Robert
My house in Cartagena is painted a vibrant blue—like the sky above a Colorado ski slope. It’s a walled compound in the center of the old city, a tight network of streets lined with colonial-era architecture.
My Miami mansion is all neutral tones and modern lines, but this four-story townhouse has high ceilings, rich colors and antique furniture. The woman who runs it, Valentina, greets us at the door. Blue’s head reaches her breast line, and her housekeeper uniform covers thick curves.
Silvery hair pulled back into a bun gives Valentina an air of dignity, while her smooth skin, flush with excitement as she welcomes me home, gives her an ageless quality.
“How long have you owned this place?” Sydney asks as Valentina leads us through the front hall into a courtyard draped with greenery. The afternoon sun slants across the paving stones and casts a warm yellow glow over a tiered fountain.
“A long time,” I answer, my mind drifting back to the first time I saw it…the rain pelting the streets, the clouds turning dusk to night, and the humidity curling my hair around my face. Three days later, I’d know real humidity—the constant oppression of the jungle—but the day I bought this house, I was still naive. A smile drifts across my lips. How times do change. “In a lot of ways this country made me who I am,” I say, surprised to hear my voice.
“What do you mean?” Sydney asks.
“Nothing.” I quickly recover my composure, pushing away the memories of my time in captivity and gesturing toward the stairs, for Sydney to go first, following Valentina.
My house manager grins and speaks in rapid Spanish, telling me about the latest maintenance and offering to stock the bar in the sitting room for cocktail hour. I agree, my eyes watching Sydney as she moves up the steps in front of me.
Blue taps her hip. Nila and Frank follow behind him—as usual, Nila is all elegant control, and Frank is a giant pawed fool still growing into himself. At over a year old, Frank is as tall as his father but not as broad, Nila shorter, sleeker, and possibly even smarter.
Valentina leads us up solid wooden steps to the third floor and my favorite guest bedroom. The canopy bed, made of dark wood and swathed in white, gauzy material, is something for a princess. French doors open to a narrow, wrought iron balcony.
Sydney steps into the room, her expression unreadable. The decor is much more feminine than Sydney would ever acknowledge about herself—yet it suits her. Sydney hides herself, wearing loose clothing and keeping her hair tied back in messy buns, never applying makeup or wearing heels, unless she’s traveling incognito as she so often has to do these days.
Sydney opens the door to the balcony, letting heat and humidity into the air-conditioned room. Outside, the spire of a cathedral towers over rooftops dotted with potted plants—terracotta and greenery brilliant under the hot midday sun. Beyond the old town, high rises in white and blue, opaque with distance, hug the shoreline. “It’s beautiful,” she says.
“I’m glad you like it.” And I am glad. Her opinion means too much to me. “I’m right down the hall. And Valentina and the other staff are always available to you. Just dial 0.” I point toward the phone on the bedside table.
Blue finishes his circuit of the room, the puppies right behind him, Nila’s brow knitted with concentration and Frank’s tongue flopping out of his mouth. “I’ll let you get settled,” I say. “Then meet me in the living room for a drink?”
“Sure.” She looks over her shoulder at me, her fingers toying with the sheer white curtain as it flutters in the breeze coming through the open door.
I turn to leave and then pop my head back in. “One more thing—there is a pool on the roof if you want to go for a swim.”
She laughs. “Of course there is.”
“Yes,” I agree. I’m not ashamed of my wealth or how I choose to spend it.
After my shower, I change into white linen pants and a pale blue cotton shirt. Rolling up the sleeves, I fasten my watch into place—a simple black band with gold face, subtle and yet expensive. Fastening my knife holster to my ankle, I slip a favorite dagger into the fine leather.
The wood of the hall is warm against my bare feet—the sun heats this interior space. Open to the central atrium, it smells of the greenery and flowers that grow in the courtyard below. The tinkling of the fountain at its center mixes with the twittering of songbirds as I jog down the steps toward the second floor sitting room.
Valentina keeps the place spotless, and I appreciate the effort. Making a mental note to give her a bonus, I enter the living room.
Sydney stands by the open French doors to the balcony, her back to me as she takes in the view. She’s changed into linen as well: loose navy blue pants and a matching tunic that reaches mid-thigh. On any other woman it would look like frumpy leisure wear—but on Sydney it comes off as a fighter’s practice uniform—easy to move in and lightweight.
Blue sits at Sydney’s side, facing me and the door, his mismatched blue and brown eyes missing nothing. He acknowledges my entrance with a low growl of greeting. Frank thumps his tail and wags his way over to me while Nila keeps her gaze fixed on Sydney, waiting for a command. That’s a hell of a dog she’s got there.
Sydney doesn’t turn to me, and I take a moment to admire the length of her neck, which is exposed since her hair is up. Frank gives a small yelp and spins once he reaches me, his big tail whacking into my thigh. Sydney turns quickly, as if she didn’t hear my entrance…or Blue’s growl. That’s not like her.
Her eyes meet mine and leap away. Sydney’s arms come up and cross over her chest, then she takes a breath before meeting my gaze again. It only takes a moment but is significant. Something is going on inside that head of hers. Is she missing Mulberry?
I smile at her, summoning patience and forcing my jealousy away. It won’t change anything. “You okay?” I ask. She nods and gives me a weak smile. “Gimlet?” I gesture to the bar on the sideboard.
“Just seltzer, please.” She’s not drinking? That’s strange as well.
She crosses to the worn leather couch and sits as I make our drinks. I pour myself a mescal on the rocks and bring both glasses to the couch. “Has Dan had any luck finding Mulberry?” I ask.
Her eyes jump to meet mine and her lips firm. I’ve read her mind. Of course I have, we are simpatico.
“No,” she says. “Have you looked?”
“He’s not right for you,” I say instead of answering her question. I know where he is, and I’m sure Dan does too. But neither of us wants her to find him. She should just leave him alone. The man left for a reason.
Sydney frowns deeply. “Don’t,” is all she says.
“Sydney, we’re friends, aren’t we?” I sip the mezcal, enjoying its smoky spiciness.
She looks at Blue, who’s lying next to the couch, head between his giant paws. “I don’t know what we are,” she says, her voice low and unsure.
I can’t help the smile that twists my lips. She kissed me back. And it was one hell of a kiss. My gaze falls to her lips, and I am drawn to them, drawn once more to her—a salmon whose instincts force him to swim upstream even though all the herculean effort brings is his death. I stop myself from leaning toward her, from reaching out physically. Sipping my mescal again, I take a moment to steady myself. “Mulberry is out of the game. You could never leave it.”
“He said he wanted back in last time I saw him.”
Rage bubbles in the back of mind. When you fucked him. At my house. While I was right down the hall. “But he hasn’t come back.” My voice is even, almost offhand. Just the facts here.
“It’s been less than two months.” But she’s not looking at me, she’s staring into the bubbles of her untouched seltzer.
Sydney can’t see how wrong they are for each other. “He and his wife ended their marriage over a pregnancy,” I say, keeping my voice casual. She jolts, her eyes jumping to mine. “You didn’t know?” Sydney’s jaw clenches. “He wants children someday, I’m sure. Most men do.” I give a casual shrug. “But you’re not maternal.”
Sydney stands so quickly that Blue has to leap out of her way. He and Nila both perk their ears toward her—searching for the source of aggression. “What do you know about what’s maternal?” she hisses.
I sit back on the couch, keeping my face neutral, raising just one brow in question at her sudden rage. She turns away from me and stalks to the bar, putting her glass down, then turns and strides back to the window.
She’s pacing in front of me like a caged animal, her dogs following closely, Frank managing to stumble on almost every turn—the comic relief to his father’s and sister’s menacing, stalwart presences. What is going on with Sydney Rye?
It hits me like falling into freezing water. Ice courses through my veins, numbing my limbs and making my tongue thick and brain slow. “Are you—?” It comes out hoarse, the voice of a stranger.
Sydney stops. Frank knocks into her leg and then sits onto his butt, tongue lolling out as he stares up at her adoringly. Blue and Nila remain standing, sensing the tensions wafting off Sydney in waves. I lift out of the chair, my legs surprisingly steady considering I feel like the whole world is shifting under me.
Her cheeks are pink and eyes shining. She’s about to cry. “Sydney,” I keep my voice gentle and my fear leashed. “Are you pregnant?”
Her eyes dart away and land on Blue. A rush of color spreads up her neck and her hand…her right hand splays protectively over her middle. Dear God.
A sudden surge of emotion catches me off guard. A lump forms in my throat, and my hands tremble. I close them into fists, staring at Sydney’s fingers pressed into the thin shirt over her flat, hard stomach.
There is nothing soft about her now, but there will be.
She pulls in a deep breath, her thin shoulders shuddering. I turn away quickly, giving her my back. The door is right in front of me. I need to leave. Can’t let her see me like this, so affected.
I walk slowly down the hall—repressing an urge to run—and push out onto the front deck. Sydney is pregnant.
All three of my wives wanted children. They knew I didn’t intend to be a father, but as the shine of wealth wore off and their days turned long and lonely, each asked for a child. But I never wanted to be a father—to make myself that vulnerable.
My own father’s voice crackles through my memories. I’m huddled close to the fence, listening to the radio—it’s usually my mother who calls into “Las Voces del Secuestro”—The Voices of Kidnapping.
“Robert, son—” His voice wavers. Is it the reception or emotion? He clears his throat. “I know how strong you are, and your mother was so proud of you.” I sit up, fear slipping down my spine as I strain to hear the radio over the cacophony of insect song. “She passed last night.” My vision blurs and I can’t breathe. Can’t hear over the rushing in my ears.
I tip over, my face scraping on the fence as I slump against it, the pain in my chest overwhelming. A hand lands on my back, and Natalia crouches down next to me. I recognize her small combat boots caked in mud—everything in this hellhole is caked in mud. Natalia doesn’t belong here, just as much as I don’t.
“Robert?” she says—her voice lessens the pressure in my chest somehow. “Are you okay?”
I pull my gaze up to meet hers, and she raises her dark brows, her sparkling brown eyes sympathetic. She’s my captor but…
Shaking my head, I drop my chin to my chest again. Natalia puts her arms around me, pulling me into an awkward embrace. I breathe her in—sweet and earthy. Shifting to better hold her, my lips brush Natalia’s neck. She shivers and her fingers dig into my back. She wants me.
My grip on the rail of the deck tightens.
I still want Sydney. I want her even more. Impossible, yet true.
My eyes stare out at the city but see Sydney, her hair loose around her face, a smiling infant in her arms, the sun bathing them both in golden light. A strange, disconcerting, new fantasy I can’t control.
I can learn to control anything.
I will this dreadful new want away and force the memories of my captivity down.
A movement below catches my attention. Three men are walking down the street—their movements tight and organized. I release the metal railing, hot in the afternoon sun, and move out of their line of sight. They are dressed in dark jeans and T-shirts with baseball caps pulled low over their brows. These are not tourists.
I turn and, breaking into a sprint, race back to where I left Sydney in the living room, pulling my phone out of my pocket as I run. “Brock, we’ve got incoming,” I say into the phone as I burst into the room. It’s empty.
“Yes, sir, I see them.”
Crossing to the TV cabinet I open a drawer and pull out a pistol. “Where is Rye?”
“I don’t know.” The swish of his clothing carries over the line as he moves. This walled compound is protected but far from impenetrable. There are probably others approaching our back entrance.
“I’ll find her and head to the helicopter,” I tell him.
“Understood. I’ll stop those coming toward the front. I’ve got men at the back as well. The roof doesn’t have coverage at this time. We may have already been penetrated.”
“Understood.” We hang up, and I take a steadying breath before calling out. “Sydney!”
A floorboard creaks behind me and I duck, spinning around. The low whistle of a bullet flies over my head. There is a woman, clad in black, a ball cap shadowing her face, standing in the doorway. She grips a pistol with a long silencer at its tip. I raise my gun to fire but she dives into the room, sheltering behind the couch.
I lunge behind the matching leather chair, the one I sat in moments ago when I realized Sydney Rye is pregnant. Don’t think about it now. Wiping my mind of anything but this present moment, I listen for movement.
My attacker is still, producing no sound except for a quiet, even breathing. An explosion outside shakes the room, making the chandelier tinkle and plaster dust rain from the ceiling. A beam of sunlight catches the drifting motes and time slows. My heart beats. The would-be assassin behind the couch shifts, giving away her position. I rise slowly, silently, and aim at the couch.
The bullet explodes leather and fluff, blasting through the wooden frame. Her body topples onto the carpeting in a quiet jumble.
Keeping my gun up, I stay low as I come around the chair and circle the couch. She is splayed on the floor, her face obscured by the hat, blood pooling around her head. One down.
I kick the weapon away from the assassin’s limp hand before crouching next to the body. Resting my fingers on her throat, I confirm my initial assessment. Pulling back the hat, I find a pretty face, porcelain skin, and long lashes. There is a radio in her ear, which I take, fitting it into my own. It is quiet, so these are not total morons.
A lot of people want me dead. Almost as many would like to spill Sydney Rye’s blood. I pat down the body but find no identification. I’ll try to keep the next one alive long enough to ask some questions.
Sydney
There are fresh cut flowers in my room.
Pink and lush, globs of orange pollen flocked to the stamen. I rub one of the delicate, velvety petals between my fingers…it reminds me of Blue’s ears.
My father brought my mother flowers every week. She’d smile and kiss him with a breathless thank you. He’d growl low in his chest and tug her close—his strong arms holding her as if he’d never let go.
Her laughter drifted through the house like pollen on a summer breeze…they were happy.
When Dad died, Mom couldn't handle it. Couldn't take care of two kids on her own—couldn’t be on her own.
So she drank.
I turn away from the bouquet and look out the window.
I don't expect a man to buy me flowers…I expect him to die. My love is a death sentence. That's why I pushed Mulberry away. That’s why I’m best on my own.
I could end this life growing inside me before it really has a chance to get going.
But I won’t. I can’t. I don’t even want to…
Because some part of me does want flowers every week…brought to me by someone who loves me, who thinks of me on their way home from work.
I almost laugh out loud, but the weight on my chest is too heavy. Like I’ll ever be with someone who moves to the rhythms of a regular job. It is impossible for me to have a normal life.
I destroyed that option long ago. And I don’t want it now.
So what do I want?
Tears blur my view of the city outside my windows. Damn hormones.
Blue’s teeth graze my clenched fist. The low thrum of Nila’s growl raises hairs on the back of my neck as a shock of recognition jolts through me: we are under attack.
I was so damn busy imagining my future that I stopped paying attention to the present.
There’s the familiar pop of a gunshot below.
Blue is looking up at me, his mismatched eyes observing. There was a time when I lost his trust. When he became the leader. I refuse to go back there again.
With a jerk of my chin, I send him to the door. His sensitive nose presses to the narrow opening and his tail gives a wag. The hall is clear of unknowns.
I pad down it in bare feet, almost silent against the worn wood, Blue trotting in front of me, Nila and Frank on either site.
Blue stops short, his ears perked…his hackles slowly rise. We’ve got incoming.
I flatten myself to the wall—making as slim a target as possible. Knees bent, dogs at attention, I’m ready. There isn’t a thought in my head as the quiet of battle descends upon me. This is where I’m meant to be. I’m good at this. At fighting and killing and surviving.
Blue, still in front of me, gives a happy wag of his tail. The sound of bare feet on the steps, inaudible if I wasn’t holding my breath listening, stop. Blue’s tail goes again. We know this person. Must be Robert.
He steps into the hall, so quick the man is a blur, arms straight, pistol searching for a target. The brutal gaze of a killer shifts—the blue-green warming into the familiar eyes of a friend—when he sees me. We don’t speak, don’t need to know who’s after us or why, not in this moment. All we have to do is make it out alive.
Robert starts down the hall back the way I came. There is blood on the hem of his linen pants. The dogs fan out behind me as I follow him. We are headed for the roof. I bet he’s got a helicopter up there next to his pool.
We pass my bedroom on the right, the open atrium to our left, the fountain below tinkling. Black ropes drop into the space. The zing of nylon rope passing through a belay has Robert pushing into the next room. They are coming down from the roof.
He closes the door softly behind us, then steps close, listening.
The sounds of the quiet movements of killers pass through the door—the whisper of fabric, the creak of weight on old floorboards.
Our breaths come in long, even, almost-silent-but-not-quite draws. Life makes noise.
Robert looks to the French doors and small balcony of this bedroom, the same as mine. We can’t climb up or down with the dogs. His lips press tight, and the lines around his eyes deepen. The subtle tells of worry quicken my heartbeat.
He moves deeper into the room, I wait by the door with the dogs. There is no crackle of a radio—no evidence the killers are communicating.
A nearby explosion shakes the house as Robert pulls back the curtains, looking down onto the street. He draws me forward with a small wave of his hand, the way I’d direct my dogs. Clear communication between partners who know each other well.
Blue moves with me, recognizing the command as clearly as me. Nila and Frank stay close, the warmth of their bodies at once a comfort and a weight. I am responsible for them.
Shoving that thought aside, I step up to Robert. He looks down at me. We are close enough that I can smell the soap he used in the shower and see the glitter of white stubble among the black along his jaw. His lips turn up into a sly smile as his brows raise. I can’t help but return the expression. This is what we live for…what we are meant for.
He leans close, his breath warming the shell of my ear. “We are going to have to fight our way to the roof.” I nod. The lobe of my ear brushes against his lips, sending a shiver down my neck. Rapid gunshots echo in the atrium, jerking my head toward the door, and my mouth meets Robert’s.
His arm comes around my waist and he tugs me close—so fast and hard that I gasp, opening my lips, and letting him in.
An accident.
He kisses me like it is at once the first and last time…but it’s not the first. The heat between us ignites in a terrible ball of furious lust and heart-banging need. Why does death so close make life so good?
Robert’s mouth tears from mine, his body angling toward the door. He pushes me behind him as the door flies open. The jerk of Robert’s gun vibrates through his body—I feel it in his chest where my hand still grips his shirt, and in the fingers he has wrapped around my hip holding me behind him.
But I’m not some damsel in distress.
Blue is already moving, and I step out from behind Robert’s protection, following the giant dog into the hall, grabbing the gun off the dead man in the doorway. Lips tingling, body thrumming, I move toward the roof, Robert behind me with Nila and Frank.
A shout, and the wall next to me splinters with a bullet hole. Ducking into the dark, narrow spiral staircase that leads to the roof, I take the steps two at a time, then pause before the sunlight hits me. Robert fires down the stairs behind us. A shadow flickers at the top of the steps, and a bead of sweat breaks free from my hairline, sliding down my nose as the shadow forms into a man.
I fire, the figure falling with a painful yelp. His scream pitches higher as he grabs for his crotch. I aim for his head, firing and ending his suffering.
Robert shoots behind me again. “Two bullets left,” he grinds out.
Time slows—taking on that dream-like quality that only happens when my world is in danger of ending. As if time knows there is only precious moments left, so we better enjoy every last one of them.
I move into the sunlight, scanning the roof. At its center is the opening to the atrium—green vines climbing out and black ropes dropping in. The pool, aqua blue water ruffling in the ocean breeze, is just past the atrium, and beyond that sits a helicopter. A four-seater—modest for Robert Maxim. And I used to think owning helicopters was impractical.
“We’re clear,” I say, moving fast now, time speeding up again, heart racing, victory a taste on my tongue.
Blue passes me, his stride longer than mine. He recognizes our escape plan. “Wait,” Robert yells as I reach the atrium. I stop, spinning to him. He hands me his almost empty pistol and then pulls a knife from an ankle holster. I’ve got to get one of those. He glances over the edge of the atrium and then begins to cut the ropes.
Nila barks and a figure appears at the top of the steps. I fire a round, and the figure dives back into the safety of the stairwell. “Come on,” I say. “The ropes don’t matter.”
A scream echoes from the atrium, followed by a sickening crunch, and Robert is standing again, shrugging with one shoulder. I try not to smile but fail. Gallows humor takes on a new meaning in these situations.
Robert starts the helicopter while I stand next to it, covering the stairs. The blades thump through the air, blotting out all other sounds. I climb on it but don’t belt in, holding onto a strap and hanging out the side of the copter as we lift off, my gun aimed at the stairs.
We rise straight up into the air and then bank toward the ocean. Free and alive.
God, I love this life.