than I mean it to be.
She frowns, her dark, sculpted brows conferencing. "Dan." There is sympathy in her voice. Understanding. She holds my gaze, her beautiful, almond-shaped brown eyes not letting me turn away. "You need to take care of yourself in order to take care of the rest of us." I open my mouth to respond, but she leans forward and continues, cutting me off. "I understand how hard this is for you. But you have to let others help. And you have to sleep. Oh—" She gives me a smile. "And eat."
I turn away from her and back to my computer, scrolling through the list of calls again. "Anita, someone close to me is watching. I can't trust anyone.” I told Anita about George—she’s the only person I totally trust here.
"What about me? Can you trust me? Can you trust the rest of the Joyful Justice Council? When are you going to tell them?"
I grit my teeth and continue to scroll. I am not ready for them to know yet. Don't want to admit my failure.
"Dan." Her voice is lower now. "Tom told me what you did."
I turn to her quickly, anger sharpening my vision. "Tom? The guy you brought here without any background checks? And then suddenly we have an attack. You don't find that at all suspicious?"
Her cheeks brighten with color. "Without any background checks? He is my husband."
"That doesn't mean I trust him." My hands are shaking again, and I turn back to the computer before she sees it. The mug of chai sits untasted next to my elbow.
"Either let me help you, or I'll call the council myself." Her voice is steely. She's taken all pretense out and left behind only her bold, iron will.
"I need more time. I want to have something to tell them, a possible solution.” I keep scrolling through the communications, the black lines of text dancing in front of my exhausted eyes. There is nothing out of the ordinary here.
But then again, a call from George's family isn't out of the ordinary either. I sit back into my chair with a weary sigh and look at Anita. I'm being unfair. But so is she. My suspicions about Tom are warranted. She knows that.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that, but I am suspicious of Tom. I expect you can understand that.”
She nods. “I do. And I wasn't going to reprimand you for accusing him.” She takes a sip of her chai, her eyes turning thoughtful. "I was just going to suggest there might be a better way to investigate this."
“Like what?”
I turn fully toward her, picking up the cup and breathing in its spicy, sweet scent before taking a sip.
"First, I want you to get some rest. You need to sleep. To be clear-headed."
My eyes jump to hers. "Anita, you know I can go long stretches without sleep."
"From what I can tell, you've been up for over twenty-four hours, Dan." Her voice is cold. Calculated. She's been watching me.
"That's possible,” I hedge. “But, I often go long stretches without sleep. And I need to figure this out."
“I know how you get, Dan, the way you get sucked into your work and ignore the clock, but this is too much even for you. Nothing has happened since the attack. George appears to be the only one."
“Impossible. George may be the only compromised person who had the know-how to mess with our systems—to hack into the main servers. But he's certainly not the only person working against us. There must be at least one other person, someone reporting to whoever took George’s sister."
“But then they don’t have any power to hurt us.”
“I'm sure they're just waiting. Waiting for me to go to sleep so they can attack again.” The anxiety of the situation builds anew in my chest. I don't have time for this. I need to keep searching. I swivel back to my computer, putting the chai down away from my keyboard.
My gaze latches onto a call; George’s parents’ line, two hours before the attack…I have to ask him about it. I make a note in the text document I have open with all suspicious activity and set a hyperlink to the record. There are only four other calls on the list, and they are all long shots.
"Fine," Anita says, shifting closer to me, her elbow brushing mine. "If you won't rest, at least let me help you."
I glance over at her but don’t respond. She frowns at me, her eyes darkening. “I’ll call the council right now,” she threatens.
"Fine," I say. "I'm checking everyone's communications. Seeing what kind of calls have been going in and out recently. You can start checking emails. I doubt anyone would be stupid enough to put this in writing, which is why I'm checking calls first. But it can't hurt."
"How do I check emails?" Anita asks. I point to one of my other computers, and we scoot toward it together. Typing in my password, I bring up my system for tracking the email accounts of everyone who lives on the island. “Start at the top. Check George’s,” I swallow and force myself to continue. “Mitchel’s. And then move down.” Anita is looking at me, but I can’t hold her gaze. Yes, we are checking those closest to me first. “I’d look at the last ten days. See if you can find anything. We can go back further after that, but George got the call about his sister four days ago, so ten days is a good start.”
Anita nods, her eyes riveted to the screen.
I scoot back over to my console to continue my work. As I hear the clicking of Anita's keyboard, my shoulders begin to relax. I should have asked for her help earlier. I do trust Anita. And just because she has Tom here now doesn't mean we can't work together in the way we used to. Really, he changes nothing.
Unless he’s helping orchestrate this attack. In which case, everything will change.