Storm Rising

by Ronie Kendig

  Devine, Lawe, Klein, and Baddar were hidden in the hills on the northeastern side of the building to allow a quick exfil.

  “Roger that.”

  Leif stepped down onto the skid, straddling the prop and testing the ruck anchored to it. He scooped water and smeared it over his face, then settled the mask over his eyes and nose. One more glance at his device told him they were tracking well. With a thumbs-up to the yacht, he tucked in his rebreather and pressed his gut to the prop’s spine.

  The three team members with the most water experience glided into the water. Some found being submerged frightening. Leif found it reassuring as the liquid coldness enveloped him like a glove. Reminded him this was his expertise. A thousand things could go wrong, but that was part of the thrill. Could his training save him? Maybe that was what it was about—the challenge. The ocean wasn’t a gentle adversary. Without hesitation, it could choke the life from a body.

  But it was also the silence. The forbiddance of noise, other than a deep sonorous sound wave that rolled through the liquid. Quiet. Serene. Vast.

  Leif checked his device to verify their heading. A shadow skittered through the water, bisecting the dull glow of his headlamp. Could be a threat but was more likely a biologic.

  Twenty minutes in, the ocean started to surrender its depth. A vibration against his wrist indicated it was time to dump the prop. He aimed down to the sea floor and let the prop come to a rest. Then he threaded his arms through the ruck and began the one-klick swim to shore. Culver and Saito did the same.

  Invigorated by the swim, he breached the surface stealthily. Far enough out not to be noticed. Culver and Saito came up on his three. They aimed at a cluster of rocks amid craggy shrubs. When his feet hit slush sand, he waded in. Slow. Calm. Eyes out. Tracking. Listening.

  The throaty whine of a diesel engine split the night.

  Leif crouched in the water as a white van barreled up to the facility gate. Two guards emerged from the hut, while those walking the meter-wide wall moved toward the area to provide extra security.

  With the guards distracted, Leif crawled onto the beach as if being washed ashore. Anything not to splash or draw attention. There, he checked the guards. Then sprinted to the rocks and flattened himself. Silently, he stripped out of the gear, tugging off the suit from over his pants and tactical shirt, stuffing the tank and rebreather into the bag, then started digging. He buried the gear and covered it, using rocks to mark the location for the retrieval crew.

  Weapon slung crossbody, he knelt and took point. A pat to his shoulder, then another, told him the guys were ready. They used the rocky slope and crags to traverse the road to the southwest side, beyond the guard hut. Barked commands at the gate ordered the van to pull through. Which meant the guards would be returning to sentry duty.

  Time to move. With hand signals, Leif sent the others across the road. As soon as they launched out, he provided cover. They cleared it, and he pushed up to follow. A shout erupted, forcing Leif behind the rocks to wait. To watch. A sentry was eyeballing his location. Demanding light.

  If they lit this place up . . .

  Tires pealed on the road.

  Leif glanced to his six, where a small dark car tore down the hill. Fast. Too fast. What the—?

  Guards hollered at each other. At the tower, the sentry was still perched, monitoring this location.

  The car barreled around the corner. Tipped as its tires screamed through the curve. The driver overcorrected and flipped—right into the lap of the protected entrance. Guards shouted and ran toward the gate. Several at the wall trained their weapons on the scene, but more were concerned about the driver.

  Move!

  Leif pitched himself up over the hillside and sprinted until he reached the coordinates. When he slid to his knees next to the guys, he breathed easier.

  “What was that?” Culver asked.

  Leif double-checked the lit-up gate. Considered the car wreck. How that driver had managed not to take out the wall.

  “Distraction.” Saito voiced the same conclusion as Leif.

  “But not ours,” Leif amended.

  Which meant they had company. So who else was here? Now they’d need to anticipate trouble getting into the facility. Opening comms would make it possible to detect their signal and location. Couldn’t risk that.

  “What’s the call?” Culver asked, eyeing Leif.

  “Keep moving.”

  The men pushed on. Picked their way through the heavily treed hillside toward the only vulnerability Mercy had discovered in the electrical fence. She’d created a time-lapse program that would sync with the internal security of the facility and their computer system to bypass locks, taking the team straight to the book.

  A concrete wall abutted the sheer face of hard-packed earth that rose another klick above them. Up there somewhere, Devine covered their six with her sniper rifle and Lawe as her spotter. Klein and Baddar were positioned on the opposite cleft for a clean exfil.

  Weapons up, cheeks to the stocks, they slid along the wall like the skilled operators they were. At a blind corner, they paused. Leif bobbed out for a split-second recon. More concrete. Air units. Large containers with ladders running to their domed peaks. Massive industrial units. He stepped out and hugged the wall, his shoulder lightly scratching against the concrete as he advanced to the terraced entrance. A lone door waited.

  He motioned Culver forward to use the programmed access card.

  As Culver came around, Leif detected movement on the other side of the glass. He snapped up a fist.

  Culver dropped into a crouch.

  Watching down the barrel of his M4A1, Leif eyed the group of four techs inside, laughing and talking as they strolled down the hall.

  Laughing. Talking. Not running.

  Maybe the internal alarms weren’t blaring after that car accident at the gate. That was a classic distraction technique. They should be on full alert. Or maybe he was just jumpy.

  No. He had instincts most didn’t have. The ability to read a situation and process information lightning fast.

  When the hall was clear and fell into darkness—sensor-activated lighting dropping back into sleep mode—he nodded to Culver, who made quick work of crossing the terrace, staying close and out of range of the cameras. Head down, shoulders hunched, he swiped the card.

  Nothing. The light stayed red.

  He swiped again. Same result.

  Crap. Mercy . . .

  A third time. Even from his position ten meters away, Leif heard the locks disengage. Which—if Mercy was right—should also disable the cameras and the motion-sensor lights, thanks to her handiwork. They had 10.5 seconds to reach the next juncture. She couldn’t blitz all the cameras and locks at once, or it’d draw attention and trigger a security alert.

  Leif and Saito snaked inside, wishing for night-vision but not able to risk it if someone came into the hall and unexpectedly splashed light all over and blinded them.

  As the map instructed, they banked left. Then left again. Leif sighted the gray double doors. Two paces out, he heard the click of the locks. Weapon and tension up, he reached for the door handle.

  Voices came from his six. Culver slid around him and palmed the door handle. Stock tucked against his shoulder, Leif gave him a curt nod. Culver tugged it open. Leif hurried through, sensing his near-silent partners follow him into the next passage. The door hissed shut. Clicked.

  It was 8.7 seconds to the next lock. He angled his wrist, a move that took his gaze off the sterile halls, to check the map. Right. Then left.

  Lights in the next corridor sprang to life, and he stilled. Voices and shadows danced along the slick white walls.

  With two fingers, he sent Culver and Saito to the doorways on the right, then plastered himself into an opposite small juncture, hidden enough not to be seen if someone wasn’t looking for an intruder. Most people were oblivious to threats around them. In familiar places, they saw what their minds expected to see.

  A s
hort Asian doctor in a gray lab coat came down the hall with two women. One wore a similar lab coat. The other had on a black pantsuit and nodded at something the doctor said, her attention wholly on him.

  A vibration against Leif’s wrist told him they’d missed the second lock timing. Although they were radio silent, Command monitored their infiltration through short bursts sent from their comms at random intervals. They’d be okay as long as Mercy reset the time.

  Keep moving, keep moving, he mentally prodded the threesome.

  The woman in the black suit was friendly. Enthralled. Too enthralled? She bent forward, nodding eagerly. Her dark hair was tied back from a complexion that wasn’t quite olive. But it also wasn’t pale against those raspberry-colored lips. Her brown eyes were amused.

  Wait. Eyes? Leif’s pulse jacked. The woman wasn’t looking at the doc. She was looking right at him.

  I’m made!

  The human, natural side of him exploded with an urge to hide. But his heightened instinct and training warned any movement would seal his fate. Besides, he wasn’t convinced she’d seen him in this pitch-black alcove. What made her scrutinize the shadows of the semi-darkened hall anyway? Apparently, she had a heightened instinct.

  He didn’t move. Didn’t twist. Didn’t take his eyes off her. He slowed his breathing, refusing to betray himself.

  She touched the doctor’s shoulder, laughed in a melodic way, then turned as they entered another lab. Thank God.

  Once the door hissed closed, Leif twitched forward. Eyed the others with a nod. He checked the map on his device, then the door. And realized the disastrous truth.

  The room the trio had just entered was where intel suggested they’d find the Book of the Wars.

  EIGHT

  APERIÓRISTOS LABS, GREECE

  “Doctor Chowdhury, is that door locked?” Iskra glanced back, eyeing the steel frame and jamb, her heart still thudding over the shifting shadows of the hall beyond.

  Just get it and get out.

  She turned. Glaring white stabbed her corneas as she took in the sterile facility. They were in what looked like a reception area that fanned out into grayish-black windows accessing five additional labs. At the far side of the individual labs were floor-to-ceiling cabinets containing at least fifty drawers. Decontamination tubes stood guard between the foyer and the labs.

  “It is. All doors are automatically secured when they shut.”

  “Good.” She smiled. “And when you access the rooms and the vaults, you go through to the other side?”

  “Yes, but the artifact can’t go through—it must be preserved.”

  “Of course,” Iskra said as if she agreed. “And if this outer door is unlocked, the inner door remains locked, yes?”

  “Correct!” He stabbed the air, his dark complexion showing the ash of age. “We cannot risk contamination.”

  Iskra studied the vaults, the decon hubs, the inner doors. Then the larger ones on the far side of the preservation room. Which, according to the schematic she’d memorized, should lead her to a rear passage. She let out a shaky breath that was more real than she wanted to admit. “I am very pleased with your security measures, because I’m afraid I have very bad news.”

  He frowned, laughing uncertainly as he looked at his assistant, Lisa.

  “In that hall, I think there were some . . . intruders.” Iskra leaned in and cringed. “I think they had guns.”

  “Wha—?!” He spun around, staring at the door in disbelief. “I didn’t see anyone.”

  “I think they are very dangerous.” She touched fingers to her lips, doing her best to appear scared. “Maybe even deadly soldiers.”

  Lisa let out a strangled yelp.

  “Do you think—should you notify security?”

  Rattled, shifting between going to the door or the desk phone, he nodded. “Y-yes. Yes. Of course.” His brow beaded with sweat.

  Darkness clapped through the facility. Someone had cut the power. After a mechanical whirring, emergency protocols sounded and washed the lab in a sea of bloody light.

  Iskra lifted her gaze and traced the strobing patterns. The cameras. “No,” she breathed, spinning toward the lab doors. She bolted to one and yanked. Locked tight. “Those fools!”

  The loss of power—compliments, no doubt, of the thugs in the hall—had locked down the bays, preventing access to the artifacts. To the book.

  “We should go this way,” Chowdhury said, tugging her arm. “We have emergency power, which allows only those with upper clearance to open the doors.”

  “Like you,” Iskra said, batting away strands of hair.

  “Of course,” he crooned with a laugh. “I am the lead specialist. And do not worry—they often do special drills to test response times.”

  “I know. How do you think I got in?” Her ruse as a journalist had only worked because the guards were so distracted at the front gate that they hastily authorized what appeared to be legitimate credentials. They hadn’t looked closely enough.

  His smile wavered as he hesitated. “What?”

  She rotated the thick ring on her finger. “I’m so sorry.” She touched the doctor’s neck, pressing her fingers around his throat, then stepped back.

  He pulled in a sharp breath, covering the spot where the ring had punctured his skin. “What . . . what did you do?” But even as he breathed the last word, he wavered.

  Lisa screamed as Iskra caught and lowered him to the ground, then checked his carotid. “Did you kill him?”

  “No. But the ring only has enough sedative for one. So now you have a choice.” Iskra shoved heavy threat into the look she gave Lisa. “All I want is a book you’re keeping.”

  “DS-972,” the assistant said. “You’re after it, too.”

  Iskra hesitated. Too?

  The assistant smiled—then flashed out a knife-hand strike.

  Iskra blocked, but the swift move knocked her backward. Lisa lunged at her, taking Iskra to the floor. She cuffed Iskra’s throat. She was wild. Feral. Vicious as she constricted.

  With a swing of her legs, Iskra flipped them. She wasn’t going to lose to this woman or leave her alive. Because that look in her eyes—Iskra knew it. Knew what drove it. She didn’t just know. She remembered. Had felt it. This woman would never stop.

  Iskra reared back to punch. To drive the woman’s nose through her skull. But as she unleashed the strike, Lisa jerked aside. Iskra pulled the punch, narrowly avoiding cracking her knuckles.

  A flurry of arms and legs had them wrestling. Tangling. Writhing. But one thing registered in Iskra’s mind in the chaos and fury.

  Behind Lisa’s ear was a tiny dot.

  A receiver. Communication. She’s not alone.

  Iskra switched tactics. Prayed it wasn’t a mistake. She let Lisa gain the advantage. Let the woman’s fist connect with her cheekbone. She slumped flat against the ground with a groan.

  “Finally,” Lisa mumbled as she climbed to her feet. She stood over Iskra. Kicked her in the side.

  Rage seized Iskra, but she coiled it tight and stowed it. Not yet. Not yet . . .

  A stream of German flew from Lisa’s lips. Iskra fought the urge to groan. German. Rutger. Again! No doubt protecting his precious artifact.

  “Ja. It’s me. Restore the power to the lab,” Lisa said as she walked toward the bay doors. “I’m right in front of it. Ja . . . Wha—she’s down. No, didn’t kill him—there was a woman posing as a journalist . . . I wanted to.”

  Iskra heard the voice aim at her, knew Lisa was looking at her again.

  “Just give me power,” she said, her voice bouncing on the walls again. “I’ve got his card, and we can get the book to another location for safekeeping.”

  Iskra smiled.

  A distinctive shunk rattled through the facility. Lights hummed and bloomed.

  Iskra hopped to her feet. Slid in. Struck the woman in the back of the head, pitching her into the bulletproof glass. Her forehead hit. Bounced. Lisa fell backward. Iskra snatched the
card and swiped into the main bay. Inside, she endured the blast of sanitized air, itching to get into the vault, get the book, and get out. Before the operators in the hall—

  Crack!

  As the mist died, she looked back at the lab’s main door, which bucked beneath a breach. Three men glided in, moving with precision. Smooth. They wore no insignia, but the weapons—M4A1s—were preferred by American special operators.

  Leaving the sanitizing bay, she hurried into the vault. Checked over her shoulder, relieved she now had two doors between her and the operators. The middle guy had pale eyes that were locked on her and furious. She smirked. Then checked her escape route—an exit via a rear sanitization hub.

  One of the operators eased to the main bay door. Stuck something on the glass.

  Heart in her throat, Iskra realized it was a charge. A small one but enough to erase the protection she’d just gloated over. “Wait!” She lurched toward the clear barrier. “Don’t!”

  Pale Eyes held a hand up to the others.

  “If you blow that door,” she shouted, no idea if they could hear her, “this door”—she tapped the barrier in front of her—“won’t open.” Neither would the one behind her, which she needed for her escape.

  He hesitated. Wariness guarded his face as the other operators shouldered closer, their mouths moving, probably voicing their reluctance to trust her. But their gazes betrayed uncertainty, too.

  Good. Time to find the box! She pivoted and scanned the rows of vault boxes. Fingers tracing the labels, she finally found the one marked DS-972. She tucked Chowdhury’s card in the slot. The door hissed open. A black box the size of a legal letter lay there for the taking.

  Thwack. Thump.

  Lifting the box, she glanced over her shoulder—right as claxons sounded. The team was through the first door and stood in the decontamination hub, the sanitation spray hissing.

  Iskra darted to the exit on the other side. She couldn’t get through the decontamination hub if the inner door they were working on opened first.

  Pale Eyes was shouting. A charge was on the window.

  She swiped the card. It didn’t work.