Sydney Rye Mysteries Box Set Books 10-12: Sydney Rye

I am time, the destroyer of all; I have come to consume the world.

―Krishna-Dwaipayana Vyasa,  Bhagavad Gita

Her

Bleeding doesn't frighten me. I bleed every month. I am the fucking creator. You can take nothing from me because I am life. I am existence. I am you.

I am Her.

Chapter One

I Will Survive

Sydney

The doctor flashed her penlight into my eyes, and I blinked against the bright ray. My dog Blue sat on the floor next to me, his head resting on my knee. My fingers curled around the edge of the exam table, gripping onto the seat, hoping I could hold onto reality.

Robert Maxim stood by the door, his arms crossed and face shadowed. He watched us, reminding me of a simmering pot, one just on the cusp of a rolling boil.

The sound of thunder rumbled in the back of my brain. The stringent scent of the hospital tickled my nose. My heart echoed in my chest, pounding out Mulberry's name.

He'd changed my life, Mulberry—helped me when I needed it and when I didn't. Touched me when I asked and stayed away when I insisted. Now, if my mind was to be believed, his life teetered on the edge, his leg blown off, the veins opened, his blood spilled onto the battlefield, rushing away from him.

I should be the one dying.

I should be dead.

The doctor stepped back, a woman in her early 40s with straight black hair and big glasses that slipped down her elegant little nose. You've suffered major trauma.

Thanks Captain Obvious.

I think… She cocked her head, narrowing her eyes, inspecting me like a gardener might a plant that refused to grow toward the sun. We need to get you back to the States. She turned to Robert.

Thunder rumbled louder, crackling in my ears and blotting out her voice. Lightning sizzled across my vision, and I blinked against the bright, white light.

A woman's voice whispered through the storm…You are a miracle.

I shook my head, trying to shake free of the hallucinations, but they clung to me like fog hovering over a harbor—thick and dangerous, but intangible, impossible to touch or avoid. There and yet not.

Had my worst nightmare really come true? Mulberry, the man I loved, in dire danger. Me, powerless to help.

I stayed away to keep him safe.

Everyone I love dies.

Blue scooted closer, his weight warm and welcome against my leg. I rubbed one of his velvety ears.

According to Robert Maxim, Blue had fathered puppies. I glanced up at the man, blinking away the shards of light still crisscrossing my pupils.

Robert spoke to the doctor, his expression calm and controlled, like he owned the world. Like nothing in it could hurt him.

I could.

That's what that simmer was about—that anger bubbling just below the flat surface of Robert Maxim. It pissed him off that I existed, and he didn't own me.

I looked at Blue. Did I own him? No. We were partners, connected in a way that left me tethered here. Attached to this world. As tall as a Great Dane, with the long, elegant snout of a collie and the thick coat and markings of a wolf, with one blue eye and one brown, Blue made this feel real.

The doctor left, and Robert turned to me. He crossed his arms again. Tell me what you remember.

I held his gaze, the blue-green of a gentle, yet dangerous sea…deceptively cold. The kind of water that, if you fell in, would freeze you so fast you'd hardly realize you were dying.

Was I dying?

I need to speak with Dan or Merl.

I trusted Dan and Merl. They didn't want anything from me…not like Maxim. They'd know what to do.

Robert's lips thinned for a moment before he spoke. So, you remember them?

Of course I do, I frowned.

And you remember me.

I held his gaze and let a small smile steal over my mouth. You're awfully hard to forget. His lips pursed, not amused. I sighed and glanced down at Blue, soot and dust from the battle still coating his fur. I'd gotten a shower and a clean set of clothes—lightweight black canvas, the kind of stuff meant for hot weather and dangerous fights.

We captured Abu Mohammad al-Baghdadi. I glanced up at Robert, and he nodded. Working with the Peshmerga all-female fighting force, led by my friend Zerzan, we captured Abu Mohammad al-Baghdadi—one of the top theologians of Isis, the guy who found passages in the Quran that made it not only okay, but a moral imperative, to bring Sharia law to the world. And I knew that someone on our team was going to try to kill me.

Yes. Robert had warned me that the CIA had contracted with one of the men on our team to take me out after we captured al-Baghdadi. And you refused to listen.

I shrugged. I listened, and I chose to continue anyway. It was important.

Another flicker of emotion over his face. Important enough to die for?

I wanted to die.

He grunted. And now? His voice sounded squeezed, almost like he didn't want to know the answer.

I don't know what I want. I don't know what happened to me. Robert, I thought I was dead. I was lying there on the ground, bleeding, pretty sure it was all over, and then this woman appeared. I closed my eyes, going back to that moment—it was almost hidden, blocked by pain and trauma, like words on a memorial nearly erased by rain and time. She stood over me, she had on a burka…and then I was running down that hill, right into that battle.

Robert paced away and then turned back to me, spearing me with a glare from across the room. So, you don't remember being in a cave?

I shook my head.

You don't remember seeing me. Turning away from me? he asked, his voice remaining flat—as placid as the sea behind his eyes. But I could hear the danger and feel the icy chill of those deep waters threatening to suck me under.

I shook my head again. What are you talking about?

Sydney. He crossed the room quickly, grabbing my hands. His were warm and calloused, and I let him hold me. I went looking for you. He held my gaze, emotion flickering over the surface of that calm sea, a breeze stirring its glassy surface.

I smiled. I'm not surprised. You aren't good at letting things go.

I found you.

Oh.

Blue was there, with a pregnant bitch…that's how I knew he had puppies. He looked down at our joined hands. You turned away from me. And…I didn't go after you. I'm sorry. His voice lowered so that I almost didn't hear him. I didn't realize that you were under someone else's control.

Hot anger sliced through me. Under someone else's control? No fucking way.

We'll get you back to the States. He kept looking at our joined hands. The doctors who worked with you in Miami can probably help you again. I shook my head, chasing away the heat of my rage, clearing a line of thinking. I wasn't going anywhere without speaking to Dan or Merl. I trusted them. Robert Maxim could never be trusted. Not entirely.

I need to speak to Dan.

You don't trust me? His voice was the same deep rumble of the thunder that ricocheted inside my brain.

Nobody trusts you.

His gaze flicked down to Blue, and Robert pulled out his phone, passing it over to me. Call whoever you want. I'll wait outside.

He gave up too easily.

I took the slim, elegant handset from him, our fingers brushing for the barest of moments. The ghost of a smile curled at the edge of his lips before he gave a curt nod and turned to the door, leaving me alone with Blue.

I looked down at my dog, who sighed and leaned against me. What do you think? I asked, but Blue didn't answer.

A voice inside my head whispered…you can't ever leave me.

A shiver ran over my body, and I stood up, testing my strength, needing to move, to free myself from the storm inside my mind.

Lightning cracked and thunder rolled, but I held onto myself. I knew what was real. Didn't I?

Anita

Dan's black leather couch creaked as he leaned forward and hit play on the laptop.

Through the tinted glass front wall of his office, high above the command center, we could see the giant screen covered in different operations and the operatives at their desks below, but they couldn't see us.

We were in a secret cave.

Dan sat back as the video began, his thigh brushing against mine and his shoulder depressing the back of the couch so that I tipped slightly into him, his body warming my entire side. I created space between us, leaning toward the screen as the video began.

A huge man holding a machete stood on a wooden stage. Before him a crowd jostled. The camera was set up to the side of the stage so that we could see the man's profile. The Butcher.

Dan reached forward and turned up the volume as a woman dressed in long black robes was pushed onto the stage from behind the camera.

With the volume raised, I could make out the chanting of the crowd. Infidel! Infidel! Butcher her!

The woman—her face swollen with bruises and hair matted with blood—was young, hardly more than a teenager. She stumbled, and the Butcher grabbed her, pulling her into the center of the platform.

He leaned down and spoke to her, but it was impossible to hear him over the rowdy crowd.

Nausea swirled in my gut. I knew where this was going. I'd seen other videos of the Butcher, a famous Isis executioner who specialized in women.

The blade rose into the air and then swung down, whacking into the woman's thigh. The crowd erupted in applause and cheers, leaning toward the violence, the death…the murder.

The young woman hung from the Butcher's hand. Her face turned toward the camera for a moment, possibly looking at someone behind it, a serene smile gracing her split lips.

I cleared my throat, uncomfortable with the expression. Someone that close to death shouldn't look so calm. She should be fighting with every cell in her body to survive.

Why was she so passive?

Words from the Bhagavad Gita, the ancient Indian text vital to the Hindu tradition, drifted into my mind, as they often did.

Just as the dweller in this body passes through childhood, youth and old age, so at death he merely passes into another kind of body.

The crowd turned, and the Butcher's eyes flicked up, something off screen drawing his attention.

Dan sat forward, his elbow brushing mine as he rested it on his bent knee.

That must be… He didn't say her name. We both knew the story. Zerzan, our contact in the Peshmerga fighting force, had sent the video, and although it was barely twelve hours old, the rumors were spreading like wildfire on a dry and windy night.

The miracle woman took the city of Surama, then disappeared. Praise Allah. The prophet is showing her power to the world. The miracle woman is invincible. All women can rise up and change the world. Let the wolf out!

It was a very recent history playing out on the screen in front of us. It wasn't the only footage from the fall of Samara—an Isis stronghold in Syria—but Zerzan had said in her message that the footage was powerful. That it proved Sydney Rye was alive and working with the prophet.

The rumors of a miracle woman brought back to life by a female prophet—a messenger from God brought to earth to help women rise up against their male oppressors—started months earlier and had spread faster than anyone expected.

The CIA and other intelligence agencies were scrambling to deal with this new development, while my organization—Joyful Justice, an international vigilante network inspired by the vengeful acts of one young woman in New York City—was inundated with new requests.

The prophet claimed everyone decided their own value, and anyone who tried to stop a woman from expressing herself, living her life as a free and equal being, needed to be removed.

It was the kind of rhetoric that spawned new Butchers.

The crowd began to scramble, trying to escape the off-screen menace. The Butcher dropped his victim as an explosion sounded and dust and debris bloomed, instantly clouding a sunshine-filled day.

Through the veil of destruction, I just made out the Butcher leaping off the stage, his blade catching a reflection of flames before disappearing into the dust.

Another woman dressed in black robes, her blonde hair a tangled nest, climbed onto the stage and went to the fallen woman's side. Bent over the dying figure, the blonde head bobbed as her body shook. I recognize her from somewhere. She looked so damn familiar. Where had I seen her before?

That’s Sydney's mother, April Madden, Dan said, his voice low.

I glanced over at him, my lips parting in surprise.

Dan's green gaze stayed focused on the computer screen. The blue glow lit his skin, tan from his hours of surfing and running. He insisted that everyone exercised outdoors here. The island, the command center for Joyful Justice, was a former paranoid billionaire’s escape plan. He had built an entire fortress inside an extinct volcano, then died of cancer before the world could implode and leave him safely cocooned on his own private island.

The fortress—with housing above ground level and the command center below, had enough room for a few hundred people. Who did the billionaire plan to bring? What did his utopia look like?

Joyful Justice bought the island from his estate several years ago. Was there something about this hunk of rock, in the middle of a wild, untamable ocean, that drew dreams like ours— visions of a safe world? But our dream was bigger than the billionaire’s: we didn't want to save a few hundred people; we wanted to save everyone.

Everyone.

Dan found and purchased the island. Now, he was in charge of this headquarters of Joyful Justice, where all our missions were organized.

His team of experts worked ten stories underground, so Dan insisted that everyone spend at least an hour outside daily, working out, feeling the sun on their faces…remembering why they did what they did. What made life worth living.

Dan's sandy blond beard was streaked with the yellow of sunshine. His hair, grown out and still damp from a recent shower, was pushed back off his forehead. His brows were drawn together. It's freaky how much they look alike. Like seeing thirty years into the future of Sydney, Dan said, his gaze riveted to the screen.

I turned back to the computer. Rye's mother, about Sydney's height and build but slower moving, not trained to kill like Sydney, held the dying woman in her arms, tears rolling down her cheeks. She glanced up at the camera for a moment, and those gray eyes—the color of sunlight blasting through a cloud cover to glint off a riled, windy sea—caught the lens for just a moment.

She wasn't afraid of death.

Just like the woman dying in her arms…but April looked like she wouldn't go down without a fight.

Why is she there? I asked. Dan shook his head, his lips pressed tight.

We knew she was trying to find Sydney…I guess she did.

A hiccup of a laugh escaped me, and Dan turned, his heavy focus falling onto my smiling lips.

What's so funny? he asked. In my peripheral vision I saw the young woman go totally limp in April's arms.

I shook my head. Nothing. Just. My eyebrows rose of their own accord. It's not totally surprising that Sydney's mom can do whatever she wants.

Dan's mouth twitched into a small smile. Must run in the family.

On screen, April released the young woman, laying a hand over her eyes to close them.

A black-clad figure, an Isis soldier, climbed onto the opposite side of the stage and aimed his weapon at April.

She turned to run and fell forward onto her hands and knees; her face, tear-streaked and coated with dust, was so close to the lens I could see small flakes of debris caught in her eyelashes.

My breath stopped. The soldier loomed behind her. I was about to watch Sydney Rye's mother die.

Blood exploded from the man's chest. He looked down at it, confused, before falling to his knees and tipping over, apparently dead.

April scrambled to her feet and looked around, trying to find the killer. No savior appeared. April's attention fell onto the Isis soldier's Kalashnikov, and she picked it up, her spine straightening and a smile pulling at her mouth. April Madden leapt off the stage into the chaotic crowd, disappearing off screen.

The camera caught the dust, fire, and smoke of war. The stage remained empty except for the young woman's body—deathly still in a world swirling with horror—every living person who passed the camera trying to avoid her fate.

The crowd shifted and all began to run in one direction, away from the square, away from where the Butcher had run. Away from the Miracle Woman.

A dog entered the frame, a giant mastiff, golden with a black muzzle and curled tail.

I think they're called Kangals, Dan said.

He was flicking through his phone. Another dog appeared, a third, and then I saw Blue…Sydney Rye walking next to him. His head even with her waist, he was almost as broad as the mastiffs he moved with. Blue's nose tapped against Sydney's hip. She leapt onto the stage, the dog's circling around her—watching over her, but also herding her—as if she was a sheep, their charge.

Sydney bent down next to the body and felt for a pulse. Apparently finding none, she rose, and her head jerked toward the camera.

Those gray eyes pierced right through the lens, and I caught my breath, again. My hand shot out and grab Dan's forearm, squeezing.

Those eyes.

She looked desperate. Desperate to survive. Desperate to live. Willing to do anything. She was feral.

I recognized the look and the emotion behind it.

The scars on my body lit up as if fresh cigarettes were being ground into my flesh. Memories flashed; my muscle shook as I tightened the chain around my rapist’s neck. Swallowing revulsion, I forced the sensations in my body to go away and sucked in a deep breath of Dan; ocean, sunscreen and warmed computer plastic.

Those men pushed me to where I could see Sydney was on the screen. They pushed me until I would do anything to escape, anything to survive.

And I did.

I fucking survived.

Sydney turned and jumped off the stage, the dogs following in her wake.

I looked down at my hand holding on to Dan and consciously unlocked my fingers, but his free hand came up and closed over mine, warm and calloused and comforting.

Tears sprung unwelcome to my eyes. Inhaling through my nostrils, I willed away the sting and quickly swiped my eyes with my free hand. There was work to do. Our mission was bigger than any one person. Certainly bigger than me. Bigger than what those men took from me.

Frustration squeezed my throat. I didn't want them to have any power anymore. Would I ever be free?

I think we need to call the Joyful Justice council together, Dan said, referring to the governing body of our organization. His phone vibrated next to him, and I pulled my hand out from under his, freeing him to answer it. He looked at the screen. It's Robert.

Dan's voice was a deep baritone when he answered, putting on a tough facade for Robert Maxim. That was a man to show no weakness to— he'd exploit it. He'd destroy us all, if it served him.

Dan's body tensed. Sydney, where are you?

She's on the phone?

He nodded and stood, pacing away.

I turned back to the screen, the video continued to play, showing an empty stage except for one dead body through a swirling mass of smoke—a hellscape.

But of course, Sydney Rye had survived.

She always did.

Chapter Two

Trouble Defines Me

Sydney

Dan?

Sydney, where are you? It sounded like Dan…like a small piece of home.

My throat closed with unshed tears. Mulberry is… My hands sank into Blue's ruff, and he leaned against me. Comforting.

Mulberry's what? Dan's voice hardened, impatience roughening the edges.

He's…I don't know…

I looked around the room, the walls jittering and shaking in my vision.

Where are you? I heard Dan pacing, energy fizzing into his voice.

I'm in a hospital. But. Is it possible? I closed my eyes and tried to think clearly, but everything jumbled up on itself, tipping over into madness.

I'm crazy.

We can send someone for you. Where are you?

Robert is here. He wants to take me back to the States—to Miami—so they can run tests.

Where have you been? His voice lowered to almost a whisper.

I don't know, Dan. The battle flashed through my mind. And then the helicopter ride out of the city…we passed over a woman wearing a burka, surrounded by giant mastiffs. And she waved to me. She saved me and then she controlled me.

Can you put Robert on the phone? Dan asked, bringing me back to the room where I stood. Sydney. Dan's voice dropped an octave. Put Robert on the phone. Like he wanted to talk to an adult. My mother did the same thing when I was a kid and wanted to stay the night at a friend's house.

My mother. Was she really here, too?

I think my mom is here. Why would my mom be here?

Okay, you need to put Robert on the phone.

I'm not sure where he went. I looked around the empty room. Just me and Blue.

Dan took a deep breath. Describe your surroundings to me. I heard him typing.

I'm in an exam room…there is an exam table with paper on it. White walls. A sink. I'm seeing spots of light, and nothing is steady. The thunder and lightning are as bad as they've ever been. I closed my eyes, trying to escape, but found burst of color and strange shapes. One minute I was dying and the next I found myself running down a mountainside toward a city…then suddenly I saw Mulberry falling…

What was happening?

Fear tingled along my spine, releasing adrenaline into my system and making lightning crackle across the room. I blinked, trying to clear the bolts of electricity.

Can you open the door, or are you a prisoner?

Not anymore. I don't think so.

But I had been…

I crossed to the door quickly, yanking it open. Robert stood on the other side, leaning against the wall, all casual, controlled power. He raised his eyebrows.

Dan wants to talk to you. Robert nodded and stepped into the room, using his body to move me back. I stumbled, and his hand shot out, grabbing me by the elbow, steadying me. Taking care of me. He released me as soon as I had my footing and slipped the phone from my hand—easy grace, easy control, slippery when wet.

Dan, Robert's voice came out deep and smooth—that still, chilled sea. I heard Dan's voice on the other side, like a duck squawking. Then Robert's response. Mulberry's in surgery. Robert's gaze flicked to mine. I don't have any more information than that on his condition. The doctor will come speak to us as soon as he can. Dan squawked some more. They're not sure of Sydney's condition. She's hallucinating, has lost time; she has serious injuries, and some pretty impressive work was done on her in the field.

My hand reached to my side where scar tissue tingled under my touch. I'd been shot and stabbed. That woman saved my life.

Then held me prisoner.

More squawking from Dan. Robert looked away from me, his eyes scanning the room the way Blue scanned with his ears—like a predator who remained concerned about his safety.

Or maybe it was my safety.

Yes, that's right; I want to take her back to Miami. I have specialists there—the same ones who worked on her right after the Datura poisoning.

Years earlier I'd been dosed with a highly potent and devastating hallucinogen. They called it the Devil's Breath in Colombia, and it was often used in robberies—extracted from the Datura plant, it sent your mind into a terrifying nightmare, leaving your body completely pliant. Victims emptied their bank accounts, escorted their burglars to their homes, and offered them their most precious possessions.

Blue killed the man who dosed me, but I'd stayed in a nightmare for almost a month—I'd finally woken up, but the hallucinations never fully left me. Thunder and lightning had plagued me ever since…but I knew they were hallucinations.

I knew what was real.

Robert held the phone out to me. Dan's voice came through, clear and familiar. I'll have Merl meet you in Miami. I think Robert's right. We need to get you to a specialist.

I can't leave. The truth fell from my lips. I'm not done here.

You need help, Sydney. Anger and frustration harshened his voice. Dan could never understand me. He could love me but never get me. My gaze traveled to Robert, his arms crossed, his lips set in a firm line—pure icy steel behind his eyes.

Robert was the only one who understood me.

I have to… What did I have to do? Why couldn't I leave this place? My gaze traveled to Blue. He had puppies. I couldn't leave without Blue's puppies.

But it was more than that. There was someone out there—someone who used me.

They'd saved my life and then controlled me.

If they could control me…they could control anyone. They were dangerous.

I have something I need to do. Thanks for the concern. It's always good to hear your voice, Dan.

I hung up the phone before he could answer and handed it back to Robert. A smirk played on his lips. What do you have to do? he asked, his eyebrows raised.

I have to kill the bitch that tried to use me.

His smirk slid into a sly grin.

Let's go to Miami first, get you checked out. Then we can come back here and take care of everything. He moved in on me, entering my personal space.

No. I'm not leaving.

I can't protect you here, Sydney. Robert ground out the words, pulverizing them into almost a threat. Almost.

I bleed every month—death does not frighten me.

You can't protect me anywhere, Robert. No one can.

A knock on the door interrupted us before Robert could respond. Come in, he commanded, not taking his eyes off mine.

A man in blue scrubs entered the room. Robert turned, keeping me behind him. Mr. Maxim. The doctor nodded his head in deference.

How is he?

This must be Mulberry's doctor.

I stepped out from behind Maxim, and the doctor's eyes drifted over me, before returning to Robert. He guessed where the power lay.

He guessed wrong.

He's in critical condition. The surgery went as well as could be expected, but we're keeping him in a drug-induced coma.

Will he recover? Robert asked.

He's lost his left leg just above the knee. A wave of revulsion ran over my body as I remembered Mulberry's bloody, torn flesh on the battlefield. And he lost a lot of blood. I can't say what kind of mental capacity he will have if he wakes up.

How bad are we talking about? Robert's voice stayed neutral. Wind howled inside my head.

The doctor frowned. It's possible he could be fine…or, in the worst case, left in a vegetative state.

Can I see him? I asked, stepping forward.

The doctor kept his gaze on Robert, who nodded slightly. The nurse can show you to his room, the doctor said, stepping back and opening the door, speaking quietly to someone in the hall.

As I stepped out of the room—Blue on one side, Robert on the other—I grit my teeth, preparing myself for whatever would come.

Thunder and lightning and everything frightening brew inside you. Death cannot take you yet.

I stumbled as the woman's voice whistled on the wind of my madness…She was real. And I had to find her.

April

My knees burned as I knelt on the hospital floor, eyes closed, palms pressed together. Yes.

I would earn a place by my daughter's side. We would change the world, bring the word...I was the mother of the miracle. Everything I did, I did for Joy.

Please provide me with the strength to follow her word, to follow the path you lay before me.

I will need strength. So much.

My lips formed words, prayers I knew by heart...they came straight from my heart, from the seat of my emotions, my direct connection to the Lord and Savior.

He chose me.

He chose Joy.

The doors of the waiting room squeaked, and I opened my eyes. Joy walked in, her dog with her, his big form pressed close to her side. Robert strode just behind her, almost an equal…but not quite.

He was speaking in a tone too low for me to hear, but my daughter did not look at him. Her eyes scanned the room and landed on me. They narrowed. I had a lot to atone for with my daughter: Joy, Sydney, the Miracle Woman.

Scrambling to my feet, I approached, my hands out in supplication.

She looked at my exposed palms with a dark gaze. What are you doing here? Icicles dripped off her voice. Robert turned to me, a small line of annoyance creasing his brow. He quickly smoothed his expression back into a calm mask of superiority. Here was a man who'd be shocked when he met our Lord...

Joy, how are you? How is Mulberry? I asked.

She shook her head. You don't have a right to ask me anything.

We are on the same side, Joy.

No. We. Are. Not. The icicles’ sharp tips stabbed with each word. She hates me.

Tears burned my eyes. I'm so sorry, Joy; I never meant to hurt you.

You can't hurt me. She stepped closer, and I forced myself not to shy away, to hold her gaze. I love you. You are nothing to me.

I'm your mother. She couldn't mean it. My little girl, that tow-headed toddler who came to my arms when she hurt her knee, when she needed comfort of any kind...I made her.

Her eyes held mine, the ice in her gaze freezing me as effectively as a winter storm. Then she turned and stalked away. Robert shrugged, his expression as cold and empty as ever, before turning to follow her. I grabbed his arm.

He looked down at my hand, black soot from the battle still staining the skin. Let go, he said, his voice quiet, empty.

Please, Robert, talk to her.

His eyes rose to mine. So empty. Another shiver passed over my skin. I plan on talking to her, but I will not argue your case, April. He pulled free from me, and followed my daughter down the hall.

A huge, endless abyss opened inside of me. Nothingness.

A test?

Was God testing me? Yes, of course; this was all meant to be. Everything was as it should be. I had to prove to Joy that I was serious. I couldn't expect her to just believe me.

I'd hurt her. Pushed her and my son, James, away. Tears tried to cloud my vision, but I refused to be blinded by them. I had to continue to do the work. To pray. And the Lord would reveal my path.

I looked down at myself, at my bloody, ripped dress. Robert had taken my weapon—saying that I couldn't keep it and come to the hospital.

But I didn't have to stay here.

The elevator opened, and a nurse walked out, her head bent over a chart in her hands. I crossed the small waiting room and stepped into the empty elevator. A doctor got in next to me and pushed the button for the ground floor.

The elevator began to drop down. Hell is beneath my feet but the Lord will lead me where I need to go.

Robert

I sat on the edge of the desk, the polished wood surface smooth against my rough canvas pants. The president of the hospital had offered me his private office for my calls.

I'd changed my clothing since the battle, but tension lingered in my muscles, and the taste of dust and death stained my tongue.

The phone rang, reaching across the ocean to Miami.

Mr. Maxim, how can I help you?

Dale, good to hear your voice.

He cleared his throat. I wish I could say the same.

A laugh bubbled inside me, but I didn't allow it to escape.

Dr. Dale Mitchell owed me. He owed me his life, his livelihood, everything.

I didn't find it difficult to own another person, to have him indebted to me, a debt so large he would never be able to repay it. I found it easy to control and command men like Dale.

It was the reverse…or an even playing field…that rubbed me the wrong way. I rarely did business or interacted with those that I could not control.

Except Sydney Rye.

Dr. Dale was a member of a very exclusive club that I founded. My sexual proclivities and his ran along similar veins. However, I had restraint. Whereas Dale… well, he had a problem. Or he did. I solved it—saved him.

He'd strangled a young woman. Killed her in his bed. In the bed he shared with his wife. That his daughter crawled into each morning for a cuddle.

I made the corpse in that bed go away.

I made sure that Dr. Dale stayed in practice, that his little girl still had a father, that his wife kept her husband.

And the victim…I arranged to give her an honorable death. Her family mourned a hero instead of a whore.

So Dale always answered when I called. When Sydney Rye was under the influence of Datura, he personally oversaw her care. And now he was going to fly to Turkey, had to get on the plane within 45 minutes, and help her again.

Your flight leaves out of Opa-Locka Executive Airport.

There's was a pause, a moment for Dale to decide whether to argue. His daughter had a piano recital tonight. But he'd skip it. I let him have his moment, his pause.

Is this about Sydney Rye?

Yes.

He cleared his throat. Last we spoke, she'd recovered with only minor hallucinations…

They've become more severe.

The storm?

Yes, thunder and lightning. And she lost time.

How so? Curiosity deepened his voice.

She almost died, was taken prisoner. And doesn't remember much of it. And, I cleared my throat. She was made to do things, against her will.

Sexual?

Sicko.

No, but violent. Starting a damn religion. We can discuss in more detail when you get here.

He grunted.

You'll be able to help her. It wasn't a question. He would cure Sydney Rye or he would pay dearly. My fist tightened around the phone. Someone had to pay.

My next call was to Martha Emerson, a director at the CIA. We had a professional relationship. If she was a man, it would be an even playing field, but being seen as her sex alone kept her down, I didn't feel threatened by her. If anything, I liked Martha. I respected her.

She was smart, hardworking and loyal—I tried to hire her on more than one occasion, and she'd always turned me down. A patriot. But eventually, I knew I'd wear her down. In the meantime, she played nice, knowing that I held sway with the men she answered to.

Robert. Her voice was clipped.

Martha, how are you?

I heard papers shuffling. Why are you calling?

Checking in. I picked up a pen off the desk and twirled it over my fingers. I have some information for you. Pretend like you are giving a gift when really what you seek is an offering. Sydney Rye is alive.

The paper shuffling stopped. She is? Martha could not keep the eager tone out of her voice.

Yes.

Martha cleared her throat. She had to play this cool. We'd like to speak to her. We.

What do you have on the prophet? I needed a name. An identity. Something to make her real.

We're working on it. Come in, bring Sydney, and we can discuss.

Nice try. Give me what you have and then we can discuss Sydney…

Martha sighed. She wouldn't give me everything, but maybe it would be enough. We're pretty sure she is Syrian, trained in London. In her mid-thirties.

Do you have a name?

The papers shuffled again. Bring Sydney in, and I'll give you the name.

Martha, Martha, Martha. It's as if we've spent no time together.

It's as if you're aiding and abetting a fugitive.

Is she now? I asked. Last time I checked, Sydney Rye was the co-owner of Dog Fight Investigations, a U.S contractor…that can't look good. On paper, I mean. My voice dropped. To have a wanted fugitive on the payroll. A radical.

Where are you? I'll send transportation.

I laughed. I don't need a taxi. Just a name.

Come here and let's talk. Then I'll give you the name. She didn't have a name.

I had choices: let Martha talk to Sydney and hope that my connections could keep her free—and if not my connections, then threats of humiliation for the bureau. Or, keep Sydney hidden and take care of her myself. I needed to get Sydney medical care. I could handle Martha.

I'm in Turkey, at Huzussu Medical Center—

Martha cut me off. Get out of there. Her voice was low and urgent. I have very good intel an attack is going to happen there.

Shit. The CIA pulling strings, trying to control the Turkish government—the more unrest in Turkey, the more power the government could take, the more they could help the CIA. A terrorist attack at a private hospital would piss people off.

I hung up and yanked open the door of the office. The president of the hospital waited with his secretary, sitting on the edge of her desk, smiling down at her.

Something bad is about to happen. I want Mulberry moved now.

He leapt into action, picking up the phone and beginning to bark orders. I checked my watch. How long did I have?

Chapter Three

I Woke Within a Dream

Mulberry

The door slammed, and my mother howled—a gut-wrenching, spine-tingling, hair-raising sound, like a banshee, a ghost…a woman scorned.

My father had walked out, leaving her for a younger woman.

A whore! My mother explained to her mother hours later as I sat in my grandparents’ living room, the plastic covering the couch crinkling under me.

I stared at the familiar room, brown and tan carpeting that twisted over my toes when I was a child. Now, over a decade later, it had flattened under time and boots. My grandmother was always on my Papa's case about wearing his shoes in her house.

He sat in his recliner next to me. The Eagles played on the TV—men thrashing their bodies into each other, doing what men did best, battling in a field for glory.

Men did not make good domesticated creatures.

Papa, with his big belly, slumped shoulders, and sparse white hair clinging to his head, all that was left of his dark curly mane, sat slumped in the chair.

But my father was out there. He wasn't stuck at home. Like me. Like Papa. He was out saving lives and fucking whores.

My eyes wandered off the TV and up to the painting of Jesus that hung over the mantel. Cupped between his hands, the son of the Lord held his heart, circled in a crown of thorns, while his mournful eyes stared down into the fireplace. Which was filled with faux fall foliage and a carved pumpkin whose gap-toothed smile curled in with rot.

My mother’s voice rose again. How could he?

My grandmother's soft response followed the exclamation. The sound of my mother crying drifted into the room, and Papa turned up the game.

Second and goal late in the fourth quarter. If we score, we win.

I stared at Jesus's heart.

Dangerous to have it so exposed.

But, when you're the son of God, you probably don't worry about broken hearts.

Was my mother's heart broken? From where I'd sat, witnessing my parents’ marriage, I'd think she'd be happy he'd finally left. They fought all the time. She hated him. And he didn't care about her—which is probably why she hated him.

He'd told me that he just didn't love her anymore. But don't worry, son; I'll always love you.

I found that hard to believe. He must have said the same to her. That he'd always love her. It was in the marriage vows, wasn't it?

The Giants called a time out and the game broke for a commercial. My grandfather finished off his beer and glanced toward the kitchen, his mouth turning down into a frown. His gaze tracked to me. Go grab me a brewski, will ya?

Before I could answer, he shook his head and gave me a tight-lipped smile. Never mind. I won't do that to you, Ralphie. He hauled himself out of the chair, his slippers, the same brown as the carpeting, slapping against his bare feet as he moved toward the kitchen. In fact— He looked over his shoulder at me. It's high time you had a drink, boy.

He cleared his throat as he entered the kitchen. My eyes returned to the Jesus portrait. Mary had loved her son. She was a good mom. My mom was a good mom. Would my father's whore be a good mother to any children they had?

Would I be a good brother?

Papa returned with the beer and cracked the can open, handing it to me. The familiar scent reached my nose. Your mother will be all right, Papa promised as he eased back into his recliner. She's tough.

I nodded, taking a deep breath.

My father's words came back to me...right before he slammed the door. She makes me happy, Mona! She makes me happy. Was that how you got happy? A woman?

I sipped the beer, the bubbles tingling my nose, the bitter taste welcome. This was not a child's drink. I was a man now.

Papa returned his attention to the TV, after making sure I wasn't going to spit the beer everywhere. He let out a cheer as an Eagles runner plowed into the end zone.

I settled deeper against the plastic and tried to concentrate on the game, but the more of the beer I drank, the more my attention kept going to that heart in Jesus's hands. Was it throbbing? Beeping?

What was that sound?

The beer was going to my head. It was like I was swimming in place, like the room was wavering...

I finished the beer and put the empty can on the coffee table. The game ended, and Papa switched to the news, bringing me another beer. Darkness filled the windows, and Papa turned on the lamp next to his chair, throwing a yellow glow over the space.

My mother came out, her nose red and eyes swollen. Let's go, she waved at me, sniffling.

I stood up, a little unsteady. Papa gave me a hug, his big softness enveloping me. He whispered in my ear. You're the man of the house now; I expect you'll fill the role well, son.

I will. I'll always love her. He squeezed me and then turned away. My grandmother fussed around my mother, hugging her then pushing us both out into the chilly night.

We walked back to our house in silence. As my mother unlocked the door, she paused and turned to me. Her green eyes held mine. She was beautiful, and my heart ached looking at her. She was so sad. My mom gave me a small smile. I'll be okay.

I know you will, Mom. I nodded. You're very strong.

Her chin wobbled.

I promise, Mom; I'll always be here for you. She burst into tears and pulled me close.

You’re a good man, son. I'm very proud of you.

She was heavy in my arms, the weight of her against me holding me in this place, in this world. My heartbeat rang in my ears, sounding almost like a beep.

Sydney

The machines around Mulberry beeped, a high note above the thrumming of thunder in my brain. Each tone marked a heartbeat: one pump of that strong, fallible muscle.

Despite the pallor of his skin, the dark shadows under his eyes, and the way he laid there, so still—deathly still—Mulberry was alive. Still breathing, beating, being…

Curling my hand against his limp palm, lacing my fingers through his, I noted the clammy chill of his skin. Usually Mulberry was so warm…hot, even.

He was alive and yet appeared dead. I pushed him away and yet he followed me. He loved me and yet refused to save himself for me.

Everybody I love dies.

Tears stung my eyes, and I tried to blink them away, but they pooled hot and wet in my lashes then slid down my cheeks.

I'm so selfish.

If I was a better person, I never would've kissed him, never would've allowed myself those brief moments with Mulberry, the ones that set me free, that allowed me some form of obliteration.

My mind had been obliterated. The sizzling lightning in the corner of my gaze, the rolling thunder in the back of my mind, a patchwork of my memories, all pointed to a death of one kind. I wasn't sane anymore.

Had I ever been? I squeezed Mulberry's hand. He knew me before I was Sydney Rye. We met when I was Joy Humbolt, a mixed-up young woman in New York City whose life was upended when a dog she was walking sniffed out a body in an alley. Was I crazy back then, too? Was this destiny? Or had I chosen it all? Was it all my will that brought us here? Mulberry in a coma, his left leg ended above his knee.

The sheet showed the gentle outline of the stump. It looked almost like a party trick, a Halloween prank. When Mulberry did wake up—because he would wake up—he would find his life altered.

But he would adapt. He was strong and brave, and that beeping said he was still alive.

But his mind…

Your mind could change and yet the substance of you stay the same.

I held Mulberry's hand, searching for memories before I found myself running down that hillside into Surama…before I saw Mulberry fall.

I remembered that I was climbing, ready for death—sick of the lightning and thunder, of the storm I had built around myself. Sick of the violence and the deaths that thrived like strong winds in a low-pressure system.

I remembered fighting with a man who wanted me dead…my knife plunging home, the gurgled final breath of my victim. And then it all got real fuzzy. Real strange. The next memory is the battle in Surama, Mulberry lying in the street, war raging around us…Robert helping me get him to safety. The gap between those two sets of memories, Robert now tells me, was several months.

As we'd left Surama in Robert's helicopter, I'd seen a woman standing on the hillside, covered in a burka and long robes, surrounded by giant mastiffs. A part of me knew she was the one who'd saved me—performed surgery and kept me alive.

How she had held me captive and controlled me for so long, I didn't know. I felt a pulling at my mind, some kind of strange pressure—but it wasn't moving me. I was in control again.

I squeezed Mulberry's hand.

Fear had pushed me away from Mulberry—the fear of losing him. It didn't do any good; he teetered on the edge now. All my pushing had shoved him right into a battlefield—blown off his leg and left him in this hospital, the sheets tucked tightly around him, the machines beeping out the rhythm of his heart.

Blue leaned against my leg, and I used my free hand to pet his head.

We have to go back, I said to Blue.

He sighed and rested his chin on my knee. I ran my finger up and down the length of his snout. He closed his eyes in appreciation.

I have to kill her.

Why, though? Revenge? She used me. Told the world my recovery from near-death was a miracle—that my health, agility, my very existence was proof of God and His will.

I agreed that each of us decided our own value. Her message resonated inside me. I agreed with Her that women—any oppressed people—should rise up and fight against their oppressors.

But the thunder in the back of my mind told me she was dangerous. Incredibly dangerous.

Was there anything worse than a false prophet?

A false martyr?

My birth name, Joy Humbolt, sparked a vigilante network named Joyful Justice. One act of revenge and a story mistold changed the world.

I was sick of the lies.

This all had to stop.

My heart beat faster than the beeping at Mulberry’s bedside. I couldn't keep living like this.

I refused to return to the United States, have some doctor tell me about my hallucinations. I knew what was real.

While under the spell of Datura, I was completely pliant. I'd watched the videos of myself: the way I nodded, the blank stare on my face. Robert Maxim, along with Dan and Mulberry, had kept me safe in a hospital room much fancier than this one. Robert Maxim held my hand, and I watched his lips move on the silent video. What did he say to me?

What did she say to me?

Faith is a weapon that I am willing to use.

It's the only thing more powerful than death.

You can wipe a civilization off the earth with a big enough bomb…or you can transform it into the civilization you want with the right faith. With a big enough lie.

I shuddered at the memory. I needed to confront this self-proclaimed prophet and understand what happened to me.

I needed to see Blue's puppies.

They were mine. Who was she to keep them from me?

I shook my head, trying to clear it of the harsh winds blowing against my ears. They were so loud the sound almost drowned out that steady beeping of Mulberry's heart.

The way that violence and greed for justice had almost blocked out the love he offered me. I pushed him away to save others, to save him.

Nothing I did ever worked. I needed to change. Needed a new approach.

I bent over Mulberry, pressing my cheek against the back of his hand. Breathing in the scents around me…trying to find the smell that was him.

But all that met me was the astringent sting of the hospital, the flowery perfume of clean sheets, and the iron-y tang of blood.

I couldn't stop Mulberry from dying. I had no control.

But I could go back to the woman who saved me. I would find her and those dogs and figure out what happened.

I couldn't do it alone.

Robert Maxim would help. He always helped me…because he wanted something from me.

My love.

A death sentence.

A distant crackle brought my head up as Blue straightened, his hackles rising. The building shook with the force of an impact.

Footsteps rang in the hall, and I dashed to the door. Through the small glass window I saw scrub-clad hospital workers running as smoke seeped into the air.

We were under attack.

I looked back at Mulberry. His bed was on wheels. A nurse ran to the door, and I stepped back as she pushed it open. She didn't glance at me as she yelled. Get on the other side of his bed. We're evacuating. Move!

I followed her orders, my hands wrapping around the cold metal of his bedside. She disconnected things, pulled plugs and threw wires across his chest. Mulberry didn't move.

The beeping stopped.

Because she’d unplugged the machine. He wasn't dead. He wasn't gone. We were right here.

Blue tapped my hip, reminding me that he was there, too, and as I began to push Mulberry's bed into the hall Blue stayed by my side.

My boots thudded on the linoleum floor, one of the wheels on Mulberry's bed squeaked, and Blue's nose tapped against my hip. My breath came even and strong despite a stinging pain in my side.

I was calmer now, in urgent motion, than I'd been sitting by Mulberry's bedside.

Mulberry's eyes remained closed even as his body shook with the movements of the bed.

The nurse's mahogany brown hair, pulled into a tight ponytail, danced behind her as she ran. Her face was set into tight lines of fierce determination as she navigated the hall.

The hospital had broken out into controlled chaos. People ran, but appeared to know what they were doing. The lights flickered, and dust fell from the ceiling as another impact shook the building. Our speed increased.

He's top priority, the nurse yelled, pushing us past other waiting beds.

She opened a door and a hot, dusty wind blew in. I blinked against the grains of sand in the air. A helicopter, its blades twirling, prepared for takeoff. We pushed Mulberry to it, and with the help of another orderly, he was loaded in with two other patients.

The nurse pulled me back, her hand tight and strong on my bicep.

I was letting Mulberry go. Letting some strangers take him off into the air, trusting them to keep him safe because I knew that I couldn't.

Nothing could.

I stumbled back, Blue still tight to my side.

The nurse left us, and Blue and I watched the helicopter lift off the roof and fly away, the thwapping of its blades fading, allowing the roar of the fires below to reach us.

Smoke burned my eyes, and Blue urged me back into the building. I followed another orderly inside, my heart throbbing in my chest, adrenaline seeping into my veins. Making my way to the ground floor, I found front doors blown off their hinges, and smoke pouring into the lobby.

Blue directed me away from the exit, obviously sensing danger beyond, though I didn't exactly need a dog’s instincts to know going out that front door might get me killed.

The smoke swirled, parting, and I saw Robert. He headed straight for me with a pistol in his hand and brow furrowed into a tight knot. When he grabbed my arm and began to pull me through the lobby toward another door, I let him lead me.

Let's get to your ride, I said. We've got to go find her.

A small laugh escaped him, but his stride didn't slow or shift.

You'll help me find her, I told him. Knowing it was true. Knowing I could make Robert do whatever I wanted. She wasn't the only one with power.

He led me out a side door where a rusted, dust-covered Jeep waited. Robert nodded at the passenger side with his chin, releasing my arm. Blue and I climbed in, and Robert got behind the wheel. He placed his pistol between us, and I stared at it, my eyes traveling over the black matte handle to Robert's waist, where a knife was strapped.

He turned the Jeep on and put it in gear, speeding out of the narrow street. Reaching over, I unsheathed his knife, his eyes flicked off the road for a second.

What are you doing?

Getting what I want. Take me to the prophet.

I don't know where she is. Nobody does. Robert sounded annoyed. Not like I was threatening his life, more like I was trying to order a hamburger at a fish place.

Take me to the cave where you saw me.

Robert's frown deepened, the memory of my rejection flitting across his face.

Take me there or I'll kill you.

That brought a smile to his lip. Will you kill me Sydney?

Don't try me, Robert.

He turned hard, and I fell against him, the knife scraping against the thick canvas of his black jacket. He reached over and tried to free it from my grip, but I was faster than him.

Despite the thunder and lightning, I was still fast. Still a goddamned killing machine.

We all decided our own value. We all had a right to our faith. But nobody used me. Nobody.

Chapter Four

Follow the Faith

April

The church’s steeple rose above the three-story houses that made up the majority of the buildings in this Turkish border city. I followed it and found myself in front of small, stone church with tiny stained-glass windows. I stumbled up the steps, my throat dry with thirst, my soul hungry for nourishment.

I pushed on the closed doors and found them locked. Banging my fists against the heavy wood, I heard my knocks echo inside. Muffled footsteps approached, and the door creaked open.

The scents of incense and wood polish filled my nose as my eyes closed. I fell forward, letting fate have me.

Strong hands caught my arms, holding me up. A man spoke in a language I didn't understand. He pulled me into the church and settled me into a pew, leaving the door open so that a shaft of sunlight illuminated the interior.

I bowed my head over clasped palms, thanking the Lord for bringing me here.

The man who'd helped me came into focus, kneeling next to me, his brown eyes wide with concern. I smiled at him. Please, may I have some water?

He nodded, his gaze scanning my face, down to my black robes that were stained with the dust and blood of battle. He hurried to close the door and then disappeared for a moment, returning with a glass of water.

I gulped it down and thanked him.

You're American? he asked in accented English.

Yes, I am.

What happened to you?

I didn't know how to answer that. What had happened to me? When I learned of my daughter’s disappearance in Isis-controlled territory I stole money from my husband, a preacher, and fled from Las Vegas to Istanbul, determined to follow my daughter, find her and make amends.

I almost died, but the Lord saved me and brought me into the path of women who I needed...and who needed me. Nadia, hardly an adult, yet stronger than any I’d ever know, flashed before my mind’s eye—brows drawn together, eyes glittering with faith and power. She died for what we believed in. The Lord chose me to deliver the message of his prophet. That’s why he left me alive.

Did you get lost? The others are all here. They didn't mention they were missing anyone. Were you robbed?

I cocked my head. The others?

"Where are