Kings Falling

by Ronie Kendig

  Pulling her Glock, Iskra let the prop fall and started swimming away from the cave, trying to let the darkness swallow her. But she’d gone in too close. A strange vibration rang through her spine. Realization struck—her tank. Had they hit it? She checked the gauge. Fear turned to clawing panic at the plummeting indicator.

  Thrusting upward, she raced for the surface before her oxygen ran out. Water churned near her neck. Another shot! She took a gamble—went limp. Eyes open as she sank.

  The guy came at her with his prop.

  She had one chance. Underwater, the Glock would not chamber another round after she fired it without being racked. She was fast, but . . .

  He was there. Checking her, reaching for her.

  Iskra fired center mass.

  The man jerked.

  She racked the slide as he lunged at her. She fired again. His momentum carried him into her. She shoved him off and treaded water. He was sinking. He’d gone still.

  She scrambled for his prop, which was dropping fast. Swimming, she caught sight of her gauge. Her heart tremored. Would she have enough time to get the prop? Maybe. Maybe not, but she definitely could not reach the surface in time without it.

  Her fingers snagged the handle. She pulled her leg over the hull and let out the throttle, holstering her Glock. She wouldn’t be able to manage both. This wasn’t Hollywood—it wasn’t a fast-dive prop. But it was faster than fins and hands.

  The light in the water flickered, drawing her gaze back.

  Oh no. Another diver. At least he couldn’t go faster than her, but if she went straight up, she’d never lose him. But going farther out could drown her.

  Frustrated and out of options, she headed away from the island, toward the dark waters. Glanced at her O2 gauge. Her heart thudded. Empty. She tapped its face and tried not to panic. Tried to slow her breathing. Already the deprivation tightened her chest.

  She had to rise. Had to. Darkness or not.

  If I don’t, I’m dead.

  But if she did, he could find her easier.

  Iskra compromised. Angled up and out. It felt like a weight sat on her chest. She focused on reaching the surface, on slowing her breathing. Something made her look back—just in time to see the other prop closing in.

  What? How?

  He threw himself off the prop and at her.

  In a fluid move, Iskra whipped her KA-BAR from its sheath and slashed at the man’s oxygen hose. Crimson bloomed in the water. He thrashed, hand going to his throat.

  Kicking to rise, she forced herself not to open her mouth. But her chest squeezed. Temples throbbed.

  Her depth gauge showed she was nearing the surface.

  This sea would drown her after all. Terror seized her. Tears leaked out, and Iskra knew she needed to calm down. But it didn’t matter. She was going to die, and Leif would never know how. Taissia—no no no. Oh God, please . . .

  She wheezed, struggling. Her head felt like it might explode. Gray ghosted the edges of her vision. Leaning on the prop, she felt life slipping from her body.

  Everything went black.

  Then light exploded through her eyes. Iskra jerked up and vomited water onto a sandy stretch of beach. She coughed and gagged, blinking up at several locals gathered around her.

  ***

  CIA SAFE HOUSE, TAIWAN

  This whole thing wigged Mercy out and reminded her too much of Matt Murdock, who’d battled the Hand for his entire career as the Daredevil, but then—crazily—became the Hand himself. And only later realized he’d been possessed by the Beast of the Hand. In a moment of supposed clarity, Daredevil had killed himself to keep from being used. Elektra later revived him.

  If only Arlen Dempsey had an Elektra.

  Mercy’s gaze wandered to where Leif sat with the team. More like simply occupying space.

  “The doctor said one more week and antibiotics, then I can resume duty,” Baddar said over the live feed, drawing her attention back to the handsome commando.

  “’Bout time you quit slacking,” Culver teased. “My back got burned, and I’ve returned to duty. You get a burn inside and get to sleep and have beautiful women catering to you all day. I got cheated. Again.”

  Mercy slid another glance toward Leif, hating how weighted his expression had been since the suicide at AIT. He might have washed the blood and gray matter off his face and changed his shirt, but Dempsey’s life was all over Leif. And the teasing banter among the others wasn’t helping.

  Baddar smiled. “When you are as handsome as I am, maybe you will have better luck.”

  Laughter rattled through the small Taiwanese flat where they were holed up after the Dempsey debacle.

  “You guys are cads,” Mercy said, nudging them away from the camera and taking the center seat. She had to admit—she’d missed the commando. His constant presence had been a stabilizer. She’d thought she needed something wild and exciting, like Leif and Iskra had, but she found a sense of rightness in the calm stability that was Baddar Amir Nawabi.

  She smiled into the camera. “Hope you feel better soon.”

  Seriousness washed over his expression, replacing his sarcasm with sincerity. “Me, too. I would be with you again.”

  Why was it that when he sounded eager and focused on her, she had this compunction to shove him away? To push him back? She stifled it and retrained his thoughts on the team. “Reaper needs you.” When he deflated, she hated herself for the obvious deflection. “It’ll be good to have you with us.” Why couldn’t she just say it? “Take care, Baddar.”

  “And you, Mercy.”

  The transmission ended, and she turned, eyeing Leif, who hadn’t moved. His hand framed his mouth, and his expression was tight. Ankle over his knee, he looked comfortable for a frozen guy.

  “Ya know, I knew you were hard-core, but I never figured you one for torture,” Adam taunted her.

  “What?” she asked, knowing he meant Baddar.

  “Tell the guy you got a thing for him or free him. You know, fish or cut bait.”

  “You mean like you trying to win Peyton back?” Mercy challenged.

  “He’s making progress,” Peyton said, hoisting an eyebrow at him.

  “Wait,” Adam said, “did you just defend me?”

  “Well, he was making progress.”

  More laughter. And still, Leif hadn’t moved. Wasn’t joking the way he normally did, the way he loved. When was the last time he’d told a joke? Of the eight team members, he was the one known for his bad jokes. His very bad jokes.

  “Mercy, you are cracked.” Adam wrapped an arm around Peyton. “Between me and Pete, we got all we can handle.”

  “True, you are hard work,” Peyton joked, allowing the big lug to kiss her cheek.

  Mercy wandered over and slapped Leif’s shoe. “Hey. You still breathing in there?” She snorted when he started and met her gaze. “You look as frozen as Batman and Robin when they tried to escape Black Lantern.”

  He lowered his hand but said nothing. His gaze hit something across the room, then skittered away to nothing in particular. Mercy tried to figure out what he’d looked at. Culver, Peyton, and Adam were at the table. Beyond them, Cell was working with two computers.

  Leif dropped his foot to the floor and scooted forward. “Can you get me the files on Dempsey and Gilliam?”

  Lazily, she shrugged. “Don’t you already have those?” They’d all been handed the condensed dossiers with need-to-know intel compiled from the full CIA file. “Ah,” she said in realization. “The full file.” That was what he wanted.

  Her heart skipped a beat. Sure, she could get that. She had the skills to extract most anything she wanted. But she had put herself on probation from digging into her employer’s systems, because staying gainfully employed—and alive—was a good thing.

  She took a deep breath. “Why?”

  His gaze traipsed around the floor, the plastic chair, the others. “I think I’m seeing a pattern. But”—again, he scanned their hideout—“I’m not
sure what I’m seeing. I can feel it lurking right under the surface.”

  “What kind of pattern?”

  His blue eyes nailed her. “Can you do it or not?”

  “We both know I can. It’s a matter of should,” she said, never one to be bullied. “I could lose my job and all the respect I’ve earned, including self-respect. Just because one has the ability doesn’t mean one should.”

  He shoved both hands over his head, then straightened. “I hear you.”

  “This may not be the best job on the planet, but I like it and the people I work with.” She tweaked his ear. “Even you.”

  After a nod, he stood and stalked into the kitchen, where he retrieved a water bottle, then vanished into a back room.

  So much for her attempt to draw him out. She might’ve made things worse. With a huff, she deliberated doing what he’d asked. If she started hacking just because one of her friends asked her to, she’d get a reputation. Maybe she already had one, and that was why Leif had asked her to break all kinds of morality codes.

  She moved until she could see him in the back room and felt her heart pinch. He sat on the edge of a bed, leaning forward, bottle in one hand, cap in the other, staring at the floor.

  Do not go all wounded-hero on me, Runt.

  Mercy wasn’t the type to be girly emotional and stuff. Unless it came to her own. Her own program, her own people. Over a year and a half ago, Ram had been killed, and she’d missed the signs of what he intended to do. So much she’d let him handcuff her to a bed in Russia, thinking he had other intentions. She hadn’t seen him again until the night he sacrificed himself.

  Now it was happening with Leif, who had run the Danger banner up his personal flagpole. Over the weeks they’d been hunting these Neiothen, he’d grown more irritable and foul-tempered, then more introspective and moody. A near one-eighty from the lighthearted, sociable guy she could’ve easily been smitten with.

  She would not make the same mistake twice.

  Mercy retrieved her tablet and went to work. Having clearance within the system made things easier, but since she didn’t have full access she had to bypass barricading protocols. The easiest route was to slip into Dru’s system using his password, which meant not only breaking the law, but breaking his trust.

  Did the ends justify the means? She had no idea this time, but they were pretty short on patterns and tips to chase down these ArC guys.

  “Barc.”

  “Yeah?” he answered, more a grunt than a word, his gaze on his laptop.

  “Barc.” She wanted his full attention.

  He scowled and glanced up. For two whole seconds before his gaze smacked into the screen again. It was like a zombie thing where he couldn’t look away from fresh blood.

  “Barc, do you have the primary files on the Neiothen we’ve already gone after? I have one on Kurofuji, but not Dempsey or Gilliam.”

  “Why?” he asked, typing away on some file or coding.

  Irritated, she snatched her laptop and sent a harmless but annoying virus to his system that would slide hippos dancing amid flames across the screen. She waited a couple of seconds.

  “Mercy,” he growled, coming out of the chair. “Get rid of it.”

  She smirked and hit a key. “Gone.” She raised her eyebrows. “Now that I have your attention, Amadeus . . .” With him, it always took longer than the average bear to realize her references.

  Too long. He returned to his work.

  Annoyed, she got up and slapped his laptop closed.

  “Hey!” he barked.

  “It’s rude to ignore me when I hand out superhero cards.”

  He huffed. “Amadeus Cho. I get it.” He shook his head, gaze already sinking back to the laptop. “Not the first time you’ve called me that either.”

  She placed a hand on the laptop. “The Dempsey and Gilliam files.”

  Confusion rippled through his unnaturally young face, then cleared. Followed by eyes widening then narrowing. “Leif asked you for them.”

  Great. Somehow she’d just betrayed Leif’s trust, too. “So?”

  Barc caught her hand. “C’mere.” He led her to a quiet corner.

  “I already told you I’m not interested,” she demurred, knowing this wasn’t romantic but unable to resist taunting him.

  Arms crossed and hands under his armpits, he hesitated. Soon, he stroked the nonexistent facial hair around his mouth. “Don’t give it to him.”

  Mercy twitched. “I’m sorry?”

  “Just . . . trust me on this,” Cell whispered. “Don’t give him the files. Not yet.”

  “Why?”

  Sighing, he peeked at the others. When his gaze drifted to the back rooms, conflict held a battle on his face. “I can’t explain it. But I think . . . I think it’d be dangerous to give him the files.”

  Mercy recoiled. “Dangerous? He’s our team leader! He’s responsible for intercepting the Neiothen before they can act. I have never felt more confident in anyone—well, except Tox and Ram—but Leif is right up there. Remember, he gave you this job. Why would it be dangerous?”

  Contrition looked great on everyone but Barclay Purcell. On him, it looked puke green. “I can’t answer that, but—please.” His brown eyes begged. “Trust me on this one.”

  Frustration encircled that restriction he’d just placed on her. “How long?”

  He frowned, then shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  This reeked, and she hated it. But Leif’s unusual behavior was the wedging factor in her indecisiveness. “For now,” she relented. “I’ll hold off for now. But if I think this could help him—”

  “It won’t. Trust me, Merc. Trust me, please.”

  “I—”

  Her phone intoned the arrival of an email. She checked it and frowned that the FROM heading was empty. About to dismiss it—she wasn’t stupid enough to open an attachment from an unknown source—she spotted a five-word message preview that changed her mind.

  Sorry about the gas poisoning.

  Chest hiccupping, Mercy gaped at the message. Then her hatred of the man had her typing back a reply.

  You mean sorry you failed to kill me?

  She hit send before she realized the idiocy. Too late to retrieve it, though.

  A tone signaled another message.

  Never meant to harm you.

  Why apologize? Why talk to her? Mercy did what she always did when she got a strange message, even those marked SPAM. She traced it.

  Of course, Andrew was too good to leave a trail. Even in places where there should be a trail, he’d left none. The location ping bounced around—as expected—from city to city. Yeah, he was too good. Can’t you just once screw up like the rest of humanity?

  And he obliged. Mercy stared drop-jawed when the ping stopped. The location pin ballooned in and out.

  No way. After arguing with herself over whether this was a trap or not, she took a screenshot and sent it to Iskra.

  Possible sighting of Andrew. Check it out?

  Iskra texted back:

  He’s too good to leave a trail.

  Great minds thought alike. Mercy smiled and nodded. Considered the trace location icon.

  Maybe he messed up?

  ISKRA

  Or maybe he’s baiting us.

  MERCY

  So . . . leave it?

  ISKRA

  If he’s baiting us, then he has a message. Gotta follow.

  Atta girl.

  CHAPTER 20

  CIA SAFE HOUSE, TAIWAN

  Ego semperer ex profundis.

  Grateful for his near-perfect memory, Leif recalled the phrase Arlen Dempsey had uttered right before he killed himself. He’d looked up the translation on his phone: “From the depths I will always rise.”

  I will rise.

  I will rise.

  I will rise.

  He gritted his teeth, those haunting, taunting words tearing through the empty spaces of his mind. What did it mean? Every time he shut it out, convinced h
imself the words were from a movie or TV show he’d watched, they crept back up like some menacing ghoul.

  Fingers to his forehead, he rubbed. It felt like the midnight hour of his life was about to yield to the break of dawn—memories. It made his head ache, so much like Dempsey. He’d do anything to know what was behind the redacted parts of his life. The things someone had hidden from him. In light of what they were chasing, in light of what Saito had asked—“Do you ever think it’ll be you next?”—he didn’t like where his thoughts were going.

  Dru and Canyon would be ticked, but Leif couldn’t look away any longer. The missing fragments were there, waiting for him to take a leap of faith. Jump after them. Haul the past into the present.

  If he did, there’d be no going back. He had more than one scar from trying to dig through that pile of dung the Army had used to backfill his life. His records showed no lapse in service, no missing days. Yet he had a six-month gap that nobody could explain. According to them, there was nothing wrong with his brain, no swelling, no damage. He’d been convinced at one time that part of his gray matter was missing, but the VA said it was all there.

  But it wasn’t, figuratively. And it ticked him off.

  His mother was a devout Christian. She wholly believed in the Bible, its inerrancy, and the truth that when people blamed God for one situation or another, they were only looking at it from one perspective: theirs.

  What other perspective was he supposed to have when it was his life missing six months? When his career had nearly tanked? When his men had died and he hadn’t?

  Someone had messed him up. Stolen his life. And he was ticked. It was time to turn the tide.

  Mercy had shown her hand when she mentioned the full file. It confirmed what he’d guessed: there was more intel. Why were DIA and CIA holding back? His own team was holding back as well. Why?

  Thoughts crowded his head. Too many coincidences. Too many voices screaming from the past. He had to change that. Somehow.

  His phone chirruped. He flipped it over, and the screen lit up with an email notification. He unlocked it. His inbox had a dozen emails, but one had no subject or sender. But it did have an attachment. He checked the message preview: Thought it only fair you had this . . .