by Ronie Kendig
“Sir!”
They both looked down the aisle, where a Marine stood.
“Chopper lifted off. They’re a man down.”
* * *
Letters of Marque. That was what she’d said, as if it justified everything she’d done. The betrayal she’d delivered. But it didn’t. A letter of marque and reprisal granted government authorization to a privateer to attack and capture enemy vessels. But that was during the age of sail. And they hadn’t been enemies. Or were they?
Beneath the vibrations of the chopper, Leif stared blankly out at the black sky and the violence it was unleashing on the facility. He recalled the way V had hit that canister and sprayed fire retardant across the gap between them. Cost him precious seconds pursuing her. Then at the terrace, she’d jumped right into the raging waters. There was no way she could have survived that. Even with his training, it was a long shot at best.
And the book. If she’d had it going into the water, it was lost.
Crack! Boom!
Leif blinked at the electricity sparking across the big black clouds.
“I will rise.”
“I will rise.”
“I will rise.”
The chanted words reverberated through his head like the thunder in the skies. Or maybe that was the thunder. What were those words from? A song? Lines from a movie?
A solid thwat against his chest startled him. He gripped the hand that hit him, pulled it, and snapped his elbow up—then caught himself. Startled at the instinct that had nearly destroyed Lawe’s joints.
“In the water,” Lawe barked over the comms. “About a klick to our nine.”
Klein? Had they found him after all? Leif scanned the churning waves, dawn a hidden mistress on this dark morning. But there, amid the foamy wakes, bobbed a blip of orange with a twinkling strobe light. Viorica?
Was that a life vest? She hadn’t had time to put one on. That suit—it was a BASE-jumping suit. Did it have a floatation device?
It’s her!
Without hesitation, he shifted to the jump seat, hanging out of the chopper, disregarding the danger. Hands pawed at him, but he focused on her. Was she alive?
“Let her go,” Lawe hollered. “We couldn’t save Klein, we sure ain’t risking our butts for her. We’re all better off with her dead.”
“Move in, move in closer!” Leif shouted to the pilot.
“Sorry, Chief,” came the pilot’s staticky voice. “Storm is coming fast and hard.”
“Move in!”
“Negative,” barked the pilot.
Leif scanned the ocean. Maybe they were right.
A wave crashed over the blinking light. She vanished, submerged by the angry waters. No. She’d be lost.
Jump. Go after her.
Right, and die with her? At this height, if he jumped, he could break his leg. Probable. But if he didn’t help her, she’d drown. Certain.
And if you do break your leg, you’ll both drown. Maybe . . . probably.
A life vest thumped against his arm. Surprise pushed his gaze to Lawe even as he stuffed himself into it. He abandoned his helmet and stepped out into the air. Wind tore at him.
Gravity snatched his legs and yanked him down.
TWENTY
U.S. NAVAL BASE, GUANTANAMO BAY, CUBA
“At least we’re landing.”
“About time,” Canyon said.
“Sir, we have a situation,” the Marine reported.
Canyon glanced at Dru.
“The chopper landed at GTMO.”
“Good.” Dru smiled but then noticed the tension radiating off the Marine. “What’s wrong?”
“Metcalfe jumped in the water.”
“You mean fell.”
“Jumped, sir.”
“You sure?”
The Marine nodded. “Team reported Viorica in the water. Said he went in after her.”
Stunned, Dru tried to make sense of that. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
The Marine nodded again and left.
Dru cursed and threw himself against his seat, the descent of their aircraft evident in his popping ears. He stood and paced. “He’s activated.”
Canyon stood, shoulders squared. “You don’t know that.”
“And we don’t know that he isn’t.” Dru shoved a hand through his thinning hair. “We have to be prepared.”
Canyon said nothing, but his facial expression screamed his objection.
This was a colossal snafu that awakened all Dru’s old fears that all they had buried would find its way to the surface again. A storm rising.
* * *
CARIBBEAN SEA
Blurs of black and gray slapped and tossed her. Blinking only made her eyes sting. Iskra tried to lean back and hold her chin up, trusting the buoyancy of the wingsuit to keep her afloat. Her limbs ached from the exertion and cold water. A wave rose high overhead, and she whimpered, knowing she could do nothing but try to survive. She was at the mercy of an angry ocean. The wave rose. Up . . . up . . . up. Its maw opened and lunged.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Thought of Bisera.
The wave punched her. Carried her down deep, the ocean swallowing her whole. Though she tried to remain calm, knowing she would rise after the torrent ceased, she grew disoriented. She kicked her feet, but which direction was she going? Up or down?
Panic threaded a thick line through her lungs. Tightened. Constricted.
No! Calm down. Let the suit carry you back up.
But I’m too heavy.
Terror ripped through her. Forced her eyes open. Black. All black. She could see nothing. Just a watery tomb. She kicked. Thrashed.
No hope. She had no hope. Never had. Why had she even thought . . .
Bisera!
A sob wrenched free. Water gushed into her mouth.
A tidal force shoved her sideways and seemed to pick her up. Suddenly there was air. She coughed. Gagged.
Only to realize she was going under again. She clamped her mouth shut, but a cough shoved its way out, refilling her lungs with water. Desperation for air clawed through her. To breathe. To . . . to not. To simply stop fighting.
It would be easier. No responsibility. No fear.
She relaxed, falling into the empty hopelessness, the relief. No more fighting, just sleep. She drifted into the darkness, where she belonged. Where she no longer had to worry . . .
Bisera. Hristoff couldn’t use her as a tool anymore. And he couldn’t use Iskra at all. Ever again. The thought was too beautiful to ignore. It came with its own sense of hope.
Something warm and strong latched on to her leg. She flailed, jolted out of her malaise, feeling whatever had caught her attempting to snatch her life. Water rushed into her mouth again. She coughed, gagged, but emerged into the air.
Something swept her forehead. She blinked, saw a blur of gray. Heard a hollow shout.
Her lids fluttered, plunging her into the darkness. Her body rattled.
“Fight!” came a hollow shout.
A face swam before her. She blinked. “Metcalfe.” And then she felt the arms. Warm, strong arms. His body supporting hers. Legs kicking. Hers tangling.
“V—c’mon!” Eyes fraught with worry and fear, he was there. Holding her. Water and rain pouring over him. Using his free arm to keep them afloat. “Stop or we’ll drown!”
Suddenly aware of how she countered his moves out of natural instinct, she stilled. Relief choked her. She coughed a laugh and hooked her arms around his neck.
“That’s it,” he murmured against her ear.
As the terror of nearly drowning washed away, she pressed her nose into the crook of his shoulder. Sobs overtook her, riddling her with shame that she was crying and couldn’t save herself. But mostly because he’d come for her. She had betrayed him, and he had still come.
“Thank you,” she said around another choked sob. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”
His chest rumbled with words she couldn’t hear. Trembling from cold and exhaustion, she clung to
him, to the body heat radiating through his chest.
Water lapped and splashed them, but they didn’t fight it. Instead, they focused on staying afloat and alive. She eyed the sky, surprised at the fading surge. It was as if the storm was somehow responding to the rescue as well. How? How had Hristoff gotten here so fast? Dread curled through her.
“You could die,” she breathed, arms still wrapped around him. The sea and storm quieted, but the waves continued to thrash angrily. “Why did you come?” The ache of what he’d done—the possible risk and sacrifice—made her shiver. “It was stupid.”
“A soldier, a Marine, and a sailor are condemned to be executed,” he said, taking shallow breaths to avoid gulping water. “Their captors say they can have a final meal before their executions—”
A joke? He was telling a joke?
“—so they ask the soldier what he wants for his last meal. ‘Some pizza and beer,’ he says. They give it to him, he eats it, and then they execute him. Next is the Marine, who asks for a big steak. So they bring it to him, he eats it, and then they execute him.”
“If this is your way of saying we’re going to drown—”
“You’re ruining my joke.” His arms moved around her as she clung to him, treading water. “Now it’s the sailor’s turn. He says, ‘I want a big bowl of strawberries.’ The executioners are outraged. ‘Strawberries! They aren’t even in season!’ The sailor shrugs. ‘Then I’ll wait.’”
She lifted her head and looked into his eyes. “That wasn’t funny.”
“Hey, don’t knock the comedy.”
Thunder boomed through the skies.
She groaned. “Not again. Please, no more storms.”
He wrapped an arm around her waist and paddled around. “I think that’s our ride.”
After spotting the aircraft thumping closer, she gripped his shoulder, drawing his attention back to her. “Why? Why did you come for me?”
He frowned, his gaze bouncing around her face. “I—”
But his words were lost in the howl of the helicopter’s approach. A basket lowered.
“You first,” he shouted as he held it.
She dragged herself over the side, the ocean now angry at their rescue. Swells reared and crashed as he climbed in behind her. He straddled her hips and drew her tight against him. Then he secured the straps and gave the line a tug.
The basket heaved—and they tipped downward, the weight unbalanced. His arms vised her as they rose into the air. Ocean spray threw them a few last stinging reminders of its power.
Shivering, she wondered if Hristoff knew he had almost killed her with the Meteoroi. But . . . how? Maybe it wasn’t him. Did the Americans have one of their own? Had anyone else detected that strange chemical odor before the storm?
The rescue crew hauled the basket into the chopper and anchored it as the doors closed, shutting off the biting wind and rain. Thermal blankets soon cocooned them in warmth. It was a fifteen-minute flight to another base, Metcalfe informed her. Warm, safe, and relieved, she relaxed back against his chest. Stared at the arms holding her. That had held her above the water. Saved her.
I’m not worth saving.
And yet he had. But once he found out she had used him, that she only manipulated him to get the information she needed . . .
She closed her eyes, grateful for what he’d done but knowing this was where his niceness would end. Though she’d fought to escape, here she was safe. With him. That thought coupled with exhaustion to lull her into a heavy sleep.
She awoke to someone unlacing her boots. Something shifted in her—
Iskra snapped alert. The USB. “No!”
“Easy.” Someone in scrubs stood at her feet. “Just removing your wet clothes to get your internal temp elevated.”
“I-I’ve got it.” Glancing around the medical bay, so unlike the secure room she’d awakened in at that facility, she eyed the empty beds, looking for Metcalfe. The lights were off. It felt cold, sanitary.
She was alone.
* * *
U.S. NAVAL STATION, GUANTANAMO BAY, CUBA
Jake Klein was gone. Drowned in a mission gone wrong. Leif had tapped him. Chosen him for the team. Now he was dead.
After a physical eval, inoculation against whatever contaminant had been released in the lab—they wouldn’t be told what it was—and a debrief following his harrowing adventure in the water, Leif showered and changed into tactical pants and a thermal shirt. He had a chill that had nothing to do with their death-defying swim.
When he exited the showers, he was stunned at who stood there waiting. “Canyon.”
“Runt.”
He snorted and stepped into a back-slapping hug with his brother, grateful for the sibling who had anchored him. “What’re you doing here?”
“Viorica.”
Leif frowned as they made their way to the command center. “What about her?”
“Been tracking her through the years. So finding out my little brother is facing off with her—”
“Not facing off,” Leif countered. But then it hit him. He stopped and pivoted to his brother. “It’s me.”
Canyon’s expression hardened.
Unbelievable. “You’re here because of me. Worried I’ll go ape—”
“You’ve been under a lot of stress. Today you lost a man.”
Of all the . . . “I don’t need you to remind me.” He started walking again, faster than necessary, but then again, it wasn’t fast enough to shake his brother. “I don’t need to be babysat.”
“She’s not—”
“Exactly.” He stopped short again. Stared into blue eyes like his own. “She’s not. She’s not what anyone thinks she is.”
Canyon’s eyebrows rose to his high-and-tight.
How could Leif explain that she felt like part of those missing months he was trying to unearth? When she’d mentioned the Pearl of the Antilles, something resonated in him. There was no way to explain that, so diversion was best. “What about Dani?” he tossed into the silent gap. “She know you’re out here?”
“My wife knows I’m doing my job.”
“Job.” Leif snorted, giving a cockeyed shake of his head, and resumed course for the command center. “I am not your job, Canyon. Not anymore. Now, let me do mine.”
“Jumping out of a helicopter into a storm surge isn’t exactly instilling confidence that you’re in a good frame of mind.” Canyon called after him, “She’s not in there.”
Leif slowed. He did not want to play into his brother’s hands, but it made sense that Canyon knew where she was being held. And no doubt his big brother took pleasure in knowing something he didn’t.
“Look.” Leif turned back. “It’s great, what you’re doing here. Trying to support me. Checking up on me.” His cheek twitched, and he felt a scab forming. “But I’m a grown man, a SEAL with an impeccable record.” Minus what had been redacted and removed after the Sahara. “I lost one man to that storm. I wasn’t going to lose anyone else.”
“Leif—”
“I got this, Canyon. I don’t need someone to wipe my butt for me.” He patted his brother’s chest.
“Latrines are that way if you need TP.” His brother smirked as he pointed down the hall. “But the director wants to talk to you.”
“In a minute. I want to find—”
“Director said now.”
Leif hesitated and glanced at his brother, who had the common sense to look abashed. “Where?”
Canyon straightened and started back in the direction they’d come. The halls were dimmed and ominously quiet as their shoes squeaked on the vinyl.
This felt too familiar. Blips of the past stabbed his brain.
Long gray halls. Personnel in scrubs. Soldiers. Medical equipment.
“Where’s Harcos?” he asked, shuffling with the help of an older nurse.
“You already know that answer, Chief.” Her smile was wrinkled but genuine. “Remember? He didn’t make it.”
“And Zhansh
i. He was—” His gaze tracked a dark corridor. At the far end, a light blinked. Red.
Blood. There was so much blood.
“We need immediate evac!”
“Taking fire. Two men are down.”
He dragged out a med kit and extracted a tourniquet. Slid it over Kappi’s stump, ignoring the squelching, suctioning sound of blood.
“This is X-ray Charlie Lima Seven Two Seven. We are under attack. Request immediate evac. Over.”
“Leif?” A warm hand settled on his shoulder.
He flinched, grabbed the hand. Took in the blue eyes studying him. Canyon. He released a breath.
“You okay?”
He’d stopped walking. “Yeah.” He knew that look on his big brother’s face. Thought his little brother was cracking again. “That swim took more out of me than I realized. Tired, is all.” Not a lie. His limbs were still trembling, his legs bruised from the drop into the water.
Canyon nodded uncertainly, then pointed to a door with light seeping out beneath it. “Almost there.”
If Canyon was here, he knew what had happened to Iskra. “Any word on how she’s doing?”
Without answering, Canyon flicked open the door.
The director turned in a chair behind a heavy oak desk. “Come in.”
What was going on? Leif took in the roomy office, the couch, the table, and the partially hidden chair . . . that was occupied.
“V.” Even with the bruising around her face, the nick on her cheek, and swollen, split lips, the sight of her invigorated him. It shouldn’t. He should be ticked. She’d stolen the book. Run.
“Thank you. I’m sorry. So sorry.” The words she’d whispered into his neck when they were fighting for their lives cocooned him. And then ticked him off.
“Sit down, Chief,” Iliescu said. “We need to talk.”
Talk? Leif slid his attention to the director and felt his fists balling. Noted the grim line of the director’s mouth. Recalled Canyon’s heavy silence. His instincts knew before his brain—something was wrong. “I’ll stand.”
“Chief, I think—”
“No.” Leif gritted his teeth and slid a skewering look at the director. “Not this time.”
“Son?”
Man, he hated that word. “Not this time. You aren’t controlling the dialogue, Director.” He forced his gaze back to V’s. “Why’d you run?” No, that didn’t matter. “Why steal the book?” Because if she hadn’t done that, she wouldn’t have run. “I guess I should clarify.” The razor-sharp edge of his words couldn’t be hidden. “Why did you steal it from us? I mean, you stole it from the Greeks. I guess it was our turn.”