by Ronie Kendig
“This wasn’t about the president.” Leif finally spoke up, his tone . . . different. His gaze hard. “This was a statement. Even though the president survived the attack, ArC has established a majority hold in the sway of politics and trade across more than half the world. Reaper failed. A lot. And while there are countries we’ve protected against his control, it’s a bitter pill to swallow. Especially when you realize that Ciro Veratti is now not only prime minister of Italy, but his man is in charge of NATO.”
“So what are they planning?” Culver asked.
Grateful for the information Leif had deposited and that he was still in the game, Dru nodded. “I think we have but to look at the Book of the Wars for that answer.”
Cell cleared his throat. “Isn’t there something we should discuss?”
“What?” Leif said, challenge in his tone. Fire in his eyes.
Dru willed Cell to leave it alone. It was too soon. Too dangerous. “Right now, rest up, prep for transport, and watch for word from Lawe about Devine.”
When Cell glanced at the camera, Iliescu knew they needed to call it. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Calling it meant Dru had failed. He wasn’t ready to concede, and he’d never give up.
He shifted his gaze to the side where, off camera, Canyon Metcalfe stood talking with a cluster of brass.
“Sir,” Cell said. That kid had more gut instinct than most people had guts.
Leif wouldn’t know how close he’d come—many, many times—to being killed because he got too close to the truth, which seemed like he had a motion-sensitive device implanted in his life. He’d asked Dru right off the bat why he wanted him to lead the team. It had been a dangerous tango of wits, pitting him against the very enemy who had altered his brain.
Well. That was the way it seemed. He still didn’t have definitive proof, but all indicators pointed to ArC like flaming arrows.
“We’re good,” Dru said firmly, shutting Cell down. “We’ll debrief fully back here. As soon as Devine is out of surgery and cleared for travel, we’ll bring her back as well.”
“Director,” a Marine said. “Jet’s forty mikes out.”
He nodded, then looked back at the team. “Jet will be on the ground within the hour. See you in two days.”
***
Son of a batch of cookies. No. The director would not get away with that. Sometimes Cell had gut instincts about something that said X was right, but then some expert balked at being shown up and said no, Y was right. And that just left them one off and one dead, playing alphabet soup.
No, Cell would not sit by. He stood and pivoted toward Leif. But he was gone.
“He is not himself right now,” Iskra said, stepping in front of Cell. “I would give him time.”
Cell hesitated, glancing at the shutting door at the far end of the warehouse they’d overtaken. “Do you know?” It’d make sense for Miss Russian Mafia to have it figured out, especially considering who her brother turned out to be.
“There are many things I know here.” Iskra smiled and touched her temple. “But I know better things here.” She laid a hand over her heart. “He needs room.”
Cell squinted at her. “Lady, I have no idea what you’re talking about, but Leif doesn’t need room. Room to him is space to split. Leif needs to be called—”
“Cell.” There was something strangely psychotic and threatening about her when she pulled up to her full height, eyes darkening. Lips thinning. It reminded him that she had skills to snap necks and kill people in more ways than he probably even knew existed. “Rest,” she insisted. “He needs rest.”
Rest of the day to figure out how to escape? “Right.”
His incredible desire to stay alive told Cell to sit down. Shut up. Wait till she was distracted or talking. Or sleeping. He planted himself on a crate near the hall. Tugged out his phone. Reminded himself why he had to do this. Why confrontation was the only way to save the usurper.
“You okay?” Mercy joined him, sitting cross-legged on the concrete floor with a bottled water.
“Not in the least.” He skated a glance at Iskra, who had a line of sight on the hall—and him.
“You looked ready to kill her a second ago.”
“Me? She’s the assassin.”
“So what gives?”
Telling her what he’d learned, what he’d largely guessed about Leif, felt like a massive heaping pile of dung-like betrayal. “You ever find out something about someone that you didn’t want to believe?”
“You mean like when I thought Ram turned on us all?”
He snorted. Nodded. And yet he still wasn’t going to be the schmuck to out Leif. Not like this. Not till he talked to him. He wasn’t ready for the one guy he considered a hero to go down in flames.
Well, not in flames. But maybe down in shame.
Why shame? Leif Metcalfe hailed from a long line of heroes. He had served in the military, protected his brothers in arms. Saved Iskra. Saved the little girl in the village.
So maybe he was wrong. Had to be wrong.
“Cell?”
His gaze bounced back to Mercy. “I need to talk to Leif,” he said quietly.
“And she won’t let you.”
A flick of his eyebrows was his answer.
“I got this.” Mercy tousled his hair, then stood and walked over to the makeshift kitchen that had a fridge, sink, and island. She poured herself a drink.
How exactly was that helping?
He glanced at Iskra, who still had him in her sights. Should he just try it? Sprint back to the room?
Right. And have his life severed for crossing Viorica?
Ha, no thanks. He liked his blood warm and pumping in his veins, not cold and spilling across the concrete.
Without warning, Mercy was there, talking to Iskra. Cell considered heading down the hall now, but Iskra shifted, narrowing her gaze at him. Okay, so he’d wait it out.
That went on for a long while, then Baddar got into the conversation—which was about Iskra’s brother. How did they lose contact? Did she know he worked for Hermanns?
And the opening presented itself.
Cell hurried to the back room, gave a soft rap, and let himself in.
Leif spun from a spring mattress, his weapon coming up as he did. Aimed right between Cell’s eyes.
“Wait,” Cell hissed as he closed the door. “I just want to talk.”
“Not in the mood.” Leif hadn’t lowered the gun.
“Dude.” Cell lifted his hands. “Seriously? Going to shoot me?”
“Thinking about it.”
Cell’s heart shuddered.
“You started digging, Barclay.”
Swallowing was harder with a pound of guilt in his throat.
“Just couldn’t leave things alone.”
“Then it’s—” Cell finally noticed the pack on the bed. Leif was going to leave. “No no no.” He grunted and moved to the other side of the room. “This isn’t how this was supposed to go.”
Leif glowered.
“I was supposed to come in here and say, ‘Don’t do this. It’s not who you are. You have friends.’” He patted his chest for emphasis, then motioned to Leif. “And you were supposed to say that you didn’t have any other options, that you were maybe scared and—”
“Scared.”
Cell faltered, realizing he’d never seen Leif scared. “Right.” He rubbed his hands together. “So not scared, but you didn’t know what to do. There was something inside you that you couldn’t control.”
“So I’m a robot.”
Cell cringed. “Okay, I suck at this. But you can’t do this—” He indicated the ruck.
“What am I doing?”
“Leaving!”
“We’re all leaving. Dru said there’s a jet inbound.”
Was Leif serious? Did he really plan to just return to the States? Or was Leif playing him?
He’s calm. Way too freakin’ calm.
“I know,” Cell finally admitted. “I got enough i
ntel from the system before Mei’s Trojan killed it. And I . . . I accidentally saw the video Carsen sent you.” Did Leif’s chest just heave? Maybe best not to say more about that tell-all video. “And I know that last activation at the amusement park wasn’t for Sienna. Huber’s came through, but Ossi?” He drew in a staggering breath. “That’s you. You’re Ossi.”
Nothing changed in Leif’s expression. It was like he’d been carved from stone.
“You didn’t take the shot that killed Sienna. Andreas Krestyanov did.”
Still no response. Was he programmed not to respond or something?
“Please, Leif.” Cell swung a hand toward the wall, indicating where the others were waiting. “We’re a team. We’re brothers”—he shrugged, knowing Mercy and Peyton wouldn’t appreciate the gender reference—“and sisters. Er, siblings.” Okay, that just made it worse. “A family. We go out on a limb for each other. Cover each other’s sixes, just as you’ve done for every one of us.” He pressed his palms together as if praying. “Please. Stay. Let us help you.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Augh!” Cell growled, spinning around and facing the windows. Grabbing his head. How did he convince him? What would it take—
An arm hooked his throat.
“No!” he choked out.
Pressure was applied to his head as Leif drew his forearm into Cell’s throat. Cell thrashed, unable to call out, but Leif held him fast. Please please please. No. A tear slipped free. I just wanted to help.
The edges went gray.
His hearing hollowed.
We were friends. . . .
Ronie Kendig is the bestselling, award-winning author of over twenty novels. She grew up an Army brat, and now she and her hunky hero are adventuring on the East Coast with their twin sons, a retired military working dog, VVolt N629, and Benning the Stealth Golden. Ronie’s degree in psychology has helped her pen novels with intense, raw characters. Visit Ronie online at www.roniekendig.com.
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Table of Contents
Cover
Half Title Page
Books by Ronie Kendig
Title Page
Copyright Page
Contents
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About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
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