by Ronie Kendig
“Who were those men?” Iskra asked. “What did he do to you?”
“Nothing. He—he was crazy.” A few blinks, and Leif seemed to come together. “It was Carsen Gilliam.” He started jogging. “We need to take them out before they’re initiated.”
That was a delayed response.
“Go, go!” Culver shouted to Lawe as the two hurried past, sparing Leif the briefest of glances.
Leif keyed his comms. “Carsen Gilliam and Turi Vega are on-site. Repeat, they are on-site. Stop them before they initiate.”
“I think Gilliam is dead,” came the quiet voice of Adam. “Sprawled just inside the hotel lobby across the street. A lotta blood. Going to guess a sniper hit. Heading back.”
“Did Ha—Vega shoot him?” Leif paused, gaze flickering back and forth across the sand. He lowered his gaze. Scowled.
“Unknown,” Cell barked.
Intensity roiled off Leif like a heat wave on a blistering hot day.
Iskra touched his side. “What’s wrong?”
He glanced at her, then back toward the latticework, then up the buildings.
“Leif?”
He jerked toward Baddar, his demeanor all business as he took in their surroundings. “Put your gun away. Now.”
The commando complied, but his brows drew together.
“What’s wrong?” Iskra repeated, a pervasive dread coiling in her stomach. She had never seen Leif like this.
He keyed his comms. “Any eyes on Vega?”
“Negative,” Cell replied calmly. “We’re reviewing security cameras to find out where he went. Authorities are swarming the lobby.”
“What about Elvestad? If Vega’s here, is Elvestad?”
“And who is their target?” Iskra asked. “There are hundreds of VIPs here.”
Leif muttered something to himself. “It’s not just one target. It’s several. That’s why there’s more than one Neiothen.”
“Okay, authorities appropriately detoured,” Cell said. “I put in a call saying I saw a man with a gun on the west side of the garden, heading back to the street.”
“Everyone keep a low profile,” Leif ordered. “Eyes out. Find Vega and possibly Elvestad.”
“And Mercy,” Baddar said quietly.
Leif started. “What?”
“She is missing,” Baddar said with frustration.
Anger detonated through Leif’s expression. “She’s what?”
“We were at the dessert table and, um . . .” Baddar swallowed. “She just leave. I thought maybe she go to use lady room, but she not come back.”
“You had one job,” Leif shouted. “One job—protect her. The one person on our team who doesn’t have tactical training. She needed your protection. What is wrong with you?”
“Whoa.” Iskra stepped in. “Leif,” she pleaded. “Stop.”
“Get off me, V.”
The nickname shoved her back, making it impossible to hide the wound he created.
He saw it. And shrugged it off. “Mercy’s the weakest link. She needed protection. And he can’t pay attention long enough to keep her safe. This whole team—I have no idea why I even put it together.”
“That’s uncalled for,” Iskra chided, surprised at his acidic response. She touched his chest, as if she could reach past the fabric, past his skin, to the organ pulsating between his ribs. “These men are extremely loyal to you.”
His lip curled, and his blue eyes seemed to fade to gray. “Yeah? Well, loyalty doesn’t get the job done.” He cursed and jerked back toward the event.
“What is wrong with you?” Iskra called after him, but he never slowed or responded.
Hurt and anger spiraled through her veins.
“Something is wrong,” Baddar said.
“Agreed,” Iskra said, monitoring him but unable to bring herself to give chase. To talk to him. She realized only as the distance grew that this was so much like Hristoff’s tirades. And by the saints, she would not cater to such a man ever again.
An ache bloomed in her breast, watching Leif’s taut shoulders and fists slip back behind the lattice. Something was wrong.
No, something was broken—in him. She’d seen fragments over the last few weeks, but since these missions to stop the Neiothen, he’d become progressively worse. It scared her, but worse—it worried her. He was truly the best man she knew, and she did not want to see him become something else. Something terrible.
***
Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe!
Mercy jerked awake with an intense feeling of suffocation. She reached for her mouth—but her hands yanked to a stop. She glanced down to see what she’d caught on, only to find duct tape, rope, and a strap coiled around her hands—tightly. She couldn’t even separate her hands from each other. They were anchored to her feet, and her whole body was curled around a marble column.
What . . . ?
It all came back in a torrent. Seeing Andrew. Following him around the hotel and in through that side door. Hearing something and turning—a pinch. Mentally, she probed the spot in her shoulder, the one she was lying on. Yeah, still tender.
So where am I? She swiveled around the column, taking in a borderline gaudy hotel room. Massive four-poster king bed with drapes. Cold marble floors. She scooched around some more and found the windows.
In particular, the man standing behind a long-range scope, staring out the window.
“Sorry about taping your mouth,” Andrew said without turning. “Couldn’t have you shouting and giving me away.”
She’d give him shouting.
Mercy screamed at the back of her throat, thrashed against the floor, and tried to bang the column to generate some noise to annoy the rooms above or below so they’d contact hotel security.
After several minutes, her throat was already starting to ache, but she persisted and thumped her hands on the column.
She wasn’t sure how long she protested and attempted to stir a commotion, but when she finally looked at Andrew, he was bent over a computer and wearing noise-canceling headphones.
She throat-shrieked more. Jerked but only ended up thudding her head on the marble. Defeated, she slumped on the floor and considered her bonds. Was there a way to get them off? Maybe if she had Vision’s stone, she could use a blast of solar energy to free herself.
Ha. Forget the bonds. She’d send a blast through that arrogant skull bent over his work. Being a villain suddenly had very real appeal.
She scooted around the column, this time taking in her environment for a different purpose—tools. She hesitated, eyeing the sofa. Too far away, but there was a brass lamp standing sentry over the seating group. What else . . . what else?
Cords. There were cords nearby, but the way he’d tied her . . . Ugh! She deflated against the marble. Darkness fell over her, and she flinched. Glanced up. Her heart jumped into her throat—he was squatting over her.
Head cocked to the side, he smirked. “How you doing, Miss Marvel?”
A high-pitched alarm squealed through her mind. No. There was no way he could know about her affinity for Marvel superheroes.
“What?” he chuckled. “You can hunt me down and learn everything about me”—he wagged his hands—“or so you think, but I can’t return the favor?” He was backlit by the light from outside, throwing him into shadows. “Admiral Manche handed me good intel on you. From there”—his shoulders bounced—“it was easy work. What I can’t figure out is you and the Arab. Never saw that one coming. He’s not in your league, Ar—”
She shrieked, not wanting to hear that name. Not wanting it spoken. Ever again.
“You imagine that girl is gone, yes? That you’re someone new.” Andrew brushed a strand of her hair aside. “I get it. I do. We can put on nice clothes, we can cozy up to the rich and powerful, but in the end, we are what we are, Marvel. It doesn’t matter who people think we are as long as we get the job done, right?”
There was a lot of “we” in that speech. He included himself?
&
nbsp; “I’m curious, though. Will you ever tell them?” He scratched his jaw. “Or are you so wholly immersed in this identity that you can’t remember who she was? Who you were, not so many years ago?” His fingers swept her cheek, and she jerked away. “I am sorry for what they did to you. Maybe you should let her out, let her return for one last stand.”
Something beeped, and he returned to the window, his tablet in dark mode to prevent it from giving him away. She noticed a small cable running from the device to the window—camera. Why was he watching from up here?
He lifted a phone from his pocket and typed into it. Repocketing it, he removed the scope from the tripod and tucked it into a bag. From the corner, he retrieved something and moved back to the window.
With the backlighting of—lights! There were a lot of lights out there! Music drifted into the hotel room, and a gentle breeze rippled the curtain. The gala. They were overlooking the gala!
When he shifted, she saw it. Saw the way the lighting from the event caressed the long black barrel of a rifle.
Mercy’s heart backed into her throat. She couldn’t move as he settled behind the weapon. He was going to shoot someone. Murder them right in front of her, and she could do nothing to stop him.
She shrieked and thrashed.
“Quiet,” came his condescending and ridiculously calm voice, his focus unbroken from his task.
Please. Please, please, don’t . . .
***
Hotel security was upped after Gilliam’s death. What Adam couldn’t figure out was why the event continued unaffected. Maybe that was what rich folk were like—flaunting their ability to be stupid but look good.
“Cell, what’s the intel on the shooting?”
“Nothing,” Cell said. “Management wanted to shut down the event, but Veratti convinced the royal house to keep it going.”
Adam grunted. “No kidding. Body’s been removed, lobby cleaned—after photographs were taken, of course. Never seen anything like it.”
“And I’ve never seen anyone move the way those two did,” Saito said.
“Yeah,” Culver said. “Dude, he had a hole in his chest and ran as if he had a jetpack.”
“No chatter on the scanners,” Cell continued. “They don’t want anyone not already on-site getting wind of the killing. Security brought in more badges to search for the shooter. And—hold up.” He went quiet. “We have Elvestad on-site. He just slipped onto the crowded dance floor.”
“Move, people,” Leif said. “Blend in. Dance—whatever looks normal and puts you in place near Elvestad. Don’t draw eyes.”
Adam took Pete in his arms and led her around the dance floor, the ring burning a hole in his thoughts. He reminded himself not tonight. But he was starting to feel like if he waited for the perfect time . . .
Not the time, idiot.
“You’re quiet.” Peyton smiled at him, her gaze surfing the crowd. “Nice change.”
“Ha-ha.”
“Got anything?” Leif asked through the comms.
“Negative,” Cell responded. “DIA and CIA have analysts working on the footage I’m feeding them, but there’s nothing. They think the sniper must’ve been elevated.”
“The hotel next door?” Leif suggested, gaze swinging up the multistoried building.
“A SWAT team is checking it out.”
Nestled against Adam, Peyton had her arm draped over his shoulder. “I see at least three different vantages. This hotel, the one next to it, and a building about three-quarters of a mile out. Any are viable options for a sniper.”
“Stay sharp, Reaper,” Iliescu said. “We’ll keep you posted.”
Peyton met Adam’s eyes. “I should be higher.”
Man, he loved her focus. “We can do that when it’s time.”
“That may be too late.” She huffed and shifted her gaze, then stopped dancing. She frowned over his shoulder.
“Now what?”
Color filled her cheeks. “Dance us closer to that group,” she said, resuming their rhythm and circling quickly toward the side where men in U.S. military uniforms were clustered around a wine fountain.
“Why?”
“Because I’m pretty sure that’s General Elbert. He was Sienna’s godfather—she always bragged about him, and honestly, I think that’s how she got most of her promotions.”
They left the dance floor, and Peyton broke away.
***
Peyton lifted a glass and aimed it at the golden fountain stream near the officers.
“I can’t believe it,” General Elbert said. “I watched that kid grow up and even worked with him on his last mission. He was as smart and intelligent as they come. To hear he was here and shot . . .”
“I heard he was here to kill someone,” a three-star stated.
“No way. Not Carsen.”
Peyton deliberately made eye contact with the general. “I couldn’t help but overhear you, General Elbert.”
Strangely dark brows against a mostly silver head of hair frowned at her. “Do I know you?”
“No, but you know one of my cultural support team members, Sienna Gilliam.” She tilted her head. “And clearly you knew Carsen as well.”
“Like a son.”
She gave him a sad smile. “I’m sorry about what happened. I was surprised, but then, I’ve heard he was having trouble with anger and depression. Someone”—she didn’t need to mention it was Sienna—“said he cracked.”
“It happens to the best of them,” a colonel murmured.
“It does, but it didn’t to Carsen.” Anger etched the general’s eyes and tone.
“But he went AWOL,” Peyton argued. “Because he was struggling with PTSD.”
“He was struggling, all right, but not with that.” He scowled at her. “I thought you said you were friends with Sienna.”
“No, I said I was teamed with her as a CST.” The truth seemed to be taunting her, just out of reach. “Why?”
“Because it wasn’t Carsen who cracked. It was Sienna. Carsen took leave to take care of her, but when he came back . . .” He shook his head. “The thing is, she’s assigned to Colonel Nesto as his attaché.”
The truth struck Peyton like a gong, sending reverberations through her bones and up her spine. “Sienna.” She was the one who cracked?
General Elbert eyed her.
“I hadn’t heard. Wow.”
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Tell him he’ll need to talk with Admiral Braun about that,” came Iliescu’s quiet, assertive voice. “Good work, Devine.”
She repeated the message, which drew surprised glances from the officers, then excused herself. Her knees felt puddly as she returned to Adam’s arms and leaned heavily against him. “Dance,” she instructed.
“You okay?” he breathed against her ear.
“Just a little more shaken than I expected.” Resting against his chest, she focused on the strength of Adam, the warmth of his touch.
“That was a lot of brass you stared down.”
Something jabbed her arm. Cheek to cheek with Adam, she reached into his coat pocket and felt a small object. She traced it. Circular. Her breath backed into her throat. She lifted it from his pocket, held it up behind his back, and gasped.
Adam looked over his shoulder. “Well, crap. You weren’t supposed to find that.”
“What is this?” She gaped at him.
“It’s an engagement ring.”
“For?” Her heart thundered. Was this for . . . her?
“The right time.”
“For whom?”
“Are you freakin’ kidding me?” he balked. “Who else would it be for?” He roughed a hand over his face. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Leif told me to—”
“Heads up,” Leif barked into the comms, “Elvestad and Vega spotted.”
The speakers cranking out lively tango music crackled. A voice intruded on the event. “Dreng. Two. One. Four. Initiate rise. Rise. Rise.”
***
Leif stilled, the words ominously similar to the recording they’d heard when Ibn Sarsour killed the Saudi king and crown prince. A thick, heavy ache pulsed behind his ear, making him grimace. His thoughts swam in a thick, hazy quagmire. He planted the heel of his hand to his head, squinting.
“Kampfer. Two. One. Six. Initiate rise. Rise. Rise.”
“That’s two initiated,” Saito said.
Culver commed. “It just got real, y’all.”
“Cut off that mic to the sound, Cell!” Iliescu ordered. “Do it now!”
Leif started toward the sound system, wanting to find whoever had spoken the words. Halfway there, mind addled with the growing throb in his skull, he noticed chaos around the sound board. Uniforms were shouting at the DJ, who was shrugging and lifting his hands at the angry men. Though he couldn’t explain why, Leif turned his gaze to the far side, where a cluster of guests were buzzing and chatting, all looking to one man for guidance. One calm man who seemed almost apathetic about the strange words still reverberating in Leif’s head.
Sipping wine, Ciro Veratti held a casual pose, as if none of this was happening. As if someone hadn’t just charged the air with bizarre words through a PA system. As if a man hadn’t been shot and killed in the lobby.
When their gazes connected, Leif felt a strange trill run through his veins.
“Runt!” came the director’s bark.
Leif blinked. “Ye—” His throat caught, so he cleared it. Shook off the stupor. “Yeah. Here.”
“What’s happening with our Neiothen?”
Someone slapped his shoulder and whizzed past—Lawe.
Leif fell into a lope behind him, scanning the strangely still dance floor. The scene was macabre.
A scream shot out from his ten. Like the Red Sea, the crowd parted. Guests scattered away from something—right into Leif’s path. He negotiated the insanity, propelled by a sense of urgency.
“Whoa, whoa,” Lawe snapped. “Hold it. No need to do this.”
Leif broke around the last few guests and saw the object of Lawe’s concern. Turi Vega. And Harald Elvestad. Weapons trained on each other. Leif’s mind whiplashed. Shooting each other didn’t fit the Neiothen MO. Something was off.
A weird taunting tapped Leif on the shoulder and told him to look back. He fought the urge, then finally surrendered to the lure. Visually surfed the crowds. Saw uniforms. Suits. Gowns. VIPs. “Get back!” he shouted, wondering who the targets were. Warmth hit his gut. If Elvestad and Vega were here, why were they delaying with each other?