by Ronie Kendig
“What happened?”
“Wrenched it. The rain and ruts—” She shook her head.
Saito crouched beside her while she steadied herself using a thin tree. He cupped her heel and then rotated it. She strangled a cry.
Cracks and booms from the sky rattled the ground.
“Go,” Iskra said. “I’ll catch up.”
Leif eyed the device strapped to his wrist. “Just another one-point—”
“Go,” she growled. “Stop that storm!” She waved them on.
Leif hesitated, knowing he should get moving. They had to. But leaving Iskra . . .
“I’ll stay with her, Chief,” Saito said. “Get her some painkillers and tape, then we’ll catch up.”
Wariness crowded his mission focus.
A sound carried on the stinging wind, stilling Leif. He scanned the area, confused. Had he—
“I heard it, too,” Culver said, ear trained to the air. “Gunfire.”
Leif pivoted. “But . . . where?”
“And who?”
Only one possibility. “ArC operatives.” He nailed his gaze on that clear patch of sky. As if someone had forgotten to paint a spot on the canvas. “Defending the device.”
“From who? Because they sure ain’t shooting at us.” Culver looked worried.
“Good question.”
Daggers of lightning shot out of the storm.
“Go.” Iskra straightened, shuffled toward him. “Go! Stop it. You have to.”
Leif twisted around and nodded to Culver. Then burst into action. Even as he let his feet carry him away, his mind stayed with her. Worried she’d get hurt without his protection. But thousands were depending on them stopping the device. Eager to confront Peychinovich, he hoped that was who he was headed toward.
Wind battered them as they ran. Made them feel like they were running uphill during a tornado. Which . . . they were.
A gust caught Culver. Yanked him backward. The sight reminded Leif of football dummies in high school. One man against an entire mechanical line pushing him away from the goal. Fighting his progress. Preventing a touchdown.
He hadn’t been named homecoming king just for his good looks.
He turned into the threat, entrenching his toes in the sodden earth.
Crack. Crack-crack.
Silvery strands of light skewered the sky. His hair stood on end, the electricity in the air unlike anything he’d ever encountered.
Pop pop! Pop! Pop-pop-pop!
Gunfire to his right. He veered that way. The sound was closer, yet sounded farther away because of the wind’s howl.
“There.” Culver pointed to a knoll. Then—he flipped up into the air. Slid a dozen feet.
Leif scurried back, digging in. Ducked against the torrential rain. He snagged Culver’s drag strap and helped him find his feet.
They trudged together up the hill. Went flat, the automatic result when Mother Nature provided a reprieve. Leif peered through the binoculars, not because of distance but because of the elements.
Three trucks. Men braced on this side of them and shooting at someone the vehicles blocked from view. Who were they fighting? He tried to assess the position of the area and the trucks. Realized fighting the storm had pushed them off the direct track they’d plotted.
“Are the trucks good guys or bad guys?” Culver asked.
“Unknown. Can’t tell if they’re defending themselves or the device.”
“Or both.” Culver nodded. “Check your eleven.”
Four dark shapes—stealthy, experienced fighters—were closing in. Elite, judging by their movements. Leif scanned back. The shooters by the truck hadn’t seen the foursome. They were too focused on their twelve.
Leif attempted to zoom in more. No-go. The truck had a dozen or so guys ducked behind it. He tried to see their weapons, but there were too many shadows from the thick clouds. He turned back to the foursome. Black tactical, if the blurred-by-the-rain image was right. Which he couldn’t guarantee.
The leader lifted his left arm. Gave signals. Straight. Two klicks. Stay low.
And how did Leif know that? The arm . . .
Shouts. Screams. A voice—a familiar timbre. He could hear it, but he couldn’t make out words. His hearing was plugged. A shape loomed over him. A hand on his chest, holding him down. Shouts. Being defended. Protected. “Remember,” the voice growled around a laugh, “I will—”
“—always rise.”
“Come again?” Culver frowned.
Leif shrugged away the memories. “You take the four.”
“Leaving you to handle a dozen fighters.” Culver pursed his lips. “Either stupid or brave.”
“Both. Did you forget?” Using his splinted arm for a stabilizer, Leif targeted the shooters behind the truck. “We’re heroes.”
THIRTY-THREE
USS MOUNT WHITNEY, SOUTH ATLANTIC OCEAN
Unable to forget the raging river devouring Gaborone and its people and feeling the full brunt of their mission failure in the fatality of three hundred and counting, Mercy had pushed herself into the thing she knew best: cyberocity. The team had destroyed the orb, the storm clouds had dissipated, but they’d been too late to stave off the raging rivers. Though they had stunted the storm’s full force, the team had barely escaped a ground-to-air assault, returning to the Mount Whitney with a bullet-riddled fuselage.
The efforts to evacuate the city in Botswana were colossal, occupying the Mount Whitney’s sailors and crew. Mercy had spent the last hour in the briefing room with Peyton and Lawe, who’d suddenly gotten real cozy with each other. Facing a catastrophe sort of put things in perspective, she guessed.
But Mercy just needed air. And strong Wi-Fi. She’d find out about Valery Kuznetsov if it killed her. So far, she’d unearthed the obvious—twin to Vasily, worked for Peychinovich as CEO of—ha, imagine that—Viorica Steel out of Nizhny Novgorod in Russia’s Volga District.
Okay, nothing mind-blowing there. So . . . parents?
The twins were born to Edik and Ilia Kuznetsov forty-one years ago. Valery had served in the Russian army, rising through the ranks. Shortly after the death of his parents, he left the army. Found his way into the good graces of one Hristoff Peychinovich. No pictures, since he was Russian army. Too much to track.
So maybe Vasily’s history would be more forthcoming. A scholar of the sciences. Went to university, then found his way to Greece. “Ah yes,” Mercy murmured as her eyes hit a familiar location. “Aperióristos Labs. Fancy that.”
Viorica had been on Vasily’s boat. So, yeah, she definitely got the intel on the Book of the Wars from him. Probably. Could that be proven? He had an impeccable record so far, but how had he known about the book? Or had he? Had Viorica just shown up with it?
She’d check Vasily’s employee record. Another firewall to breach. She always had loved Greece. It was easy work, diving into their system and doing a search for all things Kuznetsov. A string of emails. Preserved, no doubt, because of his position at the company and the sensitive things he worked on. Which really meant nothing to Mercy. Languages. Artifacts.
She scanned his emails, searching subject lines. Thousands. “Boring,” she said, holding the down arrow for . . . ever.
Baddar appeared with a tray of chips, hummus, and fruit.
“You really are cruel, eating in front of me,” she taunted.
“I have already had my meal. This is for you. In case . . .” He nudged the plate toward her. And there he was, his gorgeous Afghan self, worrying over her again. Charming.
Lawe hovered behind Baddar and clapped his shoulder. “Aww, look at that. The big fierce commando hand-delivers food to the feisty intel analyst.” He playfully smacked Baddar’s face. “Next time, bring me some grub, Baddy. Remember, I saved your butt.”
Baddar gave a nervous laugh, his face reddening. “I think it was Runt who saved me.”
Mercy had no idea what to do with that. It was easy to forget the gentle, softhearted Baddar Amir Nawabi had o
nce been an Afghan commando. A very good and effective one, from what she’d heard. Having his attention directed at her . . .
His rich eyes came back to hers, and he gave her a shy, almost sheepish grin. Then he nudged her laptop. “Anything yet?”
Thankful for the out, she swung her attention to the intel. “If only this were as simple as TV shows and movies, with one good twin and one evil.”
“The one who work for the Russian—he is good?”
“Well, I wouldn’t call Valery bad, even though he worked for that piece of dirt,” she said. “His record seems clean—as in redacted or erased—so I shifted to his brother. That’s where I am now. Vasily used to work at the lab in Greece where the Book of the Wars was held.”
To avoid meeting those inviting, caring eyes again, she clicked on files. Found a picture. “Oh.” The twins on a yacht. One held a bottle of champagne. They were celebrating something. “‘Double, double toil and trouble,’” she murmured.
Baddar leaned in, and Mercy . . . well, it was hard to pay attention to intel with smooth olive skin sliding into her view. She was a sucker for the darker tones. Like Ram. But Baddar was a little more rough-edged, despite his tender personality. And had a stronger jaw. A perpetual smile that, if she were truthful, penetrated her heart.
“When was this—” His gaze rammed into hers.
Mercy started but couldn’t move. Refused to flinch. Yes, she’d been staring. Yes, he now knew. No, she wouldn’t act guilty or pull away. By all the powers of the universe, she wasn’t sure she cared anymore. His eyes went crazy-soft. His smile caressed her, somehow told her it was okay.
What was okay?
Lawe cleared his throat—loud. Long. Then did it again.
Peyton slapped his chest. “Leave them alone.”
“Just trying to help them past this awkward silence. Looks painful.”
Mercy dropped her head, smiling.
Baddar touched her shoulder in solidarity, then nodded to the picture. “When was this taken?”
“Right. Uh.” She eased forward, her face near his. And man, he smelled good, too. The date, Mercy. The date. “Five years ago. Why?”
“Look what he is holding,” Baddar said quietly.
Mercy squinted at Valery, hand upheld. She drew up straight. “A baby rattle.”
It hit her brain like Thor’s hammer. She sucked in a breath. Clicked back over to the email.
“What is it?” Baddar asked.
“I think . . .” She scrolled, killing the down arrow again in her attempt to hurry. Then it flashed past. “Vasily was a scientist, working with artifacts. Pottery, scrolls, manuscripts. Yet . . .” More scrolling. C’mon, c’mon. Where had it gone? “There!” She slid the trackball back up a few lines. And smiled. “Right under my nose.”
Her mind ricocheted off the subject line as she clicked open the file labeled WILD ROSE.
* * *
ANGOLAN COAST
Dark clouds birthed twisters like nobody’s business, dropping them right between Leif and Culver and that confrontation. So much for getting involved in the fight.
Culver grabbed his shoulder. Tugged him.
The device.
Staying low to the ground in a crouch-run made it easier to avoid most of the higher wind. More than once, it tossed them back a dozen feet. Futility coursed through Leif, staring through his goggles at the clearing that was less than a half klick away. Yet despite their every effort, they couldn’t make it.
Lightning corkscrewed and daggered out of the clearing. Streaked across the sky. Stabbed the land. As Leif ran, he could’ve sworn a freight train was coming at him. Then he remembered. He threw himself into the muck. Covered his head and prayed like he’d never prayed before. Tornados were said to mimic the sound of freight trains. Incoming!
Debris whipped and pitched, stinging his head and hands. This was hopeless. Once the tumult dropped a degree, he glanced at the clearing. Two more twisters danced around the edge. Entire huts swirled in the air. A truck pitched into an intact wall, spitting shards in every direction.
There was no hope. How was he supposed to get through that?
* * *
“Shots are closer,” Iskra noted as she struggled toward the opening in the sky. The painkillers had worked, but minimally—the brace helped more.
“Yeah,” Saito said slowly, his weapon coming around in front of him.
Then the familiar rat-a-tat of automatic rounds peppered the air. Very near. Instinct pushed Iskra down, the rain-soaked dirt suctioning her knee.
Saito went for cover, too, listening. He keyed his comms. “Beta Actual, come in.”
But the only sound to reach them was the progressive closing-in of gunfire. What they were shooting at, she couldn’t tell. The storm’s surge had increased, so Leif probably hadn’t yet reached the device.
Like a determined predator, wind ripped across the open plain toward them. Dark clouds covered the entire area, dropping dozens of funnels to the earth. Like a demon unleashing her spawn.
Iskra watched, stricken. Terrified.
A crackling screech buzzed in her ear. She ducked and touched her comms piece. Looked to Saito, who was doing the same. Whispering something.
Her heart skipped a beat. No, he wasn’t whispering. He was shouting. Less than a foot away from her. And she couldn’t hear his words.
Then his eyes widened, looking over her shoulder. He swung around, then slammed backward. The ground rushed up at Iskra.
* * *
Culver’s face was muddied and streaked with rain rivulets. Determination gouged his expression. He motioned behind them. Across the open field, back where they’d left Iskra and Saito, a lanky man strode from a vehicle. Bent and jerked someone from the ground.
Leif’s heart kick-started. Iskra!
He jolted forward, but Culver caught him. Held him. Forced him to watch helplessly as the man carried her limp body to the vehicle.
Roaring, Leif bucked. Though he knew it was right for his buddy to hold him back, Leif couldn’t just stay here. “No!” The storm ate his words. “Nooo!”
Culver hauled him back. Slammed him to the ground. Put a knee in his chest. He was shouting, but the winds deprived his words of their power. There was enough in his expression, though, that Leif knew they had no time to go back. The storm was their priority.
Fury shoved him free of Culver’s hold. He staggered, throwing one more glance at the now-empty plain. Whoever had come for her—it meant they were blown. The team was being monitored or had been recognized. It meant they may have already lost.
Bolts of lightning shot out of the opening.
They had to try. They had to. No choice. Even if they had to low-crawl. Then he’d find Peychinovich. Make him hurt. A lot.
Teeth gritted, he prostrated himself like an offering to a tempestuous god. Weapon guard resting over his firing arm—which throbbed like nobody’s business—he low-crawled, pushing his arms ahead and then sliding his firing leg forward. Pull with his good arm. Push with his legs. Sliding over the snot-like terrain. Eyes on the lightning storm. On the only place that provided both light and darkness. Life and death.
Halfway there, he grew more intent, numb to the pain. Determined to do this. He’d survive. Then he’d take out his fury on Peychinovich. He’d save Iskra and her daughter. He wouldn’t fail her.
Something sailed toward them.
Leif balked, realizing what flew through the air. A body. Swirling above them. A sickening epiphany hit him—the tornado had snatched this man into its chaos and spit him out. The storm had a will of its own.
Static hissed and crackled in a dome-like arch forty-five meters ahead, creating a literal line in the sand where the storm raged outside and peace reigned inside.
“Chief, this is base, come in,” came Cell’s voice through the comms.
“Go ahead,” Leif shouted, covering his open ear.
“We have an intermittent signal fifty yards from your position. It’s growing i
n intensity. They’ve started evacuations of the city, but Aznar’s screaming about you being too slow. We’re pretty sure the device is in there.”
He’d kinda figured that out. “Heading in.” Leif scurried forward. Got his feet under him and surged at the calm spot with Culver.
They broke through the barrier. The enormous struggle to even move instantly evaporated. They stumbled in, nearly falling. Tripped, no longer needing the power of a Goliath to move a muscle.
As he righted himself, Leif noted a strange tickling along his arm. His face. Neck. He held out his arm, fascinated by the electricity zapping along the hairs. He looked at Culver, who was just as amazed.
A bolt streaked between them. Hot. Searing. He smelled something burning and yelped. The hair on his body was singeing.
“Look!” Culver shouted.
Freaked, Leif glanced at the center of the clearing, where the orb lay on a stone foundation. But it wasn’t the orb Culver was indicating—it was the duo on the opposite side. A third guy in the center, holding a weapon Leif didn’t recognize, wore a heavy jacket. A rubber jacket. As if—
“The middle—take him down!” Leif ordered. The only reason he would wear a rubber jacket was if he knew what he’d face at the center. He had to be ArC’s man.
Culver fired a short burst.
Which somehow drew the currents from the orb. They converged and snapped at him. Shot him backward out of the bubble.
On the far side, the two men were down. One rose to a knee, but his buddy was laid out.
The man in the rubber jacket raised a hand. “Stop shooting,” he shouted, “or you’ll kill us all.”
“He’s lying,” the kneeling man countered. “We came here to stop him—he’s controlling it.”
Leif’s gaze bounced to Rubber Jacket, who was extending something toward the device. “No. Hands!” He took aim.
“That is stupid,” Rubber Jacket growled, nodding at the body. “Thought you would’ve figured that out.”
Leif had no idea if they’d killed a good guy or a bad one.
What’s the call?
Hanged if he knew. Rubber Jacket had come prepared. Stood closest to the device. Survivor guy had a dead buddy. Leif tightened his lips, frustrated. Only a mind reader could call this.