Fatal Breach Read online

  But there is nothing innocent happening here.

  “You know why not.” I cross my arms and his gaze drops to my chest for a moment. A not-so-subtle smile curls his lips.

  “It’s not a real wedding, anyway,” Dan says. “I’m sure Sydney is just doing it to get out of being prosecuted—not that she’ll admit that. But I bet she’s got a plan…”

  “Don’t tell me these things.”

  His eyes raise to meet mine, an echo of hurt reverberating in them. Our worlds are at war. And it is painful to be on different sides. But there is no bridge between them. Maybe we can build one?

  “You’re not planning on running off and telling your senator, are you?” His voice is edged with anger. Dan’s eyes brighten, daring me. Almost threatening me to tell my fiancé about him.

  “Richard is a good man,” I say, as if that has anything to do with any of this.

  Dan opens his mouth to speak and then closes it, staring down at the pillow where my head rested moments ago. Silence descends—as quiet as the forest after a snowfall. A coldness wafts off him.

  “Dan,” I say, because his withdrawal is unbearable. None of this is tenable. “I don’t know.” Tightness in my throat cuts off the words.

  His eyes rise to meet mine. They hold so much in them. There is hope there, but also fear. He loves me. And dammit, I hate it. But I love him too. Waves of emotion roll over me—that pure vibrating joy of romance, of being close to him. There is an energy field between us and love is just pulsing there.

  Fear and facts crowd in my head, trying to stop this exchange. A voice is sternly admonishing me to make him leave. While another whispers, quiet but sure, that I should commit to this…this fantastic, unbelievable feeling.

  He holds his hand out, inviting me back to bed. I take a step back. Dan lowers his hand and rubs it across the sheets, his gaze holding me, offering me so much, things I never knew existed. Things I never knew I wanted. The forcefield between us throbs.

  I want Richard, the life we planned.

  If that is true, then why am I sinking back into the bed, letting Dan wrap me up in his warmth again? Why does it feel so right if it’s wrong?

  “There’s something I need to tell you before I return your phone,” Dan says.

  I’m fastening my watch as I stand in the doorway of my bathroom. Dan sits on my bed dressed in joggers and a dark green thermal. The Faraday box—a device that blocks electromagnetic charges so that the phones inside can’t be tracked, or send signals—is next to him. Last night Dan insisted we both put our phones in it before we even spoke to each other.

  Franny, my sister’s cat, has curled up on Dan’s other side, leaving white hairs on the black of his pants. I need to drop her off on my way to work; my sister and mom returned from their visit to Puerto Rico last night.

  “First of all, I don’t want you to open this until I leave.” He pats the rectangular box about the size of a bread loaf.

  “What about your phone?” I ask.

  Dan shakes his head. His blond hair is still wet from the shower and leaves trails of water on his shirt. “That phone isn’t mine; it’s for you, so we can communicate.”

  “Ah. You’ve thought of everything.”

  He meets my gaze, his eyes so beautiful it actually hurts just a little to look at them. “Not everything,” he says with a shy smile. “But I try and plan ahead. That’s something we have in common.”

  I don’t respond, turning back into the bathroom and glancing at my jewelry stand. Richard gave me most of the pieces hanging there. I grab the necklace Papi surprised me with when I graduated from college—a single black pearl on a thin gold chain. Elegant, professional, and not a gift from my fiancé.

  What have I done?

  My heart is hammering and my mouth is dry as I try to fasten the chain behind my neck.

  I sense Dan move into the small space with me. When he gets within a foot my body starts tingling.

  Dan’s hand covers mine and I let out a breath that shakes as much as my fingers, then release the chain to him. He fastens the necklace with steady hands.

  What would Papi think of Dan Burke?

  My father didn’t have a positive opinion of vigilantes…no one in law enforcement does, and as a second-generation New York cop who died in the line of duty, he would hate Dan’s position. But Papi respected intelligence and honor, too…I take after him so much.

  In the mirror I see Dan still staring at my neck, the look on his face captivating…because he is captivated by me.

  Dan bends to press his lips to my skin and my eyes flutter shut as I melt into him, incapable of stopping. Who is this woman in my body? Why am I letting this happen?

  The intimacy of the moment is more intense than sleeping together. The morning after is the stuff that lives are built on. Passion in the night is how new life is created. You only need one spark to start something new, but to maintain it takes a lot more than fire. My parents had plenty of fire…

  I pull away from Dan, returning to the bedroom.

  “The other thing I have to tell you,” he says as he follows, “is that my algorithms are no longer of use to you.”

  I turn sharply back to him. “What are you talking about?” Franny hops off the bed and begins to pad over to me.

  “I built in self-destruct mechanisms because I didn’t want anyone to use them after I left.”

  “You’re not serious.” He can’t be serious. “Our whole deal was you making those algorithms for us. You create AI that can target violent factions of the men’s rights movements so that we can try to change their minds and we, the U.S. government, don’t lock you up for the rest of your life.”

  I pause, the enormity of what he’s telling me shifting the ground beneath my feet. “Dan, this is vitally important work. I thought you believed in what we were doing.” I can’t stand that there is a note of hurt in my voice instead of the raw anger I hoped to expel.

  Franny winds between my ankles and yowls.

  “I do think it’s a good idea,” Dan says quietly. “But I don’t trust…” He pauses; he doesn’t want to say that he doesn’t trust me. “I don’t trust the U.S. government with that much power.” His eyes are wide and pleading. He wants me to agree with him. I do not. “Those algorithms are powerful—they can be used to change anyone’s mind, about anything, Consuela. They can radicalize as easily as moderate people’s beliefs.”

  I shake my head. “You’re a liar.”

  Good. Good. Now I can hate him.

  “I never promised I’d let you keep them,” he says in a quiet, almost mournful tone. “I just said I would make them. I never lied.”

  I snort, not on purpose, it just happens.

  I pull myself up to my full five feet, five inches and tilt my chin. My mother talks about our ancestors as if they are in the room with her. I’m too pragmatic to believe spirits walk among us, but I also understand that I’ve inherited traits through epigenetics that offer me powerful tools when I need them. I am not just one woman standing here, betrayed by her lover. I am generations of people who know right from wrong.

  “I know you have your hearing in a few days,” Dan says, referencing my testimony before the Senate Judiciary Committee—which my fiancé sits on. My stomach lurches at the thought.

  “You are not supposed to know that.” Shifting my weight, I cock my head, keeping my arms crossed, every cell in my body radiating I’m not going to talk to you about this.

  Dan nods, getting it. “When you’re ready to see me again, text.” He points to the Faraday box still sitting on the bed. Sweat breaks out along my spine. I’m not going to text him. “Even if you just want to chat.” Dan steps closer.

  My feet are rooted to the floor, my arms bars across my chest, my eyes lasers. “Leave,” I say, my voice thick.

  He bends down and picks up his bag, then opens his mouth as if to say something but stops himself. Instead he offers me a smile—disarming and hard to look at because it makes me want to w
rap him up in my arms and never let him go.

  I clench my jaw.

  And he leaves.

  It’s the right thing…but it feels wrong.

  Chapter Three

  Petra

  The girls line up, their youthful skin dewy in the soft light of the brothel’s bar. The customer, an Englishman visiting Paris for work, blinks rapidly and wets his lips. His fingers dance against each other. “How can I decide?” he asks no one in particular. “You’re all so lovely.”

  The girls smile, and a few blush. Some of them mean it, others fake it. It is natural for a woman to enjoy being called beautiful because so much of her value lies in the male appreciation of her body and its ability to create new life. Female bodies are the original currency—each of us is born with a kind of trust fund. In most parts of the world accessing that fund on your own volition is illegal.

  Men can, as is tradition, use their bodies for cannon fodder—joining armies for pay. Riddling men with bullets, while running the risk of being riddled in turn, is fine; but allow a woman the same decision power over her physical self…never. Men must maintain authority over women’s bodies. Losing dominion over women would mean losing control of creation. Civilization, as they know it, would unravel. It would all come crashing down…

  I take a sip of my drink, dark and syrupy vermouth over ice with a green olive and orange slice garnish. It’s sweet and fortified and I close my eyes to let the texture on my tongue sink in. I’ve never lost touch with my pleasure. I don’t just control my body, I revel in it. And that gives me immense power.

  It is why I own this brothel. Those bodies lined up on the floor are mine.

  The Englishman chooses a girl—just eighteen and pretty as a pink bow on top of a wrapped gift. She takes him by his hand and leads him behind the silk curtains toward her room.

  The other girls settle back into booths or onto barstools and speak softly to each other while sipping seltzer with lime. The girls can only drink alcohol with customers. It’s one of our policies…one of our many policies.

  Lenox insists on so many protections for our workers. It leaves a bitter taste at the very back of my tongue. No one sheltered me from the storm. Facing into the wind and rain gave me strength, taught me the value of my body and passion. What will become of these girls if they are not allowed to test themselves against the elements? And why should I be the one to shelter them? My heart does not bleed.

  If Lenox and Joyful Justice get their way, nothing bad will come from their decision to tap their trust funds.

  I put my drink down on the bar and check my watch, each hour marked by a diamond. Lenox should be here soon. We intend to visit several of our other brothels tonight to make sure operations remain up to our standards.

  We will have dinner later, a candle flickering between us, and then he will take me to bed. I release a sigh of anticipation.

  The bartender and manager, a French girl named Genevieve, offers me another drink. I shake my head. A bell tinkles softly, letting the girls know a guest has arrived. Between this room and the street is an anteroom. A place for the customer to be inspected—frisked and asked questions. If they are new, the rules are explained.

  No violence.

  Protection is always used.

  Payment is expected in advance.

  Once inside, the customer can have a drink and move throughout the space as if it were any other bar…except the women are all in their lingerie, ready to pleasure them at any time. The male fantasy of a night club. They can choose the girl they want to spend time with either in a lineup or through gentle conversation…some men prefer a more organic journey. Either way, they arrive at the girl’s room and a menu is presented.

  It is transactional, designed to remind the customer of what is happening here: women are selling their bodies for limited use. No one receives a passport to the girl’s soul, just a time-limited visa to enjoy her landscape. At a mutually agreeable price.

  The door opens and Lenox steps into the room, his ebony skin glistening from the light rain outside. He is so beautiful it steals my breath for a moment. Just a moment, though. Then I’m up and smiling at him. He finds me easily in the room, his gaze drawn to me as a lighthouse beacon reaches a vessel at sea. I am always searching for him…

  Lenox’s long legs carry him to me in a few strides and his hand meets my waist as he bends to lay his lips against mine. Lenox smells of the sea. Even though he has not bathed in it for days, he smells of salt, sand and sunshine. My eyes close and my body hums to be near him.

  Lenox straightens and greets the bartender, ordering a glass of red wine and settling down onto the stool next to me. His cashmere sweater is ash gray, his slacks pure black. The gold chain around his neck twinkles in the light.

  “You look beautiful,” he says, his golden brown eyes meeting mine and holding.

  “So do you.”

  He smiles with a flash of teeth. Lenox’s wine arrives and he thanks Genevieve, then his gaze roams over the space. I love to watch him examine the world. I try to imagine what it is to be so physically big and intimidating. His presence instills a natural fear. The girls don’t meet his eyes, but they are watching him from under their lashes. All of them want him. How could they not?

  The bell tinkles again and another customer enters. Lenox turns his attention to me, letting the other man see him and grow comfortable with his presence. One of the girls approaches the new man and leads him to a booth. “The space looks good,” Lenox says to me.

  “Yes, very nice.”

  “Have you spoken with any of the workers?”

  “Just Genevieve. I want to let them work. We can speak with them before their shift tomorrow. Not during.”

  Lenox agrees with a subtle nod. He trusts my instincts. He finishes his wine and we leave, heading to the next brothel. The night is cool and a wet wind tugs at my hair, though the rain has stopped.

  We visit four establishments, each running smoothly; the girls look healthy, the air is perfumed, the drinks strong, the clientele happy. It is after midnight when we return to my apartment.

  It may be my favorite property. While my estate in Romania is lavish with a night sky so dark that the Milky Way often reveals itself, Paris is where I gained my freedom. And the one-bedroom apartment is the first piece of real estate I bought. It still holds some of my most personal possessions.

  Lenox follows me up the narrow staircase, his steps quiet for a man his size. Over a foot taller than me and at least three times as broad, his shoes make less noise than my heels clicking on the marble.

  I chose to buy the attic apartment, with its angled ceilings and views of rooftops, because it felt safe to be so high. To see so far. I unlock the door and push into the living room. Lenox follows, closing the door behind us and cloaking the room in darkness. I walk forward into the shadows and find the lamp on the side table next to the couch, turning it on.

  Lenox smiles when the elegant living room is revealed. He shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it in the coat closet before offering to hang mine as well. I hand it to him, surprised by the nerves zipping around in my stomach. This is his first time in this apartment. He came straight from the airport to the brothel, though his bags were delivered here.

  Lenox’s gaze catches on the small shrine set up on the deep windowsill. He looks at me, a quick glance, before crossing toward it. The eaves of the building are echoed in the dormer’s shape. It is deep enough for a person to sit and look out across the rooftops.

  The window seat in my bedroom has a cushion on it, and I’ve sat there and stared out at the city many times. But in the living room I have an altar with a statue of a goddess. She is clothed in a simple dress and surrounded by wolves, their long lupine bodies a contrast to her feminine curves.

  “She is Medeina,” I tell him. Lenox looks over his shoulder at me and then back to the figure on my shrine. “Her sacred animal is a hare.”

  “Then why is she surrounded by wolves?” he asks.
r />   “She is a guardian of the hunt. Her role is to protect creatures of the forest.”

  “It’s eerily like Sydney coming down the mountain with those mastiffs,” Lenox says almost to himself, referencing the viral video that surfaced more than a year ago, showing Sydney Rye, surrounded by a pack of giant white Kangals, running down a mountainside and into the Syrian city of Surama. The story goes that she liberated the city from ISIS—that the fighters fled, terrified that she was a goddess and would destroy them all.

  “Yes,” I agree.

  He turns to look at me, a new suspicion in his gaze. Lenox expects everyone to try to take from him. That everyone wants his power. He is very much like a woman in that way.

  “I didn’t know you believed,” he says quietly. If I’ve hidden a strong faith from him, he will take it as a mark against me. What if I reveal myself to him now, would that grant us equality?

  “She was my mother’s goddess. I am not a protector of vulnerable creatures.” I smile and the tension in his shoulders eases. Lenox knows that my investment in Joyful Justice’s cause is because of him, not my own moral compass. “There is no life without violence, Lenox; you’re either standing on a neck or being stood upon.”

  He laughs low then sobers, nodding slowly, not agreeing but understanding. His brow slightly furrows the way it does when he reads poetry. As if he’s weighing my words, searching for a deeper meaning underneath, for some untold truth.

  But there are no layers, it is stark and clear, black and white. There is no life free of violence. Lenox and the rest of Joyful Justice want there to be a utopian world where the strong no longer exploit the weak, but that is impossible; it is not human nature, it is not civilization’s future, and it is certainly not our past.

  “I do not pray to any goddess but myself,” I add, jutting my chin up.

  “And what goddess are you?” Lenox asks. His Senegalese accent plays over the question the same way his fingertips feather over my skin when we are in bed.