Storm Rising

by Ronie Kendig

  He watched. Felt the violent wash of the rotors, but something told him to focus on the blur. Blinking to clear his vision, he realized the blur was moving away. Then the shape came into focus. A face.

  A small, round face with terrified, marble-black eyes.

  Farid. Out here alone?

  Where was Habiba? Leif scrabbled toward the little girl, doing his best to keep his movements controlled yet fast. In his panic, he couldn’t betray his postion. Or hers.

  The thunder returned, leaves snapping violently beneath the rotor wash and bullets. Though he couldn’t hear Farid, he saw her face screwed tight in terror. Tears gouging rivulets down her dusty cheeks. Mouth wide in silent screams. She wriggled away from him.

  The chopper! Her movements—

  God, please—no! The chopper would hit her, thinking it was him.

  Leif shot forward. Erased the last fifteen yards between them. Hauled Farid into his arms, undone when he felt her trembling sobs against his chest. He scuttled away from that spot, knowing their only chance was to beat the enemy. Outrun the chopper.

  He really had lost his mind.

  Weapon in one hand, Farid in the other arm, he loped sideways through the stalks. He had no idea if his comms were working because he couldn’t hear over her wails. Skeletal legs clung to him but weren’t enough, so he had to hold her as he shuffled through the field.

  It’d be great if the chopper gave up. “Nothing to see here. I’m not the rogue operator you’re gunning for.”

  But the big black bird swung right at him. He didn’t want to shoot it down and have it crash in the village—not that he had artillery big enough to take it down. But he could try to hit the pilot. Or the gunners. He couldn’t lie down and let them rip his—or Farid’s—life away. Bullets made tiny explosions in the dusty earth, beelining straight toward his boots.

  Crap crap crap. He sprinted, clutching Farid.

  Something thumped his boot. The unmistakable chill of the chopper blotting out the sun felt too ominous. It streaked overhead.

  Munitions sprayed from its underside. Dirt vomited around him. Peppered his cheeks. He ducked, covering Farid. Praying nothing hit her. She’d gone rigid. Leif blinked. Aimed and fired. Sparks flew off the helo’s hull in several directions.

  The gunship veered away.

  As the thunder receded, he dropped to his knees. Surveyed Farid. Verified she was alive. Unharmed—as much as could be. Then he clambered to his feet, legs rubbery. He slung his weapon crossbody, because he had more precious cargo to protect. Curling himself around Farid, he made for the village. Sprinted for all he was worth. Lawe and Culver were taking a bead on the gunship. Vultures circling for the kill.

  Someone lay on a roof. He smiled at the Devine intervention.

  Peyton fired. The chopper’s windshield cracked. Splintered. They veered off again, this time in a wide arc. Tail tucked. Running.

  Leif slowed to a trot then a walk. Resisted the urge to collapse to his knees. Out of exhaustion, not relief. But Farid’s renewed shrieks matched those coming from the village and forced him on. Several huts were missing chunks of wall and thatch. Bodies littered the road. Including Habiba’s.

  Chibale came toward him, pale despite his dark skin. Expression wrought, he reached for little Farid, who lunged into her uncle’s arms. “Ausar is dead.”

  Leif shuddered to a stop. “No,” he breathed, looking at the hut where Saito sat on the step, head in his hands. “I’m sorry, Chibale.”

  “You are a better man than me. He was a better man.”

  That was true. But saying it wouldn’t help. He could steer the new village chief in the right direction, though. “Honor your brother,” Leif said. “Be the leader he knew you could be.”

  Chibale started. Then agreed as he handed Farid off to one of the women. “You found the machine?”

  Leif nodded.

  “Think the crops will grow now?”

  “Not this year. And if they return, it will not be pretty.” Could he ever convince them to leave their homeland? “I can talk to my people, see if we can get a team out here to assess the water and soil. See if any of this can be reversed.”

  “It would be very good of you, Runt.”

  He wasn’t sure what to say. Chibale had always been set against him and Western influence. “I’ll make it happen.”

  * * *

  Never in her life had she watched something so heartrending. The team had rushed her back to the relative safety of the village, nobody sure where Leif had gone after collecting the orb—and that had been terrifying to watch, Leif with the scope tucked to his eye and picking his way across the minefield. She’d anticipated a loud explosion with each step he took. But he’d trusted the woman who’d tossed him the scope. Followed her instructions. And retrieved the orb.

  Then things went crazy.

  Her heart still hadn’t settled. He’d delivered the child to her family, talked with the man who would lead this village, then turned. And looked right at her. Right into her soul.

  She wanted to hug him. Kiss him. All out of relief that he’d survived. But it was stupid. She had survived worse. He probably had, too. Yet she still wanted to do it. It was just emotion. A reaction to a situation that had nearly gutted her, expecting each pass of the helicopter to kill him. But he was alive. Scratched up, but alive. Those blue eyes reaching for her, it seemed, the way the child had reached for her uncle.

  She ached to go to him. Wrap her arms around him.

  But that wasn’t her place. He wasn’t hers. And what would happen if she opened not only her arms but also her heart?

  He’ll die.

  Iskra hugged herself, hand over her mouth. Choking back the buzzing in her veins. She hadn’t made that perilous journey with the little girl, but it felt like she had. Because that little girl, in her mind, was Bisera.

  Would Leif do that for Bisera? Would he crawl through a minefield, fight an attack chopper, and get her to safety?

  Don’t be foolish, Iskra. Men cannot be trusted.

  But Leif could. The team trusted him to make it to safety with the child. Told her to wait. That he’d be angry if she went out. That she’d just be another worry or body to retrieve. She resented their lack of confidence in her abilities, but in all honesty, she wasn’t sure she would have been as strong or as successful as he’d been.

  The men clustered around Leif, patting his shoulder. Saito checked Leif’s arm—he must’ve been scratched up bad. The sniper came down from the roof, and Leif congratulated her. Hugged her.

  It became too much. Iskra turned away. Wandered the road that led out of the village. She wanted out. Wanted to get away. She was toeing a dangerous line. One that could rip out her soul.

  But she tasted something in the air here. Something that bred off the fight from the last hour for the survival of this village and its people. Of Leif and that little girl.

  Hope.

  It teased her. Taunted her. Dared her to step from her cocoon and lay everything at his feet. She scoffed. The boots of a man—

  Who had just stepped in front of her. Her thoughts embarrassed her, forbidding her to look up at him. She stared at his dirt-caked boots, surprised to see a hole in them. “I . . .”

  “You okay?” he asked, his voice thick.

  “Yeah, sure.” She nodded.

  “Then why are you crying?”

  She wiped at her cheeks before she realized what she was doing. Before she realized he was right. “I’m fine.”

  “Iskra.” He inched closer. Touched her shoulder.

  “Chief, our ride’s inbound,” the brawny guy called. “Chibale wants to talk.”

  Leif muttered something, then squeezed her arm. “I have to deal with this.” And he left.

  Minutes later, as the chopper approached, the children and women screamed, running to shelter, fearing another attack.

  But the helicopter, which had been called to take the now-dead chief to the hospital, landed without incident. Medical
personnel rushed to assist the injured villagers into the bird. There was so much grief here. It weighted Iskra’s limbs, her thoughts. She watched, mute, as people were loaded up and another chopper approached, this one to ferry the team back to the base.

  Robotically, she obeyed the big-chested guy who directed her onto the nylon strap seat along with the others. Leif sat across from her. Touched her knee. But she ignored him.

  She couldn’t do it. Couldn’t trust him—not with Bisera’s life.

  He swatted her knee again. This time, she saw the blood on his shirt. The torn sleeve. His flesh grazed. The scar. He rotated his forearm, as if trying to shrug off the attention it had drawn.

  She shoved her gaze out the door to the desert. In the far distance glowed a pyramid. On the other side, the Nile. Soon, that gave way to city lights. Then the base, where a team brought them to another building. There, the orb was taken into custody, and they were debriefed. Four mind-numbing hours that allowed her to recover from a near-lapse in judgment.

  Afterward, Iskra headed to the showers and savored the hot spray that only lasted a few minutes. They definitely didn’t want soldiers lingering. But she couldn’t keep her mind from returning to the sight of Leif and that little girl.

  Anguish rose in her, aching for him to carry Bisera to safety. But that was left to her. Nobody else would care. Nobody would fight for Bisera like Iskra. Nobody would understand. Wanting to be alone with her misery, she dressed and went to her bunk. The lonely white halls were—gratefully—empty and seemed to escort Iskra to her room’s solitude.

  Except there was no solitude. Mercy and Leif stood by the small metal desk, whispering back and forth. The glow of a tablet washed over their faces, defiant against the sunlight restrained by plastic blinds. Their unrepentant expressions struck her. Had Iskra not seen her empty water bottle from earlier, she would have figured she had the wrong room.

  Mercy came toward her, touched Iskra’s shoulder, then left without a word, which seemed ominous.

  Fist to his mouth, Leif touched the electronic screen.

  “I thought you were supposed to be resting,” she said softly, playfully—nervously. Clearly something on that tablet had brought them both here.

  He shifted toward her, and a storm hung in his eyes. A dark, terrible storm. He planted his hands on his belt. “What is it—the trade?”

  Iskra frowned, confused. “The what?”

  “The trade,” he repeated, his voice firmer, sharper. “You give them the book, and what do you get?”

  Cold dread rushed across her shoulders and threw her gaze back to the device. What had he found? Why was he asking? Why did he even care? She eyed him, mind reaching, scrambling. The trade.

  With purpose and intention, he picked up the tablet and held it out to her, almost defying her to look at it.

  “You’re angry,” she realized, surprised. Scared.

  He clenched his jaw, the muscle popping.

  She reached for the device and forced herself to look at the screen. An inbox waited—and with it came roiling nausea. “She hacked my email.” But even as she said it, heard there was no animosity in her words, she noted the newest email. From Lesya. And it had been opened.

  Objection poised on her tongue. She swallowed it. Maybe this was for the best. Maybe . . .

  Don’t be a fool!

  She skated a glance at Leif, who hadn’t moved. His presence smothered her defiance, but she refused to cower. Not in front of him. She opened the email.

  A video sprang to life. Her heart skipped a beat as the setting came into sharp focus—the estate. Someone holding a camera walked through the halls of the residence apartments. That was her wing to the right. Straight ahead, Hristoff’s. As soon as the person aimed left toward the two large suites, she couldn’t breathe. The first was an apartment for Lesya and her secretary, Duscha. The second for—

  When they bypassed the first, Iskra let out a tremulous breath.

  Duscha stood there, frantic and terrified. “These rooms are private—”

  “Do not tell me about my own home!” The voice came from behind the camera—was Hristoff filming? “Now, where is she?”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Tell me or I will beat it out of you!”

  “I don’t—”

  “Sir, there!”

  The camera spun toward the door, and a blur rushed through the hall.

  Since Iskra was on mission, there was only one “she” Hristoff would be looking for—Bisera.

  “No no no.” Iskra watched helplessly as the blur—Lesya—darted down the marble hall.

  “Give her to me!” Hristoff roared. He stalked ahead of the camera, his strides long and powerful. His frame seemed preternaturally large. Terrifying.

  The camera was high—same height as Hristoff, which meant it must be Ruslan following. The pace slowed and stopped jarring, blurring, revealing the horrible truth—the small child Lesya carried to safety. But there was no safety from Hristoff’s rage. Only pain.

  Lesya collided with a bulky man—Maksim had appeared from a side door. She screamed. “No, you’ve hurt her enough already.” Twisting away but not breaking free, she aimed her begging at Hristoff. “Please!”

  No. He wouldn’t hurt Bisera. The thought rattled through Iskra, shaking loose her courage and confidence. He protected his property. “He wouldn’t,” she breathed. It had been her one morsel of sanity, knowing he didn’t injure what was his.

  Hristoff lunged toward Lesya. Snatched a shrieking Bisera from her.

  Iskra sucked in a breath. Covered her mouth. No no no. Tears ran down her cheeks. She blinked them away, furious with how they blurred her vision. This was a mistake. “A mistake. No, he . . .” He wouldn’t.

  But he is! It’s right there!

  Hristoff backhanded Lesya, sending her sprawling into a marble column. The sound of her head hitting was hollow and violent. She collapsed, unmoving.

  Iskra choked on a gasp. Froze, unable to take her eyes from Bisera now cowering on the floor. “No,” she gulped.

  Innocent wails filled her ears as Hristoff motioned for the camera to face him and display his fury. “See what happens, Iskra? See what you have done? Look at her!” He pinched Bisera’s round face between his thumb and fingers. “Look what you’ve done, running off with that American.” Bisera’s brilliant little face was blotched with cuts and bruises.

  A strangled cry clawed through Iskra. Fury churned through her, rising and growing. “I will kill him,” she growled through her sobs. Though she tried to look away, she couldn’t. She could not let go of the tablet, of her terrible failure. That precious baby girl!

  She pitched the tablet on the bed and spun away. Buried her face in her hands. She’d waited too long. She should’ve gone with him in Turkey. Should’ve—

  “I think it’s time you came home. Don’t you? We wouldn’t want any accidents to happen, would we?”

  His words reached through the device and gripped her throat. Because they weren’t just words. They were a promise. She collapsed against the wall. All these years . . . all her hard work . . . all her plans . . .

  Leif approached.

  “No!” she barked, holding out a palm. She shook her head, a sob choking her. “Stay there.”

  It was too late. He wouldn’t be the one to carry Bisera to safety. He couldn’t. Why had she even entertained the insidious belief that there was hope? That Bisera would be safe?

  I have to go back. Placate Hristoff. Do whatever he wanted. For Bisera. She had to.

  “Hey . . .” Leif came closer.

  She threw herself at him. “You!” she growled through gritted teeth. “Stay away from me! Get back! This is your fault!”

  “How do you figure?” he demanded.

  “Because of you—” She couldn’t finish it. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t see past the tears.

  “Iskra—”

  “No! Do not . . .” The grief was too much. She’d hoped.
Fool that she was, she’d hoped. And been crushed. Again. She held her palm out to him again as an agonizing sob seized her. “Just . . . don’t . . . talk.” Eyes burning and thick with tears, she glared. “Ever again.” She should never have let herself believe . . . “I believed—”

  “What? What did—”

  “You. That you were different. That you could—” She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. Something ripped through his expression and shattered the thin veneer holding her together. Grief turned to fear. To anger. “I hate you.”

  “Iskra, that’s not fair.”

  “Life isn’t fair. I hate you. I hate everything you represent. Everything you—”

  He came forward.

  “Stay—”

  But he came.

  She shoved him back.

  He rebounded.

  “Get back! Get away! Never aga—” A wail cut off her raging, but she still had fists. She punched him. Slapped. “I hate you! Hate you!”

  He deflected.

  Her fists pounded his chest. “If you hadn’t been at the facility, if you hadn’t come to the club and the hotel, tempted me to run—”

  Leif caught her wrists. Held them. Drove them behind her—but gently.

  Which only fueled her rage. She writhed, bucked. Thought of Bisera being hit by that monster. Because Iskra had left her there. “No,” she moaned. The things he’d do . . . “No. No no . . .”

  Everything she’d worked for was collapsing.

  * * *

  Iskra’s full weight sagged against him. Surprised, Leif hooked an arm around her shoulders for support, both physical and moral. Uncertain what to say, he held her. Sobs shook her lithe frame, her tears drenching his tactical shirt.

  Her words had blown him away. Cut him to the core. He struggled to understand, to fathom what she had been through. What terrors had carved her into the woman in his arms. Out of his depth, Leif cupped her head against his chest. Searched for a perfect phrase or words that would reassure her, but after that video, everything he believed had upended.

  And then, as quickly as Iskra had collapsed into tears, she was straightening. Shaking from the violence of her reaction. Gaze down, she pulled her shoulders square. Shuddered through breaths. Her fingers uncoiled from his shirt, leaving a hand on his chest and one on his arm. A long, tremored breath closed her eyes.