Betray the Lie Read online

  Betray the Lie

  A Sydney Rye Mystery, Book 11

  Emily Kimelman

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Author’s Note

  Sneak Peek

  Emily’s Bookshelf

  About the Author

  Want More?

  “I am a red man. If the Great Spirit had desired me to be a white man He would have made me so in the first place. He put in your heart certain wishes and plans. In my heart he put other and different desires. Each man is good in His sight. It is not necessary for eagles to be crows.”

  -Sitting Bull

  “Betrayal does so many different things to people.”

  -Trai Byers

  Chapter One

  Sydney

  I press out and away, the rollerblades zipping under me.

  The Atlantic Ocean glitters to my left, aqua blue and shimmering gold. This winding concrete path in Miami Beach is the perfect place to rollerblade. The most perfect.

  Music pounds in my headphones, the beat driving me faster.

  My dog, Blue, and two of his puppies, Nila and Frank, run beside me. Blue to my left, the younger dogs to my right. They are all on loose leashes, their strides long and steady.

  I used to jog—loved it. But when in Rome…rollerblade.

  My trainer, Merl, showed up with a pair of the ridiculous footwear a few months ago, and I laughed, which I hadn’t been doing much. “Funny enough,” I told him. “This is kind of my worst nightmare.”

  He waggled his eyebrows and grinned his gap-toothed smile. “What? You’re too cool to rollerblade?”

  “I had hoped so.”

  “Just try them. You’re going to love it.”

  And, as so often happened, Merl was right. I love rollerblading. So, I added it to the list of changes.

  Old me: Named Joy Humbolt, foul-mouthed, quasi-alcoholic, pot-smoking dog walker.

  Newer me: Named Sydney Rye, foul-mouthed, quasi-alcoholic, hash-smoking vigilante.

  Newest me: Hallucinating, blacking out, foul-mouthed, teetotaling, non-smoking rollerblader.

  Life is weird…and kind of wonderful.

  “Carrying a girl/ Across the river;/ The hazy moon.” Robert glances up from the book of Haiku verse. “That’s like us.”

  “Is it?” I ask with a smile.

  Blue shifts on the couch next to me, pressing more weight against my side. Nila and Frank lay together, their limbs intertwined, on the marble floor.

  The open sliding glass doors let in a gentle, humid breeze, scented with salty ocean. Waves slap softly against the bulwark, their constant, ever-changing rhythm the only music.

  Robert is half in shadow, his green glass shaded reading lamp throwing a pale yellow circle across his lap and chest. A small, leather-bound book lays open in one of his long-fingered, elegant hands.

  The last wisps of the sunset, just the palest, most powdery blues and darkest hues of purple, light up the sky and filter through the wall of glass, casting shadows around the living room.

  Robert’s phone, lying on the end table next to him, vibrates, sending a low hum through the quiet, peaceful room. He glances at the screen and then answers it.

  “Yes, Brock.” Brock is his head of home security, a thick, muscled, ex-military man responsible for the safety and impenetrability of this mansion on Star Island—a refuge for the extremely wealthy in Biscayne Bay, just east of downtown Miami. “I see.”

  Robert’s gaze meets mine, his blue-green eyes narrowing. The fine lines around them deepen as he listens. In his fifties, with dark hair silvering at the temples, Robert is an imposing presence. It's not just that he's over six feet tall and well-muscled. Or that he moves with the elegance and speed of a killer, either. There is an aura of power that surrounds Robert Maxim—wafts from him—and demands to be acknowledged.

  He closes the book of poems and places it on his side table next to a cut crystal glass of sparkling water.

  Blue, Nila, and Frank lift their heads, collars jangling. The puppies look to their father for direction. Eight months old, with gigantic paws, soft features, and keen instincts, they are almost as tall as Blue.

  A mutt I adopted back when I lived in New York—a lifetime ago—Blue is the height of a Great Dane with the long, elegant snout of a collie, the thick coat of a wolf, and the markings of a Siberian husky, with one blue eye and one brown. Blue is trained to protect and his offspring are learning… Nila better than Frank.

  Frank is a dumb dog—which I love about him. The guy is almost too sweet for the job. Whenever Merl, a dog expert, tries to get him to attack, Frank turns it into a game. Nila, on the other hand, is ruthless, smart, and quick.

  She takes after her mother, an all-white Kangal mastiff who is fierce, loyal, and dangerous. Nila also inherited her mother’s rounded muzzle and white fur, except for sprays of black and tan at her ears and eyes. The darker colors accentuate the bright blue of Nila’s gaze. Frank has Blue’s mismatched eyes, a shorter version of his snout, and a paler version of his coloring. With gigantic paws that make him clumsy at times, Frank is likely to be even bigger than Blue…so huge.

  The puppies’ mother is back in Syria. My mind wanders there for a moment, returning to the cave where I almost died. To the woman who saved my life…the scent of smoke fills my nostrils and Rida’s smiling face appears before me. Almond-shaped, dark brown eyes lit with intelligence and the fever of revolution; a narrow, scarred chin; and her smile: grief and hope tangled across one curled lip.

  Robert hangs up the phone, and Blue leaps off the couch, pulling me back into the room, back to the present. The puppies scramble to their feet, facing the door.

  Robert stands, slipping the phone into his pocket, and crosses to me. He reaches out a hand—the shirt-sleeve rolled up, exposing a strong forearm dusted in dark hair. “Time to go,” he says. I twine my fingers with his, and Robert pulls me from the couch, holding me tight as we begin to move.

  A heavy fist pounds on the front door, echoing through the large house. My soft-soled sneakers are almost silent on the marble as we begin to jog. The dogs’ nails click along with us.

  “Homeland Security. Open up!” A man yells, his voice muffled by the large house. Robert presses a button, and a bookshelf slides away, revealing a doorway.

  The loud crash of a battering ram striking the front door echoes as Maxim punches a code into the keypad next to the elevator. My heartbeat remains even. I am not afraid.

  Declan

  Five years. I've been waiting five years for this moment. And now here I am, standing behind my men, controlling them with the microphone at my mouth. Sydney Rye, aka Joy Humbolt, will not escape. I've got the warrant. I've got the manpower. We are on US territory.

  I will defeat her.

  The pounding of Fermont's fist against the tall wooden door echoes inside Robert Maxim’s Star Island mansion. From the road, all you can see are white walls fronted with lush tropical gardens, but on the ocean side it's all glass.

  The guy lives quite the life.

 
He offered me a job, years ago—tried to lure me away from the New York police force right as I made Detective. I thought I'd go. Figured I'd make a killing.

  But then...Joy Humbolt. She upended my life. Instead of being the easy, fast, fun fuck I wanted her to be, she turned out to be a goddamn assassin. She humiliated me....made me into a fool.

  After murdering her brother’s killer in New York, she went on the run, but her act of vengeance—those few bullets sunk into a man’s chest—spawned a movement. Joyful Justice, a vigilante network that started as an online forum, soon mutated into an international fighting force causing havoc around the world. Taking justice into their own hands and making headlines doing it.

  Robert Maxim protected her all these years. Fuck that. I’m bringing them both down, then I’ll destroy the rest of Joyful Justice, one member at a time. But I need to stay calm now, in this moment of victory.

  No one answers the door, so I call for the battering ram. The team moves in seamless formation. The ram appears, and the men swing it back and smash into the mahogany doors. Once...twice...on the third time, the big frame lets go and the door swings in. My men pour forth: black, armored warriors here to win the day.

  I follow in their wake, my weapon up, the weight of my body armor making me sweat in the warm night.

  I doubt Robert will try to fight his way out of the house. He's too slick for that.

  It took me five judges to find one who would write the warrant, but I found one. I always win.

  Sydney

  The doors to the hidden elevator open just as a voice behind us yells, “Freeze. Now!” Glancing back, I see three men in the living room, their weapons raised, the matte black of their helmets absorbing the last rays of the sunset.

  With the elevator doors open, on the precipice of escape, Robert and I freeze, our bodies stilling. The calm before the storm.

  Blue growls, and Frank gives off a deep bark of excitement. Nila presses against my leg, waiting for a command.

  “Turn around slowly,” the man orders.

  Robert releases my hand, and we both turn to face the armed intruders, joined now by two more. Their radios crackle. Bodies hunched around their weapons, the heavy armor under their uniforms putting a sheen on their skin, they keep their rifles aimed at our chests.

  A strong gust of wind puffs through the open glass doors, bringing the briny scent of the sea. I take a deep breath. I love that smell.

  My hands are up—Robert’s, too. But we are not surrendering. That’s not what Robert and I do.

  Declan Doyle pauses at the top of the four steps leading down into the living room. His brown eyes land on mine. A smile, predatory and satisfied, leaps into his gaze—the look of a wolf who’s crept into the center of a flock of sheep. Declan thinks he's about to feast.

  Poor Declan Doyle—so wrong, so often.

  A hint of sympathy curls in my stomach, considering what it must be like to pursue someone so desperately, to believe in one moment you’ve captured them, only to lose them again in the next.

  Parting is such sweet sorrow…for one of us anyway.

  "Sydney," Declan says.

  I nod. "Declan, how are you?"

  He starts down the steps. "Better than you."

  "Perhaps, but I have been well recently. How has your recovery been?"

  His face darkens, and his hand brushes against his side where I shot him. "I'm fine."

  "Hello, Declan," Robert says. "Making more terrible career choices, I see."

  Declan glances at Robert for only a moment before returning his attention to me. "I wouldn't take career advice from him," Declan says to me. "Could land you in jail." He grins. "Oh right, you're going there anyway.”

  Robert huffs a laugh but does not speak.

  Declan frowns, and then, looking down at Blue, a smile crosses his face. “It’s a shame,” he says. “If those dogs don’t come easy, they will be put down.”

  “Declan,” I say. “Do you really need to threaten my dogs? Aren’t you bigger than that?”

  “Besides,” Robert says, shrugging. “I’ve never seen threatening Blue go well. For anyone. Ever.”

  Declan looks over at Robert. “Well, Robert Maxim, things are changing.”

  Robert smiles, slow and scary, like he knows so much more than anyone else in the room…hell, anyone else in the world. “The more things change, the more they stay the same.” Robert says it quietly, almost humbly…minus the glee in his gaze.

  “Not this time, Robert,” Declan says, his own smug smile pulling at his lips.

  A sigh escapes me as the two men’s egos clash. The ego is to be transcended, not bargained with or defeated.

  Declan turns on his heel. “Cuff and ready them for transport,” he says to one of his men as he heads back out to the hall.

  Sympathy wells in me for one more moment as I watch his broad back leave the room. He won’t even be here to witness his defeat.

  Declan

  “We got them sir, we got them both,” I say to my superior over the secure sat phone, not even trying to keep the shit-eating grin off my face.

  “You’ve taken Robert Maxim into custody?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Are you insane?” His voice is low, quiet…deadly.

  “I’ve got a warrant.”

  “You’ve got a problem. Or maybe it’s a death wish.”

  Gunshots echo in the living room. Fuck. I rip open the door. Sydney Rye stands in the center of the room, her back pressed against Robert Maxim’s, her three dogs calm and close. Robert and Sydney have pistols, and, helpless, frozen like a goddamn statue, I watch as Sydney shoots the only man left standing in the room—Officer Taylor Winston, father of two, highly decorated soldier, my personal pick to lead this raid. I got him killed.

  Sydney’s gray gaze lands on me, her pistol tracking with it.

  I jump back and to the side, hiding behind the second door, pulling my weapon.

  My phone is on the floor, the line still open. But my superior isn’t talking. He knows what’s happening.

  Gun up, I step to the doorway and glance in quickly. Robert and Sydney are gone. Cautiously, I move into the large space. The secret door we found them trying to escape through is still open. I approach with caution, stepping over the bodies of my fallen men. Sydney will pay for this.

  My heart hammers and sweat slicks my palms, but I’m steady. Ready for whatever lies beyond that door. I can’t let them get away.

  The rev of an engine outside spins me around. Through the glass window I see a speedboat flying away from the shore, its white, frothy wake glittering in the moonlight.

  Running through the open doors out onto the patio, I can just make out two human figures…and three dogs.

  Shit.

  Moaning draws my attention back into the room, to the men on the floor. What the hell? I step back into the house, one of the sheer curtains billowing around me and clinging to my shirt. I push it away, my gaze scanning the men. There is no blood.

  Winston rolls onto his side and begins to retch. I cross to him, dropping to my knees, and help to hold him up. There is a spent projectile syringe on the floor. My gaze rakes the room. The rest of the men are stirring.

  They’re not dead. They were drugged.

  Relief swells in my chest, and tears prick at my eyes, but I quench my emotions quickly.

  This is still a shitshow, and I’m going to have to answer for it. Using the radio on my shoulder, I call for medical help. The medics are on standby and rush into the room moments later. I leave my men in their expert care and retrieve my phone from the hallway.

  With numb fingers, I call my superior back. “You are relieved of your command. Return to Washington for a debriefing. Now,” he barks then hangs up. I close my eyes and lean against the wall, anger and shame creating a dangerous cocktail in my gut. My hands fist, and I can’t help but turn quickly and jab the wall hard enough that I dent the drywall. Fuck.

  Forcing myself to take deep br
eaths, I walk out of the house, down the front steps, and through the garden, back out to the road where vehicles, their lights spinning, throw red, blue, and white around the quiet street. Two paramedics bring Winston out on a stretcher. “How is he?” I ask as they load him into one of the waiting ambulances.

  “We won’t know until we find out what he’s been shot with, but vital signs are normalizing.”

  “He’s going to be okay?”

  “I’m right here, boss,” Winston says, the ghost of a smile on his face.

  My lips purse, and I nod but can’t bring myself to say more. I won’t apologize. And I won’t give up. Sydney Rye and Robert Maxim will pay.

  Chapter Two

  Dan

  I should go to bed. But I don’t. Instead, I switch screens, giving in to my obsession. What you don’t know can’t hurt you. What a lie. It’s the things we don’t see coming that get us. We must remain vigilant.

  A knock at my door pulls my attention from the screen. George, one of my best coders, stands on the other side of the tinted glass holding a cup of coffee. Is it morning already?

  “Come in,” I say, running a hand through my hair. It’s getting long, almost to my shoulders.

  “Morning, Boss,” George says as he enters. I nod. “Ready to go?”

  He’s talking about paddleboarding. I don’t want to. But I stand up and stretch. “Sure.” I give him a smile—one of my I’m relaxed and easygoing smiles. The kind I’ve perfected.