I break into Declan’s hotel room, and it’s fun. Santa Teresa is a small surfer town at the tip of the Nicola Peninsula. There isn’t a paved road for over an hour. Daniela flew me to the tiny local airport, and I drove a Suzuki Jimney—a tiny beast of an SUV—over here.
En route I saw a young man and woman sharing a moped wearing police uniforms—so I’m not too worried about the law enforcement presence. Declan picked the right spot for our rendezvous...
Blue and I wander through the studio apartment-style room, then go through Declan’s bags. It’s all beach stuff and expensive-looking toiletries. I open one of the small containers and take a sniff. Yummy. I put it all back and then return to the main room.
Glancing out the window down to the beach below, I see Declan coming out of the waves. He’s been in a surf lesson and now is shaking hands with the instructor, smiling, looking for all the world like a man on vacation.
He starts back toward the two-story hotel, and I lose him as he enters the shaded path. “Almost show time,” I tell Blue.
We stand in a clear sight line of the door. I’m not trying to scare Declan and have him accidentally shoot me. If we are going to kill each other it will be on purpose.
I’m wearing a flower print sun dress that flares at the waist and hits just above my knees. Underneath I have on a pair of thigh-holster-concealed carry shorts—like bike shorts but with pockets designed for weapons. There is a petite pistol in the left pocket and three throwing knives in the right. Tucked between my cleavage is a lipstick taser. Thanks to breast feeding, I now have boobs big enough to hide dangerous weapons. Just one more benefit…
The lock clunks and the door opens.
“Declan,” I say, my hands up in the international sign of don’t shoot.
He drops his beach bag, a gun replacing it—he must have been holding it and the bag with the one hand, hiding it in the folds of the loose canvas. His eyes scan the room, his gun tracking his gaze. “You alone?” he asks.
“Well, Blue is here,” I point out, tilting my head toward him.
Declan steps forward, headed for the closet door. He kicks it open all the way. Finding it empty, he stalks to the bathroom.
Declan’s wearing board shorts that fall just to his knees and a rash guard. His cheeks are ruby from the sun, and his hair is sticky with salt and sand. It’s not a bad look. “So you know Richard Chiles was behind Jackson’s assassination?” I ask, skipping past any niceties, as he kicks the bathroom door open, scanning the interior for danger.
His focus returns to me, eyes narrowing at the accusation. “That’s a bold claim, Rye. You have any evidence to back it up?”
“Not that you can use in court. But I can show you enough to flip you.”
“Flip me?” Declan laughs at that, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “I’m an officer of the law, Sydney, not one of your little vigilantes.”
“Size doesn’t matter in the vigilante game.” I smirk and drop my gaze to his pants. “It’s all about how you exact justice.”
Declan breathes out a laugh but doesn’t respond to my dick joke.
“Sit down.” I gesture toward the table and chairs by the windows. Sunlight pours in, covering the setup in warm yellow light.
“Close the curtains,” Declan says.
“Don’t want to meet the same fate as the senator?” I ask. “Smart.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“You know I’m not just a bloodthirsty murderer looking for my next kill, Declan. I’m a good guy. Besides,” I smile. “I could have killed you when you walked in the door.”
“Just close them.”
“Yes, sir,” I tease.
His jaw clenches. Declan’s pistol tracks me as I cross to the curtains. I find the cord behind the thick drapes and pull it. The two sides lurch together like it’s the end of the show.
“Put the gun away, Declan,” I say, turning back to him. “Let’s talk.” There are no lights on and with the drapes closed the room is cloaked with shadows.
Declan lowers his weapon but doesn’t put it down.
“Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?” I ask, jutting my chin at his mini bar. “I could use a beer. It’s a hot one today.”
Declan stares at me for a long moment and then backs up, keeping his focus on me. He tucks his gun into the waistband of his swim trunks, then ducks down to pull two beers from the fridge.
He crosses the room, passing me one of the cold cans. The scent of sand and sea mixed with a hint of his fancy toiletries float off him. We open our beers and I hold mine up. “A toast,” I say. “To old friends and new allies.”
“I’m not your ally,” Declan says, not touching his beer to mine.
I shrug. “Okay, how about to just old friends then.”
“How about to justice,” Declan suggests.
I acquiesce with a slight nod. He touches his can to mine and we both drink. “So, why are you here?” I ask as he lowers his drink.
“Why are you here?” he responds, a twinkle in his eye.
“It’s almost like you called. Showing up in Costa Rica. Remember the last time we were here? You stabbed me.”
“You stabbed me back.”
I shrug, a smile tugging at my lips. “Some might call that justice.”
Declan barks a laugh. He turns to one of the chairs and drops into it, putting his beer on the table. I take the other seat. The room is dim, but I can still make out a few grains of sand dusting his cheekbones.
“Go ahead,” I say. “I’m listening.”
“What do you have on Richard Chiles?”
“You want information? Are you willing to share it?”
“Yes.” There is some kind of finality in his voice, as though he’s made a decision, maybe one he’s wrestled with for years.
“Okay, he was behind Consuela Sanchez’s niece’s kidnapping.” He swigs from his beer but doesn’t look shocked. “You knew that already.”
“Suspected.”
“He’s kind of a monster.” Declan doesn’t respond. “He also tried to kill me, my son…” I leave Peter out of it because, well, Declan doesn’t need to know all my secrets.
“He’s the one who suggested you were still alive to me. Pushed me to look into it. When I saw the footage from the conference,” he says, referencing when I tried to go see my mother give a speech at a Midwestern convention center and ended up killing several gunmen attempting to commit a mass shooting instead…a day in the life of Sydney Motherfucking Rye, “I recognized you immediately.” A ghost of smile whispers across Declan’s lips. “I’m glad you’re not dead. Even if you’re a pain in the ass.” He rolls his shoulders. “And you did good, that would have been a massacre.” Declan sips from his drink, not meeting my eyes.
“Thanks, hopefully my son isn’t scarred for life.”
“Everyone is scarred, Sydney.” His eyes meet mine, soft and almost sweet. If a man like Declan Doyle could ever be sweet. Maybe he was when he was a boy. Maybe Declan Doyle was a sweet, earnest boy…
I look away, not wanting to think about Declan having his own wounds. “So you came because you suspect Richard Chiles of being a monster and you wanted me to confirm or deny.”
Declan stares at his beer on the table. “Something like that.” I wait. His eyes come back to me. “Yes,” he finally admits.
“And now that you know.”
“I don’t know, you’ve made accusations in the past without evidence.”
“You know,” I say, “your gut told you, then that big brain of yours made you fly here to confirm it.”
He shakes his head, annoyance creasing his forehead. “It’s not that simple.”
“No, bringing down a sitting senator is never simple. Unless, of course,” I shrug and lean back in my chair. “You assassinate them. For example, what happened to Eunice Jackson. It’s pretty easy to blame mentally-ill lone wolves—though I don’t see how two men can be lone wolves. Seems two would cancel out the lone. And there were two assassins at Senator Jackson’s murder. I was there, remember. I saw one of her killers get struck by lightning. That is not something you easily forget,” I say with a shiver because it was one of the more gruesome things I’ve witnessed. “Obviously, I’m not an expert in covering up assassinations,” I admit. “In any case, it would be harder with Richard because he’s a prominent white man and there are far fewer of us running around killing them because of our rage. Lone wolves tend to go after minorities fighting for equity. I guess lonely wolves love white men.” I sip my beer.
Declan’s expression turns stormy. “What about Robert?” he asks, his voice vitriolic.
“What about him?”
“Why haven’t you killed him?”
“I’m in love with my oppressor,” I say, echoing Senator Jackson’s words. “It’s a thing.”
Declan’s brows raise. He was not expecting that answer. “Stockholm syndrome?”
“Something like that. He treats everyone like shit except me, there is an allure to that.” His brows crease. “Also,” I rub at my beer, wiping some of the condensation away. “He loves the monster in me.” I raise my gaze to meet Declan’s. “So that’s unique.” And he’s been very helpful on many occasions—the man has done a lot to advance Joyful Justice’s cause, though I’m not going to tell Declan Doyle all that.
“You love the monster in him?” Declan’s voice comes out slow, like he’s trying to solve a difficult math problem.
“I don’t know. I could have killed him many times, and I haven’t.” I take a long draw off the beer. “I’ve never fucked him either.”
Declan holds up both hands as if surrendering. “I didn’t ask.”
“You were thinking it.”
Declan laughs. “I assumed.”
“And we all know what assumptions do, don’t we?”
“Makes asses out of you and me.”
“That’s right.” We both sip our drinks. “Do you want to change the nature of our relationship?” I ask. He takes in a deep breath. “Work together.”
“No,” he says quickly. I wait. “But maybe, we could…share information on occasion.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“Justice.”
I smirk. “Don’t you just know the way to my little vigilante heart.”
“I thought size didn’t matter.”
I laugh. And just like that I’ve got an informant at Homeland Security.