by Ronie Kendig
“Guess he likes religion,” Lawe said. “All of them. Doesn’t want to anger any of them.”
“Or,” Iskra said quietly, “he might have this for its artistic merit or cultural pride.” She shrugged. “Maybe it was a gift or a souvenir.”
Leif had to admit she could be right. Yet . . . “No. It’s more.”
“Runt.” Spill had returned. “Got a call from HQ. Business owner on the other side of the city saw Fuji in his café a couple days back. Has footage we can check. Wanna head over and see what he’s got?”
Leif hesitated. Glanced at his team.
“I’d like to stay.” Devine came toward him. “I was hoping to talk more with Ghillie. He mentioned a nest on the roof.”
“We’ll hold it down while you’re gone,” Lawe said.
Leif hadn’t been looking for permission, but that was exactly what they’d given him. Ironically, Lawe probably just wanted to stick around RTB to make sure Ghillie kept his nose in his own business, not in Devine’s. Leif’s hesitation was more about splitting up Reaper. Being away from his team. Which meant he couldn’t protect them.
But they’d be safe with RTB.
***
There was nothing as annoying as a piggyback. That heat of irritation flashed through Mercy when she noted the new user surfing her cybertrail.
Laptop hooked up to Kurofuji’s via a splitter, Mercy ran a dummy program over her real work to conceal her digging, but it seemed the so-called Jeeves wasn’t your typical systems analyst. Since she and Cell had sat down at Fuji’s system, the Brit had been too attentive. And chatty. But she started noting a pattern: when she went quiet, so did he. When her keys were clacking maniacally, so were his. Tracking her movement.
Game on, Jeeves.
“Heard you work for the CIA,” he said.
In her periphery, Mercy noted that though Cell didn’t lift his head, his gaze drifted to hers. He was either worried about or just as annoyed by the chatty contractor. Their affiliation with the CIA wasn’t openly known. The Brit was guessing.
“So . . . Jeeves.” She sat back, fingers on the keyboard, and squinted at him. “You really tolerate that nickname? Isn’t it a bit . . . I don’t know, degrading?” She kept working, noting her intent to incite worked.
“Around here, you don’t get to choose your call sign.”
“Shame,” Mercy murmured. “I sure would.” But then she recalled the new name Barc had assigned her. In a way, she had assigned her own name.
“I’m not ashamed of what I am,” Jeeves said. “British isn’t bad.”
“Well, not all bad,” Mercy allowed, but her adrenaline spiraled. The coding she’d attached to his cyber movements was going wild.
Jeeves watched from his terminal. “What do they call you?”
“‘Master’ is usually the first name,” she said with a laugh. It came out hollow because something hiccupped in the system. A notable difference in the usual size of files compared to this one. What is hiding behind door number five, Bob?
“Smiley calls her beautiful,” Barc injected, bobbing his head toward Baddar. “He was an Afghan commando known for his high kill record, so I’d be careful flirting with her when he’s present.”
No doubt buying into Cell’s lies about that kill record, Jeeves slid a nervous glance at the commando, who sat to Mercy’s right, smiling as usual. A good distraction as she logged a marker into the file so it’d be easier to find in the copied system when time allowed her to examine this more closely. It was all sleight of hand, made more ominous by the ever-attentive Jeeves.
“What are you looking for?” he asked for the fifteenth time. At least.
“Like we said,” Barc ground out, “just going through his history to see if anything’s out of the ordinary.”
“Hey, y’all.” Culver waved a half-eaten hoagie in the air. “Food’s here.” He motioned to the conference room that had been allocated to them during their visit.
“I’m ready for a break,” Mercy said, unplugging her system. “How about you?”
Barc frowned at his screen, brown eyes flashing back and forth over what he was seeing. Poor lump wasn’t as good at hiding what he found.
“Cell.”
His brow tightened, his confusion apparently deepening.
Why don’t you just stand up and shout that you found something weird?
“Cell!”
He blinked. Scowled at her. “What?”
She lifted her brows and cocked her head toward Culver. “Food. Let’s refuel, then hit it again in a bit.”
Several heartbeats boomed amid his hesitation. “Yeah,” he breathed, but his attention again fell on the monitor. “Merc . . .”
“Merciful heavens, what?” she said, trying to play off his misstep in using her real name. “It’s like you found some alien hiding in the computer.”
His gaze hit hers, confused. Then understanding washed over him. “Ha. Ha.” He skirted a glance to the side—in Jeeves’s direction. Slapped his computer shut and unplugged it. “I’m famished.” He grinned at Jeeves. “That’s what proper Brits say, right?”
“Not unless they want to get killed,” Jeeves replied.
Cell frowned.
Mercy turned—right into Baddar. She had to admit a lot of attraction toward the former commando, but the hovering thing . . . With a wavering smile, she navigated around him into the conference room. She grabbed a sandwich and chips before sitting at the farthest end of the table, facing the main hub, her back to the exterior wall. She didn’t want people hovering over her shoulder and eyeballing her work.
Barc joined her. “Did you find—”
“Yep.”
“Shouldn’t we—”
“Nope.” She pointed to the chair. “Sit. Eat.”
He lowered himself into the seat. “But—”
“There are eyes on you, Cell.”
He stiffened, hoagie gripped between his fingers. “I don’t get it.”
“Me either, but we play cool for now.” She didn’t know who or what Jeeves was, but she was starting to believe he was more like the Marvel Universe’s supercomputer Jeeves, which took over Braddock Manor, than like some dimwitted special operator.
***
“I saw a suspicious group of males approaching, and I was given the clearance to fire. Lined up the shot—well over 900 yards. Took the shot.” Ghillie snorted as he smeared mayo on his hoagie. “One had a suicide vest, so I killed all five with one shot.”
Peyton gaped. “That was you?” She laughed. “We were all talking about that.”
His dark brown eyes sparked with pride and amusement. “It was luck.”
“Every shot has a bit of luck to it, but that . . .” She shook her head as they moved down the food buffet together. “Sweet.”
“So, are you the Coriolis who used that effect and managed to take out three Daesh holed up behind a wall?”
She grinned, thrilled someone knew. “I didn’t realize that had been declassified.”
He touched her shoulder in awe. “It was you?”
Peyton shrugged. “I’m a bit obsessed with the Coriolis effect. I mean, it all fits together for that perfect shot, right? The earth, the wind, the trajectory of the round.”
“Exactly,” Ghillie said, giving her a lazy smirk that had a whole lotta attraction attached to it. But it was a little too weird.
“Excuse me.” Adam shouldered between them to reach something on the table. Jealousy roiled off him. Served him right, after what he’d done.
“In all,” she said, deliberately pursuing more conversation with Ghillie, “no one will ever be like Hathcock.”
“My hero. Well, him and Chris Kyle.”
“Mm,” she said, sipping a bottled water. “My brother had Chris Kyle posters on his wall and read his book. We all bawled when he died. Even joined the Chris Kyle Frog Foundation.” When she glanced toward where Adam had been standing, he was gone. Her heart sank a bit. It was no fun taunting him when he wasn’t
around.
She and Ghillie ate their sandwiches while talking about their favorite long shots and shooters.
“You want to check out the nest?” he offered.
“Sure—yes.”
She tossed her paper plate and water bottle in the nearby bin and trailed Ghillie out of the small conference room. Brushing off her hands, she scanned the bodies in the hub. Adam had vanished. Disappointment pushed her into the stairwell access to the roof.
It surprised her that she was looking for him. She shouldn’t. He’d made his choice. Crushed the tar out of her. He’d have to live with that.
***
“What made you leave the service?”
The SUV jounced across the city, delivering them at seventy miles an hour to a residential area with buildings crammed up against one another, tarps and aluminum acting as walls. Women and children sat in an area that, if it’d had grass and seesaws, might be a park. A soccer game distracted the children from their impoverished conditions and rumbling bellies.
Their host knew a lot about him and the team. “I could ask the same,” Leif said with a smirk, checking their six in the side-view mirror—and catching sight of Iskra in the back seat, squinting into the sun as the city whipped by.
Spill snorted. “I signed up with RTB for the money. Half mill on sign up, then the same each year. Hard to beat. Takes care of things, ya know?”
“No,” Leif sniffed. “I don’t know.”
“If you’re leading this team for what I guess to be the CIA or DIA, then you could sign on with RTB for at least as much as I did,” Spill said. “Probably more, with inflation.”
“You always proselytize this hard?”
“Any chance I get.”
“Commission?”
“Twenty percent off the top.” Spill had no shame.
Leif chuckled, glancing around as they continued. He wondered what Iskra thought of the contract lifestyle. She’d essentially been a contract operative most of her life, only she hadn’t been paid. Well, not the way anyone wanted to be paid. “I’d like to talk to your men, especially anyone who knows Kurofuji well.”
“That’d be Dribbler. They shared a bunk room for a while when we were at max.” He glanced at Leif, his eyes shaded by ballistic sunglasses. “Anything you can tell me about Fuji and what’s happening? He was my guy. I mean—imagine if I came and started asking about one of yours. Or her.” He glanced back at Iskra.
Though Leif smirked, he said nothing. Iskra held her own. If someone was looking for her, they faced a bigger problem than Leif’s jealousies.
“Anything?” Spill pressed. “C’mon. I’m not an idiot. What’s he mixed up in?”
“We’re not sure,” Leif said. “That he’s now MIA”—he bobbed his head—“makes us more convinced and determined to find him.”
“Well, y’all are some pretty serious slag,” Spill said, glancing between him and Iskra, “so I know whatever you’re looking into is messed-up bad.”
“I would think,” Iskra said from the back, “that having us searching for him would be indication enough.”
“My point exactly.”
“And you want me to go contract? Trade top-secret classification for money? No way. I like being in the know.” Leif didn’t really. Sometimes it just royally screwed things up. Yet it gave him an in for getting intel on those missing months.
“I don’t know, man. Having that kind of knowledge sometimes isn’t worth it. You have to sit on things you can’t do spit about.” Spill grunted. “Not sure I could handle that. I’m a man of action.”
“I hear you.”
Spill pulled to the side of the road and parked. “There’s the shop.” He gestured to a squat whitewashed building with a hundred different chocolate and soda posters plastering the façade.
Something glinted off the hood of the SUV.
Leif sucked in a breath and reached for his thigh-holstered weapon.
Spill laughed. Slapped Leif’s chest. “That was Ghillie up in the nest, letting me know he’s got a bead on us.”
Adrenaline tanking, Leif struggled through a smile and climbed out, donning a brain bowl in the hope of keeping his gray matter where it belonged. It’d do little against a sniper’s slug, though.
Iskra was behind him, taking in the road and buildings. “Something’s off,” she muttered.
“I feel it, too. Stay close.”
They stepped into the shop, and Spill entered last, flipping the lock, smartly preventing anyone else from coming in and ambushing them. “Salaam alaikum, Dini.”
“Wa-alaikum salaam, Mr. John.” The man’s smile was faker than the “authentic” iPods he had for sale behind the counter. “How are you?”
“Doing good. How is your family?” Spill said in near-perfect Arabic as he reached the counter and palmed it. He showed deference to the shopkeeper by asking after his family, but his gaze never stopped moving. He glanced at the window, then back to the short man with spriggy curls. “Got a call that you had seen Mr. Qiang.”
“Yes, two days ago,” the shopkeeper said.
Leif backed into a corner, keeping a line of sight on the front door, counter, and rear exit. Considering the sense of foreboding prickling his neck, he listened to the conversation but maintained vigilance and noted Iskra doing the same.
Across the street, shadows in the narrow space between two apartments skittered and shifted. A glint.
Iskra glanced at him, then back at the window.
“Yep.” Cradling his weapon, Leif angled to peer down the street. Two vehicles—a beat-up Nissan and an old Toyota pickup—slid to a stop on the opposite corner. He backed up, keying his comms. “Coriolis, come in.”
“Go ahead.”
“You got eyes on our location?” He was hoping she was up in that nest with Spill’s sniper.
“Roger that.”
“Possible unfriendlies converging on this location.” Had they been set up, lured here by the promise of intel on Fuji?
“What d’you see?” Spill asked, hustling closer, brow furrowed.
“Two vehicles just pulled up. Saw something in that alley across the street—possible spotter or gunmen.”
Spill pivoted. “Dini, what—” He cursed at the now-empty counter area. “Out the back!” He started running down the aisle.
“Go!” Leif barked to Iskra, who was already in motion.
They trailed the owner to the rear, but before Leif reached the stockroom, he heard two things: shots in the rear alley and glass shattering out front.
“Ambush!”
CHAPTER 8
DJIBOUTI CITY, HORN OF AFRICA
Claxons rang through the RTB facility, yanking Adam to his feet. “What’s going on?”
“They’re under attack.” Dribbler ran to a hub terminal.
“Who?”
“Spill and Runt.” Dribbler hit the comms as he and another half dozen men jogged to a wall that slid aside, revealing tactical kits and weapons. They geared up, and he motioned for Reaper to do the same.
Adam didn’t need to be told twice—but where was Peyton? Still on the roof with lover boy?
“Boss.” Dribbler hustled toward the door, keying his comms. “We’re heading down to the vehicles. ETA in ten. What’s your sitrep?”
“Dini set us up,” Spill barked, his voice carrying loud. Gunfire cracked over the connection. “We’re holed up in the shop. Multiple shooters. Looking for an exf—”
“Grenade!” Leif’s voice punctured the speakers.
Dribbler lifted a handheld. “Ghillie, you have eyes on the boss?”
“Eyes on the building, but not on him. Combatants have surrounded them.” Crack! Boom! “Approximately fifteen, twenty closing in.”
“Hold them off, Ghillie. We’re heading down to the MRAP,” Dribbler ordered as he darted into the hall and accessed a door to a freight elevator.
Adam joined him with Saito, Culver, and Baddar. The elevator dropped faster than his stomach could compensate, nearly t
ossing his hoagie back up his throat.
Dribbler grinned. “Sorry.”
“Doubt it.”
The guy laughed as he slid back the mesh and steel door. Three RTB guys were hoofing it up the rear hatch into the MRAP. A bay door climbed into the ceiling, spitting glaring afternoon sun into the open warehouse.
They sprinted into the rumbling mine-resistant personnel carrier, which heaved forward as Adam yanked the door shut and secured it. Lurching out of the garage, the MRAP seemed to fly out of the barricaded parking lot, knocking the main gate as it swung wide, and then they were barreling down the narrow road.
***
Ears ringing, Leif came to in a haze of smoke that made his eyes burn. A shape hovered over him. His arm flung out before his brain registered—Iskra.
She cuffed his wrist and nodded. She was speaking, but he couldn’t make out her words.
He peeled himself off the ground and glanced around to get his bearings. The last thing he remembered was bolting toward the door and diving into the alley. An explosion had pitched him into a wall.
He cupped his ear and felt the sticky warmth of blood. But he had to unplug it or he’d be useless. Pressing his finger to his cartilage, he braced. Pushed in and released—and flinched at the painful pop. He stretched his jaw to ensure it was clear, and felt his adrenaline-drenched muscles resetting. “Where’s Spill?”
Iskra gestured to his three, and when he looked, he tensed. Spill was laid out in the street. Bloodied. Not moving.
“No,” he whispered, but then one of Spill’s fingers twitched. “We have to get to him.”
“Too exposed,” she shouted over the scream of sirens and gunshots.
“Tabasco to Runt,” crackled through the comms. “Come in.”
Leif again touched his aching ear. “This is Runt.”
“What’s your location, over?”
“Northeastern corner of the shop.”
“Copy.”
“Spill’s down but alive. What’s your ETA?”
“Five mikes.”
“Copy.” They just had to hold their position for five minutes. That was doable. His gaze connected with the RTB leader, who shifted his head. Silent signals relayed through his eyes to get him out of there.