by Ronie Kendig
“Do you want applause?”
“No, I want you to ask what effort.”
Curse the man if he wasn’t smiling. Leif just wanted an exit, and the quickest way was probably to play the very game Hermanns said he wasn’t playing. “Fine.” Either Hermanns had more guts than Leif gave him credit for, or this was one elaborate trap. “What effort?”
“The shot Miss Maddox saw Andreas take was not made with a sniper rifle.” Hermanns grunted, then laughed, shrugging. “Or, I guess it was. Eh, Andreas?”
Lifting a snifter, Andreas answered, “A modified one.” Then he took a swig.
Leif wanted to be mad, wanted to smart off, but this story was getting interesting. A modified sniper rifle.
“You see,” Hermanns said, “we learned that the Neiothen are activated by a chip implanted in their brains.”
A curse darted across Leif’s lips before he could stop it. “Really? This is what you want me to hear? Watch any sci-fi flick out there, and that’s their MO. That’s science fiction.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m done here.”
“Bear with us a minute longer,” Hermanns said, lifting a finger. “The weapon Andreas used, the one Ms. Maddox saw him fire? It did not shoot bullets but rather sent a high-frequency pulse. It had to be precisely aimed at the head, or it would not work.”
“A pulse? But a sniper round went through both of their chests.”
Andreas nodded. “I sent the pulse to Vega, but Veratti had a sniper on-site. Apparently he’s been at every activation to make sure that, when the Neiothen complete their mission, they can’t be taken alive.”
“Which we try to prevent,” Hermanns said. “You see, Andreas sends the pulse, and we have an operative waiting to intercept the Neiothen.”
“How does the pulse work?”
“It disrupts the implant’s ability to receive radio signals, which is how they’ve been activating the Neiothen,” Andreas said.
“Wait, I don’t—what about Ibn Sarsour?”
“Fortunately for him,” Hermanns said, “there was an MI6 agent at the wedding, who took custody of him. But we try to get to them before anyone can kill them. Obviously, Veratti does not want these men talking.”
Leif’s brain hurt. He held up a hand. “So you shot Vega with the pulse weapon. What about Elvestad?”
“We tried.”
“Bad angle,” Andreas huffed.
Grief pinched Hermanns’ eyes. “It took the activation of the first couple for us to realize the exact process. And, of course, intercepting the Neiothen alerted Veratti to our actions.”
Leif rubbed his temples. “What is his endgame?”
“His singular purpose is to set up a caliphate to rule Armageddon, to prove to Christians that their belief in the end times is foolish. But while he pretends to care about eschatological concerns, his real priority is to put himself in control of trade and economy.” Hermanns shifted to the edge of his seat. “He is three-fourths of the way to his goal. We cannot—must not let him finish the last one.”
“Last what?”
“Country—Taiwan.”
Futility seemed to be the main course tonight. “I don’t get it. If all the other countries have been restructured, we can’t very well undo all that by saving one country.” He looked at them. “Can we?”
“No,” Hermanns said. “But you saved the Chinese general, and while you are correct that we cannot undo what has been done, we can be a thorn in Veratti’s side. Without Taiwan, his empire is not complete.” Amusement seemed to camp in his features. “Did you know, Mr. Metcalfe, that the human brain is incredibly complex and yet susceptible?”
Leif scoffed. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“If one thing is off, if one neuron doesn’t fire, it can singularly affect the body in a profound way.”
“You mean like the implants?” Why did mentioning that make his brain buzz?
“I mean,” Hermanns said, “that if one atom is altered, if one organ is affected, everything is affected. With the right steps, the right plan and implementation, we can be that one organ that affects Veratti’s brainchild. We can be that thorn, that one misfiring neuron—or nation.”
Leif snorted. “That sounds really nice and poetic, but it doesn’t work in practice.” And as much as it galled him . . . “He’s won. Don’t you get that?”
Anger tightened Hermanns’ mouth. “I will not lie down in the grave before the last breath is stolen from my lungs. And I will not let Veratti easily take that breath!”
Leif had no response, no counterattack. There was no way to compel a man this convinced that he was barking to the wrong dog pound. “Fine. Protect your breath.”
“I think our beautiful Iskra would ask when you became such a fatalist.”
Iskra stared at her hands.
“About two dead Neiothen ago,” Leif said.
“Do you know how many Neiothen exist, Mr. Metcalfe?” Hermanns pulled himself out of the chair and circled to stand with his hands on the back of the leather seat. “The one-fourth that Veratti still needs is not only a country, but the remaining Neiothen.”
“Right.” Leif glanced at Andreas, who swirled the drink in his hand. “So, what? You want me to help your boy find the last ones? Zap their brains so they don’t complete their missions?”
“That’s an interesting scar on your hand.”
What? Leif resisted the urge to glance down or move. He knew which scar, the one from the explosion that had killed his men. He also knew men like this thrived on making others uncomfortable and scared.
Leaning against the chair, Hermanns held his gaze. “I would speak with Mr. Metcalfe alone.”
Though Leif hesitated, he couldn’t help but appreciate the alarm and concern that speared Andreas. And Iskra.
Hermanns stuffed a finger in the air. “Actually, no.” He smiled at them. “No, I think I know you well enough, Mr. Metcalfe. It is with the eyes that you must see and believe.” He started for the door. “Come. I will show—”
“This is not smart,” Andreas asserted. “He does not know—”
“Ja,” Hermanns snapped, then patted the younger man’s shoulder. “I know, my friend. But . . .” His gaze traveled the room before it found Leif again. “I think he must see. He will believe. We must trust.”
“I should come,” Andreas insisted, hand going to his weapon.
“Nein!” Hermanns barked, expression stern. He patted the air. “All will be well.” His smile lost its potency. “All will be well.” He seemed to age decades right there. “I must tell him of my sister’s work.”
“Sister?” Leif frowned, following him.
“Ja.” His dark eyes found Leif again. “My Katrin.”
CHAPTER 31
STUTTGART, GERMANY
“How can you do this? How, in all that is holy, can my brother be a part of an organization so foul, so . . .” Fingers clawing her hair, Iskra searched for a word that embodied the enormity of what she felt. Yet words eluded her. “Ugh! You fail me, Mitre.”
Brows rippling with near amusement, he snorted. “Fail you? Are you stark raving mad? What I do has nothing to do with you.”
“Wrong!” She closed the gap between them. “We may not have had a traditional family—”
“We didn’t even have a dysfunctional family. We share blood. That’s it.”
The words stung as if driven into her heart by a dagger. “You can’t mean that.” She hated the tremble in her voice. “You came to me, you brought me chocolate. And the doll!”
Understanding washed over his taut expression, which then tightened. “Oh, for . . .” He swore and turned, then pivoted back. “It was a plant, Iskra. We needed to know what was happening in Hristoff’s house.” He swallowed, his face melting into regret. “It had a listening device.”
“You gave me a doll so you could spy on him?” He might as well have committed an unpardonable sin, because she was sure she couldn’t forgive this. “All these years, I thought . .
. I stupidly, foolishly thought you cared.”
“I had no idea—”
“No! You didn’t. You do not know what I have done, what I have risked to find you. I risked my own safety and my daughter’s to find you. Help you.”
“Help me what?”
“Get away from the Neiothen and Hermanns.”
He swung away, bringing a hand to his forehead. “Iskra . . .” He shook his head. Then frowned. “You knew of them before you met Metcalfe? Who told you about them?”
“Vasily.”
“The father of your child.”
“No, he was not.” The pleasure of him getting that wrong was too fierce. Even if he had monitored her life, he had not stepped from the past to help her face the future.
He frowned. “But—”
“His brother, Valery, was Taissia’s father.”
“I mix them up.”
“It is easy to do when you did not know them.” She hugged herself. “Vasily and Bogdashka said if I could find the Book of the Wars, it would tell us about the Neiothen. Through them, I would find you.”
His gaze sharpened. “Bogdashka.”
Out of all that she had told him, he asked about the woman? Iskra crossed her arms. “Did you care nothing for me?”
“You misunderstand me.”
“Do I?” she asked around a heavy breath. “I can’t . . . this doesn’t make sense.”
“Many things changed about me when I entered the facility.” He squared his shoulders. “I am not the same person I was then.”
“Facility?” Her mind skipped to the waters that had nearly claimed her twice. Her heart spasmed. “What did they do to you?”
“What didn’t they do to me is easier to answer.” He snorted. “It was . . . brutal, but I have no regrets. It changed me, altered my body, improved my reaction time, sped up my healing—which fixed my hearing loss and my twenty-thirty vision,” he said with a laugh.
“Your hearing,” she muttered, her thoughts lost in the past, at a spring picnic at a small pond. “You got tangled in the lily pads. . . .” It had been the last outing their family enjoyed together. But his words about the chocolate, the doll . . . “You knew.” She tilted her gaze to his. “You knew what was happening to me, what I was forced to suffer, and did nothing.”
Studying the carpet, he fell silent. No rushing to explain or reassure. And worse—no denial. Finally, he said, “Look, I get that you want some great renewing or connection, but I can’t, Iskra.”
“That would be me getting in the way of your mission again. Is that it?”
“No, it would be you wanting something I can’t give.” Sorrow touched his golden eyes. “I’m not being figurative saying it changed me. The training, the treatments. When I say I can’t give it, I mean that literally.”
“Give what?”
“Emotion, connection, love—any of it. What they did here”—he tapped his right temple—“and improved? It fried that other side.”
Her mind tripped over his words. She stared, disbelieving. “That’s a convenient answer.”
“Convenient?” He breathed a laugh. “Try catastrophic. I can never be involved with anyone because I will fail her every time. I will never understand what she wants, and I will not be able to provide what she needs—empathy, love, compassion. That part of me is dead.”
Stricken by the severity of what had happened to him, she could think of nothing to say. He, too, had his own horror story. “I am sorry, Mitre.”
“I’m not. It makes me one deadly soldier,” he said with a gleam in his eyes. “And that’s what I do. What I will do with my dying breath.”
Startled by his vehemence and his ridiculous dedication to an organization that had death at the end of every sentence, she moved toward him. “After all they did, all they stole,” she growled, “you would do this? Still work and kill for them?”
“Not for them, Iskra,” he said, brows pinched severely. “My missions are to tear down that infrastructure. To find the Neiothen—my brothers—and free them.” In his eyes glinted a fury that made her take a step back. “One way or another. What they did to me, I will use against them. Until they are dead.”
“You mean until you both die.”
His face was stone. “Do I?” The threat hung in his words—a dangerous one—but she wasn’t sure why he said it to her. Why he looked at her as if he was making a point.
“Ready?” At the door, Leif stood with a leather satchel. Behind him came Rutger.
“No!” Mitre barked. “You cannot—”
Rutger shook his head. “Leave it, Andreas. It must—”
“No. You do this, we lose all control. We need it—”
“He needs it more. For now.” Rutger settled a hand on Leif’s shoulder. “For now, we have agreed.”
Jaw muscle popping, Leif focused only on Iskra, a darkness clouding his pale blue eyes. “We should go.”
Rutger patted his back. “We shall see you in Taiwan. To the victor the spoils, yes?”
CHAPTER 32
SOMEWHERE OVER EUROPE
“We should talk.”
Immersed in coding and backtracking aboard the jet, Cell glanced up for the briefest of seconds, but his focus never left the program he was running.
“Mr. Purcell.”
His brain glitched and yanked him from the electrical currents of the computer to the live feed flickering on the monitor to his left. He nearly cursed. “Director.” He hadn’t called. Hadn’t allowed access. But he shouldn’t be surprised. “Majorly uncool, spying on me again. But that’s—”
“Close the briefing room door.”
Caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Cell hesitated, then stood and did as instructed. He’d be home in six hours, so why couldn’t this wait? His heart stuttered. Could he shut down the program without tipping off the director or drawing attention to his actions?
The deputy director leaned into the camera, his lips flattening. “I need you to stop.”
Cell lifted his hands from the keyboard. Threaded his fingers. Managed a fake smile. “Right.” He folded his arms over the desk, curious if he could reach the keyboard without being—
“I need you”—the words were much slower, more intentional this time—“to stop. Now.”
How had they found out this time? It was a different system!
“Or we will stop you.”
Cell froze. Stop you. Not stop the program and thereby stop him. But stop him. His body betrayed him and forced his gaze to the monitor. What? Did Iliescu have a freaking direct link to his brain? Maybe he did. “Right.” He keyed in a string of useless letters, hoping he was buying—
“Understand that if you test me, you will find yourself buried so deep, no one will wonder what happened to Barclay Purcell and his sharp tongue.”
“Wow.” Cell nodded. “Got it.” He backspaced and used both hands to quickly type in the code to pause the program. No way he’d kill it. It was getting somewhere. That was why Iliescu was breathing down his neck, right?
“I need to tell you a story, Mr. Purcell. One that, if it leaves this conversation, will—”
“Yep. Buried in a concrete coffin.”
“No,” Iliescu said. “If you persist after our talk, I’ll have you tried for treason and dereliction of duty, then have you executed in record time.”
Cell hesitated. Eyed the man who’d given him this job. Iliescu was a hard-nosed son of a gun, but he’d never resorted to threats of violence. It just wasn’t necessary. Normal people usually got the point.
Which excludes me, obviously.
“I want to tell you the story of a young man who was dealt a very tragic and cruel blow. A man who had a promising military career ahead of him, just like his brothers, father, and grandfather before him. A young man who’d do anything to protect those he loved and his country. He was the kind of man with the true grit and raw courage found in old movies, a guy with a passion for protecting the innocent and defending honor and freedom. A patri
ot in every sense of the word.”
“You sound like you want to marry him.”
Irritation scraped at the director’s sincerity.
“Sorry.” Cell wiped his upper lip and nodded, hoping the director would come to the point sometime this century so Cell could get back to digging and sweeping.
“One day while running ops with his team, they were ambushed. Half were killed. The handful that remained came away scarred, either with missing limbs or missing pieces of their identity. It changed him so fiercely that he became a machine. One of the best and hardest-hitting sailors ever encountered. He’d always been at the top of his class, but now he was setting records. Getting noticed.”
“Sounds like a legend.” What else could he say when the director left the opening like that?
“There was a certain program ramping up, one that was so classified, the right hand never knew what the left was doing. Oversight was absurd, the secrecy lethal. They recruited that hero, convincing him that the men he lost shouldn’t have been lost—and that he would never lose another man if he joined them. If he consented to enter the endeavor and never spoke of it to anyone. So, ready and willing to make sure nobody under his leadership died again, he signed on.”
That was some heady insight. “Leif.” His brain surged. “You’re telling me you know for a fact that Leif—”
“Quiet,” Director Iliescu warned. “Imagine the people behind this. Imagine the power they were given and the oversight. I know some of their protégés died. Some went crazy. Killed staff members. Killed each other.”
Whoa. Hello, Science Fiction 101. “How do you know this? What if they—”
“You have questions.”
Cell laughed. “A lot.”
“Swallow them and your digging.” Iliescu’s eyes narrowed. “You are putting him in extreme danger, and I cannot—will not—allow that.” He let out a long breath. “In fact, I want you monitoring Leif, going after him.”
“Whoa no. Hold up.” Cell rose, feeling a tremor of turbulence. “No, I’m not doing that. Not to him. Especially if what you’re saying is true. Besides, I have zero idea who was involved in this program or where they are—you’ve been really good at hiding that. And what could this mean to Leif? If he learns what I’m doing—I’m dead. And if I screw up, we could both end up dead.”