Sydney
Rolling over, sharp pain in my shoulder cracks through my haze of sleepiness, and I moan. A wet tongue licks at my nose, and I roll again, avoiding Blue’s ministrations. He whines softly. “I’m okay,” I assure him, my breath coming in quick, pain-filled pants. My lungs hurt too. Actually…everything hurts.
Blue’s nails on the wood floor click around until he’s facing me again. He sits, swishing his tail back and forth, staring at me. “What?” I say.
He whines again. He needs to pee.
I nod. “Got it.” I push myself into a sitting position and wait a moment for the dizziness to subside. Getting my feet onto the floor, I stand, reaching out to hold onto the wall as I make my way to the bathroom.
The mirror tells a sad tale of an abused young woman. My left cheekbone is swollen and there is a gash on my shoulder surrounded by a blooming bruise. Both my hips are bruised. I hit the ground hard a couple of times last night.
My knuckles are cut and swollen—the knuckles of an abused woman who fought back. There is a splinter in my palm that I didn’t even notice last night. Finding a pair of tweezers in my bag, I pull it loose, sucking air through my teeth. Why does the littlest shit hurt the most?
I dump some alcohol on the cut, sprinkle a little on the wound on my shoulder, then pop four Tylenol. Dressing in loose clothing not appropriate for the rainy, cold day, I leash Blue—who looks at me like I’m a traitor for the indignity—and leave the hotel room, trying to walk like I wasn’t in a hell of a bar fight last night that ended up with two goons in the hospital and two others tied up in a safe house on the outskirts of town.
They deserved it.
On the street, Blue takes care of business, and then we head to the bakery across the way. Yeah, coffee is gonna fix this. The young woman behind the counter is wearing a black apron, thick glasses, and a look of horrified fascination—she pours my coffee and hands me my muffin without mentioning the bruising, but I can tell she’ll be thinking about me for days to come.
For a moment, I envy her—a life devoid of violence, where the biggest threat to her survival is an accident. An accident. What a wonderful way to live, where fate is the most dangerous adversary.
I worked in a coffee shop once…and I quit. I chose this life. And I choose it anew every day. Fighting for justice hurts like a bitch, but it’s worth it every damn time. The faces of the women we saved last night float through my mind. I can’t even picture them all clearly. They are a blur of innocence, a sea of features, all worthy of a life free from slavery.
Back in my room, I find Blue’s kibble and pour him a big bowl, then reconsider. He deserves a special treat. I call down to the front desk and ask for an order of steak and eggs.
Before Blue’s breakfast arrives, Petra calls. She and Lenox went back out to the safe house after dropping Blue and me off. They needed to talk, and I needed to sleep. I sip my coffee and spit it back into the cup. Gross. The cream must be spoiled.
“Sydney,” Petra says for the second time.
“Yeah, sorry, hi.”
“The shelter expects us in an hour. I’ll knock on your door?”
“Sure. How did it go last night?”
“We will tell you on the drive.”
A bellboy arrives with Blue’s steak and eggs. I pick at the hash browns while he devours the protein. I should have ordered a cup of coffee.
My phone rings again. It’s Merl. I catch him up on last night. “Glad you found Mitchel’s mother. And it’s great you’re going to visit the girls in the shelter. Always good to see the positive side of what we do, and not just the bloodshed.”
Yeah. My stomach swirls from the few potatoes I had. Maybe that spoiled milk in the coffee isn’t agreeing with me.
“Any sign of Mulberry?” I ask, a lump forming in my throat.
“He hasn’t reached out to anyone.”
“Okay.”
“Hey, he’ll turn up. I promise.”
My gaze shifts to the window—it’s misty out, and I shiver just looking at it. “Yeah,” I agree.
A knock at the door draws my attention. “I’ve got to go.”
“Be brave.” Merl ends our call with the saying of Joyful Justice.
“Be brave,” I answer back before hanging up.
A wave of exhaustion crashes over me, but I push through it, headed for the door. There is no time for rest now.
Declan
It’s like being in a cloud. A cold, miserable cloud.
The air is white with mist. It isn’t raining. Just wet. A chill has set into my bones, and all my hours of surveillance under the hot Miami sun are looking like a cakewalk compared to the past few days in Ireland.
Even inside it’s damp. Even pressed up close to the fire, a cup of coffee in my hand, two pairs of socks in my new boots, and a scarf snug around my throat, I can’t get warm.
My phone vibrates on the table. Consuela Sanchez. “Hey,” I say, guilt stirring. I didn’t call her after the attack in Savannah, just dropped cash on the table for my food and left. I couldn’t explain why I was there without explaining what I was up to…and that was not an option.
“Declan.” Her slight accent turns my name from something Irish into something Latin, and I like it.
“Just one more question?” I ask, humor warming me. “You’re a regular Colombo.”
She snorts, and I settle deeper into the cushioned bench, pressing the phone to my ear, practically smelling sunshine.
“I’m assuming you heard.”
“About?” The attack on the McCain brothers’ ship last night? How did she hear?
“Joyful Justice. It’s gone dark.”
I jolt into an upright position. “What?” That makes no sense.
“Their website is gone. Not a single peep in twenty-four hours.”
“Weird.” I’m trying to sound almost uninterested. “Thanks for letting me know.” I clear my throat. “What does this have to do with your case?”
“We’ve rolled the suicide bombing into our task force.”
“What does that have to do with Joyful Justice? Was the bomber associated with them?”
The creak of Consuela’s chair as she sits back with a sigh reaches across the ocean. “She posted on their forum about 8 months ago, but it doesn’t look like she got further than that. Stacy Marcus. Ever heard the name?”
It means nothing to me. “Nope. That’s the identity of the bomber?” It hasn’t been released to the press yet. Is she testing me? Or does she trust me?
“Yes, she was staying at a domestic violence shelter. Left her boyfriend around the time she posted on the JJ forum. Looks like she got into the Her prophet soon after.”
“From what I’ve read she was wearing a burka, so I suspected as much. She didn’t leave a note?”
“Can’t say.” That’s a yes. The chair wheezes again. “Just wanted to check in and see if you knew anybody in Joyful Justice you could ask about Stacy.”
“Not their style,” I say as the waitress approaches with my breakfast. I smile as she puts it down in front of me—a greasy plate of eggs, bacon, and sausage. I wait for the waitress to get out of hearing range before I continue. “Joyful Justice is careful in its targeting. They would never risk civilian lives like that.” Memories of the attack come back to me: the acrid scent of smoldering plastic mixed with the stink of burnt flesh.
“It sounds almost like you respect them,” Consuela says.
“They are a worthy adversary.” She gives a harrumph I can’t quite interpret. Either she agrees or thinks I’m being a romantic. “Anything new on your theory?” I ask, my gaze wandering to my iPad. The minivan is still where they parked it last night in the hotel parking lot. Sydney Rye came home alone…where did Petra and Lenox go? Silence stretches. Consuela is not supposed to talk to me about it. But she wants to.
“I’ve confirmed a connection.”
“Wow. I’m impressed.” Does she know about Petra? “How?”
“Can’t say.”
“Of course not.”
“How are you enjoying your vacation?” She changes the topic.
“I’m in Ireland; it’s cold and wet. But the landscape is beautiful.”
“Discovering your roots?” she says, a smile in her voice.
“Something like that,” I answer, my eyes drawn to the iPad as the van begins to move.
“I’ve got to run,” I say. “My tour bus is leaving.”
“Enjoy the sights.”
“Good luck with your case.”
We hang up, and I take another sip of coffee before turning to my breakfast, one eye on the van as it starts through morning traffic.