Storm Rising

by Ronie Kendig

  As the clerk worked, Iskra took in the hotel. Its guests. The café patrons. Doors that led onto the street. The back entrance that wasn’t known to most guests. But then, she wasn’t—

  “Ms. Tolson.” A deep, resonating voice thumped through the din of the hotel.

  She turned, her gaze alighting on a handsome olive-skinned man emerging from a side door, hands behind his back as he strolled toward the counter. “Mr. Aksoy, nice to see you again.”

  “It is a pleasure to have you return to the Misyon.” He angled to the clerk, who looked distinctly pale. “The presidential suite.”

  “Oh.” Iskra touched her throat at his generosity. “No, please. No special treatment.”

  “I insist.”

  He always did. Because of Valery, who had thrown around a lot of money when she’d mixed business with some pleasure, extending her trip by a couple of days due to “delays,” as she explained to Hristoff later. “You are too kind.”

  In her suite, she stared out the windows overlooking the beautiful bustling city. Eyed the balconies. Her ankle ached, and she knew she should rest it. On the bed, she lifted her leg and found immediate relief from the throbbing.

  She removed her laptop and phone from her bag, noting several messages. Two texts from Vasily, encouraging her to be open to it. Using the Americans was better than dying. “Not by much,” she muttered, reading the next text.

  Why have you not called? You make me worry, kotyonok.

  Iskra groaned at the message from Bogdashka. “I am nobody’s kitten. More like a lioness protecting her cub.” She tossed aside the phone, hating what the older woman brought out in her. And she also hated what Bogdashka reminded her of—the past. That Iskra had been sold like a stock negotiation between two companies. But it hadn’t been companies. It had been two men. Her father and Hristoff. Bogdashka was a safe haven in that—not a participant. Some said she was a saint because she rescued so many girls from trafficking, but there was something about the old woman that made Iskra unwilling to give her more room than she must. Or perhaps that was just her approach to anyone she met.

  But now she could not talk to her. For the first time that she could remember, the forbidden fruit of hope teased that something good might happen. That she could bring life to a very dead part of her soul.

  On the bed, she pulled over her laptop and checked her email. Every time she opened this blasted computer, she ached to put her connections to use. But she wasn’t savvy enough to search for Mitre and conceal her tracks from Hristoff, who monitored her technology. But there was somewhere she didn’t have to worry about being tracked. First . . .

  She lifted the phone Vasily had given her. Dialed the lone number he’d programmed into it.

  “Chi è questo?” a voice demanded in Italian.

  In an eruption of panic and uncertainty, Iskra froze. What if Vasily was right? She dropped back against the bed, staring at the ceiling.

  “. . . the Americans are your best chance for what you seek . . .”

  But the Americans were too big of a risk. Veratti knew who she was. What she’d done.

  “Who is it?” he demanded again.

  Iskra took a measuring breath. She could hang up. He’d never know it was her. But she would be walking away from more than freedom for herself. It was bigger than that. More dangerous. “Viorica.”

  “What do you think you’re—”

  “Meet me in Istanbul at midnight.”

  “Why would I soil my name and reputation meeting with you?”

  “Because you want what I have.”

  “You have it?” he hissed.

  “Tonight. Agreed?” When he gave his consent, she drew a leaden breath. “And if you betray me, if you contact a certain acquaintance of ours, the book will meet with a fiery end. Understood?”

  * * *

  THE TAISSIA, SEA OF MARMARA

  “She has it.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.” Vasily shifted the phone and glanced at the images he’d printed off, but for his own safety, he chose not to mention them. “I saw it and made scans.”

  “Send it to me.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Do it if you want to stay hidden.”

  Vasily gritted his teeth. Defiance wasn’t an option. He needed her help to stay under Hristoff’s radar. “If she ever finds out I—”

  “That’s on your own head.”

  “You can’t stay ahead of her forever,” Vasily warned.

  “Not forever. Just long enough. Send me what you have on the book. You planted the tracker in her phone?”

  Vasily guided the yacht back across the blue-green waters, leaving Istanbul and wishing he could leave his guilt, too. His brother would kill him, were he still alive. “Da. Before she returned.”

  “Good. It’s for her own good.”

  “You don’t believe that, Bogdashka.”

  “I don’t have to.”

  If Iskra were not so bullheaded, so driven to find Mitre, he would not have to protect her from herself. “What about her?”

  “I’m sending friends as we speak.”

  Thunder rattled in the distance, and Vasily looked to the skies, half expecting another conjured storm. Instead, a black helicopter was alighting on the yacht’s helipad.

  A storm had come, all right. One he probably would not escape.

  * * *

  ISTANBUL, TURKEY

  Iskra awoke to a rumbling stomach. She freshened up, surprised but grateful the rest had helped her ankle. Vasily, dear man that he was, had been right. She grabbed her purse, placed the laptop in the safe, then headed out. She took the rear stairs to conceal her movements from Mr. Aksoy. This location should be safe, but she’d learned a hard, painful lesson with Valery about trusting the wrong people. Well, trusting anyone, really. Hristoff could find a diamond speck in a sea of white sand. He always did.

  She checked her messages, and her stomach squeezed when she found one from Vasily.

  Interesting. Found mention of “Pearl of the Antilles.” Could be significant. Suggest you look into it.

  Pearl of the Antilles—what was that? It must be significant for Vasily to mention it. She lifted her phone to Google it, but as she did, it rang. Bogdashka. She might as well answer. She couldn’t ignore her forever.

  “Hello.” She left the hotel and stepped into the bustling nightlife of Istanbul.

  “Kotyonok!” boomed the ebullient Bogdashka. “How you make me wait, kotyonok.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “How are you? How did the facility go?”

  Annoyance plucked at Iskra, knowing the only reason Bogdashka was contacting her was to find out about the artifact. “Well.”

  “Then you have it?” Excitement laced her words. Clever Bogdashka, trying to pry information. “No, don’t answer that. If you do, keep it safe.”

  “Do not worry.” Iskra cringed at the pinch in her ankle. Just a little farther.

  “I understand. Just stay safe.”

  “As best I can.”

  “You sound worried.”

  “Always.” Iskra’s phone buzzed, signaling another call. She glanced at the screen and her stomach plummeted. “I must go. He’s calling.”

  “Step into a building, kotyonok. I can hear too much.”

  Iskra drew up short, startled at the truth, that the noises around her could betray her location. Good thing Bogdashka wasn’t a threat. “Poka.”

  She decided to take the call, only because it had been too long since she’d spoken to him. Too long since she’d given him an update on her work. His profits.

  She stepped into a small shop and tucked herself in a corner. Steadying her breathing, she answered. “Hristoff.”

  “It has been a while, malysh.”

  She winced at the baby endearment. “I know. I am sorry.” Would she ever stop telling people that? “This mission has been . . . tough. I have one more thing to tie up.”

  “Good. Where are y
ou? You have it?”

  When a man rounded the row of shelves and scowled at her, she lifted a book and opened it. “I had some trouble. They may be following me.”

  “Who is after you? I will send Ruslan!”

  “Not necessary,” she said quickly, eyeing the back of the retreating clerk. “I plan to catch a flight in the morning.”

  “Then you have it—brilliant. I will send the jet.”

  She cringed, staring at words on a page that made no sense as she scrambled for a plausible way out of this nightmare. “It’ll draw too much attention. I can do this. Trust me, Hristoff.”

  “You screw this up, and it is my head, Iskra. Fail me and I will make sure you never forget this. It will cost you dearly, if you understand my meaning.”

  Dread wormed through her. She had to lighten his mood. Convince him she wasn’t worried. “I said tomorrow, and it will be then. I swear.”

  “Do you?”

  She winced at the familiar tone. Waited for him to toss out a threat. Tear open her shredded heart again.

  The line went dead. She glanced at the phone, confused. He’d never—

  When a video call came through, Iskra drew in a breath, knowing what he was going to do. With trembling hands, she swiped to accept it and turned down the volume so the other customers wouldn’t hear.

  Hristoff’s face came into view, vengeful spite in his eyes.

  She squirmed. “Hris—”

  “I thought perhaps you might need a reminder, da?”

  “No. I told you. Just one more—”

  “So I want you to see my face. To see that I am not happy.” The camera blurred black, but the audio worked fine. “Come here, you little”—a grunt, then a laugh—“zaika.”

  No. Please. She curled into the corner of the bookstore, trying to hide from those in the shop but also from this nightmare. “Hristoff, this isn’t—”

  A scream from the phone severed her words. She sucked in a breath. This was why she didn’t believe in God or hope.

  Small and cherubic, a little girl’s cheek smooshed against Hristoff’s slammed the door on any objection or defiance Iskra might feel.

  “It’s okay,” Iskra murmured, desperate for the child not to know this man. Not to know his cruelty. She gritted her teeth so hard that her jaw ached. Pain pulsed up into her temple.

  The girl whimpered.

  “We are clear?” Hristoff asked, his question leaden.

  Staring at that face, those brown eyes with innocence still intact . . . “Yes.”

  “Tomorrow morning.” Hristoff released the little girl and held the phone in front of his face again. “Say it.”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “Or you know—”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  When she ended the call, Iskra stared at the screen. Pocketed the phone and pulled the burner from her pocket. If Hristoff discovered she’d called Veratti . . . her fate was sealed.

  TWELVE

  ISTANBUL, TURKEY

  Splitting up was the only way to reduce the chance of discovery. So they’d gone in different directions in various modes of transportation—a civilian airliner, a ferry, and a car. They descended on the ancient city, knowing that somewhere within its chaos was a slippery operative.

  “Runt,” Cell commed, “an asset there put eyes on and verified a positive ID on your target in the city.”

  “Give it to me.” Leif memorized the provided coordinates.

  “It’s a club on the city’s outskirts. Out of the way. Old. Quiet. Its approval rating is two-point-three stars,” Cell explained, “so don’t expect much.”

  Culver, Klein, and Saito headed up from the west ahead of Mercy and Baddar, who were strolling from the north as tourists. Leif and Lawe exited a ferry, knowing that Cell and Devine were on the same ferry but taking a slightly different route.

  “A Marine instructor in chemical warfare—” Leif said as the ferry bumped up against the dock.

  “Seriously? You’re going to start that crap now?”

  “—asks soldiers in his class, ‘Anyone know the formula for water?’ One recruit says, ‘That’s easy, sir.’” Leif scanned their surroundings as they disembarked. “‘Then what is it?’ he demands of the recruit, who grins and answers, ‘H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O.’” He loved the confusion on Lawe’s face—a departure from the smug expression usually parked there. “‘What the heck is that?’ the instructor demands, and the recruit explains, ‘It’s H to O, sir.’”

  A long, pained groan. “Man, that was so bad I should kill you,” Lawe complained as they hoofed it up a path into the cramped, bustling city. “But since you made it about a Marine, I’ll let you live.”

  Leif laughed.

  “What is it with you and the jokes, anyway?”

  That was a loaded question. Leif took the short way out and shrugged. “Just a way to bring some levity.”

  Lawe shook his head, scratching his dark beard as they cut through a slog of cars waiting to turn against oncoming traffic onto a street barely wide enough for one car. Somehow, the Turks managed to make it a two-way street.

  “That how you deal with stress?” Lawe asked.

  He was hitting a little too close there. “Did the joke upset you that much?”

  “Just trying to figure you out, man.” Lawe pointed to a street vendor with meat dangling from a rack. “No rat problem here, I guess.”

  “Sick.” Leif’s stomach protested the idea. “And you grill me over jokes?”

  Lawe chuckled at the lame pun.

  Two more streets, and they should find the squat building matching the coordinates. “What’s with you and Devine?”

  Lawe’s grin fell, and silence encased the clogged street. He looked upset. “Can’t figure her out either.”

  “Guess you need a course refresher on reading body language.”

  “I can spot trouble from a mile away except when it comes with curves.”

  Leif snorted. “But what happened?” he asked as they wound up a slight incline. “The mission a few years back—you two hit it off. I expected you to come home, make it legal, and start popping out kids.” When Lawe’s hands balled into fists, Leif guessed that was a little too much truth.

  “She wouldn’t give up the CST.”

  Peyton Devine stood out among the Army’s cultural support team members, a select program that gave women the opportunity to participate in the combat theater, entering homes and talking to the wives and daughters, a setting where men weren’t allowed. The women were tough, smart, and invaluable to the success of operations. And it was part of why Leif had tapped her for the team. She’d earned respect among the brass and with the operators because she wasn’t looking for or needing help. She was providing it. And her skill behind the scope? Wicked.

  “And you weren’t walking away from the Rangers,” Leif said.

  “Heck no.” Lawe shoved up his sleeve, revealing the RLTW inked in broad, confident lettering across his bicep. “We lead the way. We don’t sit on our butts.” After a few minutes of silence punctuated only by Lawe’s huffed breaths, he glanced at Leif. “Think we can stop this chick and get that book?”

  Bravado tempted Leif to say of course. “I hope so. Don’t want to get my derriere handed to me again.”

  * * *

  Freedom was a siren’s lethal lure. A goal she could never attain, no matter how hard she tried.

  “A little blue?” Emir slid a glass of vodka across the table to her. He was built like a hundred-year-old tree and was as solid in character as he was in brawn.

  Iskra took a sip, grateful for the familiarity of the bar and the company. “A little,” she conceded.

  “Want some food to help?”

  She couldn’t eat. Not right now. “Thank you, no.” Managing a smile took effort. “I’ll be okay.”

  “If you say so.” Emir adjusted the empty chair at the table, then went about tidying up the vacant tables in his small club that featured local musicians.

>   Hristoff had threatened Bisera. Threatened her. Not for the first time, Iskra considered what Vasily had suggested—going to the Americans.

  Yes, and kill any chance of success.

  She turned the glass in her fingers, watching the liquid slosh inside. There had to be an answer. A way out. But what?

  A large shape loomed over her.

  “Emir, I—” She snapped her mouth closed when she realized the figure above her wore an unfamiliar face.

  The meaty, oily-haired man spun the empty chair around. Straddled it. Folded his arms on the table. “Viorica.” His grin was lecherous as he produced a knife, twirled it, then slammed it into the wood table. “Mr. Veratti has a message for you.”

  Her pulse sped up.

  “He says if you really have what you promised, then whatever you want in exchange will come at a cost—”

  “A cost?” She lurched forward, snatching the knife from the table and tipping it beneath his chin before he could blink.

  He chuckled. “I would check your surroundings before doing that.”

  “Three men,” she growled. “Armed. But not fast enough to stop me from gutting you.”

  “Pretty stupid,” the man said, “considering who I answer to. Who you answer to. Mr. Veratti is not a man to anger, Viorica.” He patted the table and lifted his eyebrows. “Now. Are you ready to listen?”

  “I promised him what he wants in exchange for what I want.”

  Another chuckle. “I’m afraid before we can move to that, you must placate his anger.”

  “Anger?”

  “You called his private number. You put demands on him. You hung up on him. Treated him like you were in charge.” He clicked his tongue. “I’m afraid that was very unfortunate—for you. It comes at a cost.”

  Iskra swallowed.

  “I wanted to kill the bartender. You know him, yes?”

  She refused to look at Emir, who was behind the counter now amid the glass bottles of liquor.

  The man lifted a shoulder in an apathetic gesture. “But Veratti said no. He said you would cooperate.”

  Fisting her hands, she glowered at this coward.

  “He said he knows what is important to you.” He cocked his head to the side. “But he would not tell me. But you know, yes?”