Storm Rising

by Ronie Kendig

  Hands against the slick tiles, Iskra closed her eyes. Refused the memory. The pain. Breathed in and out. In. Out.

  The book. She must find the book. Buy freedom.

  Why? You don’t deserve anything better than what you have.

  Streams pounded her body. Washed away every sign of him. She scrubbed and rinsed. Scrubbed some more. But she could never erase the memory of him. His breath. His cruel words. Liquor-reeking breath.

  The water had run cold—so had her heart—by the time she emerged, skin puckered. After dressing in athletic pants and a tank, she went out into the sunshine for some relaxing yoga. Tried to re-center herself. Find the core that allowed her to fight when she had no fight left.

  Frustration and aches won the battle, so she went to the gym and shifted to martial arts. Going through the forms. Physically exerting herself.

  “Focus,” Ruslan growled as he held the practice pad. “Again!”

  Jumping up and spinning around, she aiimed a roundhouse at his head. He deflected.

  “Da! Da!” He grunted a laugh. He knew—they all did—what Hristoff did to her. What it took out of her. But Ruslan was unrelenting as well. Which worked fine. It helped her drown the pain with fire in every muscle. Until her limbs shook for another reason.

  After a long swim, she rinsed off again and dressed. Feeling moderately composed, she sat on the sofa with a mug of hot tea and her laptop, watching an American spy-romance movie.

  “I love that ending,” Lesya said, sniffling as she lifted a pan from the oven in her small kitchen.

  “I hope you’re not dripping snot on our dinner,” Iskra said, then considered the film. “Besides, it is unrealistic.”

  “How can you say that? Things like that happened all the time in World War II! And the last scene? When he’s carrying her past the checkpoint and is shot in the back? Swoon!”

  Iskra scoffed. “That woman would have been dead long before she had a chance to escape or fall in love, because she was careless.”

  “One day you will find a man and fall in love.”

  The words plucked at a raw nerve. “I have no desire for a man or love.” What man would want Hristoff’s leftovers, anyway? No. The only thing she wanted was freedom.

  About to close her laptop, she saw an email in her inbox. Her breath backed into her throat, the pain of the previous hours vanishing. “Bodhan.”

  Lesya stilled from her meal preparations. “It is located?”

  Iskra opened the email and found a series of numbers. A tremulous laugh escaped her. Tears threatened.

  It seemed freedom called.

  * * *

  NASSAU, BAHAMAS

  Pass. Set. Crush!

  Mercy watched as Leif sprang upward, right hand aiming for the volleyball. Fine sand sprayed the air. He spiked, slamming the ball into the sand on the other side of the net.

  “Yeah!” Mercy shouted, high-fiving him, then Adam Lawe. Again she threw her enthusiasm at Leif. “Sweet!”

  He patted his buddies, and they prepped for the next serve. Gulls and waves competed with laughter on the beach. The sun blazed unhindered on UV-absorbing bodies.

  Baddar palmed the ball, glancing across the net at her side. He wore a muscle shirt, which did its job of displaying his sculpted muscles.

  Oh, Mercy. She sighed, watching the way his dark arms flexed.

  Right. Shouldn’t be noticing this.

  “Mercy!”

  She looked up. “Wha—”

  A blur was enough warning for her to cringe. The ball smacked her head. Twisted her around. She stumbled to the ground.

  Laughter broke out from somewhere. She tried to laugh it off, too, but it felt like a pound of humiliation.

  “Are you okay?” A touch to her shoulder brought her blurry gaze to a pair of soft brown eyes beneath a khaki ball cap. Dark hair curled around his ears. Baddar crouched in front of her with a crooked grin. “You are well, Mercy?”

  Just dandy. Getting smacked upside the head by the cute guy. “I’m fine.” Sand defied her graceful exit, twisting her ankles and making her wobble.

  Baddar steadied her. “I am sorry. I did not mean—”

  “Awesome serve.” She managed a smile. Lifted her hand for a high five, and he hesitantly accommodated her. She noticed everyone staring and Peyton ducking beneath the net. Great. “I think I’m going to get some water.”

  “Merc,” Cell said, falling into step with her, “I’ll join you.”

  “No. It’s—”

  “Teams are lopsided without you.” He shrugged. “I’m not really a sports enthusiast anyway.”

  Pursing her lips, she nodded. Shot one more look at Baddar, who now stood beside Leif, his deep eyes trained on her and filled with concern. “That serve should come with an ICBM warning,” she called.

  Cell snorted. “Ballistic missile is right. I stopped his last one.” He held out his arm where a red welt had arisen. “Dude’s got some power in those guns.”

  “Mm,” Mercy said, trying not to remember the olive-skinned biceps. The very thing that had distracted her.

  They returned to the tables where the team had sat talking before hitting the sand for a game. After donning a lightweight sundress cover-up, Mercy slumped into a chair and lifted her bottled water. She guzzled it, relieved when a waitress came around with more.

  “How ya doin’, Merc?”

  She eyed Barc and his soft, concerned tone, then drained the next water bottle before toweling the sweat from her face. He wasn’t asking about the knot on her head. He was asking about Ram. “His death wrecked me. End of story. Nothing to say. I can’t . . .” It’d been eighteen months.

  “Me too.” He thumbed a Perrier, staring at the green bottle. No, not at it. Through it.

  She laid her hand on his. “Hey.” She gave him a grin that she hoped conveyed the whole I get it message, then quirked an eyebrow. “So. Analyst?”

  He sniffed. “It just got to be too much, ya know? Seeing one of the best guys I’ve known—” He sat back, clearly fighting back his emotion. “Ram gave his life to stop them.”

  Throat raw, she drew back her hand. “Yeah.”

  “I knew I couldn’t do it anymore.” He shook his head. “Couldn’t go out there.” He indicated the men on the sand volleyball court. “Couldn’t be an operator without constantly wondering who would die next.”

  “So,” she said, wrinkling her nose in a confused smirk, “you took a conscientious objector role of analyst.”

  “I’m no objector. I believe in what they’re doing. I believe in them.”

  “But not yourself.” A fracture started in her heart. “You don’t believe in yourself.”

  He gave a one-shouldered shrug and looked like he was fifteen again. “I couldn’t help Ram. Couldn’t stop him.” He sat forward suddenly. “If I’d had time to assess the situation. Look at all the facts—”

  “Barc.”

  “—things might’ve ended differently.”

  “It ended the way it did because Ram made a choice, a sacrifice.” Did he realize that his thoughts were selfish, essentially belittling Ram’s noble deed? “You can’t analyze it out. Don’t take that heroic act away from him because you can’t cope with it.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What about you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve seen the way you watch Baddar, how your face went crimson when his serve struck you. Yet you barely give him the time of day.”

  “It’s called a sunburn, Dog.”

  “You only use that nickname when you want to annoy me.”

  She sighed, knowing he was right—she had noticed Baddar. It was hard not to with his well-toned body, dark skin, and lopsided grin. “So we’re both wallowing in pity.” She toyed with the bottle. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I’m saying—”

  A shadow fell over Mercy seconds before a warm touch came to her bare shoulder. She looked up, startled to find Baddar standing over her. Her pulse jammed, w
ondering if he’d heard Barc. She raised the water bottle to her lips, only to remember she’d drained it.

  Baddar folded his large frame into the chair beside her. “Are you okay?”

  “Yep,” Cell said as if confirming something. “Going to find a drink.”

  She glowered, knowing full well he’d intentionally left her alone with the commando. Something she had been avoiding.

  “Seems I gave you a knot,” Baddar said.

  She frowned, turning back to see his hand near her face. She froze, her heart doing that mamba thing again. His touch was feather light, despite his size, against her temple. “I have a hard head,” she muttered. “I’ll be okay.”

  “I was surprised you did not see it coming. You played so well all morning.”

  “College team, two years.” She shrugged. “I had just looked away when you served.”

  His rich, dark eyes homed in on her. “You went to university? What did you study?” He shifted his chair closer, folding his arms on the table.

  “Computer science.”

  His eyebrows rose—impressed, apparently—and pulled an unwilling smile from her. “To study that, then you are very intelligent, too.”

  Again she eyed him. Wondered what he meant. What he wanted. Why he had to be so Bruce-Banner-delicious with his smile and kindness. “Not so smart. Never finished the degree.”

  Confusion tugged at his expression. “You were bored?”

  Mercy started. Then laughed. “Yeah. Good guess. Very bored.”

  “But you work . . .” He motioned his hand in a circle, indicating the team and the operation. “So clearly you are smart beneath that knot I gave you.”

  Flattery will get you everywhere, Baddar. She cleared her throat. Insert subject change here. “What about you? What’s your story—how’d you meet Leif and the guys?” Checking over her shoulder, she saw the team now playing football closer to the water. “You worked with them before, right?” Her gaze collided with his again.

  There was an eager light there. “I worked with more than two hundred American advisors in my five years with them.” His accent swirled and danced around his English because of his excitement. It was lyrical and fascinating to listen to. “My last mission did not go well—the Taliban kidnapped my sister. They want me give up working with the Americans. Mister Leif and Mister Adam were on the mission. Ms. Peyton, too.” The light seemed to leave his eyes. “My sister died by the Taliban.”

  “Your sister—I’m sorry.” So he knew the grief of losing a loved one as well.

  “She was like you,” he said with a grin that made her a little light-headed. “She had pretty smile and laugh.”

  Wow. Knock a girl off her feet, Commando. The heat filling her cheeks had nothing to do with the sun. But it felt . . . wrong. He was a fighter. A soldier. He’d be willing to do crazy things to complete missions. Just like Ram.

  No. Not again.

  “I . . .” Mercy looked around. Tried to avoid the concern that returned to his expression. She stood.

  Baddar hopped to his feet, his chest bumping her shoulder in his hurry to be a gentleman. “I am sorry.” He steadied her by the arm. “Did I—”

  “No.” Mercy lifted a hand. “It’s okay . . .” She ducked around him. “Excuse me.”

  The path to the bathroom was direct and unobstructed, thank the Lord. She shoved inside and into a stall. Flipped the lock and fell back against the door. It was stupid. She was stupid.

  Baddar was not Ram.

  Except they were both kind. Gentle and gentlemanly. Dark skin. Dark hair.

  That was it—they were so similar, which explained her attraction to the commando. Transference. That was what the psychs called it. Problem solved. She wasn’t really into Baddar. Cool. Yeah.

  Gathering her wits, she exited the stall. Washed her hands for good measure, then left the bathroom.

  And rammed straight into a solid mass. Oof!

  “Oh! Sorry.” Arms caught arms. Steadied each other. “I’m so—” She stared up into gold eyes. Bearded jaw. Sandy brown hair. And a face that said, Clint Eastwood is my father. “Hello, Gorgeous,” she whispered. Holy loose tongue! She’d said that aloud. “Sorry!” She noticed a tattoo on his forearm, his pinstriped shirt having slid up in their collision.

  His expression morphed from a scowl to a tiny forced smile, his gaze only then seeming to focus on her. “Excuse me.” After a curt nod, he hurried off.

  “Well. Feel free to knock me over any day,” she said with an airy laugh.

  Drawing in a breath, she headed back to the table, relieved to find the whole team there. Baddar’s focus locked onto her, but she slid around to Barc and was about to take her seat when something snagged her brain. She slowed, replaying her collision with the man. Mentally repositioned herself at the bathroom door. Switched places with him. Stared as he had . . . along the bar. Out the glass wall and doors.

  Right to the table with the team.

  No. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.

  “You okay?” Cell cut into her line of sight. “Mercy?”

  She searched the interior of the club for Eastwood’s heir. “I’m okay.”

  “You sure?”

  Where had he gone? “Yep.” She surfed past suits and platinum blondes to the far side of the outdoor seating area.

  “Well, we’re all heading up to change. Meet in the restaurant for dinner and dancing in an hour.”

  She started back inside.

  “Mercy,” Cell called.

  She looked back at him. Realized she hadn’t answered or responded. “Yeah. Sure. See you there.”

  Because this kind of thing, the glitching memory piece—it never left her alone until she pursued it to the end.

  Game on.

  * * *

  “You seen Mercy?”

  Leif checked his three, surprised Cell was looking for her. “Not since this afternoon when she got thumped by the volleyball.”

  “I can’t find her.”

  “Maybe you should take the hint,” Lawe said around a chuckle as he high-fived Klein.

  “Like you?” Devine taunted. “Because you’re so good with them.”

  Cell glanced between the two. “Ya know, if y’all need to clear the air about something—”

  “Everything’s crystal.” Lawe stabbed a serrated knife into a medium-rare steak.

  Devine stood and excused herself.

  Leif’s phone buzzed. So did Cell’s. Saito’s. Klein’s. Lawe’s.

  “Looks like they nailed it down,” Cell said.

  Leif slumped with a huff, eyeing the coded text from Iliescu. “So much for a little R&R.”

  On his feet, Lawe smirked. “What d’ya mean? What we do is R&R. Nothing helps me unwind like unloading an M4.”

  Dropping cash on the table to cover the bill, Leif caught the eye of their waiter and tapped the money. He started out of the restaurant, not surprised to find Devine falling in step beside him. Her expression warned him not to ask if she was okay. Devine was tough. She held her own. And to be honest, Leif wasn’t sure where the lines were when a woman and a soldier were the same person. Maybe the lines didn’t even exist. He knew the soldier in her didn’t want pandering.

  “Lawe.” Leif motioned him over and looked to Devine. “You two wait for Mercy. She’s here somewhere. Meet at the rendezvous. Got it?”

  The pair eyed each other but nodded. Cell, Klein, and Baddar were already leaving. Culver and Saito pulled up in a Jeep to retrieve Leif. He hopped in, and they pealed away.

  * * *

  Her phone had buzzed a half dozen times, but Mercy had her own self-appointed mission. Eastwood’s heir was here again. And—bingo!—watching the team. Somehow he hadn’t connected the dots that she was a part of said team. So when she’d caught his eye and flashed a surprised smile, he’d sauntered over with all his gorgeousness and fresh crisp scent. She’d gotten his name—Andrew.

  “Recruiter,” he said, grinning. “I acquire new personne
l for my employer. Scout local talent and bring in the best.”

  “Local? You aren’t American. Or Latino,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “So what’s ‘local’ for you?”

  His eyebrows lifted. “How would—”

  “I don’t know,” she said with a schoolgirl giggle. “Just the way you say some things. I knew this guy once. He was from Israel but very much American. Every now and then, I heard something in his words that told me he hadn’t spent his whole life in the U.S.”

  Andrew folded his arms on the white linen tablecloth and leaned in. “And what about you, Lara?”

  She had to admit the name Lara was cool. She’d donned it in honor of her favorite archaeologist/relic-hunter heroine. But she hated herself for picking it—she’d used it with Ram in the beginning, and now? Now it wasn’t funny. “Me?” She sipped wine. “What about me?”

  He grinned, his eyes pinching at the corners in a way that also pinched her stomach. “You are not American either.”

  Now her stomach ached. “Oh, I am,” she said. “Quite.”

  “That thing you mentioned about certain words—I hear that in your speech, too.” He ate the olive from his martini.

  “Maybe it’s that I like accents,” she said, bending in, closing the gap and shortening his attention span. Most guys were putty when she turned on the charm, though it had taken a little longer to get this one distracted.

  But those green-gold eyes were a sort of poison. Every now and then over the course of the last hour, she’d lost herself in them. Forgotten that she was supposed to be finding out why he was tracking the team.

  He reached across the table, cupped her elbow. “How long are you here?”

  She lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Told the boss this was a business trip. So it’ll come to an end . . . eventually. But for now I’m enjoying the sun and vibes.”

  He traced his thumb up and down her arm. Maddeningly, teasingly.

  “So,” she said, her voice catching. She laid a hand over his, stopping the caresses but allowing herself a better angle. With the small table, they were very close. She could smell the alcohol in his words.

  Andrew’s expression shifted at her control of his movement. She had to remedy that. She reached for his face. Dragged her fingers over the beard that lightly descended from his earlobe and thickened at the jaw, then lessened around his chin. It was an interesting look. Gave him a rough persona, but those eyes sparked with intensity.