Flock of Wolves Read online

"Yes," I nodded, feeling the weight of this great gift from God on my shoulders. "I have been tasked with spreading the message."

  "But—" Cynthia cast her blue eyes down into her lap, where her fingers entwined, her knuckles whitening as she pressed them together. "This prophet says that we decide our own value." She raised her gaze to mine. "I believe that God decides our value."

  "Yes," I said, my voice rising with the passion I felt. "He has created us, and as his creations our value is clear."

  "But, then what do we decide?"

  "We decide whether we acknowledge it, whether we see what God has done, and admit that we have as much value as anyone else. Whether we have faith. Or we ignore God, and we continue to live in the shadow of men."

  Debbie giggled nervously—a strange sound on a woman close to my age.

  "What makes you think you're not as valuable as a man?" I asked, turning to her, my voice harsh with accusation.

  "Oh no, I know I am. I know I have value." Her eyes darted to her friends, and she blushed deeply.

  "Women give birth. We create life."

  "Well, we need men for that," Madeline said with a laugh—trying to lighten the mood.

  My hands tighten into fists. "Of course." I forced a deep breath, searching for calm. All is as it is meant to be. "We have as much value as men. We are equal. Not more or less. But only we can decide that."

  "But, if we are equal to men, then why did He make us weaker?" Nancy asked. She fiddled with her package of mints so that they jangled against the metal.

  "Did he make us weaker?" I responded, turning to her, holding her gaze.

  Nancy's green eyes darted around the room, looking for the answer in her fellow travelers’ expressions. "I mean," she cleared her throat. "My husband can pick up much heavier things than me."

  "Yes, and my husband is much better with figures than I am. I don't even try with that kind of thing." Madeline waved her hand at the idea that she would try and deal with numbers.

  "And how many meals has he cooked?" I asked Madeline. She stared through her glasses at me as her manicured fingers rose to her neck, where a string of pearls circled her like a collar.

  "Oh, he doesn't cook?" I went on.

  "And laundry, does he do laundry?"

  Madeline shook her head. "But that stuff's easy."

  I laughed. "Is it? Is it so easy?"

  "Well, not as hard as making money." Madeline sat up straighter, defending her husband's superiority. It is easier to defend others than ourselves.

  "Are you saying that you think your husband has more value than you?" I asked her, determined to make Madeline give me a straight answer.

  Her lips pursed. "He makes more money than me."

  "And is that how value is decided, do you think?"

  "Well, the Lord blesses those in his favor with many different things, including money." She nodded to herself, repeating words I'd heard Bill say thousands of times. To give to the church is like a savings account with God. He will repay you tenfold.

  "So, you think the fact that you haven't made money means the Lord hasn't blessed you?"

  "Oh no, I'm very blessed. I have two wonderful, grown children, a wonderful husband. I'm very blessed." Madeline smiled, her family a cocoon of satisfaction that gave her the strength to meet my gaze.

  "So then you must have as much value as your husband, in the eyes of the Lord." She blinked, her mouth parting, but nothing came out. "What does it feel like in here?" I touched my hand to my chest, laying it over my heart. I felt that steady thump, a drum beat—a reminder of the strength and wisdom of the women I had walked with in Isis territory.

  These women in front of me now, so like my former self, lived in a world where they were almost equal.

  Where they almost had the same value as men.

  And the gap was so small that these women readily accepted it.

  They hadn't even realized that they were treated like less—that they treated themselves like less. Took pride in their husbands instead of themselves.

  In Isis-controlled territory, the oppression of women was as obvious as a marching band…in the West it was as subtle and constant as a heartbeat.

  I'd just come from where it was obvious, and I needed to go back to where it wasn't.

  And then the Lord sent me a vision. I was on the stage, the stage that Bill stood on, but I was the one behind the pulpit. It was my name in bright lights behind me. I was the preacher.

  Yes!

  My vision was so clouded with this premonition that I didn't hear Madeline's response.

  "Sorry, what did you say?" I asked, bringing the woman back into focus.

  Her hand was over her chest; she was nodding slowly. "I think I do have as much value. As much value as a man."

  "Then you do," I said.

  "I think I do, too," Cynthia said, her voice strong. "I lost my husband. My children are grown. But I live on…and I've wondered why."

  "To help me spread this message," I said.

  Her eyes lit with new faith. "I believe you," she said.

  "Me, too," Debbie said, her cheeks pink.

  I turned to Nancy, whose face had gone pale. "What about you?" I asked.

  She nodded slowly. "Me, too."

  Mulberry

  She pushed back the hair from my brow and laughed.

  "What?" I asked, capturing her wrist and kissing it.

  "You're starting to get some gray," she said and grinned, lying back against the pillow. Soft morning light filtered in through the windows. Traffic passed on the street below, a low murmur as familiar to me as my heartbeat. I loved this city.

  My brow furrowed. "That's funny to you? Your husband getting old amuses you?"

  She smiled, her dimple appearing, and my heart ached with how much I loved her.

  Sandy pulled her lip between her teeth, and her green gaze turned serious. She shrugged and looked down at my hand still holding hers. "What would you think about, maybe…" she looked up at me, "leaving the force soon?"

  I frowned and dropped her hand, running it through my hair. "You know I love what I do."

  She sat up, the sheets falling away from her body, exposing her soft skin, the elegant curve of her waist. "But, you could go into the private sector, where people also need protection. You'd make so much more money."

  "What?" My voice came out harsher than I meant it, and she flinched. "Work for a guy like Robert Maxim, for Fortress Global Investigations—be a hired gun?" Never.

  Her face hardened. "I want to have a family. And I want you to be around to raise our kids."

  "Nothing's going to happen to me."

  "You don't know that." Her voice rose. "Look what happened—" She stopped herself before saying my father's name. But the shadow of his death filled the room.

  My alarm sounded, an annoying beep-beep, and I threw off the covers, rolling away from her. "I have to get to work. We can finish this conversation later."

  It took Herculean effort to lift my eyelids. How did they get sealed shut? Why did my head feel so fuzzy, and my body throb with disuse and meddling pains?

  I got my eyes open, but the lids slid right down again before I could focus. Sucking in a deep breath, I steeled myself for another attempt. As I lay there in the darkness behind my lids, gathering my strength, I heard the beeping of my alarm clock.

  I needed to get my damn eyes open.

  A deep breath in, and I again lifted the lids. Straining to keep them open, my pupils dilated, bringing the world into focus…a white ceiling.

  My lids tried to close again. I couldn't let them.

  Not before I turned my head. I slowly shifted my gaze. A machine next to me showed a mountain range of heartbeats dancing out on the screen.

  What?

  My eyes closed, but I forced them open again quickly. Practically a blink this time.

  Wriggling my fingers against rough sheets, I turned my head in the other direction. A man slept in a chair next to me, his breathing even and deep. />
  Tall and broad, the stranger's dark skin looked almost purple in the stark light of the hospital room.

  I was in a hospital bed.

  How did I get here?

  I cleared my throat, planning to ask the question out loud.

  The man woke, honey brown eyes blinking into awareness. When he saw me staring at him, a wide smile transformed his face.

  "You're awake." His voice was accented, lyrical and smooth. He sounded West African— maybe Senegalese—that mix of French and English I'd heard on the streets of Le Petit Sénégal in Harlem.

  "Yeah, I'm awake," I said, my voice coming out rough, like I hadn't used it in some time.

  "I'll get the doctor," the man said, rising to stand. He was over six feet tall, broad, wearing jeans and a T-shirt that fit him like he was a model. Who was this guy? He seemed to think I knew him. Maybe he was a nurse. But the gold bracelets on his wrist and the fine material of his silk T-shirt, matched with the casual denim, suggested he was a guest visiting me, a friend.

  I'd never seen Model Man before in my life.

  He moved to the door and opened it, then turned back and threw me another brilliant smile, like he was at the end of a runway, doing one final look back for the audience. "The nurse is right down the hall."

  He stepped out, and the door swished closed behind him, as if they were on the same spring, my eyes slid closed with the door.

  I took several deep breaths in the darkness, my brain turning over on itself. Nothing made sense. Wasn't I just getting out of bed with Sandy? I must have had an accident…

  The door swished open again, interrupting my train of thought. Prying open my eyes, I found Model Man returning with a petite nurse. She had caramel-colored skin and wore a green head scarf that brought out the flecks of color in her brown eyes.

  "Mr. Mulberry. You're awake."

  "Yeah."

  "The doctor will be here in just a moment." Model Man hovered behind her as she looked at my machines. I followed her gaze. The mountain range seemed to be holding steady. She touched a bag, and I noticed the lettering wasn't English. Was that Turkish?

  Was I in Turkey?

  "What's going on?" I asked.

  The woman smiled down at me, a closed-lip smile, friendly but restrained. The answer wasn't a happy one. "The doctor will be here in a moment; he'll explain everything."

  The door swung open, and a tall, thin, balding man walked in. Thick glasses drooped down his nose, and he pushed them up as he approached, smiling at me.

  "Mr. Mulberry, I'm Dr. Dale Mitchell. I'm a neurologist, and I've been a part of your team since you arrived here in Istanbul."

  "Istanbul? How did I get to Istanbul?"

  "What's the last thing you remember?" the doctor asked as he pulled out a penlight, shining it into my eyes. I shied away from the bright light and held out a hand. My arm felt weightless, strange. I must be on some sort of drugs.

  "Mr. Mulberry, I'll need to look at your pupils. You've sustained some injuries, and I want to check on your brain function." The guy smiled.

  Check on my brain? Was this guy trying to get punched in the face?

  "He's a friend of Robert's," Model Man said, nodding, as though that meant I should trust him. Like I should trust any of these people.

  "Robert who?" I croaked.

  "Robert Maxim," the doctor said, turning his penlight to my pupils again.

  "Robert Maxim?" The owner of Fortress Global? We barely knew each other, and what we did know of each other, we didn't like.

  I batted the flashlight away. "What the hell is going on here? Where's my wife?" Dr. Dale cocked his head, and Model Man frowned.

  Oh, my God, were we in a car accident? Is Sandy gone?

  "From what I understand," Dale said, chewing on his lip for a moment. "Hmm."

  "What the hell is going on here?" I said, pushing myself up to sit higher. The nurse hurried over with a pillow and shoved it behind my back. Then she pointed out that I could adjust the bed using a controller in the side bar. She offered me a small smile. She was used to dealing with men like me—frustrated men in hospital beds.

  "You were in a battle. You've been injured. It seems that you might have lost some time," Dale said.

  "Lost time? A battle?" I looked down at myself. My broad chest looked okay, tapered to a waist, that was good news. My dick appeared to still be there. Excellent. My eyes traveled lower.

  My left leg stopped above my knee.

  It was some sort of horrible trick. I bent over, feeling tightness in my back and when my fingers touched the nub, pain shot through me.

  "I lost my leg." The words came out flat.

  "But hey, we thought you might have lost your brain, too, so you're doing pretty good," Dr. Dale said with a smile.

  Seriously, was he trying to get punched in the face? My eyes flickered over to Model Man. He was looking at Dale like he wanted to punch him, too.

  It was definitely possible that me and this guy were friends, even if he did look like something straight out of GQ.

  But where was Sandy? Where was my wife?

  What the hell was going on?

  Chapter Nine

  Battles Waged, Temples Staged

  Sydney

  Lightning sizzled in the corners of my vision, and thunder sounded so loudly that I could barely hear. Sweat slicked my palm, making my grip on the pistol tighten. Why was I aiming a gun at Robert?

  What the hell was happening?

  Fuck!

  My finger trembled; it wanted to pull the trigger. Part of me wanted him dead.

  Blue's low growl joined the thunder and helped to settle me. Robert stared at me over the top of my gun.

  He knew I didn't have control.

  A shiver ran over my skin as a cold wind blew up my spine.

  "Robert." My voice came out forced, rough with tension. She's strangling me.

  "Sydney." Robert took a step forward, his palms open and low, showing me he wasn't holding a weapon. But he had a pistol and knife on each hip. He could reach them quickly.

  The thwap of an approaching helicopter broke through the rumble of thunder, and Robert's eyes darted to the window behind me, which looked out onto the lawn.

  "Deacon is here. We'll just be on our way." He had control of himself. His voice was smooth, slick, dark chocolate. I could practically taste it on my tongue.

  "What is wrong with her?" Angie asked, staring at me.

  Robert's gaze flicked to his former wife. "What happened?"

  Angie huffed, straightening her clingy, red dress, a small tremble in her fingers. I'd rattled her. "I was trying to find her something to wear when she pulled that gun on me. She kept saying I am Her. What the hell does that mean?" Angie's voice rose high with fear and frustration. "Where is Mustafa?" she asked suddenly, her eyes scanning the room. "What the fuck happened here?" Her accent suddenly sound very New York.

  The dining room lay in disarray; glasses broken on the floor, cutlery askew. The salmon had spilled onto one of the chairs, staining the green satin.

  Robert took two quick steps and grabbed Angie by the arm. "Tell me what else she said." His head jerked in my direction.

  Angie's mouth turned into a deep frown. "You can't talk to me like this, Robert. Not anymore. I'm not your wife."

  He shook Angie so hard that her hair danced around her shoulders. "Tell me what she said."

  "Ow!" Angie gasped. Her eyes met Robert's gaze, fiery with rage. "She said she wanted to kill you. That you took something from her."

  His eyes jumped to me. I had no idea what she was talking about. I'd lost time again. I gritted my teeth. This had to stop.

  "Stop aiming that gun at me," he growled. I lowered my weapon, taking a deep breath, steeling myself.

  I was Sydney motherfucking Rye and this losing control shit was over. Over.

  Robert's attention returned to Angie. "We're leaving; you'll walk us out. And you're not going to tell anyone what happened until we are long gone."
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br />   "Where is Mustafa?" she asked, her eyes darting around the ruined space.

  "Alive."

  Color drained from Angie's face. "Did you hurt him?" she asked, her voice a low whisper.

  Robert shook his head. "He'll be fine." Robert's expression gave nothing away. A quiet ocean under a cloudless sky, capable of awesome destruction but gently lapping at the shore.

  "If you hurt him, I'll get you Robert, I swear." Angie's voice firmed, her anger returning. Power radiated off her. Pure iron will.

  The two held each other's gaze, and Robert smiled slowly. "Oh, sweetheart." His voice was saccharine, maple syrup over banana pancakes. "I always knew you were a vengeful little bitch." He dropped a dollop of whipped cream on top. "It's one of the things I loved about you."

  That brought a flush to her cheeks.

  Robert Maxim had loved this woman.

  My heart thudded, as my mind turned to Mulberry lying in that hospital bed, pale, still. But not dead. I forced the image away.

  I controlled my mind, body, and heart.

  Glancing out the window, I saw that the helicopter had landed: a matte black beetle on the golf course-green of the lawn, blades spinning, waiting for us.

  Robert wrapped his hand around Angie's bicep and led her toward the door. "Walk your guests out," he said, his voice even.

  "You'll pay for this," Angie told him, but she moved with him…followed his commands.

  Blue and I fell into step with them, leaving through the big glass doors. The heat hit like a wall, and I began to sweat as we crossed the stone patio onto the grass.

  Robert's hand looked relaxed on Angie, like they were friends—as if he was some kind of gentleman and she some kind of lady he was escorting.

  Blue's nose touched my hip, drawing my attention. He was looking behind us. Four men, wearing dark suits, looking like gorillas dressed up for a circus act, were following us.

  "Robert." My voice sounded calm, controlled.

  He looked back and took in the approaching men, his expression retaining its smooth confidence. Our pace remained steady.

  "Angie," he said, his voice even, "who are they?"

  "Security," she said, her voice worried.