Betray the Lie Page 2

  Taking the coffee, I sip it as we head down the spiral stairs leading to the main floor of the command center. Consoles with individual monitors all face a wall of screens where surveillance video, maps, and other information display. There are three teams working—all reconnaissance missions. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  I nod to my teams as we pass, and they all nod back.

  In the elevator, George asks me about a computer script he’s working on. I answer in a haze, my mind still back on my screen. Watching her.

  “I’ve got to run up to my room and change real fast,” I tell him.

  “Sure, sure. I’ll meet you at the beach.”

  Back in my suite of rooms, I take off the jeans, worn at the knees, and T-shirt I’ve been wearing for…I’m not sure how long. I throw on some board shorts and a rash guard, slipping back into my flip-flops. Pulling my hair into a bun at the back of my head, I tuck it under a billed cap.

  My eyes are becoming more sensitive to the light. I’m getting older.

  What would my mother think if she saw me now? I owe her a phone call, another set of lies. She thinks I’m living in Thailand, working for a start-up. She’s proud of me. I have her phone tapped, so I know she brags to her friends. But I also listen in on her Alexa so I know that she is lonely—talking to the cats and crying softly some nights. The sound breaks my fucking heart.

  I should visit her.

  But it’s dangerous for both of us.

  My flip-flops slap against the bottom of my feet, echoing in the empty hallway as I head back to the elevator. A door clicks open in front of me, and Tom, Anita’s husband, steps out. Spotting me, Tom gives me a smile. “Morning,” he says, his voice scratchy, like I’m the first person he’s spoken to today.

  Anita sleeps in now. She used to be up at dawn, pacing, worrying, hurting. I give Tom a smile—he deserves it; he makes Anita smile. He’s the reason she sleeps.

  “Going for a paddle?” he asks.

  “Yup, want to join me?”

  He shakes his head, brown curls flopping. “Thanks, though.”

  We walk toward the elevators together. Tom and I are almost the same height but very different men. He doesn’t like my relationship with Anita. He’d never admit it, but I know he’s jealous I was there for her, that I’m the one she turned to after being attacked. She didn’t even call him, never reached out. Tom had to chase her down. Anita is worth every effort.

  At least he doesn’t try to make small talk.

  “Which floor?” I ask as we get on the elevator.

  “Headed to the cafeteria,” he answers. It’s on the second floor. The structure we live and work in is housed inside an inactive volcano. Originally built by a paranoid billionaire—he planned to weather Armageddon on this isolated island in the Pacific when shit hit the fan but died before he got the chance.

  The command center for Joyful Justice—the vigilante network I helped found—is five floors underground with housing for more than 100 workers above. We have a state-of-the-art fitness center, a cafeteria, medical facilities, and a shopping center where people can buy groceries, clothing, and other supplies.

  The staff includes computer experts like me, strategists like Anita, and tactical experts. Tom is an odd man out; he used to be an international human rights attorney but followed Anita here after they reunited in London. I refuse to let him take on any responsibilities since he’s not an official member of Joyful Justice. There is too much at risk. My research into his background and connections remains ongoing.

  So, for now, Tom reads books on the beach, works out, and brings Anita coffee.

  The lights in the elevator flicker. That’s strange. It jerks to a stop, throwing Tom and I off balance. We look at each other, his forest green gaze meeting mine for just a moment. He is hiding something. The lights go out, leaving us in total darkness. “What’s going on?” Tom asks.

  This should be impossible. We produce our own solar and wind power. Our batteries have enough stored electricity to last days. Could it be a fire? But there are no alarms.

  “Dan?” Tom’s voice has an edge to it, as if he’s frightened. I pull out my phone and activate the flashlight app. “What’s going on?”

  My phone can’t pick up the Wi-Fi.

  That’s when my heart begins to thud in my ears. I cast my light onto the ceiling, illuminating the hatch. Stay calm.

  First, I pull the stop on the elevator. If the power comes back on, I want us to be stable.

  Then I turn to Tom. “Give me a leg up,” I say.

  Tom nods, bending over and cupping his hands. I slip off my flip-flops and, gripping my phone between my teeth, push off him to raise myself high enough to open the door in the ceiling. The scent of dust and oil pours over me as I grip the edge and haul myself onto the roof of the elevator.

  The emergency lights, orange and spaced at each floor, illuminate the dark walls and grease-smeared elevator structure. The doors, painted gray-blue that open to the 6th level, are half hidden by the elevator. But the restrictor release is exposed, meaning we can open them.

  There are footsteps running on the other side. A shout, the words muffled.

  “Hey!” I yell but get no response. A distant rumble and everything shakes. Dust rains down around me, itching my eyes and tickling my nose.

  “What’s going on?” Tom yells, his voice high.

  “We need to get out of here.” I turn back to the hatch, lower to my knees, and reach down. Tom grabs my forearm and jumps, his free hand grasping the edge of the opening. I haul him up onto the elevator roof with me.

  Another impact and more dust sprinkles down around us—floating gently in my flashlight beam.

  We wait for it to pass, and then without needing to communicate, approach the doors leading to the 6th floor.

  When the elevator is within its landing zone, the hoist-way door-release roller contacts the restrictor vane, opening the door. Depressing the restrictor vane by hand will also release the outer doors and get us out of here. Of course, if the power goes back on, it will send a lot of electricity through anyone touching it—possibly enough to kill.

  “Press that,” I say to Tom, pointing at the release with the flashlight on my phone. He reaches for it—totally trusting. A twinge of guilt turns my stomach, but I let him do it. I am responsible for the people on this island. I can’t die right now.

  Tom presses on the release, and the doors slide open. The floor is a few feet below us. Emergency lights in the hallway catch thin swirls of smoke. The scent joins the musty air in the elevator shaft. I leap down into the hall and Tom follows.

  Suddenly, the piercing wail of an alarm sounds, echoing in the empty chamber. But it’s not the fire alarm. We are under attack.

  Lenox

  She stands in the lamp light, her black dress shimmering in the yellow glow. Petra reaches up to remove an earring—a sparkling five-carat sapphire surrounded by a crown of diamonds. I know the designer. Introduced Petra to him in Prague years ago. She thanked me with kisses and moans and cash.

  Now I sit in the leather armchair in the corner of her room, my legs spread, one hand wrapped around a snifter full of cognac. The caramel burn of it layers my tongue, the perfect accompaniment to watching Petra place the heavy adornment onto her dressing table. Her nails, painted blood red, stand out against her pale skin. She’s lost weight since I last saw her.

  The stress of another failed marriage.

  Her thin fingers toy with the second earring, taking longer to remove it, her bright green gaze finding mine. She gives me a sultry smile, the red of her lipstick smeared from when I kissed her in the car. She loves that— being wanted so badly I can’t wait to get her somewhere private, but then taking my time—my sweet, expensive time—once I do.

  The fine lines around her mouth only make Petra more beautiful. She’s had work done, like almost all my clients, but has retained some of her natural aging. I like that. A woman who knows how to face time, who isn’t afraid to let he
r years show in subtle, elegant ways.

  “I enjoy the way you watch me,” she says, her Czech accent still thick even after all her years of speaking English.

  I nod but do not smile. “Take off your shoes,” I say. They are black patent leather heels, and while they give shape to her calves, I want her natural, bare to me. Just Petra.

  The smile fades from her lips, and an almost distraught hunger enters her gaze. Here is a woman who has so much control, so much power, and to be in someone else’s—in the power of a trusted employee and friend—that is pure erotic pleasure for her. It allows her release. Petra pays me to pretend she is weak.

  She slips out of the high heels, stepping her stocking-clad feet onto the thick carpeting of her bedroom. The space is masculine: dark wood and brown leather, an oriental rug in golds and greens. The bed, a four-poster that would be comfortable in a medieval Scottish castle, is covered in black sheets and a silver wolf fur blanket.

  Petra could probably kill a wolf. With her background, she probably has.

  “Can you reach your zipper?” I ask.

  Petra shakes her head, pupils dilating. Is that a lie? Petra lives alone these days. Who pulled up her zipper? One of her security men, a maid? Pity swells in my chest for just a moment as I imagine Petra’s life, where such an intimate act must be performed by a paid attendant.

  “Come,” I say. She shivers, a smile pulling at those smeared lips again. She crosses the room to me, her hips swaying, the gold bracelet on her wrist catching the low light and shining.

  "Turn around." She does as I say. Leaning forward, I reach for her zipper. Petra is barely over five feet tall, so I can grip the hold between my thumb and forefinger without getting up. She stands perfectly still as I slowly drag it down, each tooth releasing in a satisfying click.

  Loose now, the black silk garment slips off her shoulders, and she is left standing in front of me wearing only her bra, panties, garter, and stockings.

  I sip my cognac and sit back, just watching her. Watching the goose bumps break out on her skin. I'll take my time. That's what she pays me for—slow, strong seduction.

  Hours later, Petra sleeps, her breathing even, her mascara smudged under her long lashes. I watch her, the light of the moon sneaking in through the sheer curtains, gracing her petite curves, turning her into a statue—a cold symbol instead of a living woman.

  One of my first clients, Petra showed me this larger world. This world where I could be more than just a bumpster—more than just a whore. A master.

  Growing up, I had two career choices: become a thief like my father or a prostitute like my mother. I chose my mother’s path, preferring to provide value rather than steal it. I've always wanted to make the world fair. To make all the sums come out.

  My mother taught me math, reading...she borrowed books from the library at the resorts where she plied her trade to teach me. European tourists found her irresistible, and they felt the same about me once I reached a certain age. But my mother protected me, wouldn't let me work as a bumpster—the term used by tourists to describe the young African men they bought—until I turned fifteen. "I give you everything you need," she told me. "You can wait to sell the body I made until I'm ready for you to do it."

  I loved my mother. Respected her. And almost always did as she asked.

  Sadness sweeps over me as her face fills my mind’s eye—the same honey brown eyes as mine, same dark skin, same smile. The way she died wasn't right. It wasn't fair.

  But the world isn't. That's what my father always said...when he was around. He came by a couple of times a year. My mother always let him in, and she always kicked him out again. When his drinking ramped up, and the beatings became so frequent she could barely work, my mother would make him leave; she didn’t let him kill her. Her murderer was a stranger. A trick. A john.

  Her body washed up on the beach, her clothing ripped, neck broken, eyes gone...eaten by some creature of the sea or sky.

  She left our apartment that night like every other, gave me a kiss as always, her perfume lingering long after the sound of her heels on the steps had faded. But her memory will never fade. My love for her will never dissipate. No creature, no man or woman, can take her away from me. Not really. Not in the ways that matter.

  She raised me to be me. To be Lenox Gold. She raised me so that now I can fight to make the world fair.

  I brush a kiss on Petra's cheek, and she smiles in her sleep. Climbing out of the bed, I pull on my boxer briefs. Leaving the room, I jog down the wide, sweeping staircase to the office off the den. Petra is my oldest client, a close friend. But her business interests are seeping into my world. Into the world of Joyful Justice.

  And now, the scales must be balanced.

  Chapter Three

  Dan

  It has to be an inside job. There is no way law enforcement could get here without me knowing. Impossible.

  I turn to Tom. He’s pale, his eyes wide and lips tight. I move quickly, fisting his thin T-shirt and slamming him up against the wall. “What did you do?” I demand, my voice a low rumble.

  “Me?” he stammers. “I, what? I’m…”

  I lean my face closer to his. “You’re the new element.”

  “But...what? No.”

  His eyes are holding mine. Confusion, innocence. “I can’t be the only new person here.”

  He’s right. But I’m not going to tell him that. “You’re coming with me,” I say, pulling him off the wall and releasing his shirt. “Go, to the stairs.” He starts to walk, his steps unsteady. “Run!” He breaks into a jog.

  “I swear, Dan, I have nothing to do with this,” he yells over the alarm.

  “Shut up.”

  He does. The lights come back on as we push into the emergency stairwell. Tom turns to me. “Which way?”

  “You go to Anita.” He nods, relief washing over his face, and starts up the steps two at a time. He loves her. But would he betray her?

  We so often betray the ones we love…often when we don't even mean to.

  I wait for Tom to disappear then check my phone—the Wi-Fi is still out.

  Shit. I dash back out through the door and to the left, where the emergency cabinet for this floor is located. When I arrive, there are already two members of the security team grabbing weapons.

  “What’s going on?” Tanya raises her voice to be heard over the still-wailing alarm as she straps a pistol to her hip. A former sex slave turned vigilante, Tanya has worked with Joyful Justice for years. I know I can trust her. I monitor all communication that comes and goes from the island. I am fastidious about checking people out before they arrive—I’m all up in their business, in their family. How could this happen?

  Tom is the only person here I didn’t invite. But I checked him out too…the alarm stops screaming. “Our security system has been breached,” I answer. “But I won’t know how until I get to my computer.” I grip my phone, willing the Wi-Fi to return. “I’m going to head down to the command center. There is a battery room at the end of this hall. I think that’s where the smoke is coming from.” The smoke is thin and tinted with the scent of hot plastic. “Check it out, please.”

  She nods, pulling a radio from the utility closet and handing it to me. I test it and hear the harsh crackle of communication. “Thanks, let me know what you find.”

  “Good luck,” she says, her voice heavy with a lifetime of bad breaks. She expects the worst.

  “You, too.” I turn and run back toward the stairs. Tanya and her team will secure this floor. There are teams assigned to every section of the compound. We are not vulnerable.

  My steps echo in the concrete stairwell, and I’m huffing for breath by the time I get down to the command center. I put my ten-digit code into the keypad and enter.

  The scent of plastic and ozone envelops me in a comforting cloud. I’m in my element. Striding quickly into the main room, I scan the desks.

  The computers are on; the large screen is showing surveillance footag
e from around the compound. A feed from the backup battery room on the sixth floor shows a cloud of smoke, but also figures moving through the gloom, wearing fire gear and working to extinguish the off-screen blaze.

  My second in command, Mitchel, is standing at the back wall, talking quietly into his headset. A little shorter than me, with bright blue eyes and sun-streaked brown hair, Mitchel is a brilliant hacker whose reputation started when he was ten and broke into his school’s system to cancel exams.

  The three teams I left here thirty minutes ago are bent over their consoles, hard at work.

  Mitchel looks up and meets my gaze, relief crossing his features as he starts to move in my direction. We paddleboard together most days, and he moves with the assured elegance of an athlete. “Get that contained,” he’s saying into his microphone, “and then check on servers in room seven. I’m seeing high temperatures there I do not like.”

  “Catch me up,” I say, still walking, headed for the center of the room so I can see the entire screen and everyone working. Mitchel falls into step with me.

  “Someone set off an explosive in Battery Room C. They put the cameras on a ten minute loop, but I’ve got Rachel working on it now.” I nod. Rachel is good at uncovering what people try to hide. “We’ve also lost Wi-Fi to the compound.”

  “I noticed.”

  Mitchel nods, his mouth drawn down into a frown. “This is an attack.”

  “Yes, but what are they trying to do?” I ask, my gaze raking the main screen as I stop at the top of the center aisle. On screen, I can see the most sensitive areas of the compound—all our server rooms, the weapons caches, our generators and solar fields, the wind turbine, and the most important egress points. “This is minor. We’ll recover quickly. They must be trying to distract us.”

  “I’ve got Melody on watch; she’s scanning all our systems for a breach.”

  “Good.” I turn back to him. “You did really well. I was stuck on an elevator.”