by Ronie Kendig
Even as Frankfurt & Stuttgart Biologics came into view, Iskra spotted Mercy entering through the front.
“In the building,” Mercy whispered through the tiny short-range comms piece that would not emit electronic signals. At least, that was what Mercy promised. They were about to find out if she was right.
Iskra reached for the brushed nickel handle and opened the door. Armed guards flanked four hubs where security processed a line of people, including Mercy, who was a few people away from entering. Hovering over the foyer was an arching catwalk fed by an escalator. Head down and staring at her phone, Iskra started for the stairs.
“Ma’am?” a guard said, nodding to her bag and the small scanner.
Pausing, Iskra gave an annoyed glare—wasn’t everyone annoyed by everything these days?—to another security guard walking toward her. Mercy came up behind, bumped into him while he was distracted with Iskra, then flashed him a coy smile. A silly grin lit his face as he watched Mercy hustle through the checkpoint and out of sight. With the all-access badge she’d relieved him of.
His attention finally found Iskra again. “Need you to clear the scanner, ma’am,” he said.
“Fine.” Iskra set her bag down and stalked forward, holding her breath as she passed beneath the sensor. The guard waved her on, and another returned her purse. Which, of course, had cleared, because she really didn’t need a knife to be lethal. A pen and the flat of her hand both worked fine. Not that she would do that . . . today.
She strode to the reception desk.
“May I help you?” the receptionist asked.
“Yes, I have a ten-fifteen with Dr. Hansen.”
The receptionist looked at the computer monitor and clicked something. “Miss Munroe?”
Iskra smiled. “Yes.”
“Sign in here,” she said, motioning to the clipboard sheet, and then slid a tag over. “Take the escalator to the upper level, over the catwalk”—she pointed overhead—“and it’s the second door on your left.”
“Thank you.” Iskra signed the clipboard, attached the badge to her lapel, and started for the escalator.
“Found a terminal at the back of the facility. Logging in now,” came Mercy’s whisper.
Iskra reached the upper level and strode over the catwalk, eyeing the lobby. She opened the door into a smaller, more intimate reception area, and crossed the room. “I’m—”
“Miss Munroe,” a woman behind the counter greeted. “If you’ll have a seat, Dr. Hansen will be with you soon.”
“Thank you.” Iskra moved toward a chair with a view of the atrium and catwalk.
As she turned to sit, something triggered in her brain. She stilled, then jerked back to the windows, catching sight of a man barreling past people on the escalator.
He’s in a hurry.
Then his build, familiar from the footage at the facility, smacked her.
Iskra rushed for the door. “He’s here,” she breathed into their comms as she broke into the open. “Andrew’s here.”
She darted for the escalator and scurried down it. Her heels hit the floor and slipped, but she caught herself, gaze on the man exiting the building. By the time she had the brushed nickel in hand again, he had reached the sidewalk.
No no no. If he got away in that traffic, she’d never find him.
Iskra hurtled into the open and raced across the small terrace to the steps, locked on the tall frame in a sports jacket weaving through the crowd. At the foot of the steps, she couldn’t see past the sea of bodies. She growled, scanning. New Yorkers filed through the busy intersection, swallowing him into their numbers.
She shifted, searching the sidewalk. Up one side, down the other. Where . . . where . . . ?
He was gone.
“Excuse me,” an older woman said. “Did you know that man who hurried out of here?”
Iskra glanced at the bent woman, wondering why she asked.
“He looked like he did something wrong, something nefarious.” The older woman thumbed over her shoulder toward the building. “Do you work in there? Did he take this from you?” She held out her palm, where a dark vial lay.
Iskra felt herself startle. “Yes,” she breathed, amazed at this encounter. What were the chances? “Thank you.” She took the vial and clutched it. “You saved my life.”
The elderly woman patted her hand, then shuffled away.
Iskra glanced at the vial—blood? poison?—then toward the street where Andrew had vanished. She turned to look back toward the woman, only to find her gone, too. What . . . ?
When she saw Mercy across the cobbled terrace, Iskra slid the vial into her purse and met her with an exasperated sigh. “I lost him in the traffic.”
“But he was here? You’re sure?” Mercy said, watching the crowds.
“Positive.” The vial felt like an anchor on her conscience. Why was she hiding it? Why not just tell Mercy?
“Then we definitely need to get home so I can dig into their system and find out what he was doing there. Maybe even track his movements on their security feed, assuming they record things, even if for a short period.”
“So, obviously, you did whatever was necessary?” Iskra asked as they headed to the car park.
“I did. And I got a guy’s number.”
“Let’s hope he thinks you’re forgettable.”
“Thanks,” Mercy muttered.
“If he remembers you, he can tell security what you looked like.”
Mercy swallowed. “Forgettable is good.”
CHAPTER 18
TAIPEI, TAIWAN
Since Taiwan did not have an American embassy—something the Chinese had vehemently objected to because they considered the island a breakaway province—the American Institute in Taiwan was where Leif and Saito were headed. Officially, the AIT was a government-linked nonprofit established with the help of the American government to serve its interests in-country. The de facto embassy was their best shot at digging the newest name Cell had unearthed—Arlen Dempsey—out of hiding.
Their vehicle swung up the arcing drive to the new facility that had opened in 2018, stirring tensions. Marines guarded the site and ushered Leif and Saito past the checkpoint without a hiccup, thanks to the cooperative effort of the CIA, DIA, and DoD. As they strode into the building that still smelled new, Leif noted that while there were American guards and workers at the location, the employees were largely local.
After checking in at the front, they were instructed to wait in a glass-enclosed area, where a TV streamed news from multiple channels, the sound muted. Two other people were waiting, noses glued to their smartphones.
Leif positioned himself with a clear line of sight on the front door and reception desk, while Saito sat shoulder to shoulder with him, his chair facing the opposite direction, toward the rear of the facility.
“Do you ever think it’ll be you next?” Saito asked as they waited for their contact.
“Next for what?”
“One of these Neiothen,” Saito said, thumbing absently through a magazine yet staying eyes out. “I mean, if you think about it, couldn’t any of us be one? And that is crazy. They have no idea they’re assassins, but then they cut ties with sanity and deliver death in a handbasket.” He tossed aside the magazine and huffed. “What if we suddenly go ape?” His brown eyes nailed Leif.
“You’re not in the book.”
“We don’t know that,” Saito hissed. “The code names are ancient and only matched with current names in piecemeal. It could be us, man.”
With a sniff, Leif had to admit he’d wondered. It was hard not to. “It’s messed up. Freaky, thinking you could be a preacher in the pulpit on Sunday, then unleashing chaos on Monday.”
“Like something out of a movie.”
“Definitely a B movie.” Leif monitored those in the building and the guards, keeping tabs on movement and demeanor.
“How d’you think they’re doing it? Triggering them?”
“That recording—remember?”
“But that was initiation, according to Ibn Sarsour. How do they start it? How do they get activated? Maybe the Neiothen”—they shouldn’t use the official name in public—“are already triggered, just biding their time . . .”
Leif shrugged. “Seems unlikely. Risky if someone turned chicken.”
“But Ibn Sarsour didn’t even realize he’d been activated, yet he was there, poised to kill. What if someone remembered between being activated and initiated? What if they decided to bail? They could blow . . . whatever it is ArC’s doing.”
Leif arched an eyebrow at his buddy. “If I go whack—you know what to do. I don’t want to be hunted down like some dog out of his mind.”
“Your wish is my command.”
Leif shook his head, not wanting to think about it.
Through the front door came a man in a trench coat, black slacks, and a blue button-down shirt. His sandy brown hair needed a trim—but he should start with a comb. If he’d ever owned one. As he walked toward reception, he patted his chest, hips, then thighs like an absent-minded professor. What was he searching for? He wheeled around.
Electricity zapped through Leif as gray eyes met his. Grateful for perfect recall, he stood. “Dempsey,” he muttered to Saito.
Though the man looked right at Leif, he wasn’t seeing him. Dempsey’s gaze was . . . distant. Unfocused. Wide with panic—no, paranoia.
Saito glanced toward the reception desk, lifting his phone to call it in. “Eyes on Dempsey.”
Dempsey stumbled through the foyer. Went to a table with pens, paper, and forms to fill out. He stood tapping a pen against the table as he glanced around the lobby area. His gaze hit the main entrance, a side wall, then another door with a sign over it.
Scouting exits.
“Think he’s been triggered?” Saito asked as they started toward the door of the glassed-in area with no idea what they’d face if they confronted him now.
“Either way, our response is the same.”
Someone else beat Dempsey to the desk, forcing him to wait. He crossed his arms over his chest. That paranoid tick at least told them he likely wasn’t wearing a suicide vest. But he had way too many nerves bouncing off him to be here just for a visit.
Saito casually strolled to a water fountain, then made his way to a Marine stationed on the far side, no doubt warning him to sound a silent alarm and be ready.
“Excuse me,” Leif said, angling up to a sweating Dempsey, hoping his ruse of distraction would work.
Wide bloodshot eyes, pupils dilated, fixed on Leif. Not in his right mind, which made him a danger to everyone in this building, suicide vest or not.
Leif had to distract him. “D’you have a pen I could use?”
“I . . .” Dempsey’s gaze wandered the building, as if seeking a home base.
Leif checked Saito, who’d wandered back. “Get everyone out,” he ordered under his breath.
“Mr. Metcalfe.” A woman strode toward him all casual and ease, no idea of the maelstrom she and her crisp gray suit had stepped into. “I’m glad you could stop by.”
Dempsey looked between the woman and Leif as she continued her introduction.
“I’m Mary Mansour.”
Holding a stalling hand toward her, Leif kept eyes on Dempsey. “Easy,” he said, and it seemed Mansour finally keyed in to the situation.
Dempsey shuffled back.
Leif cursed the distraction of Mansour, which had given Dempsey time to put twenty feet between them. Too far to interdict.
“You don’t know . . .” His hands and lower lip trembled. “They . . .” He gripped his head hard with a shrieking groan. “My head—it’s—they’re—”
“Easy, easy,” Leif repeated, noting the din in the AIT grow, nerves jamming common sense and calm.
Saito must’ve relayed the threat to the Marines, because they were quietly guiding people to exits.
Dempsey’s gaze tripped over the departing. “What . . . ?”
Time to shed pretense. “Dempsey.”
Frantic eyes bounced around and finally landed on Leif.
“You okay, Sergeant?” It was a risk, using Dempsey’s former rank, but from boot camp on, grunts were trained to respond quickly and decisively to direct questions. “You seem confused.”
“My head,” Dempsey murmured, frowning. “I keep having these thoughts. . . .” Suddenly, his gaze sharpened. “I need help.”
Leif nodded, slipping closer, erasing inches at a time yet careful not to alarm his target. “I’m here for you, man. What can I do?”
“It’s just . . . I . . .” Fingertips to the side of his forehead, Dempsey flattened his lips. “The things I keep thinking about . . .” His face screwed tight. “It’s not me. I was—Distinguished Service Medal. Service Medal. Up for Military Medal for Gallantry with Distinction.” Confusion flayed his features. “This . . . what’s in my head—it’s not me!”
“I get it, man.” Less than six feet separated them. “Been there. Serving, seeing combat, engaging the enemy—it does things. Messes with you.”
Dempsey nodded absently. But then his gaze drifted to the tiled floor. He squinted. “No.” His head began swinging back and forth. “No, no, it’s not right.”
“You’re right—it ain’t. But—”
“They’re not my thoughts.” His words sounded strangled, as if they were hard to push past the chaos erupting in his brain. “They’re not my thoughts.” Now he was more forceful. Distraught. Angry. The red in his eyes seemed to glow with fury. His hand moved, and somehow he produced a weapon.
“Whoa!” Leif’s pulse backfired, and he wondered how Dempsey had gotten that in past the scanners. He held up his palms, taking a mental step backward, as those still here on the main level twitched and whimpered at the sight of the gun. “Easy, Dempsey. No need to hurt anyone.” This had gone south fast.
Torment careened through the man’s face, his hand still lifting the weapon.
“Listen to me!” Leif paced options, scenarios. None of them good. “Nobody will hurt you. We just want to help.”
Dempsey pursed his lips as if fighting back the rage. “They’re not my thoughts,” he said, agony replacing his anger. With a growl, he tapped the muzzle against the side of his head.
“Dempsey.” The bark of Leif’s voice in the near-empty reception area startled even him. “Put it down. Put the gun down.”
“I can’t. I can’t do what they want me to.” His expression twisted. “You understand ossi, don’t you?”
What was ossi? “You’re in control, man. Nobody will force you to do anything.” Heart thudding, Leif worked to erase the distance.
Furrowed brows heaved over tormented eyes. “I can’t let them make me. And they’ll try. I saw. Saw the others do it. I can’t . . . I have to stop it.”
“That’s right—let’s stop it, Dempsey. Give me the gun.” Leif extended his hand. “I’m here to help. We’ll do it together—climb this hill. Scale the rise and conquer it.”
Arlen Dempsey blinked, focus hitting his gray eyes. It seemed he finally saw Leif. He straightened and gave a sharp nod. “Yes. Ego semperer ex profundis.” He snapped the weapon to his chin.
“No!” Leif lunged too late.
CHAPTER 19
20 NAUTICAL MILES OFF CUBA
With snorkeling and dive rigs littering the sea, Iskra was confident her rented boat and hired local wouldn’t draw attention. She straddled the dive prop bobbing off the port side, started the small waterproof camera attached to her shoulder, and verified her regulator was feeding her oxygen. After a wave to the boat driver, she opened up the throttle. The black torpedolike hull slipped beneath the surface.
Hours reviewing the footage from the facility where she and Leif had nearly killed each other, where the book went missing, had handed her a tip. A man rounded a corner and disappeared from the camera. Though an idea had formed, she was too disconcerted to voice it, even to Mercy.
Now she was back in the sea that had nearly
drowned her. But this time—armed with oxygen tanks, a KA-BAR tactical knife, a Glock with an underwater firing adapter, a waterproof camera, and a multifunction GPS strapped to her wrist—she was testing her theory. A dangerous one.
The prop maxed at twelve knots, so the two-hour dive to her destination provided plenty of time to run through contingencies if she met trouble. It also made her wish Leif were here. As a former SEAL, he was better with underwater endeavors. And there was the little fact that she always felt safer with him around.
Searching for his past was tearing Leif up. Add to that the way the director handled the situation—even she could tell he was keeping something from Leif—and Iskra was doing her best to give Leif room to sort things out. It was likely the only way to get past this point to marriage and family.
Perhaps she should try to help him find those answers? It would mean derailing her attempts to locate Mitre. That vial she’d received in New York—she’d handed it off to a trusted asset and phlebotomist who verified that it was blood and promised a complete work-up soon.
A vibration against her wrist drew Iskra’s attention back to her surroundings. The water wasn’t as dark. She let off the throttle a little, glancing at her gauge. A few hundred yards to shore still, but it was definitely lightening. And not from the sun penetrating the surface. She was still too deep for that.
In the inky, wavering distance, light gathered at a lone central source. She aimed her shoulder cam in that direction, sure she was about to find proof. Another few minutes, and the brightness grew into a distinct bright spot. Manmade, not bioluminescent.
Darkness cocooned the light, confusing her. How was that possible? But another hundred yards cleared it up—a cave. A large swath of the ocean floor descended into a very large cave. Filled with light. Several lights.
I knew it.
Victory saturated her muscles as she swung the prop around to get another view of the cave, wary of getting too close and risking discovery. Slowly, she drove in closer . . .
Movement bisected the light.
Her pulse spiked—a shape was coming at her. A rivulet through the water registered a second too late. Fire seared across her thigh, and she felt something thunk against the prop. The subtle thrum of the engine beneath her died.