by Ronie Kendig
“Stop right there.” His hard, icy eyes stared down the barrel of a Glock.
She came to a stop.
“Where is it?” he demanded, sidestepping closer. “Where’s the book?”
Stunned at the accusation, she balked. “You think I—” It was okay to toy with her affections, just like Hristoff, because they had control of the book. Now that it was gone, she was suddenly the bad guy again?
Even though she had been planning to take the book, it hurt. A lot more than she would’ve thought. Foul gods and whoever else tricked her into thinking he was different, that with him she had a chance to get things right. She looked away, cursing the stinging in her eyes.
If you cry, I will kill you myself.
“Just give it back. I don’t want to hurt you.” Some of the edge had left his voice. Was he softening? Because he thought her soft?
Wrong again, Metcalfe. Her hand moved almost on its own to the small of her back. Felt the hard grip of—
“Don’t,” he gritted as he inched closer. “Hands!”
So. Him and her. In a standoff. She hadn’t seen this coming. She had wanted things to be different. Wanted him to be different. Because she had this crazy idea she could trust him.
But trust was a fool’s playground.
“Hands, V. Do it now.” His voice had lost even more of its ferocity but none of its authority.
Refusing to yield, she worked through her options. Which were next to none. A bloodbath with Metcalfe. Or . . .
“Hey.” He raised his eyebrows and hands, flipping the weapon so it dangled from his thumb in the trigger well, the spine against his palm. “Seriously. Let’s not do this.” Surrender, but not quite—or he’d have holstered that weapon. His hands came down but still controlled the gun.
Trust him. Her heart skipped a beat.
Trust him and die.
He’s better than the rest of them.
He was just like the rest of them.
He helped you escape Hristoff.
He had used her to get what he wanted—the book.
A voice grated over the intercoms. “Attention, base personnel. Contaminant has been detected. Impending hurricane to reach Category 4. You are ordered to evacuate the facility immediately. Follow protocols. Stay calm.”
Contaminant. Had she been infected by something in that lab? And a storm! Hristoff had tracked her!
“I see it.” His voice was hoarse and hollow beneath the hammering alarm of the station. “I see in your face what I’m thinking and feeling. Hurt.” He touched his gun-free hand to his chest. “We both feel betrayed.”
She arched an eyebrow. There was no way he could know she’d used him for Veratti. And by the fates, she hated that look he mentioned—because yeah, she saw it in him, too. Why was it so hard to breathe right now?
“I brought you here.” He again read her unspoken questions. “Against orders. I defended you. Against orders.” He splayed his arms with a shrug.
And I trusted you. Let you bring me here. Endangering everything.
“Where is it, V? In your satchel?”
She’d never convince him she hadn’t stolen the book. It was too perfect a setup, and he’d already decided her guilt. So how did she end this and remain alive?
Her gaze hit the red canister mounted on the wall halfway between them.
“V.” Weapon down, he advanced another step. “Please. Give me the satchel.”
Defiance fueled, she yanked it around and pitched the clothes from it onto the floor and then turned the bag upside down and shook it, knowing the secreted item wasn’t there.
“What’d you do with it? Plan to come back for it later?” His eyes widened. “D’you have help? Tell me so we can get out of here with it—together. Alive.”
She snorted a laugh. “Does any of what you said really make sense?” She cursed the way her voice wavered. “Do you really think I didn’t want to work with you? I didn’t want you to find me at that hotel? To what—to bring the scroll here, then steal it and try to run? Seriously? Are you that dense?” Her fingers coiled around the grip of the weapon at the small of her back. “And what do you know about that super-army? As soon as I mentioned it, you changed. Then you left. And you blame me for all this?”
He blinked.
Relief swept her. Maybe he didn’t believe she’d betrayed him. But that relief only made her angry at herself. How many times would she fail her own common sense by trying to trust him? She had too much to protect.
She visually measured the distance to the canister. “I did something here I haven’t done in a long time.” She held his gaze for a long second. “I trusted someone.” She whipped out her weapon. “You.”
“No!” His Glock snapped up.
She fired.
NINETEEN
UNDISCLOSED LOCATION NEAR CUBA
Gunfire cracked. Mercy rounded the corner and stopped short. In that split second, several things happened: Runt dove to the side, the fire extinguisher on the wall exploded, and the concussion clapped her ears as flame retardant plumed into the air. Eyes stinging, she tried to recover fast.
“Runt!” Baddar darted past her.
The floor was slick, but Runt was already moving. “V, stop!”
“Something in the lab leaked into the air,” Mercy called as he slipped and slid down the tunnel. “We need to clear out. Iliescu’s orders.”
He didn’t answer. Just kept moving, finding traction as he went.
She looked helplessly at Baddar. “He has murder in his eyes.”
The handsome Afghan hesitated, glancing at her, then down the hall where Leif had vanished. “I think it is worse than that.”
She keyed her comms. “Dru, he went after her.”
“Tell him—”
“He’s gone. I tried to tell him.”
“Mercy, listen to me.” Something about the director’s voice stilled the frustration and war in her. “We cannot lose him.”
Duh?
“She will kill him if given the chance. Peychinovich has a noose around her neck, and she will do whatever it takes to complete her mission.”
“I think he already knows that.”
Thudding boots drew her attention. She peered over her shoulder just in time to see three men racing down the corridor. The one in the middle— “Holy resurrecting villains,” she muttered. “Gotta go.”
She pivoted, grabbing Baddar’s arm and tugging him with her. “It’s him. Again!” Darting after the mysterious Andrew, she barely heard a new order blasting over the intercom. Steel partitions slid from the ceiling, severing her pursuit. She slapped the cold metal. “No!”
“Mercy.” Baddar touched her elbow. “Did you hear? The storm?”
“If you’re talking about Ororo Munroe—”
His face screwed tight in confusion. “Who?”
A little embarrassed about her sarcastic reference to a comic character, she touched her forehead. “Never mind.” But it fit. Ororo was an orphan who became an accomplished thief. Much like Miss Bulgarian Mafia.
“We have to leave. There is a storm coming.”
Boy, is there ever. “Not without Runt.” She backtracked, thinking through plausible scenarios. Possible routes Leif might take to find Viorica. The main exit—too obvious. East exits—too far. Rear—no exit because of the waterfall. She wouldn’t be that stupid.
“Stupid is her specialty,” Mercy mumbled, breaking into a faster clip, hearing Baddar follow.
“Lost visual on Runt,” Lawe reported through the comms.
Mercy confirmed the same, as did several others.
“Runt, we’ve lost audio and visual on you. Can you read us? Over?” Dru’s words were drenched in concern. “Runt?”
Mercy keyed her comms. “Check the waterfall terrace.”
“That’d be idiotic,” Culver said.
“Which is exactly why she probably went there. She wouldn’t expect us to check it.” Mercy grew more confident with each step she and Baddar cove
red toward the rear of the facility. “We’re en route.”
“Negative!” Iliescu said. “Lawe and Culver—find Runt. Everyone else to the helos.”
* * *
“Where’s the book?” His voice was a howl against the raging of the sea and waterfall as he pressed his arm into her throat.
Shooting the fire extinguisher had the effect she wanted—and more. The floor had been slick, making it hard to run. Yet Leif had pursued with the relentlessness of a bulldog. Chased her out to the falls. She hated that he believed she’d betrayed him—because she had. Just not in the way he thought. Her own foolish desperation made her falter. And he’d caught her.
Mist from the churning, rising storm plastered Iskra’s hair to her face as she struggled to breathe beneath his fury. She cupped his elbow and wrist, trying to get a solid grip, but the retardant and water made his sleeve slick. She did not want to hurt him, but she would. Dying wasn’t an option. Bisera needed her to survive. To succeed in her mission.
But Leif pressed in, doggedly determined. He shoved his shoulder into her breastbone. She felt the remnants of oxygen seeping out of her.
His gaze shifted. No doubt the comms providing a distraction.
Tightening her grip, she twisted his elbow and wrist in opposite directions.
“Augh!” He stumbled around with the thrust to avoid injury, and she shoved his back, sending him fumbling toward the chasm that ended in a pool a dozen feet below.
Last chance! Iskra threw herself toward the cleft. Her feet slipped, but she clawed into the soft earth, pulling herself onward. Up around the edge of the cave.
She whipped her satchel around and tore the front pocket away. Ripped it open and extricated the wingsuit jumper. It wasn’t a whole suit, but it would provide a span the wind could catch. She shoved herself into it.
“Nothing there but the ocean, Viorica.” His voice carried from below. “Give up.”
Don’t look, don’t look.
Zipping into the suit, she looked over her shoulder, startled to find him closing in. How? How could he already be so close? Was he human?
“Or let me shoot you in the back, and the sharks dine on prime assassin.”
Could he really? Shame bit at her like the needling rain and water. She had pulled her punches. Missed by fractions—close enough to make him worry—but not enough to make him think she’d give in.
Leif didn’t believe her. Hristoff would brutalize her. Veratti . . . she didn’t want to think about what he would do.
“The book. Give it up—tell us where it is.”
Mad, she jammed her elbow into the wall of earth. She wished to the heavens she had stolen the book—at least hearing his vitriol, feeling it in his words, would be understandable. She wasn’t sure at this point if she was more angry that she’d failed or that he thought she’d betrayed him.
“C’mon, V.”
She had nowhere to go.
Frustration and defeat tremored through her limbs. Even with the modified wingsuit, this dive from the waterfall had no guarantees. With Hristoff’s storm, she could be smashed into the rocks. But she could not stay here to be held by Leif’s people again. Bisera was all that mattered—getting back. Freeing her. Somehow. There had to be a way. There must be.
Furious, she faced the storm rising over the waters. The angry spray spitting in her face. She’d lost. The book. Bisera’s safety.
“Viorica,” Leif growled. He was close. Right behind her.
Over her shoulder, she saw his eyes. Saw the pleading, but also his determination. Which mirrored her own. “Letters of Marque.” She twisted her wrists, feeling the thwap of the wingsuit deploying.
“Don’t!”
She bent her legs and shoved off the cliff. Lightning splintered the sky as she plummeted, arms stretched out. In Greece, she felt freedom calling. Here? Death.
And she welcomed it.
* * *
Lightning streaked and threw its electrical darts straight at Leif. Furious, he dove away from the ledge, back down the ramp to the pool, feeling the searing heat and sizzling air as the bolt narrowly missed him. The hairs on his arms stood up as he slid into the tunnel and collided with Lawe.
The big guy grabbed his arm. Hauled him on. “Move—now! Hurricane’s right on us!”
They sprinted down the tunnel, noting it filling with water. Electricity buzzed Leif’s nape. The storm wasn’t natural. It had come out of nowhere.
They beat it to the main facility hub. Lights popped and blinked as Leif tugged on the doors. Darkness clapped hold of them, the door suddenly heavy without the hydraulic assist. But it wasn’t a problem for two special operators.
“How’d she get away?” Lawe asked as they jogged through the R&D wing.
Leif didn’t want to talk about it. He hated that she’d outsmarted him again. “Suicide dive with a glider or something.”
“She had that last time, too.” Lawe barked a laugh. “That demon spawn has every trick up her sleeves.” They rounded the corner to the main hangar. A chopper waited, wind tearing at the rotors as they whined into action.
“Yeah, yeah!” Saito waved them on. “Let’s get out of Dodge like the director suggested.”
Culver stood ready, a scowl on his red-bearded mug. “’Bout time y’all showed up.”
“He threatened to leave you.” Peyton handed them mic’d helmets. “I said it was a good idea.”
“You couldn’t live without me, baby,” Lawe hollered as he stuffed the helmet on his big head, then climbed in, Leif right behind him. Vibrations wormed through their boots.
Saito dropped onto the bench, and Klein took the jump seat with the gun. He looked as comfortable there as he might in a Ram pickup back home.
The helo lifted off, then wavered.
Nothing unusual. But with the electricity and winds, Leif tensed.
The bird bounced. Then lifted again.
Okay, that was different. Leif glanced at the pilot, worried. He tucked himself into the five-point harness and had three of the straps secured when the helicopter veered sharp right, swinging out as if it had been struck. Leif’s stomach vaulted into his throat. He grabbed the harness, fumbling with the final lock.
Then he saw them. Fingers. White-knuckled on the gun post.
Klein was dangling out of the bird, over the churning sea.
Leif shouted his name and slid out of the straps to the deck. Wrapped the nylon harness twice around his arm and let the wind tug him to the edge. He reached—strained for Klein, who struggled to maintain a single-hand hold.
Cursing himself for not paying more attention, Leif inched toward his buddy. The others caught his shirt and belt to hold him while he saved their man.
Klein’s face was etched with terror. Eyes wide. Face white. He threw a hand up toward Leif but missed. He did it again—their fingers touched, then slid away.
“Augh!” Leif strained, his muscles screaming. His mind screaming that if he didn’t do this—
In a blink, Klein was gone. Ripped from the edge of the helo.
“No!” Instinct had Leif disentangling his arm. Aiming for the opening to go after his friend.
Something hit his side, and he heard someone yell his name. He felt the tug of the water and air, luring him into the livid elements. But the chopper held fast. Anchored him. He glanced down at the two carabiners tethering him to the interior hull, then turned to see Lawe climbing back into his seat.
His gaze again skipped to the waters. Gray and frothing, foaming at the mouth for more human sacrifices. Surreal. He couldn’t see Klein.
There was no way. Even if he dove in with a life vest, there was no way he could find Klein in that mess.
He punched the hull. Kicked the door. Cursed the raging storm. Hung there, willing the elements to take him. To settle the score—because that was what this was about somehow: Leif had lived when the Sahara Nine hadn’t.
* * *
EN ROUTE TO CUBA
Using the AWACS, Dru trie
d to pull up current satellite imaging of the facility in Cuba. “They mentioned a super-army.”
Canyon Metcalfe sat across from him, blue eyes ablaze. “You told him?”
“Can’t tell him what I don’t know.” Dru huffed. “It’s that operative. Leif doesn’t even recall that facility.”
“And you’re sure that’s where it happened, whatever it is?”
“I am sure of very little right now.”
Canyon stared out the window. Stretched his jaw. “And now my little brother isn’t responding to comms.” He frowned. “Think he remembers?”
Dru wasn’t sure what he thought. “I don’t think so. His silence is probably due to this storm we’re waiting out, but I think if anything could push those memories to the surface, it’s this situation.”
“We need to make sure that doesn’t happen.” Roughing a hand over his jaw, Canyon stared at the water. “I don’t want whoever did . . . whatever it was they did, to think he’s remembering things. And I just feel like they’re looking over our shoulders, waiting for it to happen. More than that, I don’t want Leif to regress.”
“Neither do I.” Dru nodded, feeling the maelstrom circling his head. “I hear you.” He tossed down a pen and shook his head. “And I don’t have answers.”
“But you sent him there, to that facility. With that black widow.”
He held up a finger. “I sent him to Cuba—Guantanamo. With no idea that Braun would reroute them to this facility.”
“And when you found out?”
He shrugged. “I assessed the situation. Deemed it too risky to relocate him without somehow drawing attention.”
Fingers steepled, Canyon blew a few breaths across his fingers. “Director, if my brother opens that vault, if he connects anything to that facility . . .” He held Dru’s gaze for several long seconds, then dropped back against the leather seat of the jet. “He will hunt the truth down no matter who it kills, himself included.”
“I know. And I understand he’s your brother and you feel the need to protect him—”
“I will do whatever it takes to protect Runt.”
“Even if that means stopping him—forcibly?”
Canyon stared daggers at him, then peered out at the tempest that seemed mirrored in his forty-something face. “Whatever the cost.”