Storm Rising

by Ronie Kendig

  Cell’s gaze bounced to the rearview mirror and met Leif’s.

  “Thought it was your job to find out who was in that facility so we’d be ready,” Leif said. “To feed us intel to protect our mission from being a total cluster—”

  “I’m good but not perfect,” Cell replied, gripping the steering wheel tight and hunching forward. “We knew she was after it and still didn’t see her until it was too late.”

  “You look like you’re going to blow chunks, Barc,” Mercy said.

  “I just . . . I’ve seen enough connected to Viorica to know we have no hope of getting that book back.”

  * * *

  THE TAISSIA, MEDITERRANEAN SEA

  “I want to know who those men were!” Iskra punched the hull of the yacht.

  Gentle hands tightened a neoprene wrap around her leg. “The twist is swelling your ankle, but the bone’s not broken.” Vasily Kuznetsov shook a finger at her. “You must rest. It will only heal if you do. And you need it.”

  “I need answers, not rest!” She hobbled to her feet and tried to pace, the itch of annoyance too great to sit still. “How did they know about the scroll and where it was?”

  “Iskra.” Vasily was calm as he leaned on the table, eyeing her. But there was no petulance or patronization. Not in those brown eyes, so like his twin’s. Valery had been her staunchest supporter. “Let me get this scanned, then we can talk.” He nodded to the gangway that led below. “Go. Shower, eat, rest. This will take a while.”

  Survival instinct made her snort, but arguing with Vasily would be futile. He was ten times as stubborn as Valery. With a huff, she left the upper deck, heading down into the yacht. She made her way to the end of the narrow gangway and into a stateroom, where she shed the glider suit and her clothes. A shower kneaded the kinks from her muscles but stung the knot on her cheek. Rubbing her shoulder, she remembered the pale blue eyes, the man who’d nearly destroyed her one chance.

  His gaze had seemed . . . hyperfocused. Intense. Fathomless. Beautiful. Like the sky over the sea after a storm.

  After drying off, she dressed in a pair of black jeans and a light sweater. Iskra considered the bed as she towel-dried her hair, listening for the first time to the many aches, including the bruises from fighting off Rutger’s minion, Lisa, pulsing through her muscles. She touched the soft comforter. Sat on it as she tied up her hair. Just for a minute. Lying down, she stared up at the ceiling and let out a contented moan.

  A creak above drew her attention to Vasily. The scroll.

  She swallowed, then shook off the temptation to rest and headed topside. As she rounded the corner, Iskra noted dawn creeping into the sky . . . with a storm. Her breath backed into her throat. She vaulted up the stairs, her wet ponytail slapping her face. She dove into the wheel deck.

  Vasily jerked up, reaching for a weapon she hadn’t noticed before.

  “A storm,” she breathed.

  He scowled. “No. It’s clear—”

  “There!” She stabbed her hand out the door. “It’s a storm.”

  Vasily’s placid expression fell away. He skirted the table where the scroll was secured beneath a glass plate and a large, very powerful camera was stealing its image. He moved past her, out to the railing.

  “It’s him.” She hated to sound so desperate, afraid. “Isn’t it?”

  “It can’t be,” he said, but even she heard his uncertainty. “He cannot know we are here.”

  Her thought bounced to the men she’d disabled, to Lisa. “There was another, besides the three who chased me at the end. A woman with the doctor—she worked there, maybe. But I think she was Hermanns’. I neutralized her.”

  Vasily’s scowl grew. “What nationality?”

  “She spoke German and was talking to Rutger.”

  He skipped his attention back to the dark cloud circling the mainland’s southern tip.

  The smell had been in the air, but she’d ignored it, too focused on escaping the facility. “It’s the same, isn’t it? How can it not be him?” She slunk back, heart pounding. “He knows I’m here.” She strangled the urge to panic.

  “He doesn’t.” Vasily faced her. “Iskra, you’re safe here. I promise.” He looked at the facility, fading in the distance. “The woman you neutralized must be tied to the storm—Hristoff isn’t the only one with a Meteoroi. Perhaps Rutger has one, too. It’s effective for creating distractions and diversions.”

  “Don’t be a fool. What are the chances we encounter two?” She shook her head. “One lightning strike could’ve destroyed the facility and the scroll!”

  “I’m not being foolish. There are people who want this and are clearly not as clever or as efficient as our Wild Rose.”

  She tensed, feeling sick and angry. “Do not call me that.”

  Following him back inside, she gave the storm one last glance. Concern tugged at her insides. Please don’t be . . . just let me finish this. Get the answers . . .

  A light table illuminated the old scroll from underneath, seeming to lift the words from the centuries in which it had hidden. So much lay within those words—hope, destruction, truth, danger.

  Iskra nodded to it. “Tell me that’s the right one.” Just one piece of good news, for once in her life. Was that too much to ask?

  Vasily stood at a small monitor that magnified the images. Another larger computer hummed to his right. He tapped its monitor, which was suspended from the ceiling. “I think . . .”

  She moved behind him, peering over his shoulder at the screen. The words weren’t known to her. The script she guessed to be Hebrew or something. “Can you read or understand it?”

  “I will need to work on the translation, call in some favors, but yes.” He glanced at her and smiled. “Yes, Iskra. I think you did it.”

  At his words, something foreign leapt in her breast. She wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe this book would help her buy freedom. “I only retrieved it.”

  Vasily laughed, angling around to face her. “Only retrieved it? You walked into that facility and convinced the entire security detail you were supposed to be there. You convinced Chowdhury to take you straight to its vault. That’s not ‘only’ retrieving it.”

  It was true, but she deflected his flattery because she’d seen the same glint in his twin brother’s eyes, and it had gotten him killed. “I couldn’t have done that if you and Bogdashka hadn’t found where it was being hidden in the first place.” She wanted to ask how they’d learned of its location, but she didn’t care. Not anymore—not now that they had it.

  “Speaking of the Empress,” he said with a roll of his eyes, “she’ll want to know you’ve succeeded.”

  Indeed. She would. Iskra chewed her lower lip, wondering what Bogdashka would say about the men. “While I was cleaning up, did you have a chance to retrieve the facility’s security footage?”

  Vasily held her gaze for a moment, then slowly nodded.

  “And?”

  More hesitation, but he would relent. Vasily always did when it came to her. He felt he owed his brother.

  “Who was he?” she asked.

  His eyebrow winged up. “American, I think.”

  “Their weapons told me that. But who? How did they know to come to Greece?”

  Wariness crowded his handsome features that so resembled his twin’s. Valery had been much like Vasily, but with a streak of intensity found in few men. “They are very skilled.”

  She pointed to the knot on her temple. “And have no hesitation in fighting a woman to stop her.”

  Menace swirled through the planes of his face, much like that storm off the island, which was, thankfully, farther away with each passing second. “Coldhearted.”

  “Mm,” she said, thinking, “I don’t believe so. Just determined.”

  “Men who are willing to do that have probably seen a lot.”

  “Like war—combat.”

  He nodded. “Someplace where women are as likely to attack as men.”

  “Suicide
bombers. Middle East.” She spun back to the table, where she noticed a bowl of mangoes. Her favorite. She freed her knife from its sheath on her belt and cut into one.

  Vasily was staring at the screen again. “Mm, likely.”

  “So, Special Forces, SEALs, black ops—”

  “Da. Most likely that,” Vasily said, holding a pen toward the scroll. “They knew where the book was stored, and that was a very well-guarded secret.”

  Pinning a chunk of mango between the blade and her thumb, she pointed its tip at him. “So, intelligence operators?”

  “Their military has those as well.”

  “So does the CIA.”

  A phone buzzed, and she glanced at the device, only then realizing it was hers. She chewed the mango and moved closer, inwardly cringing at the number. Bogdashka. The Empress calling to make sure she had succeeded.

  Swallowing and savoring the fruit, she pocketed the phone, not surprised to find Vasily watching her. “Can you get facial recs on them—no.” She cut off another slice. “On the leader.” She tapped her knife against the small video image of Pale Eyes. “You can find him, da?”

  “Eventually,” Vasily said, peering at her over his glasses, then indicated the scroll. “But the translation is more important, no?”

  With a sigh, she relented. “Yes.” She tucked another wedge of fruit into her mouth. “Definitely.”

  “Is that why you are not talking to the Empress?”

  “We’re talking.”

  “Just not right now.”

  She held up her palm. “‘As you see,’” she said, quoting one of her favorite movies.

  He grinned. Shook his head. “For a woman who kills for a living, you have strange taste in movies.”

  “It is because I long for civility and decency again.”

  “And you take your cues from Pride & Prejudice?”

  “Careful.” There was a time when men treated women with respect, acted in honor. Those days had vanished. Valery had shown her some respect, but in the end, he had used her just as Hristoff did, something she’d never admit to Vasily, who thought the world of his brother. Valery’s usage had been just as damaging, even though it was less violent. It was why—

  “No.” Vasily wrote on a tablet, studied the screen, then again recorded his thoughts on the device. “You long for romance.”

  She coughed a laugh. “Romance is archaic and dead.”

  “It’s not, actually,” he said, again staring over his glasses at her. “It’s beautiful and very much alive.”

  Iskra set aside the mango and went to a small sink, where she rinsed her blade. “If you think it so beautiful and alive, why are you out here on a boat, alone?”

  Vasily shrugged. “I am always saving you. When do I have time for romance?”

  True—he’d become integral to her missions. She depended on him heavily. But that happened because he was the only person with breath still in their lungs that she trusted. “That’s sad.”

  “When it is time,” he said with a nod, “I will find someone.”

  “Here?” she said around a laugh, sheathing her knife. “Or in the afterlife?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Now she really laughed.

  “Ahh,” he said, straightening and closing his eyes as he smiled. “There’s a sound I haven’t heard in a while.”

  Though he shot a glance in her direction, Vasily knew better than to meet her gaze. He’d find a scowl. A mask for the wound of that truth. There was not much to laugh about, not with Hristoff in control.

  Iskra looked at the mango, guilt somehow weighing her. It wasn’t her fault, this life that had stolen her existence. Valery had seemed to hate her stolen life as much as she did. In fact, he’d even made a plan to help her escape Hristoff. It was the last thing he’d planned.

  When Vasily did not try to bridge the awkward silence, she turned to him. He hunkered over the equipment. Intent. He stilled. Frowned. Adjusted the high-powered camera. His brows climbed into his hairline.

  When he rose from the eyepiece, what she saw closed her throat. That look—elated but splashed with caution—pulled her around the light table. “What?” She tucked her hands in her back pockets.

  “This . . .” His head bobbed.

  Anticipation gripped her. “Is it—”

  “Yes,” he said, nodding again, his breath mixed with laughter and near-reverence. “I’m sure. This is it.” A nervous chuckle rumbled through his chest. “This is the Book of the Wars of the Lord.”

  Iskra stared at the document beneath the glass, her breath trapped behind the barest thread of hope. Giddiness speared her, and even though she wasn’t an archaeologist, she could appreciate the significance of the scroll. The beauty. Someone thousands of years ago had touched this, written on it. But the real source of her excitement was what this would mean for her.

  But before she let herself get truly excited . . . “Why do you think this is it? What convinced you?”

  But he was already distracted again and muttered an oath. Tossed his tablet and pen to the table. He drew the massive ceiling-mounted camera down to another spot on the scroll, then hurried back to the monitor, where the new location came into focus.

  Anxious as he worked, her question unanswered, Iskra dared to let the specter of hope creep closer. She hugged herself, watching. Waiting. If it was the Book of the Wars, she could use it to buy a favor from ArC. A life for a life.

  No. No, don’t go there yet. Just wait.

  Minutes ticked by with Vasily engrossed. He retrieved his tablet without looking and scribbled, though his eyes almost never left the enhanced image. He swore another oath. Hissed.

  “Vasily?”

  He pressed a hand against his face, muttering fast and frenetic in Russian. To see this slower, calmer half of Valery so enlivened frightened her. And still he gave no response, no explanation.

  “Vasily!”

  He flinched.

  Iskra took a step back at what now lurked in his face. How he’d gone pale. His shoulders sagged.

  He’d been wrong. It wasn’t the book.

  She’d known it. This whole thing was too good to be true. All that work, risking her life against Rutger. Against those American operators. Mentally, she flung up the defensive perimeter that doused hope in cruel reality. She would never be free.

  But even as she held Vasily’s gaze, she also vowed never to give up. It was not about her. She would take this defeat as she had all others—head on.

  “What?”

  He wavered as he slumped back even more, something deep and aching in his expression.

  “What?!” she snapped.

  “It mentions them.”

  Cold dread poured into the pit of her stomach as she pulled up straight. Stared at him, disbelieving. Unable to process. Unwilling to process. “Them.” A chill raced around her shoulders and snaked down her spine.

  Sorrow threaded his blanched features. “I cannot be sure, Iskra. The text is ancient, the language . . . difficult to interpret and translate in some places, but—” His gaze hit the monitor again and pulled hers there as well.

  Tears burned as she fixed her eyes, her very soul, on the brittle piece of history she’d retrieved. If Vasily was right, then all these years, all she had endured . . . would be worth the payoff.

  “It speaks of them, Iskra. Those set to guard the world.”

  She’d find him. Finally. “The Neiothen.”

  TEN

  CIA SAFE HOUSE, GREECE

  “What is with this weather?” Culver complained as they slumped into chairs at a CIA safe house. He shook the rainwater from his high-and-tight. “We have storms like this back home, but in season. With twisters ’n’ all.”

  “Agreed. This wasn’t even on radar.” Mercy nodded to her computer, as if that’d tell them something. “Radar was clear when we set out. Nothing coming. Then boom!” She flicked her fingers from fists to splayed palms. “Thunder and lightning.”

  “Reminds
me of Florida,” Klein said. “Wait a few minutes and the weather will change.”

  “Seriously?” Leif huffed. “You’re talking weather?” He stabbed a hand toward the wall. “On our first real mission, we lost a major artifact to that . . . that woman!”

  “That woman,” Lawe said, pointing a pen at him, “turned your nose into a goose egg.”

  “Hey,” Saito said, “go easy. What she did wasn’t a lucky hit. She was all ferocity and elegance. Confidence oozed out of her.”

  Hating the reverence in Saito’s voice, Leif glowered around his swollen septum. “Cell, I need the 411 on this chick. We need answers on how to take her down, but more than that”—he rapped the table—“how did she know where it was? Who’s her source? How’d she get in? I want everything on her.”

  “I’ve tapped in Iliescu and Braun, because this is big Cheez-Its.” Cell indicated the wall screens that went live with the two team sponsors.

  “Well, seems Mr. Purcell has landed a big one,” Iliescu said in a way that sounded like cursing. “We knew this woman was interested in the book, but we didn’t anticipate she’d be ahead of us on the location.”

  “Let’s run down what you should know about her,” Braun said. “She was born Iskra Todorova, but in the last ten years, she’s simply been called Viorica.”

  “Viorica? Why?” Klein asked.

  “Means ‘wild rose,’” Cell said with a shrug.

  Baddar coughed. “She is known well in my country.” His words were weighted. “For what she can do. Has done.” He did not look impressed or pleased. “She is . . . bad.”

  “And there’s not much she hasn’t done.” Iliescu resumed control. “She’s part spy, part assassin.”

  Leif stared at an image of Viorica on the screen. Brown eyes. Black hair. Olive complexion. Roiling in intensity, ferocity. Coldhearted.

  “Basically,” Braun said, leaning in, “she does whatever she’s told.”

  Leif folded his arms, his gaze snapping to Braun in the lower left corner of the screen. “Told by Hristoff Peychinovich, yeah?”

  This time, Culver nearly cursed. “You gotta be kidding me. The Russian steel magnate?”