Robert
My back hits the water as I take in one more breath. The weight of my clothing helps to sink me deeper, faster. With my lips and eyes pressed closed I reach out blindly with my hands. The water is oily—burning my skin where it isn’t covered by the wetsuit hidden under my clothing. Debris bumps against me, disorienting me in the dark quiet.
My fingers brush the slimy wooden side of the canal and I kick toward it, diving deeper, feeling along the beams until I hit the hard metal of the oxygen tank. I clear the mouthpiece, my lungs throbbing, then lay it over my lips and take in a breath. I find the mask and fit it over my head.
The engine of the speedboat throbs to life above me. My face-mask in place, I look up to see Fernando’s craft churning the water as it speeds away.
I kick off my shoes and put the flippers on. Settling the oxygen tank straps over my shoulders I swim forward, navigating through the murky water.
It takes fifteen minutes to reach my exit point. When I surface, Declan reaches out and helps haul me up onto the bank. Dr. Smith immediately begins spraying me down with cleansing water as Declan helps me out of my clothing, taking the fake blood packs and bulletproof vest off and then unzipping the wet suit.
The toxic water washed away, the doctor injects me with a shot of antibiotics before putting cream on my face and hands where the water left chemical burns. I dress quickly in dry, clean clothes, my stomach unsettled but my mind clear. My hands are red and blistered, and I can feel the same where my mask and mouthpiece didn’t protect me—it’s painful but not unbearable. “Keep the burns well lubricated and they should clear up in the next two weeks,” Dr. Smith tells me.
No one but Declan, Dr. Smith, and Brock will see me anytime soon, so there is no need for vanity.
By the time I come back to life the burns will be healed, and my plan almost complete.
Sydney
“Please,” Mom grips my hands, blood from the now-motionless Incel bus driver sticky between us. “If not for you then for the baby.”
I grit my teeth. “I can’t just leave.” My eyes jump to Veronica, she’s breathing but for how much longer. She needs an ambulance.
“Please,” Mom says again, her eyes wide and pleading.
“We need to go,” Anita says. “That helicopter is getting everything.” They are centered over the brawl so right now we are off camera but if I run over there…
“I know you want to help,” Mom says. “It’s your nature. Always has been. But, you must take care of yourself and the baby—don’t make the same mistakes I made.”
Oh Lord, here we go.
“Mom—” It comes out almost like I’m whining.
“Take care of yourself so that you can care for your child. Go.”
My eyes flick behind her where the Incels are overwhelming her followers. There are women on the ground, men standing over them, blows raining down.
“Sorry, Mom,” I break free from her. “I can’t.” The bus driver lies dead at my feet, his tire iron next to his limp hand. I wipe my blade off on my jeans and slip it back into my ankle holster, then scooping up the tire iron, I run toward the fight. Blue taps my hip; he is with me.
“Sydney!” Anita yells as she runs behind me.
A red-headed guy in his early twenties is kicking a women in the fetal position—his hair flopping over his forehead, a grin distorting his face into a bizarre mask. He looks up at the sound of my approaching footfalls. His eyes land on mine and the grin falls. I swing the tire iron, he stumbles back, tripping over his victim and splaying on the ground.
Blue leaps onto him, and Red Head screams, his voice high and terrified, sending a shiver down my spine. Movement in my peripheral vision makes me pivot. A man, blood streaming from a cut on his cheek, is running toward me like a bull seeing red.
I steady myself, the tire iron cocked on my shoulder, ready to play t-ball with this dumb fuck’s head when he grabs at his neck. His eyes roll into his head and he drops to his knees, then keels over onto the pavement—a dart sticking out of his neck. What the—?
“Sydney!” Mulberry is jogging toward me, Nila and Frank with him, one of Robert’s dart guns in his hand. He’s wearing cargo pants, a black T-shirt, and a baseball cap tugged low over his eyes. His gait is lopsided but steady.
Sirens wail in the distance. “We have to go,” Mulberry says, gesturing to where an SUV idles behind him.
“I’ve been saying the same thing,” Anita pants, catching up with us.
“Give me the dart gun.” I hold out my hand.
He passes it over without question, pulling another from a holster at his lower back.
Red Head is lying still, Blue’s teeth around his neck. “Off,” I tell Blue, then shoot Red Head. His body goes limp.
“Come on,” Mulberry says.
“First we need to put down more of these fuckers.” I still have four darts left in this clip. And Mulberry has six. “How many cartridges did you bring?”
“All of them.”
And this is why I love this guy. A radio on Mulberry’s belt crackles as I aim at the closest Incel member—he’s straddling a woman on the ground, trying to press a tire iron against her throat. Her legs kick, and she’s got both hands wrapped around the weapon, arms shaking with the effort of holding it at bay. I shoot him in the shoulder, and he slumps over.
“The riot inside is under control,” Mulberry tells me, holding the radio to his ear.
I shoot another Incel member. His face hits the pavement. That’s going to leave a mark.
“How do you know it’s contained?” I ask.
“I’m tapped into the National Guard’s radio. There are ambulances en route.” Good.
The helicopter buzzes overhead. I don’t look up at it, my baseball cap still shielding my face. Mulberry shoots a man to our right.
I take out another Incel member.
“Why are these guys here?” I ask no one in particular, glancing down at Red Head.
“Dan says they put a call out online. Figured this would be a good place to ambush your mom, considering the lack of police.”
“But what about the National Guardsmen?”
“Somehow they knew they’d be occupied,” Anita guesses.
“Bingo,” Mulberry says, firing again.
Mulberry’s radio crackles again. “The guardsmen are coming now,” he says, grabbing my arm. There are only a few Incels left and the Her prophet followers are circling them so we can’t get a clear shot anyway. I let Mulberry lead me away, Anita and the dogs coming with us.
We get into his SUV, and he peels out of the parking lot. The helicopter continues to circle over the scene like a giant vulture.
Adrenaline fades from my system. The image of Robert sinking beneath the water flashes back. It’s impossible that he is gone. I just don’t believe it. My throat tightens. What if I’m wrong?
An explanation for the sharpshooter comes that evening. I’m sitting with José at his friend’s house, his eyes are red and swollen. “His own son,” José sniffles. “He lured him there and then shot him. It’s terrible.”
Is it true?
I hold the note that was inside the bottle of pills. A warning to Joyful Justice. If we don’t back off, we will all die. Robert is just the first. They promise assassinations of all kinds.
The house is modest but comfortable, the owners Cuban immigrants like José. Mulberry stands by the door, his hat still on, head bowed so that I can only see his jaw—it’s clenched tight and covered in a day’s worth of stubble. Frank leans against his leg, tongue lolling out. Blue sits on José’s foot, resting his head on his knee. Nila waits by the door, her ears swirling.
We left Anita at the hotel, her brow furrowed as she furiously typed on her computer, trying to sort out what is going on.
As we head back to meet her, Mulberry clears his throat. “Are you okay?”
I turn to him. “Sure.”
“I know you and Robert were close.”
“Yes,” I agree.
He glances at me and then returns his attention to the road ahead. There isn’t much traffic. “You don’t seem that upset.”
“I don’t think he’s dead.”
“What are you talking about? Anita said you guys saw him get shot, fall in the water, and not come back. He’s dead, Sydney.”
I shrug. “Doubt it.”
“Then what do you think is going on?”
“I think people are trying to destroy Joyful Justice—Robert’s son included. They are smart and ruthless and know that killing individuals does little to stop a movement like ours. We are an ideal—justice for all. You can’t kill that. But you can tarnish our reputation, make us out to be corrupt, reckless, addicted to violence. You can’t do that by creating martyrs. Look what happened when I tried to kill off Joy Humbolt. She became even more popular, a bigger influence. And this group that’s going after us, they're not dumb. They're just on the wrong side.”
Mulberry stays quiet for a long time. “Is it possible they plan on both—tarnishing our reputation and killing people?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
“And do you really think Robert is somehow part of this plot, that he would turn against you?”
Is it better if he’s dead or has betrayed me? “I don’t know. I’ll deal with it if he turns up. One thing at a time.” My phone buzzes—a text from my mother. “Veronica is in stable condition,” I tell Mulberry.
“Good,” he says. We spend the rest of the drive back to the hotel in silence.
Anita knocks on my door as I’m getting out of the shower. I let her in and then dress quickly in the bathroom. She’s standing at the window, holding a glass of cognac and watching the airline traffic, when I come out.
“Long day,” I say.
She huffs a small laugh and turns to me. “I want to ask a favor.”
“Okay…”
She puts her drink down on a side table and clasps her hands in front of her.
“There is more footage of you, from today. People are piecing it together—it doesn’t look good for us. Convincing the world that we had nothing to do with that riot is hard when there is video footage of you in the middle of that fight.” I nod but don’t respond. She hasn’t asked for anything yet. “You’re a liability. Please lay low. Stop fighting for a while.”
“How can I?” my voice is quiet, genuine. “They are trying to destroy us.”
“What you resist will persist, Sydney. They will succeed if you refuse to work with us and instead act as a lone wolf.” Anita takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, but you need to hide for a while. Go to the island or Costa Rica. Let me deal with this—this, Sydney, is a PR situation. The more we fight, the faster we sink.”
I sit on the bed, lips pressed tight. She’s right but I hate to admit it.
Anita sits next to me and takes my hand, lacing her fingers with mine. “Motherhood will make you strong. Stronger than you’ve ever been, but in new ways. Please.” She isn’t pleading, just asking gently. “Acknowledge this change and work with me. You’re better off away from all this.”
I’m exposed and vulnerable. My hand comes up and rests on my belly. Blue taps his wet nose to my elbow.
“Okay,” I say, my voice low.
“Thank you.” Anita lets out a long breath. “Thank you,” she says again. Then she smiles and squeezes my hand. “Don’t worry, you’re going to have plenty of time to fight, but right now you can take comfort from your friends—let us take care of you for a while.”
I nod my agreement.
Alone, in the dark, the curtains pulled aside, I watch planes take off and land. Blue lays on the bed with me, his back pressed to my spine. Frank snores at my feet and Nila is curled in the bend of my knees. My hand rests on my stomach.
Determination hardens in my gut. I will survive. My child will survive. Joyful Justice will not be destroyed by rumors or lies. We will fight this war until the end of time.
I’m pulled from my sleep by another knock on my door.
Blue is waiting by it, his tail still, his eyes trained on the wood. Frank is still snoring and Nila waits by the bed. I cross to the door and look through the peep hole. Impossible.
Mercury gray eyes stare back at me. I fumble to remove the chain, my mind reeling…I must be dreaming but oh what a beautiful dream.
I get the door open and stare. “James?”
He opens his arms, and I fall into them. This is impossible. He’s dead. There is no coming back. But his breath on my shoulder feels real, the press of his arms around me, the scent of him. It all feels so real.
“Hey, Sis,” he says into my hair.
I’m crying, sobbing…elated and terrified. If this is a dream I don’t want it to end.
Book 13 in the Sydney Rye Mysteries releases in 2020. Join my newsletter using the link below for the most current news.
Turn the page to read an excerpt from A Spy is Born, A Starstruck Thriller Book 1. Angela Daniels always wanted to be a star, and she never considered becoming a spy...now she’s both.
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