by Ronie Kendig
A wall of officers formed in front of Haven, and one turned, holding out a palm. “Sorry, ma’am.”
“My dog—” She didn’t want to argue. Didn’t want to disturb the scene. But she also didn’t want to be left out. “Assistant Special Agent in Charge Wallace asked me to come.” But even as she said it, Haven made eye contact with Levi, who was escorting Chiji and VVolt back to her. “What is it?”
“A plastic cap of some kind. Maybe for the arrow tips.”
Remembering the night in Spain when Barclay Purcell caught an arrow whose tip failed to activate, Haven gulped. The tips injected the phosphorous. “So someone stood there and shot that arrow into the victim . . .”
“There’s an access road on the other side. Guessing they shot from there into the garage.”
Haven assessed the angle between the hill and the garage. The distance. “Homes and trees would shield the assailant pretty well.”
“He or she knew what they were doing. Scouted this. Picked the best time.” Levi sighed. “And here I thought my days with SAARC were over.”
“Working with the team isn’t so bad, is it?” She squinted up at him. “I’m on that team, so be careful how you answer.”
He huffed. “It’s fine if you like danger served up with a gallon of psycho-doused-death.”
“And how is that different from FBI cases?”
“Cases like this aren’t the norm,” he argued. “And if it’s what I’m thinking, this is straight-up crazy SAARC stuff.”
“See? You made my point.”
He snorted. “Look, we have a lot of work here, now that our crime scene has expanded to the road. I’ll give you a call later. Let me know what you find out from SAARC, okay?”
Nice way to brush me off. “Will do. Do the same if you find anything else here.”
Clicking her tongue to VVolt, she started back to her vehicle and fished out her phone to start that call now. When she woke the phone, she stopped short. “No.” Her screen warned that she’d missed two calls. From Cole. “No!” She stomped her feet. “I missed him.”
For most people, missing a call from a loved one wasn’t a big deal. But Cole had only rare occasions to call, so she might not hear from him again for weeks.
4
— MOSCOW, RUSSIA —
LION: You are in over your head.
LAMB: Nothing new. But I’m close.
LION: Remember, they will tell you whatever it takes to buy your loyalty.
LAMB: They will never have that. Only my able-bodied action to get what I want.
LION: Don’t fool yourself, little lamb.
LAMB: He is alive.
LION: So the Christians said, and the Romans slaughtered them.
LAMB: Their own people slaughtered them. Are you saying you’re going to betray me?
LION: Not what I meant. Come back. At least give me your location.
LAMB: Can’t. Gotta go. Talk later.
LION: Wait!
Tzivia logged out, wiped her history, and powered down the computer. On her feet, she strode through the towering shelves of books and encyclopedic references, aiming toward the main doors. Cold nipped her as she crossed the Moscow State University campus. She stuffed her hands in her hoodie pocket and hurried to her flat. As she crossed the Moscow River bridge, she cracked the memory stick in half and tossed the pieces into the churning, icy waters.
At the cathedral last night, Nur had promised her father in exchange for the sword piece. But she’d refused to leave with him or betray where she’d hidden the first half. To continue this daunting quest for the ancient sword, she required proof that her father was alive.
She rounded the corner to her flat and slowed at the sight of three men on her stoop. Tzivia backed up but heard the squelch of tires on the wet road. Behind her, two more cars appeared, blocking her. She drew her hands from her pocket, shifted her stance.
“He said you would come—in peace,” the approaching man growled. “You wanted proof of life.” He indicated the car.
Swinging her gaze around again gave her little confidence. But she only needed a little to fight.
Bad idea, Tzi. Bad idea. Yet her feet carried her to the vehicle. A blond man opened the door, and she bent inside, gaze connecting with that of Igor, Nur’s head goon. She hesitated.
“Get in,” he barked. “I have a schedule to keep.”
Tzivia slumped against the leather seat, mentally tapping the knife in her boot as the car pulled into traffic. She paid attention to roads and buildings to better remember the route, in case they tried to make her disappear. When the gleaming white structure of the cathedral came into view, she slid Igor a look, but he only smirked. The car glided up to the rear of the building.
Men flanking him, Igor started for an entrance to the cathedral. She wasn’t surprised when his thugs surrounded her. Hands cuffed the soft flesh of her upper arms, pinching.
She gritted her teeth as they dragged her through a heavy door carved in religious reliefs. Stone steps delivered them to a dark, dank passage where moisture clung to whitewashed walls. She could only guess the Moscow River must be on the other side.
Sconces lit the way every twenty paces, the descent nauseating and frightening. The deeper they went, the harder it would be to escape. They banked right, and she glanced back. How many steps had it been before they turned? Twenty?
They yanked her on.
Tzivia stumbled. Hit the next step wrong. Lurched forward. Hands grabbed her. “Get off me!” She threw off their assistance. Gained her feet. Squared her shoulders. And found Igor waiting on a mosaic floor. Flanked by his thugs, he watched her impassively.
When she finally reached the bottom, he pivoted and continued down the cold stone passage. Only as she closed the gap between them did shadows surrender to light, revealing alcoves hewn into the walls. Crudely made, they concealed their contents until the last second, when light exposed their bounty—skulls. Skeletons. Cracked coffins.
Catacombs. Worse than tunnels.
Skin crawling, Tzivia drew in her arms. Held a breath she was afraid to release, in case she touched the dead. A chill scampered up her spine and wrapped around her throat, choking her. Moving quicker did little to relieve the dread pimpling her flesh.
“Is this a game?” Even as her voice reached out to Igor and his men, they vanished. Emptiness echoed back to her.
“Move,” groused a guard nearby.
She stiffened but complied, anxious to be among the living once more. The darkness grew heavier. Air thinner. Strangling a cry did nothing to bolster her courage. Sensing her surroundings closing in, she thrust out a hand as a glimmer of light snuck into her periphery. She spied another passage to the left. Partially lit. As they emerged into a large, cavernous area, she expelled a captive breath.
Igor waited, bemused at her desperation. “Very good, Miss Khalon.”
The men circled up on her.
Vision adjusted, she noticed the bars jammed into the hewn rock. “Do you intend to make me a prisoner?”
Igor flicked a hand, and one of his guards tapped a switch in the wall.
Light flared to her left, spilling over the rock and past the bars. Dirt and rags had been discarded in the unkempt space. “What is th—”
The rags shifted. Eyes squinted beneath wiry, dirty hair. The man had a thick, gnarled beard.
Tzivia hauled in a breath. She’d know those eyes anywhere. Anger thrummed, her reaction strangled in the horrified truth that her father had been kept here. A prisoner of darkness and death.
“Abba!” She rushed to the cell, grabbing the rusted bars. “Abba, it’s me! Tzivia.”
He peeled himself from the ground, his hand shaking. “My Tzi—can . . . not be.” He struggled to his knees. Tried to stand, but his legs buckled. He dragged himself the last few inches to her.
Tears blurring her vision, Tzivia gripped his hands. Kissed his knuckles. “Abba! Abba, I found you.”
“What are you doing here, Tzi?”
he said, his voice gravelly. Angry. “Go! Get out while you can.”
“Not without you, Abba!”
“Tzivia,” said Igor, his voice intrusive and cold, “we had a bargain.”
She spun at him. “What have you done to my father? This was not part of the bargain.”
Igor displayed his palms with a lazy shrug. “Our treatment of him was never mentioned. Only the exchange.”
“Release him!”
“That will not happen,” Igor argued. “Not yet.”
As her gaze tracked over the fresh cut splicing her father’s cheekbone, fury unfurled through her, igniting, searing, screaming. Tzivia lunged at the closest man, not caring who he was. What he did. They would pay. They would all pay for what they’d done.
Pain pinched her back—the telltale prick of a dart thumping into her muscle. Shock froze her, then a river of ice coursed through her veins, dropping her to the ground. Hands pawed at her. Hauled her upright, rough fingers digging into her hair and tearing it from her scalp.
“This is what happens for disobedience,” Igor growled, pointing to his second thug, who gripped a lever and tilted it up.
“Nooo,” her father howled as electricity surged through his body.
“Sir, he’s returning.” Kazimir Rybakov held his hands behind his back as he stood before Nur Abidaoud, the man whose safety he was personally responsible for now.
“About time.” Nur slammed down a pen and looked toward the doors.
The private elevator intoned its arrival. The doors slid open. Igor emerged with three men. They wrangled a limp body between them.
“I expected you last night!” Nur growled.
“She did not return to her flat until this morning,” Igor complained.
Kazimir angled, trying to see the face dangling beneath a tangle of black hair. “Who is she?”
As the men lowered her to the ground, she moaned and curled away.
“A deadly siren who would have her way and not yield an agreed-upon bounty.” Nur pivoted and looked at Igor. “She saw him?”
Igor nodded. “None too happy either.”
Nur smiled, then returned to his desk. “Good. Leave us.”
Hesitating, Igor glanced at Kazimir, then the girl, and finally at his boss. “I’m not sure that’s wise.”
“You question me?”
“She’s lethal, sir. Killed two men. Her brother has trained her well. Too well, perhaps.”
“You don’t think Kazimir”—Nur indicated him—“can handle this spirited woman?”
After a long, uncertain gaze, Igor still hesitated.
“I trust my safety to him,” Nur said with a shrug. “Have I erred in that judgment?”
“Want to test me and relieve yourself of this worry?” Kazimir offered, trying to hide his smirk.
“Tell you what,” slurred a woman’s voice, “why don’t I kill you both and settle this testosterone war.”
Nur chuckled. “Miss Khalon, welcome back.” Though he laughed, he moved behind his desk and sat in the high-backed leather chair. Was it for power or protection?
Warily, Kazimir watched as the woman sat up, pressing a hand to her temple.
“Welcome?” she murmured. “Strange way to show it.” She staggered to her feet, wavered slightly, then straightened. “Give me my father.”
“That wasn’t the arrangement.”
She drew in a heavy breath, her chest heaving. Then another. “It was. My father for the artifact.”
Nur held out both hands. “I have no artifact, not even a third of it, which you promised to secure, so why would I give you anything, let alone your father?” His brow knotted, a darkness hovering there. “Where is the piece, Tzivia? You’re playing with your father’s life.”
“He’s dying down in that dungeon,” she said. She took a step closer. “Let him go.” She bent sideways.
Kazimir knew those moves. He’d seen them time and again. Her bargaining served as distraction.
After sliding a look to Kazimir—he anticipates her attack—Nur focused on the girl with a sad smile. “Now that, I’m afraid, I cannot do.”
She growled, her hands twitching. Kazimir inched behind her, grateful her attention and hatred were on his employer. Just a little closer . . .
Fiery brown eyes snapped to his. She bared her teeth. “Try me.”
Surprised and impressed, Kazimir froze. Though he stopped, he didn’t remove himself. He would not give her that satisfaction.
“The artifact,” Nur said. “Bring it, and I will consider releasing your father.”
“Consider—”
“You’re failing. Why would I keep my end when you do not?”
“Why do you care about this sword?” she demanded. “It’s just a sword. It might not even be—”
“No!” Nur punched to his feet. “It is the Philistine sword. It’s imperative that I find it. Time is not on your side, Miss Khalon.” He rounded the desk, apparently recovering his confidence. “Bring the first piece, and perhaps we can continue, despite your less-than-peaceful approach to these negotiations.”
“Negotiations? You’re selling his life!”
“I am,” Nur said, unrepentant. “But what price will you pay? And maybe I should sweeten the pot?” He fastened his suit jacket and lifted his chin, appearing magnanimous. “Let me show you how generous I am.” He nodded to Igor, who left the room, then returned with a young girl in a hijab. “This is Aisha. She is an archaeologist, just like you.”
Tzivia stepped back, and though Kazimir wanted to do the same, since he knew what was coming, he could not. If he showed himself weak, he’d be kneeling on the floor next.
Tzivia jerked. “No, stop this!”
“She’s been searching longer than you. I gave her everything she asked for, believing her lies, but she failed.” He retrieved a weapon from a cabinet, then a smaller piece—a silencer—and strolled toward the girl, who was sobbing violently now. “She knew she could not locate the sword, so she helped her family escape. But we will find them.” He smirked at Tzivia. “Sadly, they will not find her. Ever”—he aimed and fired, a sound that defied the silencer and cracked through the room—“again.”
Tzivia whipped aside. Then spun back and threw herself at Nur.
Kazimir intercepted and wrestled Tzivia away from Nur. Away from the body and blood.
Behind them came the thunk of the cabinet door closing.
“Now,” Nur said with a huff, “for the first piece delivered, perhaps I can increase our care of your father. Perhaps even allow you to care for him.”
“Care?” Tzivia scoffed. “You have him locked in the catacombs. In a filthy stone cell with soiled clothes. No running water. No food. No respect!” She shoved Kazimir off of her and slapped his chest, to which he cocked his head in warning.
“Then change his fate and situation: find the first piece of the sword.” Nur’s words were a slick, well-oiled mechanism controlling her. “Timing is critical, would you not agree?”
Tzivia didn’t move. But her fingers coiled into tight balls, knuckles white beneath the effort, which made Kazimir hold his close proximity. “If he dies—”
“Then you wavered too long.” Nur reclined against the desk.
“Augh!” Tzivia lunged again.
Kazimir caught her. Hooked her throat and pressed her head forward, cutting off her air supply.
“The air you are losing,” Nur said, “is the same air your father loses each day you linger. Bring the first piece, or he may find himself unable to breathe.”
5
— MOSCOW, RUSSIA —
“We have a problem,” Robbie Almstedt insisted.
Hands tucked in his armpits, Ram stared into the camera, the dot on his laptop. By keeping his eyes there, he didn’t have to see her tiny pupils that spoke her anger. “We all do.”
“You’ve been gone nearly a month. Tox longer. What is going on?”
He bit his tongue. The authorization from General Rodriguez an
d SAARC for Tox to do this, to help him—it had been costly. Dangerous. “It’s nearly over.” He had become a practiced, skilled liar in his years of cooperation with the Mossad. “Then I will give a full debrief.”
“Debrief? You’ll be locked away at this rate! Look, things are happening here. We had a man show up dead, his insides boiled out.”
“Sounds terrible.”
“It sounds,” Robbie growled, “like the AFO is active, killing people on American soil.”
Ram grunted, his curiosity admittedly piqued. “How do you know? An arrow?”
“Negative,” barked Rodriguez.
With a sigh, Robbie dropped her gaze. “There was no arrow, and we aren’t sure why, because it was definitely the work of those accursed phosphorous arrows. But I’ve done some digging. Killings like this have happened in other countries, too—random deaths. Those all have arrows to link back to the AFO—”
“But you don’t.” He squinted, the monitor straining his eyes. “That’s what you said, right? You don’t have the arrow or proof.”
“So help me—do you know anything about AFO attacks?”
“Possible escalations in their strategy?” Rodriguez asked.
Was the whole world falling apart? “No, but I’ll ask around. What else?” Ram had angles to probe, actions to take after that note drop from his source.
“You’re putting us in a terrible spot,” she said. “We can’t keep stalling the brass, the government, or the president!”
“Khalon,” General Rodriguez barked through the line, “we gave you six months with this little venture. Time’s up.”
“It’s only been five,” Ram argued.
“Five months, two weeks, three days,” Rodriguez countered.
“And you, better than anyone, should know that when an operation is going well, you don’t arbitrarily yank and tank. It’s important to assess and reevaluate. We need him on this op, as you both said, to find names and help us dismantle the AFO from within.”
“Do you think they’re retaliating?” Robbie asked, her voice hesitant.
They were worse than conspiracy theorists. “Against what?”
“Us. For digging.”