by Ronie Kendig
Braun shifted in her creaking seat back in Maryland. “Chopper will take you from El Gorah to the USS Mount Whitney. You’ll have their sophisticated instruments at your disposal, and Mr. Purcell will run a small command center from that location. The team will then launch from the ship at 0300, infil to the coordinates he provides.” She nodded. “Good luck. And good hunting.”
THIRTY
USS MOUNT WHITNEY, SOUTH ATLANTIC OCEAN
The ocean was a fickle mistress. She could lull his senses to sleep with her beauty, expanse, and openness. And she could thrash a ship to slivers in a rage. But there was nowhere Leif liked better than riding her waves. Canyon loved to surf, and their brother Range had gone Coast Guard, so love of the water ran in the Metcalfe veins.
Delivered to the Blue Ridge–class command ship of the United States Navy by a Chinook, the team had first met with the captain of the boat before being sent belowdecks to wait for their briefing. “The Voice of the Sea,” as she was called by her crew, was also the flagship of the Sixth Fleet. With a complement of one hundred fifty enlisted personnel, twelve officers, and one hundred fifty Civilian Mariners from Military Sealift Command, the Mount Whitney had been one of the first ships to accommodate women on board.
Mercy cornered Leif as they waited in a conference room. “So, it seems Ororo is more a storm than ever now.”
Leif gritted his teeth, deducing she had some other point to make. “What?”
“Well,” she said, tucking her dark hair behind her ear, “I’m just wondering—Peychinovich is some kind of seriously messed-up villain, but . . . this whole thing with him hurting the child? It seems . . . not right for him. All those years he provided for Iskra—”
“And raped.”
“Okay, that . . .” Mercy blanched. “Besides that”—she shook her head—“Peychinovich is all about appearances. Pride and arrogance are his hallmarks—millions poured into renovating that estate. His guards drive very nice rides, and so on.”
“Iskra said as much. So . . . why? Why hurt the kid?” His mind raced.
“I think he had reason to believe Viorica wasn’t coming back.”
“She wouldn’t leave her daughter there.”
Mercy nodded, lips pursed. “I think I agree, but does Peychinovich know that? Or is he just seeing Viorica race around the globe with a handsome American operative?”
His thoughts hammered. “He thinks I’ve turned her. No wonder he sent that video. But . . . why just hurt her? I’d think he’d make it retaliatory—kill the girl.”
“Because she’s his child.”
“Think that matters to an animal like him?”
Mercy shrugged. “I have no answers there. Just lots of ques—”
“Ms. Maddox?”
Mercy pivoted toward the hatch, where a seaman waited.
“You’re requested abovedeck, ma’am.”
Leif stood.
“Just Ms. Maddox,” the seaman clarified, then added, “Vice Admiral Manche insists, sir. Said you could take it up with Director Iliescu later.”
“I will.” Leif didn’t like his team being called up by officers on a ship. “As long as Vice Admiral Manche recognizes he has no authority over my team.”
“He does.” The seaman skipped his gaze to Mercy, motioning her into the passage. “Ma’am.”
“Being fought over,” Mercy said with a smirk. “How medieval. You’re adorable.” She wrinkled her nose. But he saw her nerves and uncertainty at being called out.
* * *
Mercy followed the seaman out of the belly of the beast to a smaller, cozier series of conference rooms huddled in dim lighting. Activity thrummed beyond the glass wall in a communications hub.
Eat your heart out, Barc.
“Miss Maddox,” a deep voice boomed behind her.
She spun and took in the uniformed officer addressing her. Eyed his name tape. “Admiral Manche.”
He nodded to a seat as he closed the door. “Sorry for the surreptitious methods, but I wanted to talk with you alone.”
“About?”
He smiled as he settled at the table—not in a chair, but by parking his hip on the edge. “The Bahamas.”
What about it? She didn’t detect malicious intent. “Is this—”
“Good game of beach volleyball with your team,” he said, arms folded. “You’re a strong spiker.”
“Yeah, this isn’t creepy at all.”
“Amaretto sour for you. Martini for your . . . guest.”
“I didn’t have a—” Mercy snapped her mouth shut, recalling the man she’d had drinks with. Andrew. Her pulse skipped a beat.
“I see we understand each other.”
“Quite the contrary,” she said calmly, ready to rip the anonymous off Andrew’s cover. “Is this where you warn me to keep my nose out of your business?”
“American business,” he corrected. “You’ve seized on an asset we’ve been able to move around very easily for years . . . until you, like a rabid dog, bit the bone.”
“Bit?” she repeated, then pursed her lips. “You haven’t seen my bite yet.” Nothing made her angrier than threats, veiled or direct.
“Mercy Maddox, Lara Milton, Mina Lauren . . .”
Her breathing shallowed. Nobody knew those names save Dru. Was he in on this? It didn’t matter. She had a sudden and vicious hatred for Manche. She also hated the next name about to leap out of his mouth and into the open. But what if she was wrong? She couldn’t show her hand if—
“Ar—”
“What do you want?”
He let her question linger for several long seconds that had her heart pounding the warning drums of the past. “You’re tenacious,” he said, “but my asset is more so. That name you didn’t want me to speak?” His eyebrow arched. “Remember that.”
Indignation scampered up her spine. How had she slipped up? What mistake had given her away? “I remember a lot of things.” She tossed her own threat onto the sparring mat.
Manche flashed his palms. “To be clear, we intend you no harm, Miss Maddox. But you are poised to help us in a profound way.”
“Hel—” The word caught at the back of her throat as she recoiled. “I will not work against my team.”
“I wouldn’t dream of asking you to,” he said. “No, what we want is for you to pursue a name. You’re intelligent and determined. We’re confident in what you’ll find. It’ll help you. It will even help Miss Todorova, though she may argue that viciously.”
Viorica? Was he kidding? “And you’d like that—for me to help her?” she asked, nearly laughing. “You might know a lot about me, but you don’t know me.”
“Miss Todorova needs help, whether or not she would agree,” Manche said frankly. “Right now, it’s important that she get the help.”
“Then help her.”
“That”—he seemed remorseful—“we cannot do.”
This made no sense. Why would they help a Bulgarian operative? “Your asset.” She snorted a laugh. “You’re giving me this information so I’ll leave him alone.”
The vice admiral held her gaze, his gold eyes sharp.
“One condition.”
“You believe you’re in the position to negotiate?”
“No,” Mercy said, “not negotiate. Understand.”
His eyebrow quirked, and she took it as a good sign.
“Tell me this—this asset, is he on our side?” If she wasn’t betraying her team, would she betray Iliescu by pursuing this tip? She couldn’t live with herself if that happened.
Another annoying smile. Which meant yes. Didn’t it? “What side is that?”
Ah. “Clever.” Another stab at the fact that he knew her true identity. This was going to drive her mad. But only because she knew he wouldn’t divulge anything. Fine. “Sorry, were you going to give me a name?”
Now a smirk. She really didn’t like this admiral. “Valery Kuznetsov.”
Mercy frowned. “One of the twins.”
He m
oved to the door. “Good day, Miss Maddox. We have work to do now.” He left without another word.
Why on earth would he tell her to look into Kuznetsov? What had she missed? Mercy looked through the smoky glass to the bustling communications room—and she saw a face staring back. His face! Andrew! She hauled in a breath. He drifted out of the room.
No, not the room. A reflection. From behind!
Mercy whirled to see him slip down the gangway. She darted out of the room and pivoted around the corner. And slammed into the seaman who’d escorted her.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, squaring his stance. “Restricted area.”
She thumped his chest in frustration, then realized what she’d done. “Sorry.” She patted his chest in apology. Down the gangway, two sailors stood guard in front of a thick door, weapons held capably. Security. Okay, but what were they guarding?
Better yet—why were they protecting him? Who was he that he’d have an admiral’s ear and protection? And what did he know about Viorica or Kuznetsov? Her gaze hit a camera mounted in the corner of the passage, just above the door.
Perf. Cyberocity really did love her.
“Ma’am,” the seaman said, his voice edgier.
Mercy lifted her hands. “Just leaving.”
“There a problem?”
She turned to find Leif and the team entering the passage, then gave the seaman a smile. “None at all.” Amazing how a hackable camera feed made her so lighthearted.
“Briefing,” Leif said, indicating the very room the asset had escaped into. Hope leapt anew as they were granted access. She hurried in, scanning the dimmed interior, quickly realizing it was the hub beyond the glass wall where the admiral had confronted her. Techs speaking into comms and hovering over light boards, illuminated Plexiglas wall maps visible from both sides, and row upon row of computer terminals.
But where had the asset gone?
THIRTY-ONE
USS MOUNT WHITNEY, SOUTH ATLANTIC OCEAN
Leif rounded the light table, studying the topographical map of the African coast and the South Atlantic Ocean. An animated overlay came to life, rolling a radar image over the area.
“In the time since you departed El Gorah, we’ve made some determinations,” a uniform said as he waded around the team and stood at the head of the table. A captain. Name plate: Aznar.
Leif went rigid.
Aznar. Aznar reported to Reimer. Didn’t he?
Why couldn’t he remember? He never forgot. Only then did he realize Iliescu had never clarified the connection. But this man had been feeding them information from the beginning.
“The entity known as ArC is working in the region to destabilize Angola and Botswana,” Aznar said.
“We already knew this. You have anything new or actionable?” Leif asked.
Aznar’s face twitched. “We added the information you’ve gleaned and the efforts you’ve made to what we’ve already seen and projected. Landlocked Botswana is significant. With a population of just over two million, it’s one of the most sparsely populated countries. Only ten percent of the population lives in Gaborone, the capital and largest city. In the last fifty years, it’s gone from one of the poorest countries in the world to one of the richest in Africa, perhaps the fourth-largest economy on the continent. Mining, cattle, and tourism dominate. It has a relatively high standard of living and the highest Human Development Index of continental sub-Saharan Africa. That makes it a problem, especially for ArC, who is trying to buy South Africa’s loyalty by offering funds to provide food and potable water to the region, granted only when they comply.”
“What’s the end game?” Lawe asked.
Aznar glanced at his device, made a few clicks, then nodded to the wall, where the face of a lanky, dark-skinned man appeared. “This is Bandile Botha, who—”
“Hold up,” Leif said. “As in the Botha Revolution?”
Aznar nodded. “Botha rose swiftly to power across the eastern half of South Africa. Though officially he holds no recognized office, assets on the ground confirm that Mozambique, Zimbabwe, and Zambia are heavily under his influence. They refer to him as the ‘governor.’ He has had tremendous luck, too, swaying key UN members to vote in his favor.”
“These countries going under?” Culver asked.
“Negative. In fact, Botha is active in advocating for his governorates. It looks good on the surface, but with the addition of Angola and Botswana”—he pointed to the bottom tip of the continent—“ArC will be one large step closer to controlling one of the most pivotal ports in the region.”
“Cape Town.” Leif crossed his arms and tucked his hands in his armpits.
“Exactly.” Aznar motioned to the weather radar overlay. “We’ve isolated what appears to be two separate focal points to the unexpected storms.”
“Okay,” Leif said, confused. “What’s the connection between Botha and the storms? How do we even know he’s part of that? I mean—he’s not in power in Burma or Egypt.”
“Correct. But what we have repeatedly seen is heavy influence by individuals who are key to locations or countries. Botha has made or received visits from this man, Alessio Greco.”
Leif touched his fingertips together. “Italian.” His gaze hit Iskra, thinking of another Italian.
“A powerful man. He served their executive branch as the president of the Council of the Ministers and is now the ambassador to the UN and good friend of Ciro Veratti, the prime minister.”
Leif and Iskra shared a long glance, but neither said anything.
“Any other questions?” Aznar sniped. “Or can I proceed?”
Leif indicated for him to go on.
“Since Botswana is flat, they’re battling high winds and tornadic activity. Angola is a coastal country, so its storm is developing into a land-based hurricane. Our problem is that I can’t send you in.”
Leif blinked. “Come again?”
“The storms.” Aznar nodded to the illuminated map at their fingertips. “The waters off Angola are too treacherous to take the ship in.”
“Which means choppers are out, as well,” Culver noted.
“Roger. Winds are too high. We already have reported sightings of tornadic activity on the ground,” Aznar explained, flipping around to another screen that held footage. “This storm is unprecedented. High winds alone make it too dangerous. At this rate, we’ll be dealing with a land-based hurricane by 0600. I won’t put my sailors at unnecessary risk.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “You’ll have to wait it out. When this dies down, I’ll send you in with an escort.”
“Wait it out?” Saito asked.
“Our mission is to stop it,” Leif said. “We wait it out, and there’ll be nothing left.”
“Which is exactly what ArC wants,” Lawe agreed. “We have to go—now.”
“Fighting against the storm will cost time,” Culver said. “Even if we made land, we couldn’t interdict in both countries. We’re going to lose one.”
“Not if we split up.” Devine shouldered closer, face intent. “Split us up. Two teams. Half to Angola, the rest to Botswana.”
“I don’t think you’re hearing me,” Aznar growled.
“Agreed.” Leif focused on the captain. “Give me a boat—”
“Excuse me?”
“Give us a boat,” Leif repeated. “Half will hit Angola, try to stop this storm before it rips apart the coastal villages. The rest will go inland to Botswana to interdict there. We’ll do it on our own. No cost to your sailors.”
Aznar glowered.
“Unless you have a reason you don’t want this resolved, Captain Aznar.” Something in Leif begged the captain to argue.
“Are you accusing me—”
Leif tapped the table. “When I was attached to the SEALs, we conducted noncompliant maritime interdiction ops.” When the captain didn’t argue, he went on. “Do you have a Zodiac CZ7 or other RIB?” A rigid-hull inflatable boat would be perfect, especially a CZ7 wave buster. Costly, but effective.
“I’m offering a solution at no cost to you or yours.”
“Unless you lose the SWCC trying to get in there.”
“Take it out of our pay.” Leif had a crush on special warfare combatant-crafts. Maybe he’d lose it intentionally . . . have it turn up back home. Magically.
“You’ve had a burr in your saddle since you walked in here, son. Want to explain why?”
“Reimer.”
Aznar didn’t flinch. “Sorry?”
So maybe Leif had it wrong. But why did he remember Aznar, and why was there a tenuous connection with Reimer in his mind? “Look.” Leif bypassed that conundrum. “The deputy director and DIA sent us out here with orders to get this done. To interdict where you can’t as an official arm of the United States military. You can’t go in and dirty your hands.” He shrugged. “We get that. But that’s what we’re here to do.”
“Hooah,” Lawe grunted.
“I’ll even call it in for you.”
Challenge set.
“Your butts, not mine,” Aznar finally grumbled.
“Done.” Leif weighed which of his team were the best swimmers in case the water rejected their approach to the coastline. “Culver and Saito with me to Angola.”
Lawe twitched, used to being with Leif as first.
“I need strong swimmers, Lawe,” Leif said.
“I can swim.”
“Dog paddling doesn’t count,” Culver said, eliciting a scowl from the big guy.
“Culver and I were SEALs,” Leif explained. “I need that experience.”
“And Saito?”
“Smaller, lighter to carry when he passes out in the water,” Culver snarked.
Interbranch rivalry never ended. Even when you were combat brothers.
“So that leaves me babysitting two chicks and an Arab.”
Lawe really hadn’t learned much.
“Devine, you have my permission to leave him behind when he gets tired,” Leif said.
“With or without an extra hole or two?” Devine asked.
“Imagine how I feel,” Baddar put in, his accent thick but English clean, “having to help the Army Ranger come out alive.” He clicked his tongue. “Please. Be sure to stay alive. It will look bad on my record if you die. It is hard for an Arab to gain trust in America, and that will not help.”