Storm Rising

by Ronie Kendig

  “And they leave. Head down the hall, and bam! Newcomer is like Nick Fury—slick as snot at avoiding revealing his face to the cameras as he takes down the others with ease. This is the guy I saw in the Bahamas, but we’ve got no visual or facial rec. It’s like he doesn’t exist—yet. But he goes in, then he and the book vanish.” Mercy frowned at the screen, then squinted.

  “Something wrong, Merc?” Leif asked, and it annoyed Iskra how close they seemed. The way they teased each other.

  “Yeah, no.” She looked at him. “No. I’m good.” She turned back to the screen again.

  Who had taken it? Iskra stared at the wall, where the footage had frozen on the three Lanterns, as Mercy had called them.

  “Maddox, can you put together a file for me to send to my contacts, see if we can identify them?” Iliescu asked.

  “Good luck—yes.” This Mercy had spunk. “I’ll work it up immediately after the debrief.”

  “So you don’t have the book,” Braun continued, once more glaring at Iskra.

  “Where could I have possibly hidden it? It would have been ruined. Recall that I nearly drowned.”

  “Yeah,” the Asian said, “our guy did that for you.”

  Iskra choked on regret.

  “Then the chief there extracted you,” Culver added.

  She lowered her chin. Remembered the smacking waves. The saltwater burning her eyes and mouth. The scruff of his jaw as she hung on to him.

  “Colonel Wolsey,” Iliescu said, shifting the conversation away from her, “what can you tell us about the book?”

  “Much,” said the man seated beside Admiral Braun, “and sadly, little. I haven’t yet had the privilege of seeing it, but my research has unearthed a few key facts. First”—he sent a smarmy smile down to Iskra—“tell me, Miss Todorova, you saw it, yes?”

  Did he not recall?

  “Silly question.” He dismissed his own words with a fake laugh. “We know you did. But . . . was it in one piece?”

  “For something that old, it was remarkably preserved,” she admitted, “thanks to the salt mines, although there were pieces that had disintegrated or torn off.”

  “Yes!” Wolsey laughed, and there was something maniacal and unbalanced about him, though she couldn’t say why she thought that. “Of course. Good, good.”

  “Wolsey?” Braun asked.

  “Ah yes. See, about a year ago, a fragment was found by treasure hunters. That is how the full book was most likely found—they knew it was in the area, so they were searching all the caves.” He nodded to her. “By asking Miss Todorova if it was intact, I could verify—loosely—its legitimacy.”

  “Unless she knew about the piece found earlier.”

  Wolsey’s smile faltered. “Well, yes. Perhaps. But it is unlikely she would know of that fragment. It was a well-kept secret as the team hunted for the rest of the book.”

  “Negative.” Leif leaned forward. “Well-kept secrets don’t have multiple countries hunting them down.”

  Braun grunted. “Tell us about this book, Wolsey, before I die of old age.”

  “Of course,” Wolsey said, stealing back the conversation. “It is a lost-to-humanity book mentioned in the Hebrew Bible. Numbers 21 says the information contained in it resolves a dispute about borders between the Moabites and Amorites. It calls it the Book of the Wars of the Lord, or the Book of Yahweh’s Battles, which is more accurate and—elegant, if I might say so. Verses fourteen and fifteen are supposedly a quote, ‘That is why the Book of the Wars of the Lord says, “. . . Zahab in Suphah and the ravines, the Arnon and the slopes of the ravines that lead to the settlement of Ar and lie along the border of Moab.”’”

  “Dude, was that even supposed to make sense?” a younger man asked.

  “Well,” Wolsey explained, “like many books of poetry, the Book of the Wars was written in Hebrew, some Aramaic, although not much, and later Greek. It opens with a ‘Come to’ invitation, which happens in the Book of Jasher and the Song of the Well, etc. That’s really all that is known about it, though there are many and varied beliefs about it and its existence. Some scholars aren’t sure it’s even a distinct book.”

  “What are the other books you mentioned?” another female operator asked.

  “Well, the only pertinent one is the Book of Jasher, which is another ancient Israelite collection of poems the Bible often quotes. It’s in the Book of Jasher that the mention of the sun and moon standing still is found.” Wolsey wiped his nostril. “Actually, some scholars suggest the Book of the Wars is the same text as the Book of Jasher. You see, most ancient books weren’t given titles—most were simply known by the first line of the text. For example, Bemidbar is the Hebrew name for the book of Numbers and simply means ‘in the wilderness.’ Obviously ‘in the wilderness’ tells us almost nothing of what is found in the book, but this naming practice was used across cultures—the Akkadians and the Babylonians did the same.”

  “Obviously it’s a legit book,” Leif said. “She found it.”

  Was he defending her? Iskra drew in a breath. No, he was defending the book.

  “And lost it,” Wolsey added.

  The cur—implying the theft was her fault! “I was—”

  “If you want to be technical,” Leif asserted, “Uncle Sam lost it, because the book was in our custody at the time it was stolen.”

  “Okay, wait. Time-out.” The big guy with a bigger chest and thick forearms formed a T with his hands. “Let’s back up.” He tossed a look at his buddies. “Am I the only one hearing this?” He craned forward. “Tell me I’m not risking my assets to find a book of . . . poetry.”

  “Hey,” Culver muttered, “songs are poetry. Nothing to mock.”

  “This isn’t about your failed singing career.” The Asian man huffed. “I’m with Lawe. Where’s my exfil?”

  Leif nodded. “Agreed—this isn’t adding up.” He adjusted in his chair, glancing around. “This is a lot of manpower and government mobility for poetry. Can anyone tell us why everyone’s chasing this thing across the globe, including us?”

  His gaze struck hers, and Iskra wondered if he was thinking the same thing she was—the super-army mentioned in the text.

  The Neiothen. Beyond the guardians, she could not fathom anything else worth pursuing in that text other than its historical and cultural value. But nobody here had even brought up the Neiothen. Did they not know?

  Plausible, she supposed, but it seemed farfetched that elite military leaders like this had no knowledge of the faithful guardians said to fulfill the wars. Granted, even she had a hard time believing they were truly mentioned in the ancient text, but Vasily had promised they were there. Leif seemed to know about the super-army. When she’d mentioned it at the facility, he’d leapt up and left.

  “But wait,” the big guy—Lawe—said again, his irritation plain as he focused on the deputy director. “You told us this thing could be prophetic.” He turned to Iskra. “That right?”

  “I . . .” She hadn’t really thought of it that way.

  Wolsey laughed. “That’s ludicrous! This text is significant because it’s the find of the decade, but there’s nothing predictive or amazing about it. It hasn’t even been verified by scholars. I think the pursuit of this artifact is about someone wanting to put their name to the discovery.”

  Iskra blinked. How could he say that and claim to be a scholar?

  “It won’t matter anyway,” he continued, “because once it’s recovered and publicly verified, Israel will claim ownership, since it was found there. Which means it will be returned to them, just as many artifacts have been returned to Syria and Iraq.”

  “Which will stir the hornet’s nest in the Levant,” Harden said.

  “True,” Wolsey agreed. He subtly shifted his eyes to Iskra. “I mean, look what happened at the salt mines. Women and children hurt and killed in the pursuit of this thing.”

  Those expertly delivered words were a message. There was no doubt in Iskra’s mind, nor amid the t
hundering of her heart, that a threat had been delivered against Bisera. She must not let this man know his words had an impact, but his message was received. Loud and clear.

  “A man who hurts a woman or child is not a man,” Leif said. “He’s a monster.”

  “So.” Lawe palmed the ball cap sitting on his knee. “If this thing doesn’t tell us about coming wars—although, I have to say, I’d go to war if someone started reading me poetry—are we aborting this mission?”

  Wolsey shrugged. “Yeah, I don’t see the point. It’ll surface eventually.”

  They could not! She had to save Bisera. It had been part of her plan: tell them the truth and trust their consciences to do the right thing. She must convince them to keep looking. Iskra looked at Metcalfe, and her heart thumped to find him watching her.

  Then he sighed. “We’ve come this far. Be a shame to put fresh intel to waste.”

  “But what do we do? Who do we go after?” Lawe asked.

  Frustrated silence seeped through the pores of the room. Surely they must see this book was important. But if she betrayed the Neiothen intel, she betrayed someone else. Someone she wasn’t even sure was still alive.

  “We are acting on a lot of instinct and guessing,” Cell muttered. “Maybe a break would be smart.”

  Iskra’s heart skittered across her doubts. You have a way to convince them to keep looking. The USB. If she told them, there would be chaos and anger. Accusations would build a deep case against her, fill Metcalfe with more doubts and uncertainty. What little trust she’d convinced him to yield would be shattered.

  Wait. Their expert—she glanced at Wolsey, his sweaty upper lip sparking her wariness—had denied the book was of use. So Wolsey wouldn’t be in on the game plan. She’d find a way to deliver the intel away from him. But how?

  “Miss Todorova,” Leif said, his tone all business, “what do you think? I mean, you saw the book, right?”

  Play it cool, Iskra. “I recovered it, yes.” Would he understand her surreptitious attempt to let him know something was wrong?

  “But you saw the text—”

  “I’m no archaeologist, Mr. Metcalfe. I just hunt what I’m told to hunt.”

  Confusion teased the pale blue eyes that seemed to probe her soul. And she let them. Wanted them to see that she needed to talk to him. But doing it overtly could alert the man she now didn’t believe to be on the same side.

  “It seems,” Iliescu said with a frustrated huff, “that unless we have more information, we call off the mission until we know where to look or—”

  “Sir.” Leif thumped the table. “I might have an idea, but I need to do some research. Can we just call a break?”

  Iliescu frowned as his gaze started a dangerous trek to Iskra, then aborted. “Okay. We’ll reconvene in the morning.” He nodded to a Marine. “Escort Miss Todorova to her room, please.”

  On any other occasion, she would object to being a prisoner, but this worked because it meant she’d have an assigned room. It meant, assuming her subtle hints were enough, that Leif would know where to find her.

  TWENTY-TWO

  U.S. NAVAL STATION, GUANTANAMO BAY, CUBA

  As the room emptied, Leif started for the director. “Sir.”

  Iliescu turned as Todorova and her security detail exited the briefing room. “What is it?”

  “Sir.” Leif double-checked his six to make sure they were alone. “What do we know about Wolsey?”

  “That the brass sent him to brief and assist us,” Iliescu said, brow furrowing. “Why?”

  Leif roughed a hand over his jaw. “He seemed pretty insistent we give up the chase.”

  “I noticed that.” A nod. “Funding is tight for our missions.” Iliescu’s words lacked conviction. “How are you with what she came clean on? Thought you said—”

  “I did.”

  “Can we trust her?”

  “You’re asking me?”

  “I’m asking those instincts of yours.”

  In the last half of the briefing, Leif had seen a reaction from her that he couldn’t explain. He didn’t know what happened or why she went all high and dry. “I’m about to find out. If her armed guards will let me in.”

  After a lengthy pause, Iliescu nodded. “They will.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Leif smirked and pivoted, heading out into the hall. He followed it to the second right and spotted the security detail hovering outside a room.

  As he approached, the Marine stepped forward and extended a hand. “Sorry, sir—” Glancing down the hall, he hesitated. The objection fell from his tongue, and he resumed his position.

  Leif looked over his shoulder and saw a blur that had been the deputy director disappear, then moved to the door. The guard used a key to unlock it.

  Leaning against the wall, Iskra waited on the other side of the bed, an obvious barrier between her and whoever was entering. Expression tight, she pushed away from the concrete but said nothing.

  Leif shut the door, registering the way she eyed the lock as it clicked behind him.

  “I’m surprised you’re talking to me,” she said.

  “You and me both.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not quite sure what I figured out or what happened in the debrief.” He tucked his hands under his armpits. “There at the end, you clammed up.”

  She stood unmoving.

  “I have this crazy sense you want to tell me why.”

  No hesitation, all business. “The man brought in to tell you about the Book of the Wars,” she began, “is he trusted among your people?”

  “Never met him before.”

  “Not what I asked.”

  “It really is.” He itched to move closer but planted himself near the door. Since things had changed between them, the distance seemed appropriate. “Can’t trust someone you don’t know.”

  She considered him. “So, what? Did everything I divulged to your director erase the little trust we’d built?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Quiet for a second, she slowly gave an acknowledging nod and stepped around the bed. “You’re right not to trust me. I don’t even trust myself at the moment. Not with you.” She blinked and shook her head fast. “I mean—I . . . don’t know why, and honestly I don’t want to, but I do trust you.”

  “That trust is one-sided.”

  She breathed raggedly, her shoulders drawing up, then releasing. “I understand.” She worried her lower lip, then winced—probably at the cut she had apparently forgotten about. Hands on the back of her hips, she sighed. “Well, I went quiet because I do not trust Wolsey.”

  “We have that in common.”

  A pound of tension seemed to drop from her shoulders, and a near-smile touched her eyes. “I am glad to hear that.”

  “Now tell me why you don’t.”

  “Two things he said—well, one direct thing, the other more implied. Wolsey was intent on convincing everyone in the room that the Book of the Wars has no value.”

  God had a funny sense of humor, making their minds so equally matched. “I mentioned that to Iliescu.”

  “Which does not make sense when you look at the forces converging to find it.”

  “Agreed.” Waiting for her to talk was tough, but he needed to tread carefully here. Her confession to Iliescu had angered him—being used did that to a person. But she had come forth on her own.

  When her gaze drifted to the scuffed floor, he wondered if he’d lost her. “And the second?”

  She blinked. “He said the text was in Hebrew and Greek.”

  Leif shrugged. “So?”

  “Ancient Israeli texts were almost always Hebrew—sometimes later on, Aramaic. But Greek wasn’t typical until after the New Testament. Especially not in a text as old as Numbers.”

  “Not an archaeologist, huh?”

  “I’m not. But I know about this book because I’ve researched it, since lives depended on me finding it. And remember, I have seen it.”

  “Okay, so what did you see
?”

  “There is a section very different from the rest.” She lifted her shoulders. “And it is written in Greek—which Wolsey couldn’t have known unless someone who had seen it told him or he’d seen it himself.” She hugged herself. “Either way, he has intel he shouldn’t have. He’s lying to your team.”

  He believed her, but this did them no good. “We can’t prove it.”

  Again, she worried her lip. “I am sorry, Leif. Nearly dying . . . changed my thinking. I can’t explain it, but I couldn’t go on—”

  “Using me?”

  Her lips quivered. “No. I couldn’t. Not after . . . the water.”

  “I’m sure you’ve been in deadly situations before.”

  “I have.”

  “Why did this time matter?”

  Shaking her head, she shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  That was a whole lot of heavy right there that he did not know what to do with. And he hated that it tugged on something deep in his core. “You coming clean”—man, it hurt to own up—“I appreciate that.” He held her gaze. “The damage your actions did—I can’t promise that will change. Especially since we’re now back to ground zero on this mission.”

  “I’m not to blame for that, though.” She sounded defensive. Frustrated.

  Balling up the angst he felt at the way her expression went all soft, he said, “I hear you, but it’s the truth of the situation. Good intel on Wolsey—thank you. But again, we can’t prove it, so we’re back to ground zero.”

  “Actually, we can.”

  She has the book. Or knows who does. He bit back the ideas. Because there was something more . . . devious in her eyes as she bent toward her boots. Messed with the laces. Getting undressed?

  “What are you doing? Are those the boots you had on in the water? Are you crazy?”

  She straightened, flipping dark hair from her face. A nearly exultant flush filled her cheeks. With a smile, she held out a small, plastic-wrapped object. “This is a USB drive with scans of the scroll.”

  Stunned, Leif took a step back. Enraged and amazed all at once. “You’ve had that. This whole time.”