by Ronie Kendig
“What’s that?”
“That you can read me like that yet won’t go out with me.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “That was almost normal.” She wrinkled her nose. “Wanna try again? Better this time.”
“Try what?”
“To convince me you’re okay,” she scoffed. “Because I am not buying that lame attempt, Dawg.”
Instead of rallying, he slumped. Shook his head as he looked at her, then over her shoulder. That shadow skidded through his brown eyes again. Concern. Wariness.
She glanced in the same direction and saw the team emerging from the small room. “You worried about this mission?”
“Yeah.” His brown eyes seemed lost in memory or thought. “Guess so.”
That was his worst lie yet.
***
OUTSIDE BEIJING, CHINA
Getting down and dirty meant something entirely different to Peyton Devine. She’d served on the front lines of football games with poms, short shorts, enough makeup to cover an elephant, and glittery boots. But when her brother deployed, then died while serving, her priorities rearranged real fast.
She had no regrets—not even now as she low-crawled through a Chinese forest that was damp and reeked. Neither did she begrudge any of the girls back home still cheering on their teams.
Dressed in a makeshift ghillie crafted from local vegetation attached to a camouflaged flight suit, she had her face greased and patience tested. Rifle over her arms, she crawled, inch by inch, deeper into the vegetation.
Low and slow.
Leaving the poms behind and entering the Army had been a tribute to her brother. She’d felt like she’d picked up the torch he’d laid down. Joining hadn’t been about besting the boys or proving anything. Until she met Adam.
He was behind and to her four. They’d been able to slink half the distance, but the last six hours required painstaking precision as they approached the sensor perimeter. Each heartbeat, each centimeter strangled her breath in fear that they’d misjudged the line placement.
And though she would never admit it to him, she was tense about being alone with Adam for an entire day. Granted, they were sneaking into position, so there wasn’t much room for discourse. Amazingly, he hadn’t broken their necessary silence.
Okay, that wasn’t entirely fair. Adam Lawe was a tough mudder when it came to operations. Intensity radiated off of him. He might mouth off or hand out jibes like candy, but when it came to the team or mission, there was no soldier more loyal. Then there were his eyes. Blue in some light, green in others. To top it off, he’d never treated her like a sex symbol like a lot of grunts, especially when they found out she’d cheered for the Eagles.
The GPS/communications device strapped to her forearm thumped. Though she’d only advanced a yard in the last hour, she paused. Blew a breath hard enough to stir up dust. Her breath caught as the dust danced along a previously invisible-to-the-eye beam less than six inches from her arms. Inches closer than she’d anticipated.
With extreme slowness, she moved her fingers toward her opposite arm, taking painstaking effort not to rustle a branch or grass. To her knuckles. Then just above her thumb. Eventually her wrist. A minute later she felt the strap of the device and began the arduous task of angling her head in that direction to see the readout on the device DIA had rigged. It would have taken her ages if she hadn’t been crawling with her arms in opposing L shapes. Gripping the edge of the device, she drew it out a millimeter at a time, careful to avoid any motion that would lure attention to her position.
She felt more than heard Adam slink up behind her. They had taken parallel courses to assure the slight depression in the grass created by the weight of their bodies didn’t compound and mark a path straight to them.
She uncoiled the long wire and wafer-thin conductors. It took her ten minutes to stretch the wire out to its full length, flicking fingers not holding the wire to cover it in dust and debris. Once the wire was taut, she pressed the near-solid stem into the ground directly beneath the sensor. She barely had two inches of space between the beam and the ground.
On its own, thanks to the wafers veined with circuitry, the interrupter would count down thirty seconds, then snap up into the beam, at which time it would conduct the sensor line through the thin cable to the other wafer. If it worked properly, then the security system wouldn’t register an interruption, and there’d be a gap just wide enough for them to ease through single file.
Peyton trigged the wire, and it deployed as expected. She held her breath before testing the gap. Relieved when nothing tripped, they began the hurry-up-and-go-slow journey through the gap. An hour later, they were both inside the perimeter and two feet from the sensor.
Peyton stared down the hillside toward the house, garages, and parking area. Two more hours would plant the team on-site and her in position—six feet from her current location. She eyed her goal—behind the knoll where three trees formed a natural barricade.
Her thumper tapped out a Morse code message: U OK.
Adam.
It was nice of this job to give her a solid reason not to talk to him—twenty-four hours of silent treatment. A girl could get spoiled. Instead of replying, she focused on reaching the location. They’d be side by side there. That was bad enough.
She didn’t hate him. Not really. But if she gave him the time of day, he’d take the whole year, too. And she just couldn’t do that again. He’d shattered her heart when he walked away.
Shouts erupted from the walled compound. Peering over her arms, Peyton stilled and eyed the half dozen soldiers darting toward the walls. One guy pointed up the hillside.
Silently, she cursed. They’d been spotted. Compromised.
The soldier lifted a weapon and fired.
Peyton’s heart jammed into her throat. In her periphery, she saw a plume of tree litter erupt—right where Adam lay. But no sound. No movement. Panic tempted her to call out to him, to turn her head.
Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move. It was a silent plea to both her and Adam. If he was grazed, they could deal with it. But it would leave evidence, and that would be a problem.
Another man shouted and pointed farther east, having seen something there. Two guards shot that direction.
She waited until the men gave up, apparently deciding they were mistaken, and retreated to their stations, then continued the arduous task of relocating to the nest. Very slowly, she drew over nearby brush to better conceal her position, weapon, and body. Adam was doing the same, and though she could see his subtle moves, she doubted—prayed—nobody else could.
She eyed him as he settled next to her. And startled, breath stuck in her throat, when she saw his face. His cheekbone oozed an angry, bloody trail. Grazed. By the bullet. Her heart danced a frantic jig, thinking of how that could have ended differently. A fraction more to the left, and it would’ve gone through his skull. She swallowed, marveling that he hadn’t made a sound. Not even a grunt. He’d protected their position even when a bullet had skimmed his face. Man, that had to sting, not to mention scare the snot out of him.
His gaze hit hers. His eyebrows lifted as if to say, “At least I’m alive.”
She mentally shook her head. That was Adam. All warrior.
***
The longer he knew Iskra, the more Leif learned about her. That was the way it should be. But the things a guy normally learned in a relationship weren’t the same ones he’d sorted with Iskra. For her, they included the fact that she’d killed two Hungarians who’d trafficked women and tried to add her to the number. Or that she was more proficient with a 1911 than he was. She still hadn’t let him live down that day at the range when she’d outshot him. Neither had the range master, which had nothing to do with why they’d started going to a new range. She’d also once swum to the bottom of a small inlet off the coast of France in order to reach a tunnel and gain access to the estate where her target had been hiding. So it surprised him when she’d insisted she couldn’t go to China because she wa
s wanted by authorities after a botched mission.
And it bugged him. He knew an undercurrent of her decision was his own excuses and absence while he’d been looking for answers. He’d tried to fix the mess, tried to move on and act normal. But normal was wrecked.
He hated that she wasn’t here, because it should be her wearing the sleek navy blue gown, hair done up, and neck glittering with diamonds. He’d kill to see that. Instead, Mercy was dressed to the nines, and while she was a formidable woman, she wasn’t Iskra.
“Can I keep the diamonds?” Mercy wrinkled her nose. “They’re kind of working for me.”
“You’ll be working a gravel pit if you keep them. They’re on loan from the agency.”
“Spoilsport.”
“Okay, Reaper,” Cell calmly said through the comms from the Whole Solutions security van lumbering behind their black SUV, “we have a clear connection, and Coriolis is in position.”
They slid through the gate checkpoint without complication and aimed for the parking lot atop the hill.
“Copy,” Leif said.
There was a reason he’d signed up to be a soldier, not a spy. He hated this stuff. Put him in ACUs and slap a carbine in his hands—the world was right. But this pretending to be someone else and walking into the devil’s lair, where a known terrorist was intent on killing a target, potentially endangering the entire team . . . And don’t forget the Chinese who, if they discovered who Zhao Li really was, would make Reaper disappear so fast heads would spin. It was enough to make him long for ISIS-led combatants.
They parked and exited the vehicle. At the side entrance, they were met by grounds security, who collected their IDs—conjured by some whiz back in the States and executed by an in-the-know local—and took their time verifying identities.
Five minutes later, Saito challenged the guard, shouting in Mandarin.
Should’ve read a book on Mandarin before infiltrating.
Mercy stood one step behind Saito, her gaze on him like a good, doting girlfriend. Leif, Baddar, and Culver arced behind their “boss” and presented a strong front, glancing around to verify they were safe, but also to warn these goons that they would act. There was a whole lotta trust placed in Saito to pull off this charade.
The guard clapped hands to his thighs and gave a curt bow.
Saito grunted his disapproval at being made to wait, then stalked toward the house.
Extending a hand in Maddox’s direction, as if to guide her along, Leif once more eyed the compound. Saw the van where Cell was hunkered. His gaze hit the hills, knowing somewhere among that vegetation lay the last two team members. Probably staring right back at him.
“Remember,” Cell muttered as the team stalked into a marble-lined hall and yet another security checkpoint, “I need to piggyback their feeds, so be sure—”
“Quiet,” Leif subvocalized. The last thing he needed was someone cluttering his hearing and attention. Reaper knew the mission. Knew what they had to do.
“Welcome. If you please,” a very petite Asian woman greeted them and inclined her head in respect, “we must check you in and give you security cards that will provide access to restrooms and the bar.”
Once Saito and Mercy had cleared without hang-up, Leif took the lead and set his phone on the counter within inches of their computer. Thankfully, technology had advanced enough that a device did not have to be plugged in directly to gain access. Complying with the woman’s instructions, he pressed his finger to a pad, praying the false fingerprint he wore did its job.
“Thank you, Mr. James.” She reached toward a card maker, where she tugged a small plastic card from the dispenser and handed it to him, eyeing Culver and Baddar. “One for all, yes?”
“No,” he said. “Three, please.” That way they could each move around unhindered. A limited number of cards were available for the evening and provided privileges based on notoriety. Thanks to Zhao Li and Whole Solutions, the team should have full access to the grounds, save the residence wing.
Her expression tightened, but she gave a quick cock of her head in agreement. Culver and Baddar went through the same process without grief.
Next they passed through scanners, which seemed futile, as the team was authorized for weapons since they were Mr. Zhao’s guards. The narrow security corridor dumped them into a cavernous hall.
Soaring ceilings with candelabras snagged the attention, leaving the spectators in awe. The smartly organized space had a massive fireplace along the far wall, but the central focus was a slick fire pit. Settees and tables were clustered facing the pit and held couples talking and toasting one another. In the middle of the hall, two semicircles formed a full-service bar and were nestled by tables offering hors d’oeuvres. The far right side of the luxurious space had a dance floor. Guests were clustered here, some dancing, others watching and talking, all drinking bubbly.
That was where Leif finally spotted Maddox, her hand hooked over Saito’s shoulder. The imposter was talking with a man in uniform—a colonel.
A dozen jokes popped to mind, which told him his stress level was a little high.
“I’m going to do my walk-around.” Leif stalked the perimeter, leaving Culver and Baddar with Mercy and Saito.
The flow of kitchen staff entering and exiting a door drew him over to check it out. He scanned the stock rooms, his security card accessing places most couldn’t. He checked the restroom, not surprised that, since this place had once been open to the public, the bathrooms were segregated.
“Mercy, check the ladies’ room when you can,” he said into his comms, glad they’d given her an invisible earpiece.
He tested a set of double doors, spotted the access reader on the wall, and swiped his card. The red light blinked, refusing admittance. He tried again. Visually tracing the doors, he spied a small camera in the upper right corner.
Was this the residence portion of the estate? He backed up and glanced down both ends of the hall before returning to the main ballroom. If he couldn’t get in there, he’d bet most attending tonight’s birthday gala couldn’t either. And they hadn’t seen their target yet.
Come out, come out, wherever you are, General Chang.
Saito guided his entourage toward Leif, probably so Mercy could excuse herself. The two sure played the cozy thing well. Leif’s gaze bounced to Baddar, and he nearly smirked at the commando’s missing smile. Must be frustrating. Leif would probably lay out Saito if that were Iskra instead of Mercy.
Baddar inclined his head to Leif and hung back as a colonel approached Saito to talk.
Leif monitored those around them, searching for Fuji. Where was Chang? This was his gig, his celebration, and while there were easily a hundred guests here, he hadn’t shown.
What if Fuji wasn’t here for the killing? What if he’d set a device, a bomb? Heat shot down Leif’s spine and forced him to walk a wide arc around Saito to get a better view. Was that possible? How did that make sense, to activate assassins to go in and kill—but they didn’t “go in”?
Nursing a drink, Maddox wandered over to him, but her gaze never left Saito. “He is so droll, talking to all these people.”
Expecting the hall to be bugged and every guest watched, Leif said nothing, even when she deposited her glass in his hand with a smirk.
“Be a dear and hold this for me.” She glided past him and aimed for the restrooms.
Trailing her, Leif made eye contact with the other three of their team to be sure they knew his location. As he parked himself outside the restroom, he felt a buzzing start at the back of his head. Something was off. He skidded his gaze around the hall, surfing faces and expressions, hands.
“Heads up,” came Cell’s voice again. “Something’s going on in the kitchen.”
“Need my attention?” Leif asked, as Mercy exited the restroom, retrieved her glass, then returned to Saito. He glanced at Saito, who gave a curt nod of understanding as Mercy sidled back up to him with Baddar not far behind.
“Uh . . . neg
ative. There’s some kind of altercation,” Cell said quietly. “Can’t tell what it’s about. Bad angle. Sending you the feed.”
Baddar wandered in that direction, bisecting Leif’s line of sight. Even as the Afghan commando entered the kitchen, Leif’s phone buzzed with a live video. After verifying Saito and Mercy were keeping the brass entertained, he focused on the feed. A tall guy and a chef were arguing. The lanky guy backed up, hands lifted in mock surrender. Even as he turned to leave—never giving his face to the camera—he glanced back down a hall.
“Smiley, give me eyes on what he’s looking at,” Leif ordered, shifting so his back was to a column so nobody could see over his shoulder.
The food locker. What was he looking at in there? Canisters. Plastic containers of vegetables, trays of desserts . . . “He was worried about something,” Leif muttered, recalling the man’s expression. “Find out what.”
“Trouble comes in pairs,” Culver said. “Chang incoming.”
Leif looked toward Culver, saw the direction he was staring. General Chang and his entourage were emerging from the door Leif hadn’t been able to access, confirming his suspicion that it was the residence wing. Mobbed by the thanks and greetings of his guests, Chang made slow progress through the crowd.
“Copy, eyes on Chang,” Leif confirmed. Now that Chang was on-site, the situation had escalated. It was all the more likely that Fuji would make his move.
What if Fuji wasn’t coming? The thought bred frustration and confusion, but his sixth sense told him Fuji would be here. He couldn’t explain how he knew. Just did.
“So, Mr. James.”
Surprised to be addressed by the general, since he was nothing but a lackey on this gig, Leif turned toward the voice. He inclined his head. “General Chang.”
“What do you think of my celebration?” he asked in broken English. “A good event, yes?”
“Yes, sir.”
The round-faced general squinted at him, eyes nearly disappearing beneath thick folds. For a general, he wasn’t exactly trim and fit. “Zhao Li say you were in the military.”
“Required for Whole Solutions, sir. We all were.”