Kings Falling

by Ronie Kendig

  Hesitantly, Leif opened the email. Nothing nefarious or notable happened. It could be rooting through his system, but agency security protocols should shut viruses down. Hopefully. In addition to the attachment, the email had two lines:

  Thought it only fair you had this as well.

  Since we have the same end goal.

  The attachment was a video file. He accessed it.

  In the recording, a man stood backlit by the sun. “I know sending this to you is an extreme risk, but voice triggers an integral part of the stimulators. The general insists you’ll figure it out, but I think the clock has run out on that happening. Netherwood is in danger. There are moles trying to undo what needs to be done to advance the agenda. If you haven’t awoken, it’s time to rise. We need your help. Look for Akin and Bushi—they’re key. Don’t try to find me. I’ll find you.” The figure leaned toward the camera, and for a second, his face was clear: Carsen Gilliam.

  Leif played it again. And again. Who were Akin and Bushi? Buddies? Neiothen? Both? His thumb hovered over his phone, thinking to shoot a message to—

  No, no records. They’d be all over him otherwise. Maybe he could talk to Mercy, but she wasn’t cooperating either.

  “Yo, Leif.”

  He flinched toward the door where Culver stood.

  The redhead frowned. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” Leif tucked away the phone. Played good Boy Scout as he’d done for the last four years. “What’s up?”

  Culver indicated back down the hall. “Command wants a briefing before we head out.”

  On his feet, Leif started down the hall. “Head where?”

  The director’s voice boomed a greeting over the live feed, followed by Braun. “You’re on the next transport out of the area.”

  “Destination?” Cell asked.

  “Afghanistan.”

  Grumbling tittered through the team.

  “Why A-stan?” Lawe asked. “We were all pretty glad to get out of there last time.”

  “We’ve identified two of Gilliam’s special-ops buddies who are currently attached to units in-country—a Sander Brandon and Cyrus Block. They’re outside the wire right now, so we weren’t able to make contact directly, so I’m sending you to put boots on the ground to talk with them. Find out what you can on Gilliam and if they’ve had contact.” Dru glanced at his desk, then back at the camera. “We’ve had a stroke of luck, thanks to Mercy and Iskra.”

  Leif glanced at Mercy and couldn’t help but feel betrayed.

  “How’s that?” Lawe asked.

  “They followed a tip that led them to a New York City firm. Mercy dug around the secure server, and through that, Cell was able to extract more names and pair those with possible connections to the Neiothen.”

  Cell. Another traitor.

  “And the names?” Leif pressed, anxious to know if they were the ones Gilliam had handed him. He should probably mention Gilliam had contacted him. . . .

  “First one is Harald Elvestad—he was designated ‘Dreng’ in the text,” Dru said. “He’s Scandinavian, and we have no intel on his current location. He is, however, a member of the Särskilda Operationsgruppen, Sweden’s special operations task group. We reached out to the SSG, but they are nonresponsive at this time. As soon as they tell us, we’ll tell you.”

  “So, not American,” Leif verified.

  “Obviously,” Dru said, glancing off camera and nodding. “The second name is Turi Vega, code-named ‘Kampfer’ by the book. His dossier is showing very similar to Elvestad’s—part of Spain’s army, in particular the Mando de Operaciones Especiales.”

  Culver grunted. “I’m digging how that sounds—especiales.” He grinned. “Dudes, I think we’re especiales, too.”

  “The GOE was very responsive—with a string of rhetoric and accusations a mile long. Seems Vega was a top operator in La Unidad Boinas Verdes, the equivalent of our Green Berets.”

  “Hooah,” Lawe grunted.

  “But he’s off-grid as of a week ago.”

  “Think he’s been activated?” Leif asked.

  “Unknown. Again, we are not a hundred percent certain these two are legitimately Neiothen, but we have no other actionable intel at the moment, so we’re moving on it.”

  “Sir, what about the book?” Saito asked. “I mean—why aren’t we kicking down doors to get it back?”

  At least Leif didn’t have to ask the question this time.

  “And what doors would you have us kick down, Mr. Saito?”

  “Someone has to know where that thing is,” Devine said. “Everyone and their dog was looking for it a couple of months ago—and what? Suddenly nobody is interested in it?”

  Leif folded his arms over his chest. “Has Iskra found out anything?” It was a gutsy question, one replete with implication, but he couldn’t ignore it any longer.

  Cell laughed, then frowned, looking between Leif—whose gaze locked onto the director—and the screen. “Wait. What?”

  “I mean, since you have her hunting for the book and Veratti told her to go after Hermanns . . .”

  “Oh, heck no,” Culver said. “Tell me he’s not right.”

  Dru scowled. “We use assets to the best of our abilities. Right now—”

  “I want to go wherever she got sent,” Lawe said. “I need to give certain people some serious payback.”

  “Bet Baddar would agree if he were here,” Saito added.

  “You’re going to Afghanistan as instructed,” Braun barked. “If we needed you in another location, we’d send you there. Of all people, I would expect former JSOC operators to understand how delicate situations can be and the need for precision, for the right people in the right places.”

  Straightening, Leif lifted his chin. “Nobody understands the need for this book better than Reaper, since we were sent after it in the first place. Since our team is hunting down situations and people mentioned in that text.” But even as he spoke, he felt the sinuous threads of secrecy vibrating beneath the surface of conversation. Again.

  “Jet’s on the runway in ninety,” Braun said, ignoring him. “Get moving.”

  ***

  PARIS, FRANCE

  It had taken only a little ingenuity and a lot of legwork to connect the dots that Mercy found in Frankfurt & Stuttgart’s system to the location lock they’d gotten off Andrew’s email. Iskra had no view of the Eiffel Tower, which was fine, since she wasn’t sightseeing. Using the list of business addresses that Mercy had scooped, she’d narrowed down her target to two within the area, but only one belonged to Rutger. An art gallery in an old building that looked more like a hotel than a trendy spot for modern art.

  What a perfect place to hide an ancient text, in a location with airtight containers and bulbs that did not wear down ink and history.

  Iskra eyed the building, knowing full well that if she went in there, she would be identified. Rutger would know she was here. She was not afraid to dig around in that art gallery, but getting caught complicated things unnecessarily. She had a five-year-old waiting at home for her now. Her chest tightened at the thought of something going wrong.

  Then make sure it doesn’t.

  That was what General Varvarinksi had taught her during her training at the Kremlin. Being caught didn’t have to be “getting caught.” It was merely an opportunity.

  Right. She had to get her mind in the game.

  Iskra left the car and crossed the small park that separated her from the shop. She’d made the necessary changes—short blond bob with a lot of makeup and expensive clothes. Iliescu would have a screaming fit over the small fortune charged to the agency card, but he would understand. As long as she found the book.

  Which was a long shot.

  And really . . . she was after Andrew, her starting point.

  She stepped up to the door of the gallery and tugged the handle. It jarred, metal rattling and sending a strange jangle of nerves up her arm. Closed at this time of day? She glanced around for a posting of the hours
, but instead found a white button set into the brick. Pressing it, she eyed the camera, a black round bubble in the corner.

  A grating buzz granted access. The door clicked free. She opened it, and a whisper of cool, scented air caressed her and drew her into the gallery. Elevator music wafted lightly through the open space.

  “Ah, Miss Todorova.”

  Iskra’s heart fled through her spine back into the open air as she met the eyes of a man she did not recognize. But he clearly—correctly—identified her.

  “I’m sorry. How do you know me?” It definitely felt like she had walked into a trap. Right where someone wanted her. Rutger? Andrew?

  He gave her a wry smile, then motioned around to the pieces displayed behind glass and art hanging on the walls, along with probably a dozen different security measures. “With valuables like this, I’m sure you understand that we make sure all persons entering the gallery are identified.”

  Right. “Of course.” That did not make her any less on edge.

  “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

  Iskra eyed him, taking in his appearance, his posture, his pupils, the rise and fall of his chest. Nothing was out of order. His breathing was normal, since his chest wasn’t moving raggedly. Was this the game? Be open about her nefarious motives, and he’d give her what she wanted? She nearly laughed at the absurdity. Then again, why not? What did she have to lose?

  “Actually, I am.”

  “Have you seen this Leighton?” He indicated a lovely painting of a lady with long blond hair and a mounted knight.

  Iskra skated a glance toward him, wondering at his point. “Uh, no.”

  He delved into the history of the piece, the significance, the interpretation of various elements, and Edmund Leighton’s choice of colors and lighting.

  “I was . . .”

  On he went to the next piece, this time a small Van Gogh.

  “I’m here about a book,” she insisted. “I believe someone brought it here for storage, or perhaps it is on display.”

  His bushy brows furrowed. “We have no books here.”

  “It’s called the Book of the Wars, but it is a scroll.” Iskra felt the air shift behind her. Sensed someone moving—quickly. She peeked over her shoulder.

  Dark leather jacket.

  “Here is another,” the curator said, gripping her arm and tugging her back to the paintings.

  But the impression had already formed. Instincts reared. Her mind saw what she needed. Jeans. Black rubber-soled shoes. Lanky form. Rushing out of the gallery as he tucked his head and donned a helmet.

  Andrew!

  She spun around, but the curator held her. She stepped back, yanked her arm up and over, snapping it down across his, breaking the hold and possibly even the bone. He cried out and went down.

  Iskra pitched forward, only then noticing the windows were blackened to protect the art. Which meant she could not see which way Andrew had gone. She burst through the vestibule and out onto the street, nearly toppling an older woman with a wheeled wire basket filled with shopping bags.

  “Watch it!” the woman cried in French.

  Glancing right and left, Iskra searched for Andrew. His helmeted head.

  Helmet. Was he on a bike? She searched for one and spotted it across the way. She swirled her focus wider and found him hustling toward it.

  She sprinted across traffic, pumping her arms hard to reach him before he drove off. When he hiked a leg over the seat, she cursed herself for being so slow, for not paying more attention.

  Ahead, he revved the engine and swung the bike onto the street—and came around to fly past her—on the wrong side!

  Iskra spun and darted back to the old lady and her wheeled carrier, who stood peering into a trinket shop. Iskra snatched the cart and shoved between two parked vehicles, then pitched it into the road. In that split second as it sailed at him, she saw the leather crossbody satchel he wore.

  He has the book!

  His tires screeched. The back wheel lifted as he tried to prevent a collision. He struggled, distracted. Iskra lunged, punching his helmet as he narrowly avoiding sailing over the handlebars. The strike knocked him sideways. The bike fell, engine wailing. Tires spinning.

  He bounced at her.

  Iskra stumbled, not expecting that maneuver. But she should have. If he had the book, he would be vicious in defending it.

  In a blur, he pinned her against the hood of a car. Gripped her throat.

  Iskra shoved her hands up between his and twisted, catching his right arm. Her other went to the satchel, straining to reach it. She wrenched at it and stabbed a knife-hand strike at his throat with her other hand. It should have dislodged him, but he was animalistic. Enraged. He tossed her to the concrete at the base of a step.

  She tucked her arms and thrust with her shoulder, forcing herself into a roll. She came up out of it and hopped onto her feet—just in time to see his fist coming at her. Ducking only changed where the punch landed—it nailed her ear.

  Trained to focus on not her own injuries but the ones she inflicted, Iskra pummel-punched his gut. Drove him back, his helmeted head thunking against her shoulder. She rotated and jammed her elbow into his stomach. He shuffled. Then rushed her. Stabbed his hand into her lower back. A vicious blow to her kidney.

  Pain exploded, blinding her, and she crumpled to the ground. She growled, struggling to focus. Peering up at him and his black helmeted head, she glowered. Tried not to foam at the mouth from the radiating fire. She sought her next target—his leg.

  Pushing herself up, she felt something beneath her hand. Solid. Cold. Like a pipe. She closed her fingers around it, a new idea forming. Whipped it around at him, stunned to find a cane. It would have to work. She switched to a quasi-bo-staff grip and snapped it at his helmet, then his leg. Helmet again. A crack splintered in the visor, giving her a delicious sense of victory. Again. She struck again. Advanced.

  He was backing up. Good, he was scared. She’d win. She’d find out who he was and why—

  But like lightning, he snatched the stick. And snapped it at her. Struck her temple.

  She dropped into darkness. Felt her ears ringing. She heard sounds but could see nothing. On all fours, she groaned and felt sticky warmth slide along her earlobe and down her neck. Warbling sounds clamored around her. She groaned, and then her hearing cleared.

  Just in time to hear the twang of a fleeing motorcycle.

  CHAPTER 21

  JALALABAD, AFGHANISTAN

  “You couldn’t have come at a worse time.” Major Hank O’Neill stormed into the concrete structure surrounded by six or seven other buildings.

  Two guards eyed Leif as he followed O’Neill down the dank corridor to an open room with a large tactical hub and several doors branching off to the left. O’Neill aimed for the farthest one, and Leif shot a glance over his shoulder as he entered the major’s office. The team was bunked two deep in the fifteen-by-twenty space.

  “Why’s that?” Leif asked the major.

  “SOCOM’s drawing down the number of special operations forces, which means they’re watching us with a microscope.” O’Neill swiped his high-and-tight cut. “Had two soldiers die in a Daesh ambush last week, and yesterday an adviser was killed.” He huffed. “Tensions are high and personnel short.”

  Daesh. Leif sighed. Essentially, it was the new name for ISIS, using an Arabic acronym from the group’s previous Arabic name, al-Dawla al-Islamiya fil Iraq wa al-Sham.

  “Daesh getting the upper hand?”

  “When haven’t they?” O’Neill planted his hands on his tactical belt. Then nodded to the door. “Close it.”

  Anticipating the major had something to share with him that couldn’t get out, Leif did as instructed.

  “Lost contact with Brandon’s team. They’re two hours overdue reporting in.”

  “That could be a lot of things.” Leif knew how things could get muffed in a hot zone and make it hard to keep to timetable.

  “It
could.” O’Neill gritted his teeth. “But in light of the ambush and the ambassador’s adviser—”

  “I’ll go out there.”

  O’Neill’s sharp gaze penetrated Leif’s words. “You do that and don’t come back? I’ll have DIA breathing down my neck.”

  “And if you don’t let us, you’ll have them breathing down your neck,” Leif said with a smirk. “Better to send us out and see if we can render aid to your guys.” When the major didn’t argue or refuse him outright, he pushed on. “All we need are weapons, comms, and a vehicle. We can handle the rest.”

  O’Neill roughed a hand over his face.

  “Like you said, you’re under a microscope. We’re not attached to your command or this unit, so it has no bearing on you. Say we took the things. Disobeyed your orders.”

  “No need to lie,” O’Neill said. “Jackson!”

  A sergeant trotted into the room. “Sir?”

  “See this gentleman and his team to the motor pool. They need gear and a vehicle.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Leif felt the thrill of the fight plume in his chest. “Thank you, Major.”

  “Thank me by coming back alive—with Brandon and his unit, also alive.”

  “Do my best, sir.”

  After securing weapons and tac, Reaper was delivered to the motor pool, where they geared up and checked weapons. Leif had Mercy pull up satellite images of the forward operating base where Sander Brandon, Cyrus Block, and their unit had been hunting key assets to assist them in bringing down the Daesh insanity out here. The village was remote and a veritable fortress. Both were points of concern. Ten structures huddled around several others, forming a circle—a choke point with one road in and one out the back.

  “Watch this hut,” Lawe said, pointing to a small building along the road in. “Probably has lookouts or artillery.”

  “Agreed,” Leif said, eyeing the surrounding sloping land.

  “This is a problem,” Devine suggested, pointing to a cluster of shrubs and small trees roughly a klick outside the village. “It’s elevated and perfect for concealing a lookout or sniper.”