Declan
The camera, with its zoom lens, is pressed to my eye, focused on the front door of the nondescript office building. From my perch in the parking structure across the street I can see everyone who comes and goes.
The door spins, sun glinting off the glass, blinding me for a moment. I blink against the glare, and there she is…Sydney Rye, Blue heeling at her hip. A woman in all black walks next to her. I have a better angle of the stranger’s face than when they entered the building and quickly capture several shots. The light is soft from the setting sun, casting a pink glow over the city.
Sydney, Blue, and the stranger move quickly, climbing into the black SUV that idles at the curb. Brock Johnson is behind the wheel. He eases them into the evening traffic, and I capture a few more shots—a profile of Brock’s stern face, the license plate number of the vehicle, and one final parting shot of the bumper as it turns around the corner.
I sit back on my haunches and just breathe for a moment, waiting for Robert to appear. It’s hot as Hades and humid as fuck up here. But I can take it.
The deep rumble of the Ferrari’s engine pulls my attention back to the street. Black and sleek, the sun glinting off its windshield, the super car emerges from the parking area. I click the shutter of my camera as it turns, and the driver is revealed: Robert Maxim. He’s wearing aviator shades and a smug, satisfied smile, like driving that car feels good. I bet it does.
He too disappears around the corner, the vibrations of his engine melting into the city soundscape. I stand up, stretching my back, reaching for the sky and then my toes.
Sweat moistens my hands, and I have to wipe them on my jeans before taking my equipment apart. Returning the camera to its case and folding up the tripod, I head back to my rental car, a white Toyota Camry with gray cloth seats and the scent of pine woven into the fabric. It’s cheap and nondescript, but isn’t going to get me laid or put a smug smile on my face.
Placing the camera on the passenger seat, I start the thing up, causing lukewarm air to blow out of the vents. I roll down the window, letting the thick humid air stinking of urine and concrete into the car. It mingles with the pine, and I put the car into reverse. Can’t sit here one more second.
Navigating across town to my apartment, I shower off the stench of my surveillance shift, and then pour myself a glass of ice-cold rosé before settling in behind my laptop. The air-conditioning blows onto my wet hair, sending a chill over me. It feels good.
Downloading the day’s worth of photographs onto my computer, I start at the beginning. The first wedding guests arrived at the security gate to Star Island at 5:17pm. I pick up the invitation that lies on the glass dining room table next to my computer. Cream linen, simple black print: Hugh Defry and Santiago Sanchez request your attendance at their wedding…ceremony at 6:00 p.m. followed by dinner and dancing.
Sydney is hosting weddings now.
But it didn’t work out that way. Because at 5:57 p.m., Brock drives out looking even more constipated than usual, and Robert Maxim is in the front seat with him, his body turned to the back. I zoom into the image and can see Blue clearly in the middle seat, the white of his fur bright in the darkness.
A series of images captured on the run shows how the evening unfolded. The group went first to Robert’s office downtown, taking a circuitous route that suggests they changed their minds about ten minutes into the journey. Then, having traded Hugh for a couple of unidentified figures and changed out of their wedding clothes, they set off again an hour later for an abandoned mall.
The shots inside the mall are partly obscured—I had to shoot through a door that was slightly ajar. I didn’t dare open it further. Not with Blue there—he’d have heard or smelled me.
I zoom in on the image of Sydney’s back, flanked by Merl and Robert. She’s facing a woman in black, who is surrounded by ten armed men—I’m guessing it’s local muscle hired for the job.
I scroll quickly through the images of the men falling and Sydney taking the woman by the arm. The men who joined them after that first stop must have been snipers who took out the hired guns. It was all so perfectly orchestrated. I couldn’t help but admire the ease at which Sydney took the woman hostage.
The next image is back at that nondescript office building. I make a note to check the leases—does Joyful Justice have an office there now? Or does Robert Maxim keep one there for interrogations?
I click through the final images of Sydney coming out with the woman. She does not look injured in any way. No limp, no bruising. I sit back and sip my rosé, scanning the photos.
I almost spill my wine as I bolt forward. What the hell? A tall, lanky figure is on the edge of one of the images—a man walking away from them, with bright red hair.
Is that?
I click to the next image, but he’s out of the shot. So I go back two and there he is, in full view of the camera: Billy Ray Titus’s right-hand man, Nathan Jenkins.
What the hell is he doing in Miami following Sydney Rye?
Sydney
Santiago blinks against the bright light spilling into the small room. He holds up a hand to cover his eyes and turns away from the door. Santiago’s sleeve is ripped, stained with blood, and his usually perfect hair is rumpled and curled. There is a ligature mark on his wrist and the red line makes my heart beat faster.
Petra promised he wasn’t hurt.
“Santiago,” I say and he drops his hand, scrambling to stand.
“Sydney!” He blinks, recognizing me. “I knew you’d come.” He steps forward, not limping or wincing in pain, and embraces me.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I am now that you’re here.” He steps back. “How is Hugh?”
A warmth spreads in my chest. Bound and held against his will in a tiny, pitch-black room, and Santiago is worried about Hugh. “He’ll be fine as soon as we let him know you’re with us.”
“He’s safe?”
“Totally.”
Santiago nods. “Thank God.”
“They didn’t hurt you?”
He shakes his head, holding up his torn sleeve—there is a deep scratch on his forearm but nothing serious. “The worst damage was to my suit.”
“We can get that fixed.” Such a small and stupid thing to say. Santiago forgives me with a smile. “I’m sorry,” I say.
“Make it up to me?”
My brows lift. “Anything.”
“I want to get married today,” he says, looking past me into the hallway of the boat. “What time is it?”
“After midnight,” I tell him.
He nods, his jaw tightening with determination. “Then we have twenty-four hours before another circle around the sun. I’m not wasting one more moment not married to the man I love.”
The words bring tears to my eyes, and I have to turn away. Blue’s nose touches my hip, and I rub his head, finding comfort in his presence. There is beauty and love in the world, not just evil and revenge.
“Let’s do it,” I say.
Santiago nods and follows me as I start down the hall. Robert waits on the upper deck with three men, all of them in matte black, their weapons holstered, but their deadly natures evident just in the way they stand. They are killers.
Santiago touches my arm, and I glance back at him. He’s gone a little pale. “Don’t worry,” I say quietly. “They are on our side.”
He nods, relaxing. Trusting me.
It’s my fault he ended up imprisoned on his wedding day, and he still trusts me.
“Santiago,” Robert says. “Good to see you well.”
“Thank you.”
Robert pulls out his phone and presses a button before passing it to Santiago. “I know Hugh will want to hear your voice.”
Santiago takes the phone, his eyes suddenly red-rimmed, and he turns his back to us, putting the phone to his ear. Robert gestures with his chin for his men to step onto the deck and we follow, giving Santiago privacy.
“He wants to get married today,” I tell Robert, the brine-scented breeze pulling a strand of hair free from my ponytail.
Robert nods, lit by the electric lights coming through the salon’s windows, his gaze following one of the loose strands of my hair as it tangles against my lips. I tug it free, pushing it behind my ear, only to have it lift and float away again.
His mouth quirks into a smile. “My life/ How much more of it remains?/ The night is brief.”
I raise my brow, recognizing the poem. “Masaoka Shiki?”
“Very good.” His voice is a deep rumble.
I let out a laugh, but it is cut short when Robert catches the strand of hair and places it gently behind my ear, his palm cupping my jaw. “What are you doing?” I strive to keep my voice even, but it is high with fear and anticipation.
He just shakes his head ever so slightly, all relaxed pleasure. “Nothing.”
The door of the salon opens behind me and I turn, Robert’s hand dropping away. Santiago joins us on the deck. Tears glisten in his eyes. “Thank you,” he says, holding out the phone.
Robert brushes past me. “Let’s go,” he says. “I hear we have a wedding to attend.”
Santiago breaks into a grin and nods, emotion brightening his eyes. He links his arm through mine, and we follow Robert off the boat toward the waiting vehicles.
We start for Star Island, Blue’s weight heavy against my side. Santiago, his energy sapped, quickly falls asleep, snoring softly next to me.
I wake with a start when Robert’s hand touches my arm. I fell asleep?
Blue is watching me. “We’re here,” Robert says. Out the window, the familiar gardens of Robert’s front yard glow under the warm light of strung lanterns. They swish back and forth in the sea’s breeze, throwing shadows. It’s beautiful.
Santiago climbs out his door, and I open mine, joining him on the path. Blue leaps out and leads the way toward the house’s front entrance. The door swings open, and Hugh bounds out. His hair is wild and his eyes wide.
He lunges down the steps, and Santiago races toward him. Robert takes my elbow, slowing me to a stop. The two men embrace, a shared sob rising up between them.
Tears prick my eyes and I turn away, giving them privacy. Robert tugs on my arm, leading me away from the main entrance and around to the front patio, where the sea wind blusters hard enough to pull a tear from my eye. We enter Robert’s office through the sliding glass doors, and he closes them behind us, silencing the wind.
The room is dark, the familiar furniture and bookcases just shapes in the dimness. Robert moves around and turns on the desk lamp.
The tears start slow and hot. I swipe at the first, but two take its place. Robert’s jaw tightens as he watches me, his fists on the desk, shoulders hunched forward. I take a stuttering breath, desperate to banish this swelling tide of grief, but it rises like a storm surge—unstoppable, powerful, and impermanent.
Robert moves around the desk so fast my breath gets caught for a moment—a brief pause in the midst of the cyclone.
“Don’t cry,” he says, close to me, his voice a deep rumble. Robert’s strong chest, straining against his black T-shirt, is right at my eye level.
I cover my face and turn to him, falling against all that strength. His arms come around me, gently at first, but as my tears transform to sobs he holds me tighter, squeezing me, crushing me against his chest.
“Shhhh, it’s okay,” he tells me.
I shake my head. I’m not crying because anything is wrong. It’s just all so much.
His hand rubs up and down my back. My hands leave my face and scrunch into his shirt, pulling the soft material, crushing it in my fists so I can feel his muscles underneath.
Robert’s lips brush my forehead—once, twice…warm and soft. The bristle of a day’s stubble is sandpaper against my skin.
I raise my gaze to look up at him. His eyes hold mine. God, he’s so human. There is hunger in his expression, along with deep sadness and sharp intelligence. His hands still on my back, fingers curling and gripping my shirt as mine hold his—knuckles digging into muscle and skin.
“I’m sorry—” I say but he cuts me off, his lips pressing to mine, fast and hard, stealing my breath and my thoughts.
I try to pull away but he’s holding me too tight…or I’m holding him too tight. Breathless—mindless—I pull back, caught in a tangle of arms and hands and lips and tongue and pure electric fire.
“No,” I plead, quietly, so quietly…but he hears, and he stops. I duck my head and press it to his chest. It’s heaving, his heart hammering. My lips are raw, tears still seeping hot and steady from my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I say, my thoughts coalescing, forming out of the fog of upset swirling in my mind.
His fingers loosen, and his lips brush my hair again. “You don’t need to apologize.”
“I’m in love with Mulberry.” The words come out weak—low— almost unsure. But my heart is hammering his name. I do love him.
“If you say so.” Robert’s voice thrums through his chest, right into my ear.
A spark of anger ignites, and I want to pull back to look into Robert’s face again, but I can’t risk it. If he kisses me again, I don’t know what will happen.
Robert’s hands drift up and down my back in a comforting stroke. “You left him.”
His words energize me, and I pull back this time. Robert lets me slip from his hold easily, his eyes searching for mine. “For his own good. I loved Mulberry enough to let him go.”
Robert doesn’t move or speak for a long moment—just stands there breathing, his eyes bright and lips glistening. A tug on his mouth almost breaks into a smile, but he turns away, tracing one long finger along the edge of his desk as he moves around it.
Robert reaches his seat and looks up at me again. His eyes are shuttered, dark. “I’d never leave you.” He says it quiet and sure. It’s true.
“Even if you thought it was best for me?” I take a step forward, anger and righteous indignation propelling me into his desk, my palms hitting the hard wood with a slap.
That tug turns into a smile, and Robert nods slowly, ever so slowly, his eyes holding mine, and it’s then that I realize… he just told me he is in love with me.
And that he’ll never let me go.
The force of the realization drives me back until my legs knock into one of the armchairs.
There is more than one way to be a slave.
I turn to the door, my hands fisting. I have to get out of here.
Lenox
Petra smiles at me, her expression easy—a predator in disguise. She looks like any sophisticated, wealthy woman sitting at an outdoor café enjoying coffee: hair pulled back into an elegant twist, silk blouse moving subtly in the breeze, diamond necklace sparkling in the sun. The security men in the SUV watching her could just as easily be her own hires as opposed to those paid by Robert Maxim.
Petra watches me as I wind my way through the sparsely populated tables. She sits up a little taller and reaches for her water glass. A sign of unease. “You look well,” she says, when I reach her.
Taking the seat across from her, I catch the waitress’s eye. Young, slim, and tan, she raises her brows and begins to move toward us. I point to the iced latte in front of Petra, and the waitress smiles and nods, veering off toward the bar. I sit back into the chair, stretching my legs out in front of me. They are still stiff from all the flying. “I’m sure I look well compared to the last time you saw me,” I say to Petra, my voice low, neutral. Not unfriendly but lacking warmth. “Last time we met I was running for my life.”
Petra purses her lips. “You looked good then too. You always look good, Lenox.”
Unbelievable. A laugh bubbles up in me, but I control it. The fear of that night drawing it from me as a cold compress draws heat. “Why am I here?” I ask her.
Her eyes flick behind me, and the waitress approaches with my coffee. “What else can I get you two?” she asks, looking between us.
“I’ll have the yogurt and granola,” Petra says, holding out the menu—her sleeve slips back, revealing a faint bruising around her wrist. Sydney must have bound her at some point.
The waitress takes the proffered menus and turns to me. “Just the coffee.”
Petra frowns as the waitress leaves. “You’re not hungry?” she asks, lips pouty.
“I don’t plan to stay long. I have nothing to say, but Sydney asked me to hear you out.”
“I suppose you expect me to apologize,” she sits back a little as she says it, her jaw setting into a stubborn line.
“That’s up to you. Say what you want. I’m listening.” I glance down at my watch. “But I’m leaving soon.”
“Oh Lenox, don’t be mad. I let you go.” Crossing my ankles, I fold my arms and wait for more. “The McCain brothers lied to me.” Her voice is firm, as if that’s an acceptable excuse for kidnapping a young woman and holding her hostage, then chasing an old and trusted friend through the woods with the intent to kill or capture him.
“What did they tell you about Elsa? How was that young girl ever a threat to you?” I keep my voice even despite the anger simmering in my chest. Elsa is a child.
Petra breaks eye contact, her shoulders slumping forward under the weight of her mistake. “I regret what happened.”
“Your regrets are not my concern.”
Petra’s eyes find mine again. “Does our history mean nothing?”
“Our history makes this betrayal that much worse.” I suck in a breath, attempting to regain control of myself, but I’ve shown my anger. Exposed my hurt.
Petra reaches for her bag, a red leather clutch with a gold chain. She opens it and hesitates for a moment before glancing up at me again. “Can I make it up to her?” she asks.
“You’d have to ask Elsa that. But I’d guess not.”
She leans forward, her hands still on the purse in her lap. “Can I ever make it up to you?”
“Which part? The exposure of how low and callous and greedy you are?” I shift toward her, my legs coming under me and my arms landing on the table, so our faces are close. “Or the attempt to kill me, chasing me through the woods like a hunted animal? How can you ever make that up to me?”
Petra wets her lips. Her emerald green eyes are still beautiful, still bright…how is it I can see her so differently yet she looks so much the same? “I want your help.” This time I let out the laugh. Then just shake my head, sitting back, my arms crossed over my chest. Petra pulls her phone out of her purse and places it on the table. She looks down at the blank screen. “I need you.”
“You lost me.”
Her eyes jump to my face, and the pain in them is reflected in my own heart. She takes a breath, settling herself before she continues. “I’m going to help take down the McCain brothers.”
“Yes, I know.” Sydney and Merl informed me of the plan.
“That will leave a vacuum.”
I puff out a breath. “One I’m sure you’ll be willing to fill.”
“Will you partner with me?”
“Partner with you?” I shake my head, a laugh dying in my throat—crushed by a sudden wave of despair. We are so far apart.
“Lenox. Be reasonable.”
“I am.” I say it quiet, gentle. “Who wants to partner with someone who has tried to kill them?”
“I did not.” Her voice rises, and she glances around, but no one is looking at us. The only other occupied table is at the far side of the patio, and the couple seated there is very much involved with each other. Petra returns her attention to me. “I could have killed you, Lenox, and I did not. I never wanted to hurt you. Never.” Her voice is fierce, hard. She means it. “I’m sorry.”
I lean forward again, and our faces are close. “It’s far too late for that.”
Petra sighs. “You’re right. Lenox,” she reaches out, touching my forearm, but I retreat. Petra purses her lips for a moment, taking a breath, and then continues. “Someone will take over their business interests. Wouldn’t you rather it be you than someone less scrupulous?”
“Like you?”
“You can help keep me in line.” A spark comes into her eyes—a challenge, the hint of a game.
“I don’t deal in women.”
“You haven’t. That doesn’t mean you can’t.”
My mother’s face—alive, laughing, her hair wet from the sea—bursts across my vision. Is there anyone who could have kept her safe? “Lenox, think of how much good you can do…” I drop my gaze, looking down at my hands, resting on the white linen cloth. They are still covered in tiny wounds from my escape. “Please—” Petra cuts off as the waitress arrives to deliver her meal.
“Can I get you anything else?” the young woman asks. I force myself to meet the waitress’s gaze, both to acknowledge her presence and drag myself from my own thoughts.
“No, thank you.”
She walks away, and Petra sips her coffee. “At least think about it.”
“I will. If you tell me who is working for you on the island?”
She picks up her spoon and dips it into the creamy yogurt, bringing it to her lips before she responds. “I will tell you, in good faith that you will join me. As I am joining you.”
“Tell me because it is the right thing to do, and I will consider working with you.”
She nods. “His name is Mitchel Swan.”
The name is instantly familiar: Dan’s right-hand man. I’ve met him a few times. Tall, almost nondescript, but his eyes are lit by a rare intelligence.
“What do you have on him?”
Petra casts her gaze down to the bowl of artfully designed breakfast. “I don’t know.”
“Is he the only one?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?” Disgust leaks into my voice.
“How can I be sure of anything now?” Petra asks. “They lied to me—never in a million years did I think they would be dealing in”—she lowers her voice to almost a whisper—“war slaves. It’s disgusting.”
“Yes, it is.” And so are you.
Her eyes jump to mine, as if she’s read my thoughts. Petra’s jaw tightens. “I did what I thought was right.”
“And you were wrong.”
Her cheeks brighten in a rare blush. “I know that.” She holds my gaze. “And I will do whatever it takes to make amends.”
I nod once, believing her intention but not sure if what she seeks is possible. “I have to go,” I say, rising. She does not try to stop me.
But as I turn to leave, she says my name. “Lenox.” Her voice is high, almost childlike. I turn back to her. “Please,” she says. “Think about joining with me. I won’t do this alone.”
I don’t respond. I can’t. She’s backed me into a corner. There is no right way out. I either have to scale the walls or blow a hole through them. Taking over the McCains’ business is of no interest to me, but if we leave the vacuum then another bad actor is likely to take their place.
So I don’t answer. I just turn and walk away, reaching into my pocket for my phone. I’ve got to call Dan and give him some bad news.