Kings Falling

by Ronie Kendig

  “All right,” Leif said, shaking his head, appreciating the guys and their camaraderie. Hoping he didn’t let them down again. “We need to be on the terrace in ten. Head out in intervals.”

  Lawe shrugged. “I’m ready.”

  “I’ll wait for boy wonder,” Culver said.

  Leif nodded.

  “Going live with the comms in five.” Cell stroked a few keys, then gave a thumbs-up. “All set. See you on the beach.”

  Leif and Lawe left the suite of the Amrâth Kurhaus. The luxurious five-star grand hotel was a beautiful historical and monumental building elegantly situated on the coast of Scheveningen. More palace than hotel, its rich history dated back to 1818 and had been remarkably well preserved. With two-hundred sixty-five rooms, a restaurant, terrace, and spa, it was an exquisite setting for the conference.

  “Crazy,” Lawe whispered as they waited for the elevator to the main level. “Always heard about The Hague, but never thought I’d see it.”

  “Too political for me—I’d hoped never to see it.” Leif entered the gilded elevator, catching his reflection in the mirror as he turned to press the button.

  “Since you’re Mr. Encyclopedia,” Lawe said, squaring his shoulders as he checked out his reflection, “what do you know about this place?”

  “The Hague or the hotel?”

  Lawe snorted. “The Hague. I mean, we hear about it all the time with NATO.”

  Leif shrugged. “It’s not the capital of the Netherlands—that’s Amsterdam—but The Hague does seat several government entities like the cabinet and the Council of State. It hosts most foreign embassies and a hundred or more international organizations.”

  “Doesn’t the Netherlands have a king or something?”

  “The king and queen live here,” he confirmed.

  Lawe smoothed his beard. “Think they’ll be at the party tonight? It’s huge. Whole hotel is blocked out.”

  “Doubtful.” Leif checked the backlit floor numbers as they descended.

  “Can I ask a question?”

  Leif eyed his friend, noting that question had weight to it.

  “You ever think about marrying Iskra?”

  Leif started. “Yeah. Why?”

  Sincerity tugged at the big guy’s features. Gaze intense and serious, he retrieved something from his pocket. Held it up.

  Seeing the ring, Leif felt one-upped. “You sure about that?” His buddy had been crazy about Devine since they met, but the two hadn’t exactly been on good footing since Reaper set up camp in Maryland. “I mean, you two . . .”

  “Things are on the upswing.”

  “Meaning she hasn’t punched you recently.”

  “Meaning we’re talking—nicely.” Lawe shrugged. “Well, most of the time. I have to convince her.” His beard twitched. “I made the biggest mistake of my life walking away from her last time. Won’t do it again.”

  “Don’t tell me that—tell her.”

  “I have. A hundred times.”

  Hearing the pout in Lawe’s voice, Leif tried to hide his smile.

  “Sometimes I wonder if she’s not willing to go all-in with me because she’s hot for someone else.”

  “I think Devine wants to believe you, but you hurt her. Bad. You were talking rings and weddings when I last saw you.” When Lawe nodded, he continued. “You start talking rings and weddings again, she’s going to wonder when you’ll bail this time.”

  Lawe stilled as the elevator came to rest on the lobby floor. “So, what? Don’t talk rings?”

  “No ring. Just get to know her—favorite food, favorite color.”

  “Lasagna and teal.”

  Surprise lit through Leif. “Good start, but my point was more about nuance,” he said as they exited and strode over the marble floor. Down a set of steps and across another open area, a wall of glass pocket doors had been opened so the interior bled onto the terrace. At a table, Mercy stood chatting with Baddar, who’d rendezvoused with them here at the hotel.

  “There.” Leif slapped Lawe’s gut and indicated the commando. “Follow Smiley’s lead. He’s crazy about Mercy, but you don’t see him buying or talking rings. He’s there for her. Talks to her. It’s not about you, man. It’s about her.”

  “When did you become Dr. Phil?”

  Leif shook his head, just as surprised the words had fallen off his lips. “I can hand it out, but I can’t follow it.” It wasn’t that simple, but . . .

  “Maybe you should, because Iskra”—Lawe nodded behind them—“is a whole lotta woman that a whole lotta men would like to get to know.”

  Irritated at the challenge, Leif glanced back in the direction from which they’d come and stilled at the goddess gliding down the steps with Devine.

  “Ho-lee crap,” Lawe whispered, apparently having seen his girl, too. “I need a bigger gun. And I gotta get a ring on that finger soon.” He stilled. “But no ring talk tonight.”

  Leif was dumbstruck at Iskra. She wore a wine-colored velvet gown that accentuated her curves and tossed color into her cheeks and eyes, which were bright with amusement as a smile traipsed onto her lips. Hair swept up with those maddening tendrils dangling along her face and neck, she truly did look like a goddess. And the way she was smiling at him made him dizzy. Cemented the tentative alliance that had arisen out of the information they’d shared last night. Crazy how all that swelled into a heady concoction, mixing her attraction with trust. Made a guy want to man-up. Figure out how to make this work.

  “Well.” Iskra gave him a coy smile as she curled into him. “You clean up nicely.”

  He took the kiss she seemed to be offering. “Not that anyone will notice while I’m standing next to you.”

  “Nice,” she said around a smile, accepting the compliment. “Ready to enter the fray?”

  Sun glinted off her eyes as they approached the retracted glass doors and moved onto the terrace. Adorning the fifty-by-forty-foot area, tables offered wine glasses and champagne flutes, which guests were welcome to fill from fountains placed every twenty paces that poured a variety of wines. Beyond the stone steps, the beach cast a glittering backdrop. Ivy climbed lattice planters that formed a barrier on the sides, ensconcing the party of roughly three hundred in intimacy and privacy.

  Iskra took a wine glass and handed one to him.

  “No.”

  “Take one,” she murmured. “Nobody likes prudes at these gatherings.” Hooking her arm through his, she sauntered to a fountain that looked as if blood spilled from its spout. She tucked her goblet beneath the stream, filled it halfway, then switched glasses with him and repeated it. Turning, she straightened and smiled.

  He could get used to this view. Though her smile didn’t fall and her expression didn’t change, something in her eyes did. “What?”

  “You should relax.”

  “D’you see what I’m wearing?” he teased. “How does one relax in an ape suit?”

  Iskra leaned against him, adjusting his bow tie and throwing his mind in all the wrong directions. “Veratti is here.”

  Reality crashed hard against his thoughts. He wrapped an arm around her, playing cuddly—such a sacrifice—and skated a glance around.

  “His assistant just showed,” she amended. “He checks to make sure things are okay before Veratti enters.” She slid a hand up around his neck. “Maybe we should dance.”

  “Thought you’d never ask.” He grinned. “I saw one of France’s ministers near a fountain.”

  “King Ahmad’s only surviving and uncontested heir is here as well,” she said.

  “Quite the who’s who,” came Cell’s voice in the invisible piece tucked in Leif’s ear. “So far, representatives from Palestine, China, Syria, the United States, Britain, and Saudi Arabia have cleared security.”

  “And if Veratti sees me . . .” Iskra whispered.

  “Game over.”

  ***

  “We’re lucky they didn’t put me by the chocolate fountain,” Mercy said as she handed a plate of p
etit fours to a guest.

  “It is not good?” Baddar worked beside her, decked out in a black suit and tie, as were the staff, yet he stood miles above them. Dapper.

  “You kidding me? You’d have to roll me out of here like a hippo.” She wrinkled her nose, scanning the crowd and chaos. “Or I’d figure out how to hook up an IV for myself.”

  Baddar laughed. “You like chocolate?”

  “Wrong again.”

  He frowned.

  “I love chocolate. I’ve been unfaithful to many a confection when it comes to chocolate.”

  “I am not sure whether to laugh or be sad that you speak of chocolate the way you would a person.”

  She delivered more food, then eyed him. “Don’t worry. I have my priorities straight—chocolate! People are too fickle and too mean. Chocolate never fails me.”

  “I would like to think that maybe I do not fail you.”

  Her heart ka-thumped right into his eyes, brown like a dark chocolate truffle. She took in his gentle smile and demeanor. It was so hard to remember he was an experienced commando. That persona just didn’t match the chill dude who always greeted her.

  “Careful,” Mercy said softly, nervously—which was strange and awkward. “Talk like that . . .” She fidgeted with the napkins, realizing she’d been about to tease him about taking her to dinner.

  It scared her to go down that road again. Maybe it had been long enough since losing Ram. Some would say more than enough. But opening the door to Baddar was like freeing a dam.

  He’d homed in on her jitters and touched the small of her back. “I make you nervous.”

  “No,” she lied. She glanced up to smile and shrug him off, and got snared in those truffles again. Oh Mercy, have mercy! Date the guy already.

  “I would like much to take you to dinner.” The waver of his smile, indicating his nerves, unleashed jellies in her stomach. “Would you go with me?”

  No no no. “Yes.”

  His eyes brightened. “Good.” He shifted. “I mean, thank you.”

  “Right.” She touched her forehead, turning. “Now—um, cheesecakes.”

  Eagerness ever his motto, Baddar went back to work, sliding her sly smiles that made every junior high phase she’d skipped come roaring to life. The thought of a normal life seemed strange. It had always been out of reach.

  Smiling, she handed a plate of nougat glacé to a woman with a small tiara nestled atop a mountain of curls. And over the woman’s shoulder, she saw him. Andrew.

  Mercy was halfway across the terrace before she realized she hadn’t told Baddar what she was doing. After a moment’s hesitation, she glanced back—found him being his typical happy self, smiling as he delivered cheesecake to another guest—and barely slowed.

  “Maddox, where are you going?” Iliescu commed.

  At his intrusion into her diversion, she skipped into a jog and cleared the decorations.

  “Maddox, report!”

  Down a concrete stairwell, she saw a door flap shut—a side entrance into the hotel. She hurried and yanked it open. Threw herself into the hall.

  The door cracked shut behind her, snapping her into darkness. Mercy gasped and spun back, only to feel a sharp pinch at her neck.

  ***

  “Do you think Mercy is okay?” Iskra looked at Leif, noting he seemed unusually agitated. “She left her post.”

  He grunted, circling the power couples and dignitaries as they danced. “She’s smart. Maybe she’s taking a bio break.”

  Iskra took a sip of wine and her gaze connected with a familiar tanned face. “Ah, I’m noticed. Rutger.”

  Leif, to his credit, didn’t turn to see Hermanns.

  “I hate that man. So very much.”

  “Only because he beat you.”

  “More than once.”

  “Is that what I have to look forward to?”

  She laughed. “Beating me, or my hatred?”

  He frowned. “Beating you.”

  “You can try.”

  “Worried Hermanns will say something to you?”

  “I am convinced he knows I am onto him after all the encounters with Andrew. Though he is a formidable man, he is not dangerous like Veratti.”

  “But he’s a Veratti lackey, isn’t he?”

  “That is what they say, but I do not think the two get along.”

  “Don’t have to get along to work together. Look at me and Cell.”

  “Heard that,” Cell commed.

  “Always butting in where he doesn’t belong.”

  “Always watching over those depending on him to guide their sorry carcasses out of dangerous situations,” Cell corrected. “If I like them.”

  A man stepped into their path.

  Iskra felt the world tilt at the presence of Ciro Veratti. She drew on the strength that carried her through a dozen years tethered to Hristoff Peychinovich. “Mr. V—”

  “I am surprised to see you both here,” Veratti bit out. “I vetted the guest list, and I know for certain neither of you was on it.” Though he smiled, there was a lethal warning in his words.

  “You must’ve misread,” Leif said, not cowering before one of the most powerful men in the world.

  “I did not,” Veratti countered. His gaze slid to her. “Viorica.” The nickname was intentional, reminding her where she’d come from. That he held sway and control over her. “I believe I gave you a task.”

  “I believe,” Iskra said around a rampaging heart, “you asked for my help and tried to hold it over my head with information on my brother.” She shrugged. “But I’m wondering why a powerful man like yourself can’t seem to rein in someone under his influence. Rutger answers to you, does he not?”

  “Unless you want to be unceremoniously tossed out, I suggest you amend your tone, Miss Todorova.” Veratti shouldered into her.

  Iskra tensed, not because of a threat Veratti posed, but because of Leif.

  Who cut between Iskra and Veratti. “You’re a gentleman,” Leif said in a low tone, his gaze sliding to the four security suits that manifested around them. “You and I know she’s earned the respect you aren’t showing her.”

  Veratti’s dark eyes bored into Leif, and his chest drew up. Leif had hit a nerve, and no doubt ArC’s founder was conjuring ways to hurt him. He lifted a hand, and Iskra half expected Leif to end up dead.

  Instead, the Italian prime minister rested a hand on Leif’s shoulder. Swiped his lapel. Then patted his shoulder. “We’ll talk, Mr. Metcalfe. But not yet.” His gaze skidded toward Iskra. “I’m holding you to our agreement. Find it. I told you what you needed to know.”

  ***

  Too many games. Too many unanswered questions. Veratti’s insinuation about talking later stirred Leif’s curiosity. But then, at the far side of the terrace, something caught his attention. He directed himself and Iskra out of the prime minister’s range.

  “Harcos.” The name was a breath on Leif’s tongue.

  “Who?” Iskra asked.

  He stiffened. Frowned—why had he said that? “Vega,” he corrected. “I have eyes on Vega.”

  He rushed across the terrace to the beach, the sand deflecting his steps. He pushed between two sections of the lighted lattice. Saw Vega rushing toward the front of the hotel.

  Leif gave chase, but the Neiothen moved like the sand wasn’t there, as if he were some kind of sand spider. And his speed was ridiculous. They ran for what felt like forever, but Vega never slowed or faltered. Never lost ground.

  Unbelievably, Leif struggled to catch up, but finally closed in. He launched into Vega. They went down hard, dust pluming in his eyes.

  Flipping Vega over, Leif drew his fist back—and froze. The ground shifted—rocky, hard. Not sand. Then the beach returned beneath them. The face registered. Harcos.

  What? Harcos—from his dream? No, intel said this was Turi Vega.

  Leif’s confusion created a deadly hesitation that left him open.

  Vega flipped him. Nailed him in the side, knocking
the air from his lungs. Leif collapsed with a groan, vaguely aware of Vega escaping. He watched the guy’s legs disappear. Holding his side, he staggered up.

  Someone leapt in front of him.

  Leif flinched, expecting trouble, and caught the guy’s shirt, noting the tac vest beneath it. “Carsen.”

  Gilliam’s warning to shoot him on sight rang in Leif’s head. However, something else tremored through him. He released Carsen’s shirt. Slapped him on the shoulder. But even as he did, a pang jarred his skull. Leif stumbled back, clutching his head. “Augh!”

  Gilliam surged forward. Grabbed his shoulders. “Do you remember?”

  “To shoot you?” He should be reaching for his SIG. “Yeah.”

  “No, you have to remember ossi.”

  Leif shook off the pain. “What are you talking about? Who did this to you? Tell me!”

  “I won’t betray her. We can change this!”

  “Betray who?” Leif blitzed for a second—a flicker of a memory, a ghost of someone else imposed itself over Carsen’s visage. Shoot to kill. He palmed his weapon.

  “You must remember!”

  Confused and disoriented, Leif felt hot air stroke his cheek.

  Gilliam let out a gurgled cry and pitched forward.

  Leif startled, registering the report of a weapon as he saw a dark stain spread across Gilliam’s shirt.

  Despite the wound, Gilliam turned and flew up the embankment.

  Leif stared after him, dumbfounded. He should not be moving that fast or unencumbered. He should drop, bleed out. Any second . . .

  Gilliam kept running.

  Leif shouted, “Stop him!”

  CHAPTER 24

  THE HAGUE, THE NETHERLANDS

  Urgency threw Iskra over the beach behind Baddar toward a frozen Leif, who stared after two men running into the hotel. Culver and Saito were hot on their trail.

  It wasn’t right. Leif wasn’t right. Why wasn’t he going after them? She was still a half dozen paces away when Baddar reached him.

  Leif flung around, throwing off Baddar’s hand as he unleashed a stream of vitriol that was lost to the wind. Iskra slowed, surprised at the wildness of Leif’s expression, the fury of his response.

  “You nearly shot me!” Leif yelled.

  Hands raised, Baddar shook his head. “It was not me. I did not shoot.”