Storm Rising

by Ronie Kendig

  “I didn’t.” She scooted to the edge of her seat, earnestness in her expression. “I am not the one who stole it from the station. After you left me in the conference room, I did go to find it, but I was too late. The lab was already ransacked.”

  “Went to find it? Hard to do when you’re under armed guard.” Which she’d obviously subdued. “Guess they were too soft. Trusted you.” He grunted. “I made that mistake once. And you said the lab was ransacked? Not when I was there, and the book was already gone.”

  She shrugged, looking to the director.

  “Mercy reports she saw that operative from the beach there,” Iliescu said.

  “Not possible,” Leif growled.

  “That’s what I would’ve thought, too,” Dru agreed, “but it happened. They’re reviewing the footage from the station now.” He heaved a sigh as his eyes returned to Viorica.

  Leif hung his head. He didn’t trust himself to talk. To ask what was going on. Because he’d been here before. He was about to be handed bad news. “If you didn’t steal the book, why’d you run?”

  “What was I supposed to do? Stay there?”

  “Yeah,” he said with more growl than intended. “That would’ve been a good start.”

  “Why? To be held prisoner, then shot? Or to succumb to whatever contagion was released—”

  “You’ve all been inoculated,” Dru pointed out.

  Leif didn’t buy Iskra’s reasoning. “You don’t know that would’ve—”

  “You don’t know—” she protested.

  “You neutralized several men—”

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” Iskra hissed.

  “Maybe.” That could be verified. “But you did run, and you did shoot at me.”

  “You know very well if I had wanted to kill you, you would not be standing here now. I hit the fire extinguisher to buy time.”

  “To flee the one person who handed you trust on a silver platter.”

  “Viorica,” Dru prodded, his tone anything but friendly, “get on with it.”

  “Wasting your time, Director. She looks out for herself.” Leif cocked his head at her. “I thought we had—”

  “A thing?” A hard glint in her gaze pinged with challenge.

  Leif’s eye twitched. “An understanding.”

  She swallowed. Looked away.

  “But just like before, you played me!”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You leapt off the cliff rather than come with me.”

  Her expression was a tangle of irritation and . . . regret? Nah. She was too coldhearted for that. “You don’t understand.”

  “No freakin’ kidding.”

  “The night you found me in the club, I had set a plan in motion that unilaterally backfired on me. There is a man named Veratti. He’s powerful—I’ve seen the influence he wields. I failed Hristoff on my last mission.”

  “Mission?”

  She skirted him a glance. “It was a costly mistake and put Hristoff in a bad position with Veratti. And the man who usually sends others to handle all his affairs paid Hristoff a very personal, very threatening visit. He said if Hristoff found the Book of the Wars, he would consider all debt paid.”

  “So Hristoff sent you to find it.”

  “I had no choice. What I owed Hristoff would cost me my life, so I set out to find the book. And when I secured it, I . . . I realized that I possessed something that could buy me freedom . . .” Breath staggered through her lungs. “My friend Vasily gave me the information for Veratti. I called him. Said he had to meet me if he wanted the book. Instead, he sent his thugs. They threatened me and—” She gulped. Shook her head and stared at the vinyl floor before drawing in a breath and continuing. “They said before Veratti would even consider the trade, I must sate his anger.” She shifted and cleared her throat. Sweat beaded on her upper lip.

  “How?” Leif demanded, patience thin.

  She cringed—which annoyed him. She was stronger, better than that. “Veratti wanted to know about the location of the facility.”

  Leif lowered his hands to his sides. Slid his gaze to Dru and back to her. “What facility?”

  “The one we were just at. He was convinced if I”—she licked her lips—“worked with you, eventually I would be taken to that station.”

  “Why on earth would he assume that?”

  “He saw the footage from Greece, knew—just as I did—that you were Americans. He said if you were looking for the Book of the Wars, then you would know the name of a secret facility.”

  “What made him think that?”

  “I don’t know,” Iskra said. “But he was adamant that I learn the name of the facility before he would even talk about the book and a trade with me.”

  “So the lives of all those people at the facility—you just traded your life for theirs. Was that worth it?”

  She was on her feet. “I didn’t do anything at that facility except escape. When the sirens went off, I knew there was trouble.”

  She had used Leif. Lied to him. Lured him in with trust and pretty hazel eyes. And like a stooge, he’d fallen for it. And yet . . . “What else?”

  Iskra blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that’s just a mission. But there’s a whole lot of fear and trepidation happening in you, and as much as I wish that were about my reaction to your betrayal, there’s something else you aren’t giving up.”

  She brushed aside her ocean-stringy hair. “He swore that he would own me if I did not succeed.” With a sigh, she tried to smile. Failed. Tried to look at him. Failed.

  No, there was still more.

  Leif fisted his hands. This was as futile as trying to find his own answers about those missing six months of his life. But this time he’d get to the bottom of whatever she was hiding. “Look, I risked my life—”

  “I never asked you to.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “you did.” When confusion tugged her brows down, he pointed to the nick on his cheek. “With this and every other time you’ve failed to kill me—which I now see wasn’t about anything but using me to serve another master. Man, how many men are you groveling at the feet of?”

  Iskra went rigid. Her face darkened.

  He had to push those buttons. Had to find out what she was hiding. “I mean—you’re Hristoff’s lover. Are you this Veratti’s, too?”

  She launched at him. Nailed him in the gut. Her momentum carried Leif backward, and he tripped over a small table. They both went down. She punched at his face, but he deflected. Managed to flip her. He drove his arm up under her chin, locking down her limbs.

  “What’d you sell your soul for, V? What was worth this?”

  He was hauled backward. Leif stumbled but found his feet. And his brain. He turned away, furious with himself. Palming his head, he let out several calming breaths.

  “Get her out of here,” Dru ordered Canyon.

  Leif set his hands on the waist of his tactical pants, eyes closed as she was removed from the room. Leashing the beast back up inside. After the roar of his pulse abated, the silence felt deafening.

  “Veratti does exist,” Iliescu said, “but we have no intel that corroborates what she’s claiming. Ciro Veratti is Italy’s prime minister, the most revered one they’ve had in decades. We even try to touch him, and we’ll go down in flames.”

  “Maybe she’s lying.”

  “Using big bait to lure us away from her.” Dru nodded. “Could be.”

  With a huff, Leif dropped into a chair and cradled his head. “Why didn’t I see it?” He clenched his teeth. “I fell right into her trap.”

  “That is Viorica.”

  Leif shoved to his feet and went to the door. “I . . .” He didn’t know what to say. Or what he was going to do, except get out of this office.

  “Debrief in twenty, down the hall.” Dru held his gaze for a long minute.

  With a nod, Leif punched open the door and strode out, determined to discover what Viorica was hiding.

 
; TWENTY-ONE

  U.S. NAVAL STATION, GUANTANAMO BAY, CUBA

  “What’d you sell your soul for?”

  His words haunted Iskra all the way back to her room, where the blond man who so strongly resembled Metcalfe locked her in after reassurances it would only be short-term. Despite being a prisoner—again—she was glad for the solitude.

  She sagged on the gray mattress, the springs creaking. She’d lied to men around the world. Burned them. Killed some, though she hated that. Hated what she’d done in life. But nothing more than she hated seeing that look on Metcalfe’s face. He’d held the anger in well. Better than she had.

  But man, had he infuriated her.

  Why? Why was he able to draw out that anger?

  Because he hit the nerve. The one she thought she’d buried. Yes, she had been used by Hristoff. For years of her life and centuries of her mind. But never once had she been his lover. And the cruelty of his accusation that she’d had sex with Veratti, too.

  It hurt. Because it was the one thing in life she could not change. Could not alter. Could not control. She’d tried fighting when she was younger. Those broken bones had healed. Her broken spirit hadn’t.

  And Leif believed it of her. Believed she used sex to get what she wanted. Hollywood tramped up spies. Insisted they sold their souls for their countries. For peace. She had nothing so noble but everything more precious: Bisera.

  She pressed a hand over her heart and clutched her shirt. Fought tears. It was over now. If it hadn’t been before, telling the Americans about Veratti had sealed her fate. She was as good as dead. Bisera . . .

  Iskra cupped a hand over her mouth, hearing in her mind the girl’s melodic laughter. So innocent. Untouched at this point by Hristoff.

  All hope was gone. Everything had changed in that raging sea. That near-death moment.

  Maybe it was better if Hristoff and Veratti believed her dead. But then . . . how would she get Bisera?

  She strangled a cry. Why did God hate her so much?

  Keys jangled in the door and startled her. Shoved Iskra to her feet as she wiped at the tears that had escaped. Even if she returned to Hristoff, he would kill her.

  “Debrief, ma’am.”

  Following a security officer and the man who looked like Metcalfe, Iskra realized they were marching her to a room where he would be present. The thought made her sick. She must find a way to vanish. From here. From existence. Jitters danced and collided at the thought.

  They stepped from the sterile corridor into a briefing room with a long brown table surrounded by personnel. Her betraying eyes scanned the uniforms and suits, searching for him. Dru Iliescu, who stood about her five-nine height, was at the head of the long table, hands on his belt. “Miss Todorova, have a seat.”

  Fear nudged her back, but training made Iskra present that tough façade. She accepted the seat he offered, and when she lifted her gaze, it rammed right into Metcalfe. He was directly across from her. His pale eyes looked like silver in this light. No, like steel. Cold, hard steel.

  “To my right,” Director Iliescu went on, “is Admiral Braun with the Defense Intelligence Agency, and next to her is Colonel Dom Wolsey, who recently joined the DIA as an artifacts expert. Beside him is one of our most senior intelligence analysts, Charlie Harden, who will fill . . . since Klein . . .” He cleared his throat.

  A brief look at Metcalfe and the men gathered around the table, who were avoiding her—though some glowered openly—had already made it clear to Iskra that something was wrong.

  “There’s tension in the room,” Iliescu said, “due to the loss of one of our operatives. Jake Klein.”

  Iskra frowned. “I . . . I’m sorry.”

  “Unless you control the weather and the storm that tore him from the chopper,” a red-bearded man said, “it ain’t your fault.” She remembered him from Leif’s standoff back in the facility. Culver.

  “Then again,” an Asian man added, “we wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her.”

  “Not true. She was only part of what brought us here,” countered the hacker woman who did not like her. Culver had called her Mercy in the medbay.

  “Right, the book did,” Culver said. “And it’s gone.”

  “Okay, reel it in.” Iliescu rubbed his brow as he gave Iskra a look. “As you can imagine, the loss is hard. But we should get down to business.”

  “The sooner the better,” Metcalfe muttered.

  “Anything you’d like to offer?” Admiral Braun asked Iskra.

  “If we were in Russia, perhaps drinks and biscuits.” She regretted her sarcastic tone as soon as the words were out. “Forgive me. I’m sharp-tongued when I’m nervous.”

  “Tell us about the book,” Iliescu, clearly the more reasonable of the two in charge, requested.

  It was strange, as she’d already had a long conversation with Iliescu about this, but he must have a reason. She would play the game. “I know little, save what a friend shared with me.” And even that knowledge from Vasily was in fragments. Would the USB change that? She couldn’t give it to them. Though if she did get out of here, maybe she could convince Veratti that the Americans had forced her to give up the information. For Bisera’s sake, she must get him to take care of Hristoff. The thought made her feel like a cold-blooded killer, but with Bisera’s life in the mix, she had no choice.

  Other than the USB, she had little intel, so giving up what she knew wasn’t a problem. Except the information about the Neiothen. Her intent regarding those ultra-secretive guardians had to remain a lesser priority. For now, her focus must be on freedom.

  “Please share what you have on the book,” Iliescu said, his gaze already tracking to a tablet as he leaned toward the admiral, who was whispering something.

  She worked up a smile. “Of course, I’m not an archaeologist. What I do know, I’ve already shared with Mr. Metcalfe.”

  “Metcalfe?” barked the admiral.

  Still ignoring Iskra, he nodded. “One of the guards at the facility let my identity slip.”

  Iliescu motioned to her. “You know little, but you did know to go after it at the salt mines. Want to tell us how you knew of its existence and its location?”

  “Like any operative, I work under intel that is both delivered to me and acquired through my own reconnaissance and careful verification. I was told about this book and its possible location by an asset.” She shrugged. “I verified it was true and went after it.”

  “Who was the asset?” Braun asked.

  “I—”

  “I’ll interject here,” the deputy director said, “to say Miss Todorova shared a name with me, and I feel it’s best not to reveal it until we have definitive or actionable intel.”

  “So, are you saying her assertion is questioned?” Braun asked.

  “I am saying we’ll investigate,” Iliescu said.

  Charlie Harden gave Iskra a wry smile. “You failed at the salt mines.”

  “Unfortunately, yes. The tunnels collapsed, forcing everyone to evacuate, but Rutger Hermanns escaped with the book.”

  With a knowing smile, Harden nodded to Iliescu.

  The deputy director tapped something into his tablet, then stared down the length of the table at her. “What about Greece? You retrieved the book from the lab there. What can you tell us about that?”

  “One, I didn’t break in. I was invited in.” Perhaps she was feeling a little smug about that. “Second—again, I will not betray my source—but having clearly beaten your team to it, yes, I was aware of its location.”

  Charlie Harden sat forward, his light brown hair trimmed short, as was his beard. “So the source who provided this intel is someone you trust.”

  Was that a trick question?

  “Trusted enough,” he amended, “to enter two foreign locations in an attempt to retrieve this artifact.”

  “That or whoever gave her the intel had something on her, forcing her to act,” Metcalfe said.

  Maintaining her cool façade was impo
ssible with Metcalfe and his seeming ability to read her mind, though she knew he was just a very shrewd operative who could read a situation. Read her. “Nobody forces me to do anything.”

  “Noted,” Metcalfe snapped.

  She’d never convince him she meant no harm. That she went to Iliescu with the truth because something in that ocean with him had irrevocably changed her.

  “So where is the book now?” Braun asked.

  “I’m sorry,” Iskra said, “I thought you were aware. It was stolen from the facility we just left.”

  “So you didn’t steal it back?”

  Mercy lifted her hand. “Ma’am, we have been reviewing footage from the facility. I believe another party is responsible for the theft of the book.”

  “Show me,” Braun barked, the lines of her face severe.

  Mercy nodded as she worked her laptop, then pointed to a wall screen. “There. No sound, but this is the camera right outside the lab.” Her gaze bounced between her screen and the wall. “Annnd there we have John Stewart, Guy Gardner, and Simon Baz—”

  “Wait, you have identities?” Braun asked.

  “Low, Maddox. Low,” Metcalfe said, a tease in his voice as the admiral continued her objection.

  Mercy cleared her throat. “No. No names yet, but Cell’s working on that,” she said, winking at a lanky guy near the director. Then she smirked at Metcalfe. “The names were sarcasm meant for Leif—he looks a bit under the weather, so I dubbed these three part of the Green Lantern Corps.”

  Someone groaned. Iskra was too distracted by learning Metcalfe’s first name—Leif. She mouthed it, trying it out.

  “And here they so expertly break into the lab.” Mercy clicked again, then tapped a button. “Now we are in the lab.”

  The three men on the screen moved through the chambers without hesitation. Bypassed protocols. Opened a drawer and removed the book. Two of them headed out. A third set a device on the floor.