Storm Rising

by Ronie Kendig

  Iskra neither moved nor spoke.

  “Holy . . .” Anger wound tightly around his chest. “What else are you hiding from me? What else is there, Iskra?”

  Hazel-green eyes flicked to his, molten with anger. “Why do you see everything as for or against you? This is much bigger than you!” She considered him for several long seconds, withdrawing her hand and the device. “And this device may not seem like much, but it represents my only chance for freedom.”

  “The trade.”

  She reluctantly nodded.

  But this seriously made no sense. Why would she hand it over and give up the one thing she wanted? “I am getting some seriously confused signals here, Iskra. I think you’re trusting me, but you run. Then we make good on that, and supposedly we’re working out this trust thing, only to find out you’ve been working me from the start. Now this? How am I supposed to believe anything you say?”

  She smirked, and the shrewd Viorica returned. “Don’t overthink it, Mr. Metcalfe. I am out of resources now that I have fled Hristoff, and I believe the Book of the Wars to be very dangerous, especially in the wrong hands. My friend who scanned it said the information in the book was phenomenal. Life- and world-altering. I told you about the super-army. You asked how I knew about the facility—the Pearl of the Antilles.” She nodded to the drive, which she extended again. “He said it’s in there.”

  Leif reached for it, but she tightened her fingers around it.

  “Of course.” He sniffed. Why had he thought—

  “I would prefer to stay with it. To be sure it’s returned to me.” She gave an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, but now that the book is missing, it’s all I have left if Veratti or Hristoff find me.”

  Leif wrapped his hand around hers and moved in.

  Iskra straightened, lips parting as she looked up at him. Though she didn’t step away, didn’t yield ground, it was clear standing so close to him made her uncomfortable. It mirrored his own struggle at being so near her, noticing the way her breath quickened. How the rise and fall of her chest pushed against his own.

  “It seems this USB says you’ll trust me. Or, at the least, buy my trust.”

  “The former.”

  Yeah, he wasn’t that stupid. “Trust me a little more.”

  Wariness crouched at the edges of her expression.

  Taking in her features—strong cheekbones that betrayed her Bulgarian heritage, pale pink lips, mesmerizing hazel-green-gold eyes—he realized how fast he could fall down the rabbit hole with her. It was like standing on wet ground with electricity crackling around them. Binding them together.

  Maybe he was that stupid. “What is the trade?”

  She frowned at first, then realization flooded her expression. Twitching as if to step back, she broke eye contact. Then seemed to swim the depths of uncertainty away from him, away from this moment of truce he was trying to establish, before she met his eyes once more. “Freedom.”

  “From Peychinovich?”

  When she hesitated this time, it felt like it lingered for years. “Yes,” she finally whispered.

  No. That was a lie. Or a half lie.

  “Wherever this USB leads, will your director let me work with you?” she asked.

  Leif frowned. “Yeah. My team—”

  “I do not know your team.”

  So me. She wants to work with me. Did she expect him to get careless again, give her an advantage? “I guess I look really dumb to you.”

  “No. You are the only one who has shown me respect.” She shifted. “Even when I haven’t earned it.”

  “False humility.”

  “Will you ever believe me?”

  He shrugged. “Doubtful. Let’s find out what Iliescu says.” He moved toward the door.

  She caught his wrist. “Leif. Wait.”

  Man, just when he thought he had these idiotic feelings tied down, she touched him, used his name, and they sprang free again. Irritated, he glanced at the vise on his wrist and then to her. She must’ve taken a step, because there was an unrespectable lack of space between them.

  “I . . .” Again, her gaze skipped around his face for a few seconds until a pink glow rose on those wide cheekbones. She released him. Stepped back. “I think Wolsey may work for Hristoff. He can’t find out about the USB.”

  He started but couldn’t afford to ignore that accusation. “Okay . . .” But if she wanted the book to buy freedom, why would she care if word got back to the crime lord about the USB? “What am I missing?”

  “A lot,” she said, looking grieved. “But that’s the way it must stay. For now.”

  Message delivered. He cocked a nod. So be it. “Understood.” He started for the door.

  “Leif.”

  He gritted his teeth. Paused, hand on the doorknob. When she didn’t say anything, he yanked it open. “Let’s find out what’s worth dying for.”

  * * *

  Things were getting mixed up, her priorities confused, her focus diluted.

  All by a pair of blue eyes. Why was she so determined to win his confidence back?

  Seeing the way Leif stalked out of her prison cell had made her call out. Want to spill everything. Tell him that what she did wasn’t for her. That she saw his intent to help, to free her. But that wasn’t the name of this game. Or his call.

  He had some serious morals. He was way too good for her, and when he’d found out how she had used him for Veratti—no, for Bisera—the little connection that had grown between them shattered. He regretted fighting for her. Which was twice as devastating, because no one had ever fought for her before.

  Withdrawing her heart was prudent—vital. She could not afford to mess this one up. Because even if Leif Metcalfe could move past her betrayal and then see beyond her terrible life, it only meant he’d end up dead. Like everyone else. Help was futile. A waste of time and lives. She must rely on herself. Only herself.

  Two hours after she handed over the drive, the team sat in angry silence as Harden pored over the documents. Noticeably absent was Wolsey.

  “First,” Harden said, “we’re having trouble retrieving some of the data—well, a lot of the data.” He bobbed his head side to side, then smiled at Iskra. “Not surprisingly, with all you put it through, the data is corrupted.”

  She scowled. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Cell said. “Very. But we’re still working on it.”

  “However, what is there is pretty amazing.” Harden slid through screenshots. “And you really had no idea what you had?”

  “I know what I had.” Iskra forbade herself from looking at Leif. “But I am not a linguist, so I did not know specific details.”

  “The person who gave you these scans . . .” Harden began, clearly wanting her to fill in the blanks. But there were too many to fill—and others she refused to touch—so she offered nothing. He raised his eyebrows, smiling like a kid on the playground with a new ball. “Did he tell you what it said?”

  Her and Vasily’s concern had been solely about the Neiothen, which she wouldn’t share here, and Vasily—God rest his soul—had promised those clues were hidden. Hopefully well enough that those here wouldn’t find them. At least not right away, because she was pretty sure they’d take extreme measures to stop the guardians. She couldn’t let that happen to Mitre.

  “We were short on time,” Iskra said.

  “Well.” Harden’s smile grew bigger. “I think I understand why everyone is after this.”

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  “I read through the decipherable scans—very quickly, obviously—and I’m amazed. There are odd things in it—”

  “Like?” Leif asked.

  Harden shrugged. “Odd grammar, out-of-place letters or symbols. That sort of thing. Again, what I’m working with is preliminary. I’ll have and know more as I spend more time with it.”

  Iskra frowned, confused. “How do you have the training to read an ancient text? I thought you were an intelligence analyst.”

 
“One of my specialties is antiquities.”

  “He’s modest,” Iliescu added. “Harden has multiple degrees in linguistics and studied intensively with the University of Israel.”

  “I wouldn’t say studied intensively. It’s more like a morbid fascination that keeps me up into the wee hours, reading and studying the Levant and its languages, as well as its history. What gaming is to some, this is to me.” He had no remorse, but neither had he pride. This was pure passion. “And this—wow! Incredible find. Granted, I can’t guarantee what I’m seeing, since we’re only dealing with scans at this point. The fascinating thing is that the majority of this scroll was written in one language and possibly even the same hand over decades, but the last of it is in a totally different hand, and of all things, Greek!”

  Iskra felt Leif’s stare but kept her attention on the analyst.

  “So how about we get down to business instead of jabbering?” Lawe said.

  Harden swiped through the images. “Try this one. Where . . .” His gaze slid over the illuminated screen. “Ah. Here. Just a small quote. ‘. . . In what will be known as the largest and bloodiest battle of human warfare, a battle against the great army of the bent cross that continued for five months, one week, and three days . . .’” He looked up at the team. “Any guess—”

  “Sounds like the Battle of Stalingrad,” Leif offered, his tone awestruck. “It lasted five months, one week, and three days.”

  “And you know that how?” the Asian guy asked.

  “I like history,” Leif groused.

  “He’s more like a human encyclopedia on military history,” Iliescu muttered.

  Harden laughed. “Listen to this one: ‘There will come the Unknown War—’”

  “That’s helpful,” someone grunted.

  “‘—in which a nation will split in two, each with its own governments. The ensuing battles will . . .’” Harden hesitated, frowning. “Not sure about this word, but maybe—gain, garner?—‘the help of multiple countries and in time, due to greater conflicts, will be forgotten.’”

  “Korean War. My grandfather fought in that.” Culver looked confused. “How—”

  “Hold up,” Lawe bit out. “So that thing is prophe—”

  “One more,” Harden insisted with glee. “‘. . . years, in the Land of Shinar and Mesopotamia’”—he seemed to chew over the words—“‘a cruel leader fell in the square, his bronze image beaten to defeat by those oppressed at his hand—’”

  “Holy freakin’ cow,” the kid behind the computers said. “Saddam Hussein. Our guys helped the Iraqis knock down his bronze statue.”

  “You see?” Harden’s eyes glowed. “This Book of the Wars not only describes wars of ancient times, but it foretold wars that would not happen for centuries.”

  “Isn’t it more likely that someone found it and added to it?” the Asian guy asked.

  “I can’t prove that definitively wrong, but I would argue that’s not the case, because trying to alter a scroll like this centuries later would do more damage than anything. Also, the Greek syntax seems older.”

  “Okay.” Leif rubbed his lower lip, thinking. “So it told about these wars. Which is amazing, but—”

  “Don’t discount it yet.” Harden held up a finger as he stared at the tablet again, shaking his head. Frowning. Squinting as if that would make the words clearer. “There’s a lot here, but we’ve only managed to scratch the surface. The encryption on the USB is pretty advanced, according to Cell, and the transliteration is a slow, painstaking process to make sure we read it correctly. So far, we’ve only managed to piece together the first part of the first scan. I read it briefly, but the latter columns become more vague, indecipherable. Or . . .” He pursed his lips and bobbed his head in thought.

  “Or?” Leif prompted.

  “Or it doesn’t make sense because it’s talking about wars that haven’t happened yet.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  U.S NAVAL STATION, GUANTANAMO BAY, CUBA

  A thunder of protests punched through the briefing room.

  “I told you lugheads it was prophetic,” Dru objected.

  “The Bible has prophecies, but they’re already fulfilled,” Leif said and heard the guys agree. “But prophecies about what hasn’t happened still, in our time?” He shook his head. “That’s a different brick of C4.”

  That would explain why people were hunting this book as if their lives depended on it. It was one thing to read about wars they hadn’t been involved in—’Nam and Korea were big, but no one in this room had been a part of those conflicts. Reading about wars they would be involved in, wars that would happen—it was a game changer.

  The commotion receded.

  “Imagine,” Leif said suddenly, sitting forward. “Knowing what wars are coming. What outcomes are going to happen.” He could hardly breathe.

  “That’s too much power for anyone to have,” Baddar said.

  “But someone does have it,” Lawe argued. “And I’m starting to see why sitting here on our butts is a bad idea. We need to get this book back.”

  Leif noted a wave of relief wash over Iskra.

  “Think the brass knew about this, and that’s why they sent us after it but didn’t want us looking too deeply into it?” Peyton asked, her voice quavering. “Why would they hold that back from us, though?”

  “I believe they were relying on the fact that we had no experts”—Iliescu glanced at Harden—“or thought we didn’t, and would just do as we were told.”

  “So what’s in that thing?” Saito indicated the scans splashed on the wall. “What upcoming wars are mentioned?”

  Harden’s face shifted into a serious, determined mode. “Well,” he began slowly, hand over his chin, “the first thing to note is that the earliest mentioned wars appear to be recorded in order of occurrence.”

  “That would make sense,” Iskra said, “since they were recorded by a Hebrew as they happened. That is also how John wrote Revelation.”

  “True,” Harden murmured, “but the Greek sections were written much later. Give me a second while I get these scans printed.” He tapped the glass, and a few seconds later, the machine in the corner rattled to life. It spit out a couple dozen copies of stained, torn text, some parts still blurred.

  “So we assume they’re in chronological order, too?” Iliescu asked.

  “Oh, I’d be careful assuming anything, Director,” Culver said. “You know what happens when you assume. Makes an a—”

  “Got it, Brown.” Iliescu returned his attention to the manuscript. “Either way, best to start at the beginning. Give us the breakdown on these wars.”

  Harden nodded. “I sure wish we had the actual scroll, but okay.” He spread pages over the table. “These are the ones in Greek, and the more I look at them, the more convinced I grow that John wrote these, as Miss Todorova mentioned.”

  On his feet, Leif bent over the table, looking at the images but not able to read them. Could he find a book on the language online? “Why’s that?”

  “Well, the apostle John wrote Revelation, and what he recounted was revealed—according to his own words—by an angel of the Lord. And these passages of the Book of the Wars are not only in Greek as John’s writings were, but they reference a revelation sent by Jesus through an angel.”

  “You’re saying an angel showed him these?” Peyton’s eyes were wide.

  Harden scoffed. “Not me. He’s saying that.” He pointed to the scans. “I’m reading what the author—who may or may not have been John—wrote.” He palmed the table. “I think there are three, maybe four . . . situations mentioned in the text. I can’t guarantee these are actual wars, but they read as isolated events—at least, I’m pretty sure. When I can review these with a real scholar, I could have more confidence saying that.”

  He slid three pages together, then grouped four more, then another three. After a sniff, he took one page from the second group and added it to the third. His gaze traced the words, but then he shook h
is head.

  “Problem?” Leif asked, watching curiously.

  “I . . . the wording is . . . unique. There’s a section in here that really has nothing to do with either scenario, but it’s placed here, right in the middle. Which is why I can’t tell if there are four or if it belongs as a segue between two of the three.” He let out a sigh and moved the papers around again.

  “Start at the top,” Iliescu instructed. “Maybe once we’re all on the same page, we can figure it out.”

  “Exactly,” Leif said. “Read it.”

  “Right. Okay.” Harden indicated the first three. “I’m not an expert, so some of this wording might be wrong.”

  “Just go. We need the gist.”

  “‘Then another angel came to me and said, “Come, I will show you what is to come. Those who would attempt to thwart what God has ordained instead hasten their own kingdom end and Armageddon.” And he lifted me into the sky, and there we watched the violence induced by soldiers of the Devil. In the land east of India arose the acrid scent of destruction that breathed black clouds, which vomited rain and ruin. Though those—’”

  Harden muttered, his voice and brows lowering as he squinted at the page, shaking his head. “I’m not sure about this one, but perhaps it’s, ‘from below came, they could not stand—’”

  “What part aren’t you sure of?” Leif asked, logging every word, every nuance.

  “There’s no reference for the those he’s mentioning. And from below makes me wonder.” He shrugged. “There’s nothing below India but a sea.”

  “Bangladesh is below India,” Leif corrected. “But you read ‘land east of India.’” He recalled the verbiage perfectly.

  “Mm, yes.”

  “That’s Burma,” Leif continued. “And there isn’t anything below it, save the Bay of Bengal and the Adaman Sea. Maybe Thailand, but that’s more east than south.”

  “Walking encyclopedia is right.” Harden eyed him speculatively. “Well, I don’t claim to be a geography expert.”

  “Neither do I.” Leif simply had most maps memorized because he’d looked at them. “Perhaps he meant a people group subordinate to India.”