Robert
Amy lives in one of the modern apartments overlooking the ocean. The penthouse has a private pool on the balcony, a helipad on the roof, and marble floors that click under her low heels as she leads me to the office.
Josh waits for us, standing next to a large touch screen monitor. The curtains are drawn against the sun, leaving the room in half shadow, the monitor glowing softly.
I can smell the booze on Josh—his eyes are red-rimmed but sober, so the alcohol is sweating out of him from last night. Amy stands next to him, her wide-legged pants and white button-down shirt crisp. The gold necklace at her throat looks almost like a collar. She is no one’s pet, though.
Amy’s effortless elegance contrasts with her brother’s rumpled sports jacket and jeans as she brushes a finger across the touch screen, bringing up the Joyful Justice logo. Another swipe of the hand and the emblem of the Her prophet appears next to it—the silhouette of a woman’s face set into the snarling profile of a wolf.
Josh steps aside, ceding the monitor to Amy, and she opens a file of photographs that spread out across the screen—images from the bombing of a Men’s Rights rally in Savannah from weeks ago. “I’m sure you know about this,” Amy says, not turning to me.
“The bombing, yes.”
“And the shootings,” she pulls up more photographs, including one of Sydney’s mother, bleeding on a stage, along with a mug shot of the shooter.
“Yes,” I say, again. “I’m aware of the two groups. What do they have to do with Joyful Justice?”
Amy turns to me, leaving the images on the screen, her smile small and knowing. “I’m sure you’re aware that while Joyful Justice is pursued by international law enforcement, there is a tentative peace based on the fact that they are both going after—” She raises her fingers into air quotes. “Bad people.”
“To a degree, yes,” I say. “But there are more reasons than that.”
She raises one brow. “Such as?”
“While Joyful Justice has a central command, the missions are always brought to them by the”—I wave a hand of dismissal—“injured parties. And often those parties are then trained to deal with the issue themselves. Even when given more concrete support, it still remains a community-led action. So, law enforcement can go after members of Joyful Justice for conspiracy, but it is very hard to prove, and those committing the violent acts are so often victims who are defending themselves that it wouldn’t look good to have international enforcers of justice, in effect, acting to protect the oppressors.”
“You sound like you admire them,” Josh says. He’s taken an armchair by the window slightly behind me.
I’m standing in front of the monitor and have to look over my shoulder to address him. “Joyful Justice is well organized. Smart. Determined. Keeps the players at the top protected. Much like we’ve always run our businesses.” I smile at him. We are on the same side. “It’s one of the reasons they are so hard to beat.”
“Exactly,” Amy says, drawing my attention back to her. “One of our biggest hurdles is their reputation for protecting the innocent. Of being ‘the good guys.’ ” I nod my agreement. “So, we plan to tie them to the Her prophet’s most violent factions.”
“Interesting approach. You believe this will entice law enforcement to take a harder look at them?”
“Yes, and turn the public against them.”
“Tell me more.” I glance at my watch to imply that while interested, I also am important, and have other tasks to attend to this afternoon.
“A mass shooting,” Amy says, her voice quiet, as if she’s just dropped a bomb and is eager to hear the explosion.
I look up and raise a brow. “A mass shooting?”
“Yes.” She’s slightly breathless, excited by her plan. “A mass shooter who claims allegiance to Joyful Justice.”
“Like the shooters in Paris did to ISIS,” I say.
She grins. “Exactly.”
“But the target would have to be innocents for your plan to work. Hard to make it believable. It would be like Robin Hood and his merry men massacring the good folks of Nottingham.” I shrug. “You might be able to fool the public into hating them, but those tasked with watching Joyful Justice know their M.O. and won’t fall for a false flag event.”
Amy turns back to her screen and opens another folder, a photograph of Declan Doyle and me appears on the screen. It’s from when we were friendly back in New York, and I was trying to woo him to work for me. “We want you to convince Declan Doyle that the mass shooting threat is for real. In fact, we want you to warn him it’s going to happen.”
I offer a suppressed smile—one that says, oh honey, I’m so sorry your plan is so silly. “There are several problems with that.” I keep my voice sympathetic—I don’t want to be ruining all her hard work, but someone’s got to tell her. “Besides my earlier points, Declan does not trust me. And, it would be out of character for me to go to such a low-level operative with important information. I dine with the head of Homeland Security. Why would I warn an investigator?”
Amy steps toward me, her eyes holding mine. “Do you want to see Natalia again?”
“Of course, and if you want me to speak with Doyle I will, but it won’t advance your plan.” I raise my hands, palms up. “This is your play, though. I’ll do as you ask.”
“Yes,” she agrees. “It is my play. And you will do as I ask.” Her voice goes hard. Amy is a formidable woman who has used her brother as a front for decades—I am one of the few people who knows where the power really sits in their organization.
Josh shifts in the seat behind me, and I glance back at him. He gets up and, catching my eyes, mutters something about going to the bathroom. Once the door shuts behind him, I turn my attention to Amy. “How long has the drinking been this out of control?” I ask, the way any good friend would.
She may be blackmailing me into cooperating with her, but that doesn’t mean we are not old, dear friends. It does not negate our history.
Her eyes shutter and she turns away, then returns to the previous subject. “I have my reasons for wanting the message delivered to Declan rather than a higher up.”
“Okay, give me more details, and I’ll deliver whatever message you want.”
Her back to me, she opens another file on the monitor and brings up a map of Miami. “I’m sure you’re aware of the massive storm damage in Miami.”
“Obviously. The city may never be the same.” Where is she going with this?
“There are refugee centers set up here and here.” She points to higher ground outside the city. “We have a woman who claims that she was raped at one of them and ignored by officials. She appealed to Joyful Justice, and they arranged to get her a gun.”
Amy doesn’t turn around, so I can’t see her expression, but her voice is flat. “She’ll kill as many people in the center as she can before being taken down. Men, women, children…she’ll claim they were all complicit in her rape. Nobody stopped him.”
Her voice is too flat. For all the horrors that Josh and I endured, Amy endured more. Worse.
“This will have a powerful effect on public opinion. While the woman’s rage is understandable, her slaughter of so many innocent people—people already traumatized by the hurricane’s damage—will create widespread revulsion. And that anger will quickly focus on Joyful Justice, which gave her the weapon. Given Joyful Justice’s reputation for aiding women in avenging themselves against their exploiters, its role in this little drama is…” She pauses, her back still to me, “believable.”
“How will you convince this woman to do as you ask?”
Amy pulls up a photograph of a dark-skinned woman with bruising on her face. “This was taken at the hospital after the rape.” Amy pauses, her fingers lingering over the photograph, and then she drops her hand to her side and turns toward me. “We approached her, pretending to represent Joyful Justice. We’ve worked on her for some time now…she is ready.”
“Ready?”
“Our recruitment techniques are not your concern.”
But I can guess what they are…convincing someone to commit violence in the name of a cause is surprisingly easy. Inside each of us a killer lurks, waiting for the right reason to unleash pain upon our fellow man. I sigh. “Amy, you’re giving me very little here. How can you expect me to work so blindly. I may want to see Natalia again, but that hasn’t made me dumb.”
Her smile widens. “No, but age, my dear friend, is starting to make you soft.”
She brushes past me, heading to her desk, and I turn, following her with my eyes.
It’s not age, old friend, it’s Sydney Rye.