Silent Truth

by Sherrilyn Kenyon

  Faces started emerging on the two screens, older versions of the young men he’d known in an exclusive college in France where they’d formed this generation’s Council of Seven Angeli.

  Bardaric from the UK and Ostrovsky from Russia appeared first. A green light glowed above their screens. Chike’s blue-black face came to life next from somewhere in Africa. Who knew what city? Gray had started invading his inch-long bush of frizzled black hair.

  Renaldo’s side profile from Venezuela took shape on another screen before he angled around to push a droll look forward. A smart-mouth in college once told Renaldo his thick black lashes, high Latin cheekbones, and rosy lips were “so gay.” The student never made that mistake again. Just disappeared.

  A pair of black eyes, a wide nose, and skin the color of cocoa with tiny dots around one eye showed up next. Derain wore his Aboriginal genes proudly as a peacock when manipulating politics, but he was as Western-educated and groomed as the rest of them.

  Where was Stoke? Damn Antarctican had little to do beyond press for more green initiatives. No government, no wars, no ambition. Stoke’s oddly simple face with dull-witted blue eyes crystallized. He was looking down, fumbling with something, then sat up, hands on top of each other in front of him. That whole goofy shtick played well for someone who’d made his first kill at thirteen. The light above his screen finally brightened.

  Ostrovsky had assumed the role of mediator years ago and ran the meetings, keeping everyone on track. “Floor is open to discuss the general business first.”

  “We have—” Stoke started.

  Renaldo sent a withering look in Stoke’s direction. “No, no. Last time took half hour to hear your list. We know your continent will be affected most severely first. World pays no attention to Antarctica. Unless your Fratelli group has actually discovered something under all that ice and snow?”

  Stoke made a motion with his hand as if he were shoving papers aside and sat back, arms crossed. Half of the twelve Antarctican Fratelli were spread across the world as scholars, and the other half worked in many of the research facilities in Antarctica that corporations and study groups funded.

  Vestavia interjected. “Our global-warming phase is gaining strength. The warming effect is taking shape here. The ocean temperature off Maine has risen to a record high. Aquatic life is shifting. Higher numbers of Orca and schools of whale sharks have been sighted in the Gulf of Mexico than ever before. Even the most skeptical are starting to notice the changes.”

  “Here and in Asia, too,” Ostrovsky said, picking up the thread.

  Vestavia sipped his scotch while Derain and Ostrovsky listed environmental changes in Australia and Russia. Ostrovsky finished with, “Likewise, the ‘green’ initiative continues to grow at a rapid pace that will peak as we intended, well ahead of the next phase. We quickly approach the time when every decision, from corporations to governments to individual households, will be based on being green, which will only make our task that much easier to accomplish in this era.”

  “We better hit our timeline after what we’ve spent developing global warming and the green organizations,” Vestavia added. “If our ancestors hadn’t screwed up so badly—”

  Ostrovsky interjected. “Our ancestors had right idea but poor execution.”

  “They didn’t have our resources,” Stoke said in defense of their Angeli ancestors.

  Bardaric finally weighed in. “Oh, please. Even in the Dark Ages they should have anticipated the extent of the damage. The Black Plague was impossible to control. Look what happened with AIDS. We lost valuable assets we might not have if our fathers and grandfathers had strategized better.”

  Chike lifted his wide chin and spoke with a deep voice. “Perhaps they thought they could see the future, just as we believe we can. We have the most advanced team of physicists, environmentalists, scientists, doctors, engineers ever created, but no one can predict the outcome of what we have put into motion.”

  Bardaric scowled and leaned forward. “I disagree.”

  Vestavia let Bardaric and Chike go at it, just as they used to in college. Ostrovsky would rein them in soon before testosterone levels red-zoned. Everyone on this Council had been raised by a ruthless father, men who instilled in their sons the passion necessary to lead the world into the final Renaissance phase.

  Their fathers had not anticipated reaching the Renaissance prior to passing the baton of power over when all seven boys had celebrated their sixtieth birthday. Their fathers missed the ambitious glint in each son’s eyes and underestimated the downside of putting seven future Angeli together at a young age so they would bond quickly.

  Unwilling to wait until they were too old to plunder a new world order, this Council of Seven had used their collective genius to draft a plan of their own while in college. Their fathers all held strong positions in the Fratelli. Having been taught patience as a skill from the crib, the sons waited two years until their fathers traveled to a meeting in Switzerland where three Fratelli de il Sovrano representatives from each continent were expected to attend.

  No family members were allowed to join the fathers on those trips, which was a saving grace when everyone in the luxury hotel in the Swiss Alps became ill and died within a week.

  Including twenty-one international figures loyal to the Fratelli.

  The boys mourned their loss publicly and buried their fathers, then set about taking over their respective family businesses and following in their fathers’ political footsteps.

  All seven had found their way into a Fratelli group on their respective continents during the past ten years.

  Vestavia would never trust any of these six, but they all needed each other.

  “It’s time to move on.” Ostrovsky ended the battle between Bardaric and Chike too soon.

  Bardaric’s face had a deep flush Vestavia hoped signaled a stroke or heart attack.

  Leaning back and sniffing indignantly, Bardaric regained his composure immediately. “I’m proposing a mission on North American soil, which would benefit all of us. The Americans have not been sufficiently weakened.”

  “I have no problem with planning an attack,” Vestavia countered before Bardaric could say more. “But I think we should perform testing, just as we’ve been doing with the viral weapons.” He had to take care in arguing against this plan. No one expected North America, specifically the U.S., to fall easily, but the Council would not tolerate unchecked ambition.

  They’d back Bardaric’s plan to bring the U.S. to heel unless Vestavia could convince the Council to delay for testing. If he couldn’t win that vote today, he’d need Peter Wentworth’s support to force a second vote before the attack. But Peter wouldn’t lift a finger until he found out who had shot his daughter, and Gwen hadn’t regained consciousness yet.

  “I’ve conducted sufficient tests,” Bardaric started to argue.

  Vestavia cut him off. “On a city of any significant size? I’m sure we’d all like to see the results. If the destruction is not significant enough the first time there will be no reason to continue, and every mission carries a certain degree of risk of exposure for the Fratelli and us.”

  “I see your point,” Ostrovsky agreed.

  “The destruction will be significant. My people located a strain of Uranium in the Ukraine quite by accident that is more compact in density. When they tested a microscopic amount the results were not that significant, but the next test left the scientists awestruck. They prepared a bomb with a teaspoon-size amount of uranium X, or UX as we call it. That unit alone caused significant damage to the corner of a four-story building, as seen here.” In place of Bardaric’s face, an image appeared of a brick building that went from standing to having one-fourth of it fall as though an earthquake had struck. “But when the bombs were detonated in each corner in the presence of UX, the chain-reaction result compounded the damage by twenty times.”

  Shit. Vestavia maintained a calm face. He hadn’t actually believed the bastard, but the rest of t
he council did. “Impressive, but I’d still like to see a live demonstration since I’ll be the one handling the cleanup.”

  “That’s fair.” Stoke rarely spoke up, but he’d never liked Bardaric either.

  “Unless you have good reason to not demonstrate,” Ostrovsky said.

  Vestavia wanted to choke Ostrovsky for giving Bardaric any help.

  Bardaric’s sullen face reappeared on his screen. “We can’t waste the material on testing… we have a limited amount of the raw material. It appears to have been an anomaly of nature I doubt we’ll find again.”

  “How much do you have?” Renaldo asked.

  “Five linked bombs will take nine square blocks in any metropolitan city,” Bardaric answered, then went on to explain his plan for attacking one city first and making demands on behalf of a faux extremist group that couldn’t be connected to any country. “If the U.S. does not immediately follow specific instructions to pull out of occupied areas by the third day we hit the second city. In another three days we hit the third city. By then they will fold because the administration will not be able to give an acceptable reason to their citizens for why they shouldn’t comply.”

  “Once they do comply those who have demanded the troops be brought home will find the doors to the U.S. wide open for terrorists, who will make our job much easier,” Derain said enthusiastically. “How soon can we do this?”

  “I took the liberty of delivering materials to North America while I had the opportunity this past week.”

  Just as Vestavia had thought.

  Bardaric continued, his voice failing to hide the smug satisfaction he enjoyed. “I can have the units in place in twelve hours. That’s how simple and mobile this device is. I suggest we detonate before my prime minister meets with the U.S. president on Tuesday. Having two of the most powerful leaders together should facilitate the decision to act. I have chosen three locations I will relate to Vestavia once everything is in place.”

  Vestavia couldn’t stop the vote, but before it was called he made sure of one point. “I want to be the only person to authorize the detonation when it’s time.”

  “Wait a minute,” Bardaric shouted.

  “No!” Ostrovsky cut him off. “That is Vestavia’s right as this is a major mission on his continent. It is time we vote.”

  Once the vote was over, Vestavia walked over to the control panel to terminate all connections and activate a triple-cleaning measure on the computer. He poured another scotch and walked around a moment, thinking. Bardaric was proving more resourceful than expected and could destroy the U.S. with this one move.

  Not without a fight.

  But he’d underestimated Bardaric. What else would the Brit do if Gwen didn’t die?

  Vestavia settled into his chair and pressed a button on the marble table that raised a voice-activated communications panel he instructed to connect him via phone to Peter Wentworth’s secure line.

  After a six-minute wait, Peter came on the line sounding haggard. “I don’t have long. I just arrived for surgery.”

  “This won’t take long,” Vestavia said to reassure him. “You have to know Bardaric was behind Gwen’s shooting.”

  “That’s a dangerous charge to level.”

  Vestavia knew all too well. The council governed itself with a set of unbendable rules that would result in extreme measures when anyone made a false accusation of this nature. That was the only way they could function with a degree of cooperation. Vestavia rarely gambled unless the odds were in his favor, which he believed was the case.

  “I believe you and Gwen are in danger. Work with me and I’ll help you disappear before Bardaric terminates both of you.”

  “I can’t just leave,” Peter argued. “The Kore center holds all the genetic records to date for this continent and for the Council’s long-term projects.”

  “Either you and Gwen disappear willingly or on his terms, Peter. We’ve been friends a long time. I know you don’t take sides, but Bardaric is determined to prevent any more babies from our sperm. Figure a way to move the records and not leave a trail.”

  Vestavia disconnected the call. He closed his eyes, thinking. He had to find Bardaric’s stockpile of UX. To possess that would be like holding the key to everyone’s future.

  Hell, he might even let Bardaric take down one city if that was what Vestavia had to do to track the Brit’s people and find the trail to the source of the UX.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Hunter had said “if.”

  Abbie hated vague answers. She shed her shirt and jeans in the bedroom, which might as well be a prison cell since she was sure Hunter had set all kinds of alarms on the cabin to ensure she didn’t take off again.

  She walked into the three-sided glass shower to face hot water blasting from nine spigots.

  Nine showerheads, actually. Water came out of spigots where she grew up.

  The luxurious bathroom attached to her suite came right out of a designer magazine. The gleaming gold-and-pewter faucet shaped in a swooping design that could be a miniature version of an Olympic luge deserved to be signed and numbered.

  She should feel guilty taking snarky shots at the upscale appointments since she’d happily pilfered a brass basket filled with luxury bath products someone had left on the marble counter. Probably Borys.

  Bless Borys for delivering a bowl of jambalaya and rice with fresh bread and more hot chocolate to her bedroom a minute after she’d dragged herself up the stairs. The smell of Cajun cooking was gone. She’d all but licked the bowl clean.

  Then fell back on the bed and slept three hours.

  That had been the only thing stopping her from indulging in the shower sooner.

  Inside the shower stall, she squirted a washcloth full of a peach-smelling soap from a glass wall dispenser. The scalding water pounded stress and anxiety from her muscles while she gingerly scrubbed grit from her scratches.

  Every inch of her ached from the fall.

  But her mother could be in more pain and had worse problems, so enough whining.

  Think more. Complain less. Even if no one could hear her thoughts.

  Her next move hung on Hunter’s if.

  If he got the answer he wanted from headquarters—wherever that was—then he could possibly help her.

  Not many options when she was imprisoned on a mountain with no cell phone, no Internet access, no money, no car…

  She did think Hunter believed her when she’d said he needed her in person to gain entry to the Kore center database.

  One point in her favor.

  If she was dealing with law enforcement. Another stinking if.

  Why hadn’t Hunter shown her a badge or ID of some sort? She could ask, but he would have produced one by now if he intended to do so. Maybe he was deep undercover or doing something where he couldn’t give his official ID. He could be with any agency from the cops to the FBI to the CIA to national security divisions she’d never heard of.

  Had to be layers upon layers of new law enforcement operations in all areas of government these days that no one knew about.

  But Hunter was obviously wealthy, or relying on someone who was, for him to have access to private jets and secluded mountain homes.

  He’d been at the Wentworth party. People recognized him. Did they know he was some kind of James Bond guy?

  Well, crap. She stopped washing and let the water batter her head. Maybe that would shake loose a few cramped brain cells.

  This was the second time she’d spent a night at Hunter’s place and still didn’t know the man’s last name.

  She growled at yet more gray areas. For now, she’d have to go with believing Hunter was in law enforcement until she had reason to doubt him.

  I hate the mountains. And Hunter.

  She wouldn’t be hurt right now if he hadn’t brought her to a place with no roads and stuck in the middle of a booby-trapped field and failed to give her phone access and…

  But he’d also flown her away f
rom danger. He had held her when she’d been terrified last night and he had soothed her this morning. He’d only yelled at her out on the ridge because he thought she’d been hurt.

  And he hadn’t liked that one bit.

  Didn’t like to worry about someone.

  Or the fact that he’d been turned on. That searing kiss and erection were undeniable evidence. Good thing she didn’t have body parts that could poke out when she was aroused. If she did he’d have figured out just how bad she had the screaming hots for him every time his internal pendulum swung toward being sweet and caught her by surprise.

  One minute he snarled at her until she wanted to go for his throat, then he’d do something completely unexpected, like hold her or kiss her.

  Sort of ruined that I’m-cold-as-an-iceberg attitude he wanted to project.

  She smiled.

  Did others realize that underneath all that arrogance and do-it-my-way attitude Hunter had a heart? If she’d only known him as a guest at the Wentworth party and never met him six years ago or spent the last twenty-four hours around him, she’d have written Hunter off as another rich uncaring jerk.

  But he’d listened to her when she begged him to not hand her over to WITSEC when dumping her in someone else’s lap would have been easier for him. He hadn’t demanded she tell him the last key to getting inside the Kore center records. Yet.

  That actually surprised her and earned him another high mark when she knew he could have browbeaten her.

  But Hunter had secrets. Lots of them. Like what he was doing at the Wentworth party.

  He knew the Latin security guy at the Wentworth estate. A teammate? And if she was going to believe him, she had to accept that keeping her here at the cabin was putting Hunter at risk.

  Would they really send assassins out to get him if he didn’t convince them he could get into Kore? Or if they found out she was with Hunter? Again, who were they?