by Ronie Kendig
“No.” She checked the team as she reswiped. Heart thundering, she whimpered when it failed again. Then she noticed she held the card wrong.
Thwack!
She swiped.
Thump!
The door started opening—then stopped.
“No!” Iskra threw herself at the inches-wide gap. Wedged herself sideways into the sliver of a space, thrusting the box ahead of her to be sure—in case she got stuck—that the soldiers couldn’t get it. She shoved, pushed.
Shouts reached her, followed by a gust of air.
Right shoulder through, she wiggled against the crushing door. Rocked back and forth, trying to squeeze through.
Something caught her leg. She cried out. As if responding to her pleas, the door gave—apparently released because the operators’ door had closed and sealed, thereby freeing the rear hub doors. She stumbled into the chamber, stunned. As the pelting decontamination spray started, she realized the new dilemma facing her: after the spray ended, whichever door opened first would automatically seal the other door. Therefore, they could trap her if she was even a microsecond slower. They’d win. Take the book.
The operators were working hard and fast—like her heart.
The hissing air slowed. She reached for the handle.
Pale Eyes held her in a visual standoff, talking to the side, to his teammate.
The door finally unlocked, and she yanked it open—but it froze. She glanced back to see what had happened, why it had only given her a couple of inches. The operators were facing the same predicament. The power had somehow failed. But their brute strength was widening their gap.
Panicking, Iskra shoved the box through the opening, refusing to fail or be stopped. She couldn’t let freedom be ripped away.
“Stop! Stop or we’ll shoot.” His voice was deep, filled with threat.
It pulled her around, her nose skimming the wall. She leaned toward escape, but he held her upper arm. She wrestled. Writhed. Then slipped free—but was still wedged. She glared at him through the door that provided the only available protection. Kept the box from his reach. Wished she’d brought a weapon.
The ring.
Using her thumb, she twisted it around her finger. There might not be any paralytic left, but it would sting. Cut.
He reached through the gap. Like a cat with claws, she slapped him. Dragged the ring down his hand.
But he kept coming. As if the cut hadn’t even fazed him. It must’ve been sharp enough not to register. Had she missed? She did it again.
Same. No response. That wasn’t possible. She looked at his hand. Two angry thin red lines. He eyed them too, then glanced back up at her. Apathetic about her attempt to harm him.
“Clear!” The guy behind him was backing away.
What was clear?
Pale Eyes held her gaze for a second. She inched back, and her periphery snagged on something. A gray brick stuck to the door.
C-4! They’d set a charge. She bounced back to his gaze. “You’ll kill us all.”
He gave a cockeyed nod. “Only you.”
Only? Iskra checked the charge and found he was right. It was attached to her side of the decontamination hub. It’d blow her and the door. In all her fighting with him, she hadn’t noticed his buddy working the odds in their favor. “You blow that door, the outer one won’t open.”
This time, he smirked. “We can handle it.” He thumbed over his shoulder, indicating the inner door they’d somehow bypassed without damaging.
Think! How did she stop them? “You’ll damage the book.”
“Box is fireproof. Blast won’t touch the book.” He grinned. “But nice try.”
She cursed him and herself. Tried to wiggle free, but he held here there. With everything she had, she backfisted him. Felt her knuckles connect with hard cartilage. He stumbled back, releasing her with a muttered oath.
The charge was counting down. And she was still stuck. She thrashed. Jolted. Kicked to free her left ankle.
Without warning, she was falling out of the decontamination hub. She thudded hard against the floor. She tensed, expecting a blast of superheated air. The concussive punch. But then she realized the detonation wasn’t why she’d fallen. Her foot had broken free. She stared down at the small gray charge—now on the other side of the door. She’d somehow kicked it loose.
The operators were diving away.
She did the same. Rotated and pitched herself toward cover. The detonation hit. With a jumble of sounds, the concussion streaked through the small space. Slammed her into the ground. Heat seared her leg. Had the exterior door not been there, she’d have been blown to bits.
Disoriented, she forced herself to move. Go! Now! The team would be on her soon. They’d get the book.
She rolled over. Groaned. The door was cracked and hung crooked—that was how the heat had escaped.
The pale-eyed operator was on his feet. Blood streaked his temple as he lunged at the door. Not wanting to get captured by him, she clambered upright. Her ankle screamed in protest. She dragged herself around. Spotted the box a half dozen feet away. She lunged at it. Cradled it. Glanced through the dusty fog and glass door.
Crack-crack!
Using his weapon as a battering ram, he was making quick work of the now-flimsy barrier. Iskra swallowed at his determination. The same kind spiraled through her, mixing with adrenaline and the taunt of victory.
Pain radiated through her leg. Crying out, she used the wall to steady herself. Braved one more look at the door. After a glower in her direction, Pale Eyes threw his shoulder into it. The frame gave but then popped back into place. She had time. A chance to get out. Their eyes met again.
Fury tangling his features, he unleashed a roar that crossed the barrier. He punched the door in frustration.
He couldn’t get through. Couldn’t stop her. And she had the book.
Iskra smiled as she left the lab, babying her injured leg. Though it slowed her, she kept hobbling. Shouts and gunshots pervaded the halls ahead. She had to get to the stairs. One more junction. She hobble-hurried to the next secure door. Swiped Chowdhury’s card. It opened.
“Stop!” his deep voice commanded.
Not looking back, she shoved forward.
Crack! Pop! Ping!
She ducked, startled that he’d fired at her. But why should she be surprised? She’d just tried to blow him and his men to pieces. She hadn’t really wanted to kill them. However, she also didn’t want them killing her. But considering they had weapons and she had an aching ankle and a heavy box containing a scroll, things weren’t looking good.
Palming the walls helped her move. She scrabbled along. Found the satchel she’d prearranged with a contact to leave. Bribing people shouldn’t be that easy, but most were glad for the money and rationalized something as innocuous as an abandoned satchel didn’t make them complicit. She tucked the box in the bag and rolled around the corner.
Their backs to her, a group of security personnel stalked away from her down the corridor.
Iskra froze. Eyed the door across from her. Stairs. She had to get there. But first she’d have to swipe the card. It’d chirrup, giving her away. Could she do it surrepti—
The hefty thud of a security door came from behind. The operators, no doubt. She was out of time. She leapt across the hall, aiming Chowdhury’s badge at the strip as she did. Swiped. Shouldered through into the stairwell, hearing the door slam shut behind her. The weight of the box pulled her down. She tripped. Nearly face-planted against the concrete steps. She dragged herself up.
Shouts. Shots. Thuds. Running.
She held her breath, listening. There was no sliver or window through which to watch the unfolding drama. She expected them to burst into the stairwell at any moment.
One breath. Two. Heavy steps pounded past the door.
Silence fell.
Go. Go, Iskra.
The guards must have encountered the Americans and given chase. She took pleasure in thinking Pale Eye
s had unwittingly aided her escape.
Iskra hobbled the steps. All the way up three excruciating floors to the roof. She pushed through a final door and tumbled into the crisp, cool predawn morning. Into the embrace of darkness and anonymity. She hurried to AC unit number three and dropped to her knees, but not before checking the northeast corner. The triangular shape there gave her the slightest glimmer of hope that this might work out.
Feeling around in the gravel at the concrete base, she kept watch on the door. The operators were skilled. Quick. Determined.
So was she.
Which could make things interesting.
She set down the satchel and dug a little harder. Where was it? Her pulse skipped a beat. What if her bribed contact hadn’t left it?
She swiveled around to the other unit, its motor cranking and rattling. She squinted across the darkness, tracing that base, too, then scooted over and searched the area. On the side facing the front of the building, dirt, tar, and gravel revealed something smooth and long. “Yes!” She brushed away the dirt and rocks, then shook it out.
Thwack!
The noise came from behind.
Crouching behind the unit, she peered through a jungle of steel and iron to the area illuminated by a lone floodlight. The stairwell door had belched two operators onto the roof. How had they figured out she was up here?
Too good. They were too good.
The sharp edges of relief struck as they veered west, away from her. Gave her time. Not much, but maybe enough. Propped up against the unit, she shed the business jacket and stuffed her injured leg into the wind suit. Grimacing as she put her weight on the sore ankle, she threaded the other leg, then her arms. Zipped up the suit. Turned for the satchel and—
Oh no. She looked from the AC unit beside her to the first one she’d checked. She’d left the satchel there. A mere four feet separated her from it, but that was four feet of exposure. She muttered an oath. Eyed the operators bringing their sweep from the south. With a quick breath, she crouch-ran to the north side of the other unit.
For at least a few seconds, she was hidden. Back to the vibrating unit, she rolled her head to the left. Locked onto the satchel. She stretched out an arm, trying to keep the movements small.
Oh, forget this. It was too far and taking too long. Knowing the danger, she sprang across the gap and snatched up the bag. Dropped back behind cover.
“Over here,” one called, his voice strangely close and yet distant beneath the powerful growl of the AC units.
She tucked the satchel strap over her head and shoulder so it lay crossbody, then eyed the triangular shape hugging the northeast corner. Two meters. If she stayed low, she could make it. Probably.
It was enough of a chance to seize. She stretched onto her belly and slunk toward it, dragging her injured foot noisily. She cringed.
“Runt, I see movement.”
“Hit it!”
So much for stealth. Iskra pitched herself at the triangle and ducked under it. Grabbed the crossbar. Shoved to her feet with a growl of pain, grit, and determination. She spun around and lumbered onto the foot-wide roof ledge. Wobbled and nearly yelped before catching her balance.
“Stop! Stop!”
Hoisting up the bar, she didn’t look. Her precarious position on the precipice worked in her favor. They wanted the book. If they shot her, she’d fall. The book would fall with her.
Hands shaking, she secured the carabiners into the hang glider. Slid her gaze slightly to the right, assessing the men advancing, weapons up and tension taut.
Pale Eyes stalked into view. His eyes were like the moon on a dark night—with a tinge of swelling. “I don’t want to end you, but—”
“Don’t be stupid,” Iskra hissed, clipping the last carabiner onto her suit harness. “Shoot me and you lose the book.”
He inched closer, the predawn light exposing his muscular forearms and the edge of a tattoo. He slightly lowered the M4 as he considered her. Or maybe he was considering options. “I let you fly off, I lose the book altogether. But if I take the shot now, the book won’t die of high-impact trauma.” He shrugged, once more lifting his weapon.
“Perhaps.” She tested her weight, feeling the searing fire in her ankle as well as the heavy pull of the wind itching to yank her off the building. “But if you hit the book, it’s destroyed.”
His confidence faltered.
Iskra took advantage of his hesitation and hopped, felt the air catch the nylon wings, and then shot forward, sprinting the length of the ledge, peripherally aware he’d snapped up his weapon again.
A shot cracked and echoed.
She didn’t care. She went flying, tasting the only freedom she’d ever know.
NINE
APERIÓRISTOS LABS, GREECE
Curses sailed into the air after the woman. Leif rushed the ledge, trying to take aim, but the wind jerked and tugged her. He fired a warning shot. They needed her alive. As she swooped down, an air current caught and carried her out over the water. He couldn’t take another shot, but if that book drowned, they all did. “Augh!”
“Runt, let’s move!”
Crack. Plunk! Plunk!
The sharp gust of air made Leif twitch. A shiny blur thudded almost into his feet.
Plunk!
He swung aside. Glared at the hills. “A bit close,” he growled into his comms as he stared at the grappling hook that had nearly punched a hole in his boot, a quick exfil assist by Devine and Lawe on the hill.
“I missed,” Devine said. “Aiming for the mountain beside me.”
“Be nice,” Lawe responded.
Leif’s attention was focused on the woman gliding away with the scroll. Should he be impressed or ticked?
Ticked. She had the book. He didn’t. And she’d smirked at him, knowing she’d won.
Culver slapped his shoulder. “Company.”
Stressed guards spilled from the stairwell onto the tarred roof. Stressed meant shaky trigger fingers. Reactive shooting rather than strategic, logical. Klein and Baddar kept them busy.
After one more look out to sea, her shadow fading from view, Leif lowered himself, placed the cable trolley on the rope, and shoved off. The air snatched at him, assaulting him with an acrid scent. Was there a treatment plant nearby?
The rope’s incline wasn’t steep enough, forcing Leif to use his body weight to propel himself out of range. They zip-lined a half klick, then dropped into the trees. After fast-roping to the ground, they set out at a quick jog, moving through the unfamiliar territory to the rendezvous point. The hike proved rigorous, each thud of his boots making his head ache. And the woman’s wicked backfist had bloodied his nose and made it swell. It wasn’t broken but painful all the same.
“What’re you thinking?” Saito asked.
“That I need to work out more,” Leif grunted as he shoved aside a branch and side-slid down an incline.
Saito scoffed. “Always were soft.”
Leif snorted. That had never been true. He’d regularly buffeted his body. Not for vanity, but for this very reason—so he’d be ready, no matter what.
“Might want to hurry,” the throaty voice of Lawe said. “Got a storm brewing off the coast.”
“What?” Slowing, Leif glanced at the sky but saw only a dark canopy of leaves. “Radar was clear before we launched.” Part of their prep was to know weather conditions.
“Roger that,” Lawe said. “But it’s coming.”
As if on cue, a wind gust slapped the branches. A dull roar through the trees, swirling and snaking, as if surrounding them. It reminded him of—
Leaves. It’s just the leaves. Keep moving.
“That’s not creepy at all,” Saito said as they fell into a steady lope.
The air sizzled. Crackled.
Leif picked up his pace, but this time, Culver and Saito had trouble keeping up. They weren’t out of shape. The PT this team regularly went through bordered on insane. Hauling tractor tires and towing rigs with nothing but brute s
trength built up their core so they could face whatever got thrown at them. Holding their breath underwater for minutes at a time bettered their chances of not drowning. But since the desert over five years ago, most people were slower than Leif.
Ten more minutes delivered him to a hillside. Down and to their six, a tunnel had been carved through the island for uninterrupted travel. On a knee, he eyed the gaping maw that birthed and swallowed vehicles heading into or leaving the city. He scanned the sky. Dark clouds to their west. They didn’t have much time. Dawn would soon break, and that storm would hit about the same time, eliminating their chance for a safe extraction. He drew out his night-vision binoculars and aimed them out to sea.
Though Culver and Saito were quiet, their movements—weighted by exhaustion—reached his ears before they did.
“It’s obscene that you aren’t out of breath.” Saito knelt beside Leif.
Answering that in any respect would only breed contempt. If he said he’d been out of breath, that would imply having enough time to recover before they caught up. If he said he wasn’t out of breath, well, they’d punch him.
No sign of the woman. He rotated to the tunnel and spotted the right front corner of a vehicle’s bumper. “They’re there.” He keyed his mic. “Guardian in position.”
“Roger that,” Cell replied from the van.
“Let’s go.”
They hustled down the hill and strolled into the tunnel as casually as possible, even though the early morning twilight hopefully shielded them. At the van, Leif dropped into a side-facing seat. The others piled in, and the vehicle merged into traffic, heading to the safe house.
Leif’s thoughts turned back to the woman. When she’d slipped out of his grasp, beaten him, she’d smiled. She smiled. Lip and cheek bleeding, face dusted with smoke and ash, she’d stood there and smiled because he’d failed.
Leif thumped the back of the driver’s seat.
“Where’d Viorica come from?” Cell asked.
Viorica. It made sense. The reports of her ferocity, the reverence when people spoke of her. The fear.
“As far as we can tell, straight through the front door,” Saito said. “Had a cover as a journalist or something. Staff seemed to cater to her, giving her the grand tour, especially considering that wreck by the gate.”