Storm Rising

by Ronie Kendig

  “Thanks for the confidence,” Leif said. “But I think you’ll change your mind when you see the rest of the team.”

  Lawe considered him. “Yeah?”

  “Well, bust my britches!” A twangy voice boomed through the bunker. “Isn’t that the biggest Runt of the litter crowding my hallway?”

  This was great. Like old times. “Culver.” Laughing, Leif eyed the guy ambling out of the elevator in well-worn boots, jeans, and an OD-green T-shirt. “Glad you signed on.”

  Culver Brown doffed his ball cap. A Navy SEAL like Leif, he specialized in tactics—and guitar. “Well, gigs are slow right now.” He had a good voice, so he’d tried to get into country music, to the mocking chagrin of his band of brothers.

  “That’s right. Forgot about that.”

  Culver thumped Leif’s chest with the back of his hand. “Naw, ya didn’t. Just trying to make this Southern boy feel better.” He turned to the guy who’d come in with him and slapped his shoulder. “’Sides, Jake here needed someone to keep him out of trouble.”

  “Not sure there’s enough power in the world for that,” Leif said, hooking hands with the shorter Jake Klein, a Special Forces operator he’d run a few missions with.

  “Good to stay busy,” Jake said with a laugh.

  “It smells like a guys’ locker room in here.” A feminine voice cut through the din of chatter.

  A low whistle pierced the air as one of the most beautiful women to set foot in a combat theater sauntered into the coffin wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and the killer smile that flatlined every soldier she encountered. But the real reason Peyton Devine was beautiful wasn’t that she’d once been an NFL cheerleader, but because she’d traded her sparkling, skin-tight uniform for ACUs, a tactical vest, and a sniper rifle.

  “Peyton,” Lawe breathed, drawing her gaze.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” Saito hissed at the same time.

  Klein elbowed him. “Introduce us?”

  “Not if you want to live.” A scowl snapped onto Lawe’s face. “Show some respect.”

  While Leif wouldn’t ever call Lawe a dog, he went rabid when it came to Devine. Behind his brawn and tactical precision lay a molten-eyed puppy where she was concerned. They’d had a rocky start to a relationship six years ago on an op gone wrong. Leif wondered if the same had happened to their relationship.

  “Hey, Lawe,” Peyton said, her cheeks pink—but was that makeup or a blush? She smiled at Leif. “I appreciate the request, Runt. Corporate life was boring me to tears.”

  “Not many opportunities to unload stress with a carbine or M4?” Leif grinned. He checked Lawe with a smirk. “Still got doubts?”

  Lawe shook his head, but maybe he wasn’t answering Leif’s question as much as trying to wrap his mind around working with Devine again. The big guy squared his shoulders and looked anywhere, it seemed, but at Peyton. “This it?”

  “Not yet.”

  As if on cue, a door opened. Iliescu emerged from an endless glaring white corridor. It wouldn’t surprise Leif if it led directly to CIA headquarters or some off-site location, allowing the director to come and go unnoticed. Behind him appeared another man dressed in a zip-up hoodie, ball cap, and—

  “Well, look at that big cheesy grin,” Culver Brown said with a laugh as he crossed the room, extending a hand to the newcomer.

  At six three, the Afghanistan native had a casual comfortableness about him and a ready-but-crooked smile that made him seem like he was always up to mischief. The crew gathered around him.

  Lawe clapped Leif’s shoulder as he strode past. “Nice.”

  “Who’s that?”

  Leif flinched, not realizing Mercy had finally cleared security and joined them. Seeing the Afghan still left a wad of guilt and regret in his mouth. And yet—a relief unlike anything Leif had experienced before. “Baddar Amir Nawabi. An Afghan commando we worked with for a couple of years over there. The best.”

  Mercy quirked an eyebrow at Leif. She wasn’t your typical operator. In fact, she wasn’t one at all, but she had razor-sharp skills when it came to hacking and communications—and reading people. Her history was as much a protected mystery and secret as Leif’s, though he wasn’t sure whose record was more redacted.

  And Mercy came with baggage. Their last mission together left him feeling like he owed her something. Or maybe he knew what it was like to need to stay busy after a traumatic incident. She’d lost the love of her life in that mission. Though he’d teased her about them not belonging together, they both knew he hadn’t meant anything by it except a bit of humor. Granted, with her long auburn hair, amber eyes, and wit, Mercy had a lot to offer.

  To someone else. She had a little too much scathe for his tastes.

  Arms folded, Leif took in the team reconnecting with Baddar. He liked the camaraderie. Hoped the Afghan could eke out a life now that they’d gotten him to the States. But it would never be enough to replace what he’d lost.

  He felt Mercy’s gaze on him still. “What?”

  “What you said about the commando sounded a lot like sentimentalism, Mr. Metcalfe. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you grew a heart since we last met.” She smiled at the Afghan, who stalked toward them.

  “Baddar.” Leif extended his hand, hoping the commando would accept the peace offering. If not—

  Baddar hauled Leif into a hug. Slapped his back. “Heard it is you I should thank.” He caught the back of Leif’s neck and pressed their foreheads together. “Shukraan lak 'akhi.”

  The sentiment, thanking him and calling him “my brother,” dislodged something in Leif. Heads still together, he patted Baddar’s forearm. Then stepped back. “Negative,” he said. “Fates aligned, that’s all. Glad you could make it.” He looked around the room, noting the others eyeballing them.

  “Okay,” Iliescu said, waving them to a table. “Let’s get down to business.”

  Saito thumped Leif’s shoulder, nodded to Baddar. “Classy.”

  Though he’d called them over, Iliescu stepped to the side, where a khaki uniform met him. The way the two stood blocked Leif’s view of the officer.

  “That Braun?” Culver asked quietly. “She’s a tough one.”

  Braun? Seriously?

  “You seem to have won a lot of approval bringing this commando into the mix,” Mercy said quietly on Leif’s other side. “I look forward to finding out why.”

  Iliescu returned to the table, motioning the officer with him. Average height and build, but there was nothing average about the intelligence behind Rear Admiral Alene Braun’s brown eyes. Or the way she ran her ship—figuratively and literally. She’d fought hard to earn her position, and as a result, she expected everyone to pull their own weight and then some. She never gave anyone slack, including herself.

  There had been a few rocky encounters between the rear admiral and Leif in the past, so when Iliescu tasked him to Wraith, she’d disagreed. Said Leif was unpredictable, irresponsible. Leif had to agree—what kind of team leader lost all nine men under his command?

  Iliescu planted a hand on his belt. “As you—” He waved someone into the room. “You have it?”

  An affirmative answer came a split second before the person entered.

  Leif snorted at the familiar face. “You gotta be kidding me.”

  Barclay “Cell” Purcell had been Wraith’s comms guy. Smart mind and smart mouth. They hadn’t exactly gotten along, especially on their last mission when Leif had assumed lead.

  “Oh, Barc. Just can’t stay away from me, can you?” Mercy teased.

  “Thought the same of you, Merc.” Cell smirked at Saito, Lawe, and Leif. “What is this, the Three ‘Bully’ Goats Gruff?”

  “Some of you know Mr. Purcell,” Iliescu introduced. “He’s been promoted and has accepted an assignment as senior technical analyst. He will be in direct communication with you and will liaise with me. He’ll take any data retrieved, analyze it, fill in the gaps, then funnel it to the appropriate person or persons
.”

  Interesting. Cell out of the field.

  “Miss Maddox,” the director continued, “will be your communications officer in the field. She is not tactical.” He nodded to the others. “We’ll leave that to the rest of you. You’ve worked together before, so I trust your ability to pull together for this unit.”

  “What exactly is our purpose?” Culver asked, his reddish blond hair and beard catching the ceiling light.

  “Must be some kind of special,” Klein noted as he scanned the room, “with the variety of skills you have gathered. Especially right here in this chair.” He pointed to himself.

  “What’s so special about you?” Lawe barked.

  “Besides seven years as a Special Forces operator and that I have the same birthday as Ronald Reagan—minus a few decades?” He nodded to Iliescu. “But what I’m guessing the deputy director is interested in would be my degree in the Hebrew Bible and that I’ve been working on my masters in Semitic epigraphy.”

  “Your expertise—”

  “That’s a generous word,” Klein said. “I’m just a beginner.”

  “Well, what you know was deemed beneficial, but it was Chief Metcalfe’s confidence that landed you this assignment.” Iliescu considered Klein. “What do you know about the Book of the Wars?”

  A half-amused, half-confused smile flashed over his face. “You serious?”

  “Dead.”

  Klein swiveled in his chair, roughing a hand over his jaw. “It’s a lost book. Mentioned in the Bible. Numbers, I think.” He shrugged. “There are guesses about what it contained, but the title sort of gives it away. Nobody really knows because”—he nodded as if he’d made his point already—“it’s lost.”

  “And it’s your first mission,” Iliescu said.

  Saito and Lawe shared a scowl.

  Klein dropped forward. His smile vanished. “Seriously? It’s found?”

  “Hold up.” Saito lifted a hand. “I’m a medic. Why am I chasing a book?”

  “You’re a soldier, too. And this book is said to reveal some very lethal secrets,” Iliescu said. “Metcalfe, Purcell, and Maddox were previously attached to SAARC, a sister branch that hunted down artifacts.”

  “And while Wraith was fully trained and operational, we didn’t have a combat medic on board.” Cell nodded at Saito. “Hope you’re okay with insides boiling out and skin sliding off people.”

  “Cell,” Leif muttered in warning.

  “Just sayin’, Mr. Usurper.”

  Leif snorted. “Still hung up on pecking order.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. With recent personnel changes,” Cell said, squaring his shoulders, “I am technically your superior.”

  “Superior what? Jerk?” Lawe asked, a smile never cracking his thick dark beard as laughter skittered around the room.

  “Reel it in, ladies.” Iliescu stiffened. “Apologies to the real ladies, who are acting more mature.”

  “The Book of the Wars needs to be retrieved,” Braun said, her voice surprisingly loud despite her petite frame. “And it needs to be done ASAP, because we are not the only ones after it. We just received intel that the Germans, at the behest of Rutger Hermanns, raided a secret laboratory in the salt mines of Israel and stole the book. The race just hit warp speed.”

  “What’s so great about this book that it’s a high-value objective?” Culver asked.

  “It is said to record the outcome of several wars,” Braun said.

  With a laugh, Lawe lifted his hand. “I have a $150 history textbook from college you can buy off me that tells the outcome of those wars. I’ll cut you a killer deal, too.”

  “Wait,” Saito said, “you went to college?”

  “I’m more impressed the guy can read,” Cell muttered.

  Lawe lurched forward in mock attack. Cell flinched, then laughed because he was too far away to reach.

  “It’s prophetic,” Iliescu asserted.

  “Boom!” Cell said. “The truth-bomb drops.”

  “Wait. How do we know it’s prophetic if we don’t have it?” Klein asked.

  “Before Hermanns absconded with it,” Iliescu explained, “the experts who unearthed it said the book recorded the outcome of wars that have not yet happened.”

  “And we . . . what?” Saito said. “We believe that? Believe in the book’s . . . prophecies? What is this? A sci-fi drama or something?”

  Glowering, Iliescu stabbed the table. “Start training, get familiar with each other, and be prepared to deploy at a moment’s notice.”

  “Hang on a sec,” Lawe said, stroking his beard. “So it was found . . . then lost?”

  “Not lost, stolen,” Cell said, surprising everyone by speaking for the brass. “The book is under lock and seal . . . somewhere. We don’t know yet where Hermanns took it. But he knows agencies and black ops teams around the globe are ready to pound the ground to recover it. So it’s heavily protected.”

  “But you have something that’s going to help us beat the rest,” Leif suggested, reading Dru’s confidence.

  “You’re dead straight,” Cell said. “I managed to figure out trigger words connected to this book to scan for and—y’all can thank me later—I’ve convinced the brass to get you in decent proximity to that area.”

  “What area?”

  “Where the most consistent use of the trigger words occurs,” Cell said. “So when we get a lock, you can jump on it.” He lifted his arms in victory. “That decent proximity?” His grin was nuclear. “The Bahamas.”

  “Booyah!” Culver proclaimed.

  “Arrogance is a poor substitute for intelligence, Mr. Purcell,” Braun said, smiling.

  “I’ve been trying to teach him that for the last year,” Leif put in. “So, this book—you said it has trigger words. What are they?”

  Braun shifted. “That will not be disclosed at this time. Suffice it to say, we cannot let that book get into any other hands.”

  “Unfortunately, gentlemen,” Iliescu said, “according to our sources, it seems the operative known as Viorica is as intent on this book as we are. She nearly intercepted Hermanns in Israel.”

  “But we’re better. So we’ll get it from the Germans.” Saito glanced around when nobody responded. “We are better, aren’t we?”

  “Dude,” Lawe said with a jittery laugh, “that’s one psycho bi—”

  “She’s good,” Braun affirmed. “Impressively and violently so. Beat her or defeat her.”

  “How ’bout both?” Lawe suggested.

  “Always were afraid of women, huh, Lawe?” A lot of innuendo lurked beneath Devine’s words and expression. Whatever had happened between Lawe and Devine after that mission in Afghanistan hadn’t made it in the after-action reports.

  “Ohh, ouch,” Saito said around a laugh.

  “Uncalled for,” Lawe objected, raising his hands. “It was a unique situation—”

  “One you were ill-equipped for?” Mercy joined the bashing.

  “I’ll have you know I’m very equipped—”

  Chortles burst through the room.

  “Not like that!” Lawe scowled. “You dirty-minded people should be ashamed.”

  A cacophony of laughter choked any legitimate conversation about the briefing. Leif laughed so hard his side hurt.

  “Enough!” Braun barked, then shook her head with a disgusted sigh. “What is this? High school all over again?”

  “Maybe junior high,” Cell offered.

  Braun glowered. “Mr. Klein, ask around, see if you can gather more intel about this book for us.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “The dossiers on Hermanns and Viorica are already downloaded to your tablets. Get familiar with them,” Iliescu said. “In fact, I recommend all of you get caught up on those files while you’re funnin’ and sunnin’.”

  Lawe thrust both fists in the air. “Bahamas, baby!”

  FIVE

  VOLGA DISTRICT, RUSSIA

  Never again. She vowed it to herself. For hersel
f. For her own dignity and sanity.

  Once Hristoff had retreated from her suite, Iskra rose from the bed and hurried to the bathroom. She pitched herself at the toilet and vomited. Tears and sobs came quietly as she curled in on herself. The price was too high. Because she’d lost the scroll, she’d had nothing to offer him upon her return from the salt mines. And he took his payment from her.

  How long? How long must she play this game? When would she be free of him?

  Never. It would never happen. She’d learned her lesson. This was her life.

  “Easy,” whispered Lesya, who tugged back Iskra’s hair as she spit into the toilet.

  Warmth draped Iskra’s back and arms, a robe providing the only comfort she’d ever know. She stood on shaky legs, flooded by the heat of embarrassment and anger.

  Lesya handed her a glass of water. “Clean up and shower. Perhaps you will feel better.”

  No. She wouldn’t. At the sink, Iskra bent over and spit again. Rinsed. Lifted the glass and gulped. Covering her mouth, she stared at the porcelain. At . . . nothing. The emptiness of her soul.

  “Bodhan sent another message.”

  Bodhan. A code name for Bogdashka. The only chance Iskra had for freedom.

  “They are close.”

  “Close is not good enough.” Iskra slammed down the glass. “I must find that book. It is the only way he . . .”

  Spinning the knobs for the shower, Lesya came to her. “Why? Why do you—”

  Iskra silenced her assistant with a look.

  “You have killed . . . many. Done things everyone said could not be done. You are known worldwide. And yet . . .” Lesya shook her head.

  Iskra shed the robe and stepped beneath the jetted sprays of water. She knew the question Lesya asked without asking. The confusion and yet understanding of many staffing this home. They were all the best at their various skills. Yet they were all prisoners. Not one dared cross Hristoff.

  Hot water pelted her face, and she embraced it.

  She had tried to change her course. Many times. The first time not long after Hristoff brought her to the estate. Desperation drove her to idiocy, and he’d beaten her unconscious as punishment. There had been other, smaller attempts. Most he didn’t know about, times she’d been able to conceal her failure. But that last time . . . Valery.