by Ronie Kendig
Palms out, Dru eased back. “Leif, I’m not hiding anything about that black hole. About what happened to the Sahara Nine. Do I have threads I’m chasing? Yes. Absolutely. I promised you that, and when I have something I can bring into the open, I will.” He lowered his head and peered through a tense brow. “Hear me?”
Leif ground his molars.
“You’ve trusted me for the last five years. Please—do it one more time.”
Though Leif searched for signs of deception, he found none. He waited it out, knowing if there was more, the uncomfortable silence might pluck it from Dru. Then again, he was the deputy director of the CIA.
This was a no-win scenario.
Leif had nothing to lose. It would keep him busy and his nose out of trouble. “You gave me a life, put me to use, stopped them from locking me away.” He nodded, conviction and dedication to the man sitting in his living room rising to the cause. “What do I need to know?”
THREE
DEAD SEA, ISRAEL
“What was the prime minister of Italy doing at the house?”
Iskra huddled in the dark, phone to her ear. “Punishing us. I failed the last mission.”
“You must be better than that, Viorica. Your life is not the only one on the line!”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
“Yes, yes. Of course you do.” Bogdashka huffed. “You are alive. That is good—it means he has a mission for you. What is it?”
“I’m in Israel. Hunting an ancient text called the Book of the Wars.”
The rasp of Bogdashka sucking in a sharp breath rattled the connection. “You know this for sure? He said it?”
Iskra’s left eye twitched as she sighted the tunnel entrance to the salt mine a hundred yards north of where she stood. “I would not be here if I wasn’t.”
“This is good. Very good. You have no idea.” Bogdashka muttered a dozen praises to the Virgin Mother. “He has it, Viorica. He has the page that tells of the book. He must. How else would he know where the Book of the Wars is located?”
Irritation and the damp, salty air beat against Iskra’s patience. “Is there a point, Bog—”
“This is how you will find him. The book is the answer. You must find it and get it to Vasily.”
Scowling, Iskra shook her head. “No, I must bring it back, or we are both dead.”
“Yes, bring it to them eventually, but to Vasily first. You must. Swear it to me, child.”
Iskra looked at her watch. “I must go.”
“Swear on her life.”
Iskra ended the call and prepared for the task ahead.
“It’s set.” The husky voice of Imran spiraled through the tiny black piece in her ear.
“In position,” she replied.
“Okay, Viorica. The Meteoroi has been activated. You have fifteen minutes from the first strike until things break loose.”
She hated this. Hated that Hristoff had the power of Zeus at his fingertips. But for now, it worked in her favor. A quick glance up at the sky, a blanket of black glittered with diamonds, warned Iskra to work fast. A prickle of electricity made her hair stand up. She pushed away from the dank alcove and moved silently through the alley, eyes locked on her target: the mine entrance.
Two men shifted on either side of the opening. They did not have the rigid postures of guards posted for security, but it was still obvious in their crisp haircuts and hands loose at their sides, almost anxious to grip their holstered guns. Their bearings spoke of experience. Of willingness. Of threat. Their gazes struck hers in tandem, then bounced away, clearly not wanting to reveal the purpose or objective of their presence at the entrance to the white passages of the mine.
“Go another way,” one of the guards barked, waving her aside.
Taking full advantage of her dark hair and Middle Eastern features, Iskra feigned confusion. Hesitated, hugging the bundle of blankets she held. “I was told come here,” she said in deliberately broken English. “I pay!” A little righteous outrage by a woman went a long way.
“Nein,” the other said. “Es ist . . . closed.”
German. So. Rutger Hermanns was after the book, too. She resisted the groan working its way up her throat. He was a brilliant businessman and sometime archaeologist, and a full-time pain in the backside. He wasn’t going to win this time. Wouldn’t take her prize or sought-after freedom.
She looked around, still acting the part. “But I must.” She whimpered. “I need the mines!” The medicinal benefits of the salt pools were proven, irrefutable.
Tears or anger? Sometimes it was a toss-up, but these two seemed as prone to brutality as Hristoff. Hysterics would only feed the monster within. So, anger.
“No!” She raised a fist. “I pay. Lot of money. They tell me come here. Sleep. A bed”—she shuffled forward—“there is bed for me!” She thumped her breast. Coughed. “I must. I need it!”
The first thug reached for a weapon. The second was more reticent, but both were unwilling to allow more trouble to pass their checkpoint.
Where was that lightning strike? She could use—
An explosion of light splintered the sky. It snaked and crackled, trailing in its wake a wicked concussion.
Crack! Boom!
The thugs jerked toward the sky.
Iskra seized upon their confusion. She slammed a knife-hand against the first thug’s throat to silence him, make him grope for breath. This allowed her to disable his buddy before he got his wits and that weapon. She swept the second thug’s leg out from behind him. Used her other hand to shove him backward. He landed hard, his head bouncing against the ground. She dropped a knee to his chest and coldcocked him. She might be a foot shorter, but speed and surprise made up for that.
Lightning snaked and crackled, seizing and retracting.
Having confiscated the second thug’s weapon, she tucked it into her waistband at the small of her back, then sprinted into the white halls of the salt mine. With the clock ticking down to the rigged storm, she had no time to lose. The nearly mile-long passage that took her out well beneath the Dead Sea could become her worst enemy if she didn’t beat the deluge created by the Meteoroi.
Chest tight and calves aching, she rounded a bend. Ahead, a cluster of cots and failed bodies littered the passages. She slowed, skittering forward. Most of the inhabitants and those making pilgrimages for health and medicinal purposes were asleep at this late hour.
Hand trailing the wall of chalky salt, she froze when a dark form slipped through the passage, moving from one room to another. Rutger. Thick-chested and thick-skulled, he was formidable. Always armed. Always prepared.
That makes two of us.
Irritation pulsed through her at the realization that she must resort to violence. Again. She was done with this. She would readily leave Rutger with shame and empty hands. It was a better punishment for him. But it would not be enough—he’d come after her with an unrelenting lust for her blood. Leaving a man like him alive meant her death.
She had to.
She stopped to consult her map, making sure she didn’t get lost in this maze. Vibrations generated by the storm wormed through the bedrock. Rocks dribbled down, pulling her confidence with them. Then a scary thought struck. Had the cave walls been shored up enough to withstand the storm surge?
She prayed they had. Or would the God so many prayed to decide she had done enough wicked things? She had not killed the thugs at the entrance. That was to her favor. Maybe she would not need as many prayers to whatever god was listening or paying attention tonight. There was always one who deigned to punish her. Always.
But not tonight.
Tonight she would win. She must buy freedom. Rip it right from Hristoff’s hands by delivering this book to Veratti.
The idea—the look on his face—bolstered her. She eyed the tunnel and froze. While she’d been distracted, tension had filled the passage. Twenty yards from where she’d stopped, three men emerged from a room that backlit them. One turned to her.
Face framed by brown hair threaded with silver. Neck dense with muscles. A stupid rectangle of a mustache beneath his hooked beak.
Rutger Hermanns.
She cursed herself for letting down her guard.
Now he had the advantage. His smirk confirmed that he knew it. And mocked her. Threatened.
Iskra eased into a fighting stance, right foot back. Noted what he held. What he waved in the air with a smile and acknowledging nod.
He’d come for the same artifact. And beaten her to it.
“That is a dangerous book,” she warned, feeling a tickle in her shoes. The storm. Thunder throwing its fit, stomping its feet and tossing around bolts of anger. Had the rain started yet?
Rutger’s lips quirked. “Ja. True. Dangerous to those who do not have it.” He dipped his head. “Like you.” His large, thick hand motioned to the cots that littered the passage between them. To the people sleeping, innocently unaware of the stirring threat. “It is a terrible thing.”
She glanced at them. Heavy blankets covered a woman and her young son—four, maybe five years old. The boy shifted on the thin material, scowling at her, then Rutger. An elderly gentleman with scraggly hair and beard lay in the next bed. His frail shoulders seemed barely enough to support the wool blanket. Several beds held millennials who’d come for the same reason hippies in the ’70s had gotten high—to feel connected to the earth.
“I have heard,” Rutger said, one of his men assisting him into a jacket so that he never released the tube containing the Book of the Wars scroll, “that the infamous Viorica is vicious and lethal when dealing with her enemies.”
She arched an eyebrow, grateful he’d made her point. Understood what she’d do.
“But I have also heard that she will not abide innocents dying.” He snorted, his attention drifting to the boy and his mother, then lifted a weapon. “Especially children.”
“You’re right,” she said, heart in her throat as she inched forward. “I can’t abide the death of children. But if you’ve heard that, then you also know I won’t beg for their lives.” Begging never worked on his ilk, and the thought of what would happen, what she'd do, stirred a frenetic cadence in her bloodstream. “But I will return the favor.”
Another lazy smirk as he inclined his head. “An eye for an eye, that’s what Viorica says.”
She hated that he knew so much about her, but she was growing bored with the dialogue.
“But then you’re still left with a child’s death on your conscience.”
“A death atoned by the bloodletting of the one responsible.” She lifted a shoulder. Reached for the weapon at the small of her back. “There’s only one exit, Rutger, and it’s behind me. And you have to navigate fifteen sleeping people without getting killed by me.”
Confusion—or was it fear—flickered across his face. He shifted, stepped back. Where did he think he was going? “But can you save them all?”
Now she was confused.
Until he lifted his weapon. Aimed it at the hewn ceiling and fired.
She ducked and scowled. “That was—”
Crack. Boom!
“—stupid.”
A jagged line raced across the ceiling.
Oh no. “Wake up! Get up!” she shouted, her gaze skidding toward Rutger, who was grinning.
“Can you save enough to appease your soul, Viorica?” He retrieved a hefty pack from the ground. Shouldered into it. “Or will you forever hear their screams?” As he lifted a rebreather, he grinned again. “Assuming you live.”
This didn’t make any sense. Rebreather? But the storm deluge wouldn’t—
They were under the sea. If the tunnels were damaged, the passages would fill with water. He’d intended to flood it all along. Make everyone believe the Book of the Wars was lost in the disaster.
But he had it.
She lunged at him.
Pop-pop-pop! Crack. Boom!
Whoosh!
She glanced back.
The cave ceiling collapsed, heavy rock thudding to the ground. Narrowly missing the old man. Water roared into the passage. Screaming, the boy jolted upright. His mom gathered him into her arms.
Seeking an exit, Viorica pivoted to the pitch-black end of the tunnel. It was much closer than before. How—
She sucked in a hard breath. That wasn’t the passage. It was a wall of water barreling at her.
Turning, she spotted one of Rutger’s men. She corkscrewed at him. Caught his shoulder. He twisted to dislodge her. She slipped away, the water an insipid foe, shoving her. Tearing at her clothes. With a growl, she again lunged. Scraped his face. Dug her fingers into his neck, her other hand into the pack. He howled, but she reached for the rebreather. Caught the mouthpiece. Snagged it. Tore the pack free.
But water seized her. Yanked her backward. Flipped her. Tossed her. Spat awful, salty water into her mouth. She gagged but fought the rebreather into her mouth. Struggled into the pack. Opened the oxygen as water pushed her back, back.
The torrent slammed her into something. She heard an oof—the young mother. She stumbled, her son in her arms. They plopped face first into the water. The mother surfaced, her arms empty.
The boy! Iskra’s gaze connected with the mother’s. Grieved fingers strained toward the water. Viorica spun around. Saw arms and legs and face tumbling amid the foamy wake down the passage. His body thudded into the wall. There was no more thrashing. No more movement, save the powerful hands of the waters.
Diving in, Iskra swam, frustrated at the buoyancy that fought her efforts. Finally, she touched the boy’s shoe but lost him. Salty water stung her eyes. Made them feel like they were bleeding. She threw herself forward again, her movement slurred. She struggled toward the boy.
The roaring water thrashed him. Tossed him up out of reach. Then slammed him back down. Iskra dove at him. Hooked his neck. Pulled him against her chest. Held tight. Tried to guide their trajectory. But the sea was just as furious as she was—it smacked her into the walls. Pain exploded through her shoulder and neck. It yanked her back only to shove her again. Violent. Furious. Beat her against the salt mine passage.
Then vomited her out.
She landed with a thud that knocked the breath and rebreather from her. Bloody warmth filled her mouth. A tooth had probably broken. Her lip had split, and the saltwater was a cruel addition. She spat. Rose onto all fours, amazed the water was only shin deep here but had engulfed them in the passage. She gripped her knees, gasping. Swiped her face, tears streaking down her cheeks from the sting of the salt.
The boy. Where was the boy?
She straightened and looked around. Ten meters away, the boy’s mother clutched him to her chest, slumped in the waters. Crying. Sobbing. Rocking.
Viorica trudged out of the water, the salt grains gritty beneath her clothes and rubbing her raw. Much like Rutger’s cruelty.
Rain poured from the sky, cleansing her face. Lightning shot through the clouds, prickling the air. But the howl that drew her attention was that of grief. She peered over her shoulder. Watched the woman railing at the sky, shaking her son. Screaming.
The terror of losing your child in such a wretched, awful way . . .
Hands pawed at Viorica. She pivoted and thrust a hand at her attacker.
“Easy!” Imran said, palms flashed up in reassurance. “We lost comms and got worried.”
Trembling beneath the rain and her defeat, Viorica turned away. She’d lost. Lost the boy. Lost the Book of the Wars. Lost freedom.
FOUR
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
“You know it’d never work between us, right?” At the security checkpoint, Leif stalked up behind Mercy Maddox, the crazy-smart computer analyst he’d met while working with Wraith who had a penchant for superheroes.
Mercy dug through her brown messenger bag with one hand and managed a Styrofoam cup in the other. She drew back, objection perched on her lips. Or maybe some snarky remark. She was full of them. And a lot of attitude. Like the look she threw him, c
onsidering him as she searched for her ID. “Why’s that, Runt?”
He palmed the control pad, and authorization came in the form of a mechanical thunk that disengaged locks and engaged her surprise, clearly noticeable in her raised eyebrows. He winked. “You picked the wrong universe.”
She frowned, either because he had access and she still had to provide ID, or because she didn’t get his joke.
Back to the door, he pushed through the security hub. “I’m a DC guy.”
Now she scoffed, eyes alight. “How many ways can you spell loser?” she tossed after him with a laugh, gaze never missing a thing—like the fact that he was gliding through security.
He shrugged, lifting his hands. “Hulk, Thor, Iron Man, Wolverine . . .”
Her lips parted, stunned. Then she sprang forward. “No, you did not!”
Two armed security officers swept in front of her, blocking her path. “Sorry, ma’am, but—”
“You’ll pay for that, Runt!”
He grinned as he hustled down the steps into the command bunker of the new section of the CIA’s Special Activities Division. He’d worked with Tox Russell and his team under the umbrella of the Artifact Retrieval and Containment subbranch. Now, specifically for this endeavor, they had a new team, a new no-name unit. Their official designation was a series of numbers that meant nothing to anyone other than the doc retrieval specialists.
He accessed the final corridor, pleased to find a couple of new team members already waiting. “Saito!”
“You?” Dai Saito huffed. “That’s it. I quit.”
“Can’t,” Leif said, catching Saito’s hand and slapping his back in greeting. “We’re not official yet.” Turning, he nodded to the wall of muscle that came out of a chair. “Lawe.”
“Runt.” Adam Lawe had a little too much pride and ego keeping him from a warm welcome. “Not sure this is shaping up to be much of a team.”