Undefeated, page 2
“I’ll see you soon,” Mulberry promises before gently kissing my belly again. The warmth of his lips penetrates through my shirt, igniting more feelings, more confusing feelings. He rises to his feet and leans in, kissing me on the cheek, his hand coming around to my low back, pulling me against his chest. “I love you,” he whispers in my ear, before placing a final kiss on it.
Mulberry moves back and my body feels cold and small without his big warmth next to me.
Robert steps forward and his hand slides to the same spot on my body—spreading across my lower back. But then it shifts, sliding lower. He pulls me close, my body pressing against his and Robert’s lips come to my ear—right where Mulberry’s were, but the words he speaks and the way he holds me are so very different. “I will have you,” he says before nipping at my lobe with his teeth. “And you know it.”
Energy pulses through my body in harsh waves—the dangerous swells of the Pacific rather than the lapping ripples of the Caribbean. “You cannot run from this forever.”
When he steps back my body is on fire and so is my mind. Time to leave. Blue’s wet nose brushes my fingers in agreement and I turn without another word, opening the door.
“Mrs. Maxim,” Robert says before I cross the threshold. I don’t turn back but I do pause. “Don’t forget your vows.”
I look over my shoulder at him. “My name,” I remind him, “is Sydney Motherfucking Rye.”
CHAPTER THREE
Petra Bokan waits outside the hotel. Her black coat is misted with rain and it pours over the awning in sheets. The scent of wet cement fills the night. Lightning streaks across the sky, catching the scene in bright white for a split second. We are all actors on a stage.
Petra raises a brow. “You get what you needed?” she asks me, her Slavic accent adding edges to the words. Her partner, Lenox Gold, has a Senegalese accent that softens words, making them sound musical. Both of them former sex workers, they now run ethical brothels together.
I shrug. “They agreed to give me space, and help…”
Her smile tilts to one side and her emerald green eyes flash. “Oh,” she says, like she perceives some deeper meaning under my words. Ignoring her expression, I look out at the drenched street. “I’ll call a car,” she adds.
“Thanks,” I answer, my gaze locked on a turbulent puddle. The Peshmerga fighters had docked the sailboat in Marseille and, from there, Blue and I took the train to Paris. The Peshmerga commander, Zerzan Kahni, didn’t share her plans but promised to be in touch. Anticipation hums in my veins. What will their next move be?
With Rida gone, the religious movement is leaderless, but Zerzan was never a disciple. The Peshmerga fighters are a multi-ethnic, multi-religious militarized arm of the Kurdish Democratic Party. They fight for women…no matter their faith or birthplace. Zerzan, known as the Tigress because of her fierceness and the scarring on her neck that looks like claw slashes, grabbed my hand as I climbed off the boat.
Low clouds created a darkness that the yellow lights of the marina struggled to penetrate. Zerzan’s dark eyes met mine. She didn’t say anything but an understanding passed between us.
You can’t escape this. Stop running. Start burning.
Back in Petra’s small attic apartment, with the rain slashing at the dormer windows, exhaustion washes over me. I won’t be able to sleep, though. My mind races, churns, and falters—too tired to do anything and too scared to stop trying.
“Here,” Petra holds out a steaming mug of tea to me. The scent of warm honey and chamomile drifts from it.
“Thank you,” I say, taking the proffered cup.
Her shoulder-length chestnut hair is wet and she’s changed into sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt—both in a pink that looks great with her dark hair and pale skin. It’s one of those fancy sweatsuits—the kind that cost as much as a crappy used car. Petra rests her hands on the back of the couch and looks down at me with narrowed eyes.
I’m wearing a sweatsuit too, a black one we picked up from the Zara across the street just before it closed. I travel light, especially when fleeing by boat.
Behind Petra the lights are on in the kitchen area, glinting off the stainless-steel fridge and shimmering over the granite counters. A bar with two stools cordons it off from the sitting area. The front door to the left of the kitchen has three deadbolts on it…as though Petra expects trouble. We always should.
Petra comes around and sits at the other end of the couch. Blue leaps up, curling himself between us, resting his chin on my ankle.
“You look tired,” Petra says in her blunt way.
“Thanks.” I smile.
“You should be resting, no?”
“I’ll sleep eventually.”
Blue growls low in his chest and his head pops up. Then he’s off the couch and to the door, nose pressed to the crack under it. His growl hums louder.
Petra’s eyes find mine and I give a small nod. Some shit is about to go down.
I stand, holding my tea. Petra dashes to her bedroom and I hear a closet door slamming open. I circle the couch and Blue backs off the front door. Closing my eyes, I listen closely.
We are on the top floor of a walk-up building. There is only one way up and down—the staircase right outside the door. There are no other residences on this floor, so the casualties should be just the intruders stalking up the steps.
Who they are doesn’t matter—either someone after me, or Petra, or both. Could be a rival criminal organization unhappy with Petra and Lenox’s business model. Could be members of the “Action Men,” the ridiculous name for a group of involuntary celibates who want to take down Joyful Justice. Could be the police or Homeland Security.
When you try to change things…people try to kill you. One plus one equals two.
Footsteps shuffle on the top steps—they’re moving fast. The door shudders under an impact—probably a battering ram. I sip my tea; it’s burning and sweet. Placing it on a side table next to the couch, my churning mind settles now that it has a focal point. People trying to kill me always chill me the fuck out.
Petra returns, a pistol in each hand. She passes one to me and then pulls another from the back of her pants. I put Blue in a down stay at the foot of the couch so he is invisible from the doorway and protected by the furniture.
Petra and I position ourselves on the couch—the bulk of our bodies behind the back, weapons resting on the edge, aimed at the door. My son shifts inside me and settles again.
Another swing of the battering ram and the door explodes inward, bits of wood splintering out like shrapnel. A man stumbles in after it, the weight of the bright red tool carrying him forward. Petra fires, the crack of sound setting off ringing in my ears.
The force of the bullet hitting his chest knocks the intruder back a step, his eyes widening in shock. What the fuck did he expect when he smashed his way into Petra Bokan’s apartment?
He loses his footing and falls back, the heavy red ram slipping from his hands and crashing onto the floor—denting it. The intruder lands on his ass, blood spreading from the center of his chest, soaking his black shirt.
Two men stand behind him, jammed in the narrow corridor. They are both tall and broad, wearing all black—classic enforcer types. This stinks of organized crime and greed. Petra and I both fire in quick succession, forcing the men back down the stairs, hiding from our bullets. The injured man on the floor crawls after them. I aim at his back and fire. He jerks but keeps crawling. One of the other men reaches out and grabs his hand, hauling him to safety.
The bright red battering ram lies on the floor, the parquet ruined.
Petra and I keep firing, pocking the walls with bullet holes. I stop after ten shots, assuming there are fifteen in my gun. Petra keeps going until her weapon is empty. Then she drops it and picks up her spare. Silence filled with ringing descends.
The stink of gunfire thickens the air. I strain to hear any movements beyond the door. Time stretches. Petra shifts slightly, repositioning herself. I lift and release my shoulders, trying to ease the tension in them. My son kicks twice.
“Do you think they are gone?” I ask after an immeasurable amount of time.
Petra shakes her head, the movement visible in my peripheral vision. We wait more. My knees and leg muscles throb. My throat burns. I need a drink of water. The cup of tea, still sitting on the table next to me, whispers my name.
I glance at it furtively before returning my full attention to the doorway. Sirens sound in the distance. “Think that’s for us?” I ask.
“Seems likely,” Petra says.
“I think they were here for you,” I say.
“Yes. They did not look like your incels.”
My incels? “They are not big fans of you either,” I point out.
She huffs a laugh. “No, they are not.”
We wait a few more heartbeats, the sirens growing louder. I turn to Petra and gesture with my head that we should check out the stairs. She nods.
Slowly I back off the couch. My knees ache from holding my position. Blue rises and moves to my side, falling into step with me. We round the couch. Petra and I meet and she signals that she will go first. I shake my head, glancing at Blue.
She nods. Blue leads, his head low, nose to the ground. He will be able to scent if they are still here. He stops at the blood spilled on the floor and sniffs it for a few seconds before crossing to the threshold.
The narrow stairs curve down so that the men could be hiding just out of sight. Blue stops. He looks over his shoulder at me. A silent communication. They are still here.
I back up, and Petra moves with me. Blue follows. We retreat to the couch again. My throat cries out for my tea. “They can’t wait for the police to arrive,” I say.
“Unless they can,” Petra says, cryptically.
“As in maybe they are in cahoots?”
Petra rolls her eyes at me. “Cahoots,” she mutters. “Something like that.”
“Don’t you have a connection with the police?”
“Yes,” she says simply, her tone indicating that is the end of the conversation.
I pick up my tea and take a long sip, keeping my gaze on the stairwell. Blue growls and a figure appears in the doorway. A shotgun blast explodes into the room, slamming into the wall behind us. Petra fires. The man stumbles back, knocking into the wall and falling out of sight down the stairs.
His body thumps and the gun clatters for a few moments before coming to a stop. All we can see is the empty doorway. I take another sip of tea. It’s lukewarm but still soothing.
“One left,” I say. “Think he will stick around?”
Petra shrugs. “Depends on how stupid he is. And how much he wants to die today.”
I do like Petra.
Thumping footsteps start and then fade. Petra and I look at each other. Let’s check again. We follow the same pattern except this time Blue does not stop. There are two corpses splayed on the steps, blood dripping—the sound silent to my ringing ears.
We retreat back into the apartment. “He could be waiting downstairs,” I say.
Petra nods. “We must go now though,” she says. “I need my bag.”
She disappears into the bedroom. I collect my own small duffel, slinging the strap across my body and cinching it tight. All it has in it is my phone, cash, toothbrush, Blue’s collapsible bowl, and a few passports…everything a woman on the run would ever need. Pulling on my boots, I lace them quickly, trusting Blue to keep watch while my attention is distracted.
Petra reappears carrying a leather Louis Vuitton backpack, I assume packed with the same staples as mine. She hands me a fresh magazine. I release my almost empty one.
“You know,” Petra says to me, her lips twisting into a smile, lifting her already high cheekbones. “We often find ourselves in danger together.”
I huff a laugh. “That does not make this relationship unique for me,” I say, driving the fresh magazine home.
“Yes,” she nods, her eyes casting across the room to the seat built into the dormer window. “So maybe you are the one bringing all the trouble.”
Petra crosses to the window. She scoops up a figurine there and stashes it in her bag, then looks up at me, her emerald eyes sparkling. “Maybe even,” she says as she moves back toward the door, “you go looking for it.”
“Yes,” I admit as I follow her down the stairs. “People have mentioned that before. But I don’t see it.”
Silence falls between us as we move past the dead bodies, our weapons up, the scent of blood ripening the air. Ringing dominates my hearing, shrouding the other sounds with its high-pitched whine. Blue’s nose brushes my knee as he stalks next to me, his head low, angled to look down the stairs.
We reach the bottom of the first set of stairs and pause. The ceilings are higher on the lower floors, the space more open, and the air fresher. We pad across the carpeting, passing two closed apartment doors, and round onto the next set of stairs. Our footsteps are quieted by the thick carpeting.
Sirens breach the humming in my head and Petra begins to leap down the steps, taking them two at a time, her free hand gliding along the banister to help steady her speed. I follow, my feet flying over the steps, my mind as calm and steady as it can be, my body moving with the lithe grace I’ve cultivated.
This is what I’m meant for…
CHAPTER FOUR
We reach the street level, my boots echoing in the high-ceilinged lobby with its glossy hardwood floors. A mirror set into one wall reflects the three of us as we move carefully toward the glass front doors. Petra in the lead, the fancy pink sweatsuit baggy on her small frame, hair pulled back into a low ponytail. She moves with elegance and purpose, each fall of a sneaker-clad foot quick and carefully placed.
My black sweatsuit fits tighter, with the pants tucked into my laced boots, and my blonde hair loosened from the bun I pulled it into before the shootout. Blue, his coat glossy in the low light, stays close to my side, his head at my hip, body trailing behind mine, big tail low, ears perked forward. Everything about him is sharp focus.
Petra pushes out into the night. Our remaining attacker must have fled—the street is empty, its quiet disrupted by the shriek of approaching sirens. The rain has slowed—it’s just misting now; the streetlights wear halos and the cars are covered in diamonds.
Petra turns left, as if she has a plan, a place for us to go. I follow, trusting her instincts, knowing they are as honed as my own…probably even finer since this is her city.
“Sorry about your apartment,” I say as we round the corner. The siren-bearing police cars screech onto the street we just abandoned. Petra and I slip our guns out of sight. I stash mine in the front pocket of my duffel at my chest, close at hand yet invisible to any officers who may canvass the area.
“It will be fine,” she says, pulling out her phone.
She swipes it open and chooses one of her favorites. A man’s voice answers and Petra speaks in French to him. She laughs and coos before her voice drops a few octaves, diving into the tones of a threat. The conversation ends soon after that and Petra returns her phone to her bag.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yes.” She smiles at me. “Just making arrangements.” Her tone implies questions are not welcome, so I press my lips together to keep from asking anything further.
The adrenaline of the attack fades with each step and exhaustion comes for me again. Petra just keeps walking, winding through the city streets, apparently tireless. “Petra,” I finally say, breaking the long silence between us. “Where are we going?”
“I have a hotel I like, it’s not far now. Very luxurious but also subtle. Not like the Crillon.” She says the name of Robert’s chosen hotel with a twinge of disgust.
“That place is a little over the top.”
“True luxury is not so flashy,” Petra says.
I shrug. “I’m going to give that a rating of ‘not my department’.”
Petra looks over at me, her eyes narrowing. “You do not care about money,” she says. “Have you always had it?”
“It’s not that I don’t care about money,” I say, defensive for some reason I can’t place. As if it’s wrong not to care about the made-up system of value humans have created. “It’s just that I don’t care about fancy stuff.”
“You fly on private jets.”
“Yes, for convenience, not for the luxury. I fly commercial when I can. When I head to the island I’ll fly commercial most of the way.”
“So what do you do with Blue?” she asks.
“He goes with me as an emotional support dog.” She makes a snorting sound that implies emotional support animals are not a real thing. “Seriously,” I say. “You think I can survive without him?”
“No,” she says, her gaze falling on Blue and softening. Even hardened criminals can’t resist his face.
We turn down a narrow alley. The rain drips off the rooflines, plopping into puddles. My hearing is starting to come back. A door opens, spilling music into the night. Two men, leaning on each other, stumble out onto the cobblestones.
They are laughing, but when they see Petra and me they straighten, their faces twisting into lascivious grins. As if they are wolves who’ve found two sheep wandering in their territory…I can’t help my responding smile. You’ve run into hunters, my friends…
They are about the same height, one with blond hair, the other auburn. They separate, spreading out…the better to surround us. Petra sighs and I glance over at her. The men are too drunk to see how dangerous we are, but Blondie does glance at Blue, his eyes narrowing for a moment, wondering perhaps if he might be dangerous. He is.
“Bonsoir,” Auburn says, his accent so bad even I can tell he’s not French. He raises both arms wide in greeting, exposing his chest for a kill shot. But I’m not going to shoot them. No, we are going to do this the old-fashioned way…
“Sorry,” I say, “I don’t speak French.”
“An American?” Blondie asks in a British accent, his attention leaving Blue and rising to my face. His gaze is cloudy with alcohol and I almost feel bad for him. He still has a chance to get out of this totally unscathed, though. If they let us pass everything will be fine...
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