Undefeated, page 4
“So then wouldn’t the American operatives who killed her want her death known about…I mean, didn’t they kill her to shut the prophet up?”
Petra closes her bag and slings it over her shoulder. “I do not know why they did it. Maybe you should ask your friends.”
I cough a laugh. “You think I should call up Declan Doyle and ask him why he led a mission to kill a prophet?”
Petra smiles, her red lips spreading into an almost evil grin. “A game of cat and mouse is more fun if you are the cat,” she says before looking at her watch again. “I must go.”
I stand up, dislodging Blue. He leaps off the bed to stand by my side. “Thank you,” I say, my arms suddenly feeling very awkward. I want to hug her, but I don’t think she’s the type…
“There is no need for thanks,” Petra says. “I did nothing for you.”
Yeah, don’t think I’m getting a hug.
“Thanks anyway, thanks for being you.” Her nose twists as if she’s smelled something bad. “Say hi to Lenox for me.”
Petra nods and turns, leaving the room quietly. “We better get going too,” I say to Blue.
He doesn’t respond. I glance down at my phone, run my finger over the screen unlocking it and pull up Declan Doyle’s number. No, I have nothing to say to him.
That’s not entirely accurate, I have a lot of things to say to him including you’re an asshole of the first order and next time I see you I’m going to fucking kill you, you lying sack of shit.
Instead I reply to my mom. Doing great. Baby’s wonderful. Robert is…you know him
I send the text and stare down at the blue bubble—all true…and yet one big lie.
CHAPTER SIX
Flying in private planes no longer feels odd to me. But commercial…when did I get so used to being treated like a queen? I’m standing in Heathrow airport with Blue close to my side. High above us skylights ping with rain. The light is gray and dreary—classic English weather. The giant space feels both airy and quiet—so much room overhead and yet I’m standing in the check-in line with what appears to be a hundred people.
I lived in London for three years right after I fled New York—once Mulberry pulled my drunk ass off the beach in Mexico and gave me my new identity, Sydney Rye. I worked for him as a private eye. The memories are happy ones for the most part. I had a great apartment. A boyfriend. A life that didn’t orbit around vengeance and justice—at least on the surface. Though my mind never strayed far from those old stomping grounds.
I knew even then that I’d never be normal, but I also didn’t understand how irrevocably I’d transformed my life after avenging my brother’s murder and fleeing New York City. Deciding my pain justified killing another human being—that my brother’s killer and so many like him deserved to die—is the moment I became Sydney Rye, even if I didn’t start carrying her passport until later.
The world still didn’t know my transformative act of vengeance was a failure. I doubt anyone would believe me now. It’s not like I’ve tried to hide the truth: when I strode into Mayor Kurt Jessup’s office, gun blazing, I shot a corpse. Poorly.
Robert Maxim, protecting his own interests, had already killed that corrupt, insane, dangerous man.
When I lived in London, I loathed Robert Maxim. I spent many nights seething that he stole my revenge from me. If only I’d killed Kurt Jessup, then I wouldn’t have this incredible, searing pain. My grief wouldn’t feel like drowning. If Robert Maxim had just stayed out of my business, everything would have been fine.
I huff a laugh as I move up in the check-in line. Naive much? Robert always said he understood me the way no one else could because we are so alike. The thought terrifies me. If I’m like Robert Maxim, then I’m a monster. If Robert Maxim is like me, then maybe he’s not a monster. Why can’t the world just be black and white—why must it be so fucking gray?
“Hi.” I smile at the woman behind the airline counter, putting on my best I’m a totally normal person face. Oh, this giant dog. Let me explain, I’m a totally normal person with a lot of anxiety…which is actually pretty normal. The world is a hot mess. It’s crazy AF out here, and I need a giant dog sitting next to me in First Class to deal.
She smiles back at me, her eyes never meeting mine as she takes my passport. There is a blue and white scarf around her neck—a sporty neckerchief. It harkens back to a time when airline travel was still glamourous. When people dressed up for the occasion. When it was largely reserved for upper-class white people in tie-and-jacket or dresses and pearls.
“I have you all set in a first-class pod; you have a layover in Los Angeles, and then onto Nadi on the Fijian island of Viti Levu.” She clacks on her computer. “How many pieces of luggage to check?”
“None,” I say. She glances up then, finding my gaze. Her eyes are deep brown and sharp. Oh, right, no luggage on commercial means terrorist. I hold up my duffel. “I have a house there,” I explain. “And my Paris wardrobe isn’t appropriate for the island.”
She nods and smiles, as if she understands this made-up life I’ve created. My anxious rich lady with giant dog and small duffel persona is working. Her gaze drops to Blue. “You have all his paperwork?”
“Yes.” My gaze catches on her name tag. “Sarah.” I smile as I pull out the veterinary forms, the microchip information, and his blood tests. Sarah smiles back as she slides them off the counter.
“He’s beautiful,” she says.
“Thanks.”
“How old?”
“Still young,” I say, weirdly defensive.
Sarah ignores my strange tone and enters all Blue’s information into the computer. “He will have to quarantine when you arrive,” she says, glancing up.
“I’ll just be passing through,” I say. “My house is on a private island. We have our own rules.”
Her eyebrows shoot up and her gaze rakes over me again. My hair is pulled back into a ponytail that when I left the hotel was not messy but I can feel wisps of hair flying around my head as she notes them with her gaze. I’m not wearing makeup…I live out of a small duffel and feel like clean underwear matters more than a chic appearance. Though Petra’s go bag has inspired me to invest in some new essentials.
I dumped the black sweatsuit and purchased a blue velour one at a shop in Paris before heading to the airport. The saleswoman said it brought out the blue in my gray eyes, and Blue’s…so I don’t look like a total disaster, I’m pretty sure.
Do I look like a woman who has her own island? I straighten my shoulders. “What?” I ask Sarah, forcing her to meet my eyes again.
“Nothing,” she says, dropping her gaze quickly.
I lean forward, placing my arms on the narrow counter between us. “Sarah.” She looks up. “I know it’s not normal to encounter a single woman in a velour tracksuit, wearing no makeup or fancy jewelry, accompanied by a giant dog, who has enough money to fly half way around the world in a pod to her private island. But not everyone who’s successful flashes it. And not everyone who flashes is successful.”
She blinks a few times, my wisdom appearing to have no impact at all. Then she smiles and rolls her eyes. “Trust me, this job has taught me not to make assumptions.” Sarah leans forward so that the space between us becomes intimate. “You can learn a lot about people in a job like this. I love paying attention.”
“You are a unique person, Sarah.”
Her smile is subtle. “We are all unique, Tara,” she says, using my alias.
“Touché.”
Passing through security with Blue proves to be fun. People coo over him. He draws all the attention. Blue pretends like he doesn’t care, but I can tell by the tapping of his tail that he loves the extra pets. When we both prove to be free of explosives and weapons...well, weapons they can detect, they release us into the gate area. I can kill with just my hands. Also, I’ve got a leather leash—a workable garrote.
The two hours before our flight drag on in the way that time in an airport does—every minute an hour until it’s time to board and suddenly time speeds up and presses into a mass of people crowding around the entrance, ignoring instructions to wait till their zone number is called. We make it to our pod and the flight attendant brings me a sparkling water. Takeoff proves rough, the dreary rain carrying some punch.
“Sorry for the bumpy takeoff,” our captain says once we’ve reached cruising altitude. It’s a woman’s voice and I smile at my own surprise. “Our flight time to Los Angeles today is eleven hours and twenty-five minutes.” Blue sighs as if he can understand her words. “It should be pretty smooth from here on out. A little rough air has been reported once we get closer to LAX but I’ll keep you updated. In the meantime, sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.”
They dim the lights as if we will sleep. It’s the middle of the afternoon…
Blue and I walk the aisle every two hours—pregnancy and blood clots, and altitude, oh my! The blue light of the screens turns the other passengers pale and sickly. A mother stands in the rear of the plane with her baby, swaying back and forth. She wears a blank expression, all vitality drained from her features. Blue touches his nose to the baby’s socked foot and the mother rears back.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “He would never hurt a baby.”
Her expression, moments ago vacant, now verges on deadly. “He might wake him up though,” she hisses at me.
“Sorry,” I whisper back. “I’m so sorry.”
When we finally get to the pet relief area at LAX, Blue looks like he might propose marriage to the fake fire hydrant in the middle of the fake grass. Sunshine glares off the polished linoleum floors outside the low white picket fence. The windows here frame blue skies tinged yellow with pollution.
A city on the ocean, surrounded by mountains, Los Angeles cradles pollution like that exhausted mom cradled her baby. Fuck me. I rub at my eyes, gritty with exhaustion. The loudspeaker crackles to life. “If you see something, say something,” the announcer intones.
I blink my gaze back into focus, glancing around the half-deserted hall. Across the way a bookstore beckons. Blue and I spend the next hour in its paper-scented aisles.
We board the flight to Nadi and settle back into our new pod. Blue lies down at my feet and I get another seltzer. As we taxi toward the runway, Blue sits up to rest his head on my knee. I used to be afraid of flying…but then I almost crashed into the ocean in a helicopter and somehow that fixed me. Sometimes our biggest fears coming true exposes them as nothing more than phantoms.
I wake from a doze, suddenly alert, adrenaline running through my system. Was it a dream? Blue’s low growl tells me that no, something is wrong. The cabin is dark, the lighting dimmed to a dusky blue. I lean forward, glancing out into the aisle. I can’t see any of the other passengers except for their feet. The guy across the way wears one white scuffed sneaker—the other foot is encased in an orthopedic boot and a crutch leans against the divider between his pod and the next over.
“Come on, Blue, let’s stretch our legs.”
My body tingles as I stand. Something is definitely wrong. We start moving down the aisle, passing into the economy cabin. Most of the passengers wear sleep masks and headphones, their necks at uncomfortable angels.
It’s a large plane, with two aisles, rows of three on each end and a row of four in the middle. Turbulence shakes the plane, rattling the overhead compartments, and jiggling the passengers in their seats. Blue trails behind me as I make my way slowly toward the back.
A little girl—probably seven or eight—gasps when she sees him. “Mom!” she yells loudly, which earns her a harsh hush from her mother. “But Mom,” she stage-whispers. “Look at that dog!”
I smile and stop. “You want to pet him?” I offer.
Her eyes grow wide and she nods vigorously. “What’s his name?” she asks, stretching out her small hand toward Blue’s face. He sniffs her fingers and then dips his nose under her hand so that her palm rubs up his snout and over his head. The girl giggles.
“Blue,” I say. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Daisy,” she says, her attention riveted on Blue. “Did you name him that because of his eye?” she asks.
“Yes.” I smile.
“Thank you,” the mom says to me. I nod. It’s nothing. There is a tablet in a bright purple case on the tray in front of Daisy, and a coloring book with a box of markers. How hard it is to keep a kid this age entertained on a ten-hour flight!
“We had to leave our dog at home,” Daisy informs me. “How come you got to bring yours?”
“Don’t ask that,” the mom says quietly, as if I can’t hear.
“Why not?” Daisy turns to her parent, confusion written across her brow.
“It’s okay,” I assure them. “He’s an emotional support dog,” I explain.
Daisy’s head whips back around to me. “A what?”
“Honey,” her mom hisses.
“Really, it’s okay,” I say again. “I have anxiety.” Among other issues. “And he helps keep me calm.” He also helps me kick ass…
“Oh.” Daisy nods, as if she knows exactly what I mean. “My dog, Sal, keeps me calm, too.”
“I’m sure he does.”
Blue’s attention shifts down the aisle and I follow his focus. A man is standing up, stretching. He’s tall, over six feet, so the seats back here must be hard on him. The guy is wearing a green Eagles sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. His hair is brown and short—almost military but not quite. There is something about him…his gaze meets mine and he freezes. We both do. My breath stops short on an exhale.
There is a spark of recognition…not that we’ve met but that we see what the other is. He is a killer. And he knows I am too.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“How much does he eat?” Daisy asks.
“Um.” I swallow, still staring at the guy. He stares back.
“Honey, stop bothering her,” the mom says.
“It’s fine,” I say again, forcing my gaze away from the stranger. “He loves steak.” I smile.
“Oh, Sal loves steak too, but I’m not supposed to give it to him. Mom says that feeding dogs from the table will make them think they are humans.”
“You should listen to your mom,” I say, my focus wandering back to the stranger again. He has moved to wait outside the bathroom. Which makes me suddenly need to pee. “Nice to meet you,” I tell Daisy. “We will come visit again in a little bit. We walk the aisles about every two hours.”
The mom’s gaze drops to my stomach—the bulge is hidden by the big sweatshirt I’m wearing, but a hint of a smile crosses her features. When her eyes rise to mine there is nostalgia in her gaze as if her memories of walking to ease the strains on her pregnant body are fond.
“Bye Blue,” Daisy says, leaning over to kiss his snout. He closes his eyes and then licks her cheek as she backs away. Daisy laughs and we continue down the aisle, headed right for the killer. He must be ex-military; there is something about the way his sweatshirt fits, the way his jeans hug him. The words all-American come to mind. He’s like a USA poster boy.
As I pass his empty seat I glance over. There are two women in his aisle, leaning on each other, asleep. There are no magazines or other diversions on his seat. No headphones either…
He leans against the wall, arms crossed, eyes trained on Blue and me as we move toward him. “Hi,” I say, smiling.
His brown eyes narrow. “Hello.” The man’s voice is deep, his accent American.
We stare at each other for another long moment. Then the bathroom door opens, releasing an elderly man into the cramped space with us. We all shuffle around, making room for him to leave. “You can go ahead,” All-American says.
“You were here first,” I point out.
He works his chiseled jaw for a second as though he is about to argue with me but then steps into the tiny space. Blue sits next to me and I place a hand on the top of his head. “What do you think, boy?” I ask in a whisper. Blue, as usual, has no verbal response. “Could be an air marshal,” I point out. Blue leans against my side. Could be a terrorist…a white supremacist. The guy is not an incel…if he’s celibate, it is voluntary.
But why would a terrorist be on a flight to Fiji? We are over the Pacific for the entire flight. Sure, theoretically a terrorist could turn the plane around and use it as a weapon for a target on the West Coast, but wouldn’t they have done that closer to land? And haven’t enhanced security and hardened cockpit doors eliminated that risk?
Plus, he wouldn’t work alone. I scan the passengers again, just seeing the backs of their heads. “Doesn’t make sense,” I say. But something is making me and Blue uneasy. And we know how much trouble likes us.
The door opens and All-American steps out. Blue and I shift to make more room. He gives me one more hard, long look before heading back to his seat.
A flight attendant appears next to me. “Do you want me to hold his leash for you?” she asks. “So you can use the facilities.”
“Oh, yeah, thanks.” I hand the leash over and she coos at Blue while I step into the lavatory.
When I come back out the flight attendant is down on one knee talking baby talk to Blue who is eating it up, his eyes at half mast as he accepts the generous pettings and love. “He’s amazing,” she says to me as she stands. Blue wiggles so that he is now sitting on her foot.
“Yeah,” I say with a smile, accepting the leash back.
“He’s a really special guy. What’s his name?”
“Blue, and I’m Tara.” The lie rolls right off my tongue. “What’s your name?”
“Angel.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
“Thanks.”
Blue and I return to our seat and the flight drones on. I doze occasionally, waking up with that same sense of something being not quite right.
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