Blind Vigilance Read online

  I pass the bar and enter the long hall lined with closed doors that lead to the workers’ rooms. It’s quiet since the place only closed about five hours ago.

  At the end of the hallway, I knock on Johnathan's apartment door. When he answers his hair is mussed from sleep, his pale brown eyes puffy. “Lenox.” Johnathan’s eyes lower to my chest. “Why are you at my door half naked at this ungodly hour?” His British accent manages to make the question sound respectable.

  Fascinating how our brains perceive trustworthiness in the vocal tones of our conquerors. The British empire at its height ruled over a quarter of the earth's population. Only 10 percent of those 430 million people lived on the island in the Atlantic that we know today as the United Kingdom. The empire oppressed native populations and ravaged their lands for resources; yet the world over, a posh British accent is associated with trustworthy stewardship.

  “I need clothing and cash,” I tell him. "Then we will evacuate."

  His eyes sharpen. “What’s going on?” He steps back to let me in. His living room is sparsely decorated—the new furniture is set to arrive next week. A stack of books sits on a worn coffee table next to the slouchy couch.

  Our shared passion for reading is one of the things that bonded us more than a decade ago when we first met on the French Riviera. We were both working the season—he as the full-time companion of a royal dame, and me as an independent contractor seeing several clients.

  Johnathan disappears into the bedroom and comes back moments later with a white, long-sleeved shirt and a hoodie. “Not the hoodie,” I tell him. “Give me the nicest sweater you have, something cashmere.”

  He gives me a look that says, Really, now?

  “I’m a dark-skinned man. I need to look wealthy, or I’ll look dangerous.” Cashmere, like British accents, is trusted.

  He nods, his brow furrowing, and returns to his bedroom to fulfill my request.

  The sweater is tight across my chest, but the soft violet speaks of long, liquid brunches on sunny afternoons. "Start the evacuation process," I say. "Phoenix Rising."

  Johnathan blinks a few times, his cheeks coloring, before turning to his phone. He sends the message to our other brothels and safe houses then heads down the hallway to start waking up the girls, following the steps we have in place.

  Alone in the apartment, I call the Joyful Justice emergency line. It rings once before the line fills with soft static. "Phoenix Falling," I say into the void, then hang up.

  I take a deep breath and wait for the return call.

  Anita rings me. "Are you in a secure location?" she asks, all the frustration and exhaustion that edged her voice earlier gone despite the later hour.

  "Yes, but Ian has Petra."

  Anita sucks in a long, slow breath. "What do you need?"

  "We are evacuating all the known locations in Istanbul until we know how much muscle he brought with him. I'll need an extraction team to get Petra back. I believe they are holding her in our apartment." Holding isn't the correct word for what they are doing...

  "Dan is in the air but sent me a link to surveillance in your apartment. I'm sending it to you now."

  My phone pings with the message. "How does he have surveillance of my apartment, Anita?"

  "I don't ask Dan questions like that… anymore. I find I don't like the answers. But I do enjoy the safety that comes with the knowledge."

  Anger sputters in my chest, searching for an outlet, but I quash it. These are my allies. "I don't like it."

  "You will when you watch it. You're right that they are still in the apartment. Petra is unharmed as of now." Relief engulfs me, and suddenly it feels like I can breathe again. I hadn't even realized how strangled I felt. "I'll have Rachel deploy an extraction team to location…" I hear keys tapping as she looks up the code for our Istanbul rendezvous points. "Location Zed."

  A stall at the Grand Bazaar… close to where I bought the unicorn tapestry. "Got it. Location Zed." It will take the team at least a few hours to assemble and meet me.

  "I'll have Rachel update you as necessary." She pauses for a moment, the phone microphone rubbing against fabric as if she's adjusting it before her voice comes back. "Good luck, Lenox."

  "Thank you." I'll need it.

  The building is coming to life as Johnathan wakes the workers. There are footsteps and tinkles of nervous laughter.

  I check the text Anita sent and click the link. My iPhone uses my face as the password, and the screen fills with a view of the living room I've never seen before. It is as if I'm a fly on the top of the window frame. Petra sits on the couch, her face calm and still. Ian paces behind her. Two large men sit at the kitchen barstools, guns holstered, and bodies relaxed.

  I turn up the volume on my phone when Petra begins to speak.

  "Don't worry, Ian," she says. "He will come."

  "And if he doesn't?" Ian stops his pacing to stare down at Petra. She looks tiny—all thin bones and feminine curves—next to him. Ian is a large man, over six feet by a few inches, with broad shoulders. His leather jacket shines in the light as if it's new. His hair is the same pitch-black as the leather and cut short. A sheen of sweat glows on his pale face.

  "Lenox is a good man," Petra says, her tone unconcerned, as if she is just laying out fact. "He will do what good men do. Try to save the woman in distress." It does not sound like a compliment.

  Ian shakes his head. "You better be right. If this fails, you'll pay for all your mistakes, Petra."

  She waves an unconcerned hand at him. "He will be here."

  I take in a slow, even breath. Johnathan comes back into the room. "We are ready to go," he says. His color is still high, eyes bright with the excitement and perceived danger of the moment.

  "Good. Go."

  "What about you?"

  "I will see you soon," I promise. "Be safe, old friend."

  His eyes narrow, but he doesn't contradict me. "Be safe."

  Johnathan closes the door behind him, and I return my attention to Petra—a snake in the grass or a gazelle trying to talk her way out of the lion's grip. I will listen and learn.

  Listening is so powerful. Especially when the speaker doesn’t know you can hear.

  Location Zed is the storage area of a towel and bath goods merchant deep in the bowels of the Grand Bizarre. Stacks of striped Turkish towels in dreamy peaches and pale pastels gives the dim space a sense of promise. Good times with sun and surf will come soon.

  The owners—a mother and daughter—leave me with an elegant glass of mint tea to wait for the extraction team. I pull out my phone, unlocking it with my gaze, and return to watching Ian and Petra.

  I'm confused. My early assumption of betrayal is challenged by the reality that they could have easily taken me in the apartment. If Petra is indeed on their side, I've been a fish with a hook in my mouth for months, lazily swimming into shallower waters, making it easier for them to yank me out. Yet, this morning, Petra sent me down to the market, providing what proved to be an avenue to escape.

  Maybe she is not betraying me—that she’s following some other plan.

  I want her to care for me. To be loyal.

  I want her to fight for me as I will fight for her.

  We met again because she was plotting against Joyful Justice—not knowing my affiliation. Petra chose to join with us once we settled our differences. She agreed to change the way she ran her business. Or did she lie, pretending and waiting for my defenses to lower?

  Ian rifles through our refrigerator, turning back to one of the men. "Liam," he yells. The large man looks up lazily, his big body still relaxed, taking on none of the urgency of his leader. "Did you take the last cola."

  It sits on the counter in front of Liam, the accusation impossible to deny. "Sorry," he says, his voice a low baritone that hardly reaches the speakers.

  Ian stands, holding a carton of milk. "Am I supposed to drink this?"

  Liam doesn't respond; the question does seem to be rhetorical. Ian is vib
rating with anger. He hurls the carton of milk at Liam, who dodges, the carton exploding against the wall behind him. "What the fuck?" Ian yells. "How long is this going to take?" He turns his wrath onto Petra, who glances over her shoulder at him, her air of nonchalance a sharp contrast to his temper.

  "Ian, I told you he will come. Stop your worrying." Petra's eyes flick to the camera. Does she know it's there? "Lenox expected you to make a move, but he did not expect to fall in love with me." She drops her gaze. "As I promised, he will come unprepared. He will throw himself on the bomb for me. I tried to stop him from going out, but the man loves his morning papaya."

  She is lying to Ian.

  It is as natural to her as breathing. How can I tell the difference between the truth and her self-serving fabrications?

  "How can you be so sure of your own powers when you can't even get him to stay in bed instead of going grocery shopping?" There is derision in Ian's voice.

  "I am sure of Lenox Gold."

  Ian slams the fridge closed and glares at Liam, who drops his gaze. Liam is wearing a black leather jacket and jeans, like his boss, but he is a larger and softer man. The other henchman stares, bored, out the window while eating from a bag of nuts.

  Ian focuses his attention on the nut eater. "Conner."

  The large man turns his head toward his boss. "Yeah?"

  "Stop eating those. You're already a fat fuck."

  Conner, who is even bigger than Liam, so that his black leather jacket looks like a cow dressed up like a bull, puts the nuts down.

  Ian comes out from behind the kitchen bar and approaches Petra. "Maybe you are in love with Lenox and not the other way around?"

  She shakes her head, a smile crossing those cruel lips. "I am not capable of such depth of feeling, Ian. You must know that about me by now." She leans back into the couch cushions, appearing totally at ease.

  "I never thought you'd kill my brothers." Anger edges Ian's voice, and his fists clench as he places them on the back of the couch.

  Petra pouts, angling her head to better look him in the face. "I told you that was Lenox. I never wanted them dead."

  "You want your lover dead now?" He leans over her, trying to intimidate her with his size.

  Petra does not answer for a long moment.

  My heart hammers. What is she up to? Why am I turned on by her duplicity? Am I so unworthy of love that I want it desperately from a woman who will see me dead?

  "I don't want him killed." She looks up at Ian. "But I know that you will never give up. I'd rather lose him than watch my back for the rest of my life. Besides, his way of doing business isn't as profitable."

  Ian nods, smiling, understanding and believing in greed. Petra is a master at mirroring—better than me. She is showing him what he wants to see. Reinforcing his viewpoint. Most women learn it more easily than men. They are trained from birth to reflect what society wants to see. It is how they survive.

  Ian turns away from Petra, and she looks back to the window… at the camera. Her eyes are hard. But she seems to be looking straight at me. The hairs on the back of my neck slowly rise.

  Hearing footsteps on the far side of the storage room, I jerk my gaze up from the screen and pull the earbuds free. A light knock on the door settles my nerves a little. Killers don't usually knock so politely, but my hand hovers near my weapon as I rise to answer.

  It's Palma, the towel merchant's daughter. She is a foot shorter than me, her thin face framed by a bright pink head scarf. "Do you need anything?" she asks.

  "No, thank you."

  She bows slightly and leaves me alone again. A ping on my phone draws my attention. It's another link from Anita with the dossier on the team members en route. I settle back into the hard, wooden chair between the piles of cheerful towels to read.

  The leader, Hans Steiner, is a retired officer from the Jagdkommando—the special forces arm of the Austrian army. The photo shows him staring into the camera, a man in his early 50s whose piercing blue eyes penetrate through the screen.

  I sip my tea and glance around the room. When I return my attention to the phone, it has gone blank—one of Dan's security measures. Whenever we are looking at personnel files, the phone deactivates unless it sees my retinas. If anyone hacked into my phone, they'd never find the files. If they hold it up to my face to force my passcode, all I have to do is show teeth and it will open, but to a decoy phone that looks like any normal businessman’s device.

  I scan over Han's list of specialties: extraction, explosives, leadership. He will be a powerful ally.

  I open the next file. Ramona Jones, a former rodeo champion who grew up on the circuit—both her parents champions as well. In her photo, she is looking past the camera, her thick brows pulled together in thought, a halo of thick curls blowing in the wind.

  She went into the US army at twenty-one and left it ten years later—honorably discharged but pissed as hell.

  Recruits find their way to Joyful Justice from many paths, but often the women have suffered a sexual assault. Our name and the vengeance we offer is whispered about in support groups. Many women can't go back to life as it was before the incident, so they choose to join us and fight to stop it happening to anyone else. I suspect Ramona Jones is one of those women.

  Sophia Boucher… Butcher. She is French and pretty as a picture with a button nose, wide eyes, and long waves of golden hair. In the photo attached to her file, she has a silk scarf draped around her neck. A former pilot for the French Air Force, she lost an arm in Afghanistan, which led to an honorable discharge.

  This is another road that fighters take to reach us. When they've been cast off as unfit by other armies, we still find use for them. You do not need all your limbs to fight for justice, certainly not to thirst for it.

  They should be here soon.

  Whether Petra is setting me or Ian up, I need to get her back. I need answers.

  Chapter Seven

  Sydney

  There is an armed guard at my mother's front door wearing a checkered button-down shirt and a pair of jeans that fit like he's some kind of cowboy. His blazer does a piss-poor job of covering up the gun under each arm. Where did she find him? Is he a hired gun or a devotee to my mother’s cause?

  He nods to me and Blue as we move down the hall toward him. He's not one of Robert's men—all polished black outfits and dead eyes. Robert was shot and fell into a canal teeming with toxic chemicals and flesh-eating bacteria. He won't be providing security for anyone anymore.

  I push the thought aside, not fully believing it. Either my instincts are right and Robert is still alive, or I'm in denial that a man I've always considered indestructible has finally been destroyed. By his own son no less. It's one of those things I can't look at fully or I might feel something too deep and dark to ever come out the other side.

  My mother's head of security, Veronica, opens the apartment door and smiles at me, then down at Blue. "Welcome," she says. Veronica is not your average head of security. A self-identified witch, she wears long, flowing tunics and a head wrap. Today they are a brown green that matches her eyes… and some of the outer rings of bruising on her face.

  The air has an acrid scent to it, and smoke rises around Veronica like she is some kind of apparition.

  She holds up a smoldering bundle of herbs. "It's sage," she explains. "It cleanses and heals.” Ah, now it makes sense… not.

  Veronica invites Blue and me in, waving her hand toward a velvet couch; its rich navy plush reminds me of a red mohair I owned back in New York. Inherited from my grandmother, along with her rent-controlled apartment, the red majesty of its presence was like a wealthy aunt who’d fallen on hard times but refused to take off the tiara.

  Veronica steps to an elegant, smooth-finished cherry sideboard and snuffs the sage out into a bowl. She picks up a teapot nestled in a hand-crocheted cozy as I settle on the couch. Blue sits next to me and leans against my leg.

  I recognize the canary-and-peach striped cozy. My neighbor
in New York, Nona—also inherited from my grandmother—stitched it. I'll have to ask Mom how she is doing. Guilt churns in my stomach. Nona loved me, and I let her think I died. She might be gone by now...

  “Would you like some raspberry tea?” Veronica asks. "It's very good for pregnancy. Tones the uterus."

  B'scuse me? "Sure..." She smiles at the uncertainty in my voice before turning back to the sideboard and pouring the tea. Steam curls into the air.

  "Where is Mom?" I ask, scanning the apartment. It is one of two that take up the second story in a converted mansion in Coral Gables, a small city that functions as a posh section of Miami. What was once a large house for a single family is now apartments. Outside the tall casement windows, denuded palm trees stand like mutilated Barbies. While Coral Gables didn't get hit with flooding from the hurricane, the winds took off a lot of roofs and stripped all the greenery away.

  "She'll be out in a minute. She's getting dressed."

  "How are you feeling?" I ask as Veronica settles on the other side of the couch, passing me a cup of tea and cradling her own.

  She winces and smiles. "I hurt, but I'll be fine." During the riots where Robert was shot, Veronica threw herself in front of a van to save my mother. I killed the driver—a murder that hasn't crossed my mind until now. What kind of a person kills with such ease? What kind of a mother could they possibly be?

  The man deserved it, I think. A self-professed involuntary celibate, he and a group of other incels attacked my mother and her followers. It’s only been a few days since the brawl that broke out between the two groups at the hurricane refugee center.

  The image of Robert disappearing under the murky, toxic canal water flashes through my mind—the bloom of blood on his chest, the splash his body made when it hit the water, the way he sank as though the depths welcomed him home. I shake my head, trying to dispel the image.

  I blow on the tea Veronica handed me before taking a sip. It's earthy and slightly sweet.