Thirst of Steel

by Ronie Kendig

  “Digging is one thing,” Ram rebuffed. “Have you carried out an op against them that would draw their fire? I don’t think you have. At least the guys haven’t mentioned it.”

  Rodriguez tensed. “That’s need to know.”

  “Ram, listen,” Robbie said, “if we get axed, your mission collapses—that could be dangerous for Tox. For you. Funding. Support. And I am two years shy of retiring.”

  Ah, plying him by insinuating Tox was in danger, which she couldn’t know. The crux was Robbie’s fear for her job. Herself.

  “So what does he have?” Rodriguez demanded. “We need to know who’s in the upper echelon of that danged corporation. They’ve hidden too long and done too much damage!”

  Robbie leaned in. “Give us something—anything—to show the brass this money is well spent and this mission worth continuing.”

  Ram couldn’t win. Not yet. He held too few cards right now. “I’ll get back to you.” Without waiting for a response, he disconnected and buried his face in his hands. Threaded fingers through his hair and stared at the blank monitor. Finally, he lifted his phone. Dialed.

  “We found her.”

  Ram stilled at that revelation. Then breathed, “Where?”

  “There in Moscow.”

  “Where in—”

  “We weren’t able to isolate it. This is the closest we’ve come.”

  “Get it isolated. We need to find her.” Ram stood, lifting papers and stuffing them in boxes. “Look, I need a distraction.”

  “I never thought you needed help with women—”

  “A name to give SAARC,” Ram bit out.

  Omar Kastan snorted. “Americans applying pressure again, huh?”

  “I warned you this would be tricky. Tox means too much, and he’s been gone longer than expected—”

  “These wars aren’t won overnight.”

  “Agreed, but I need them off my back now that we’re closing in on her. And if I can’t give them something soon, they’ll come looking for him.”

  “If they’re not already.”

  True. Ram knew they wouldn’t wholly let go of Tox. Not after all he’d done and risked. “Which is why I need rocks to throw and distract them.”

  “Give me—”

  “Eight minutes.” It was an exaggeration, but he had to keep himself alive and safe.

  Kastan cursed. “I’m not a vending machine!” Keys clacked behind his grunt along with the general chatter and noises of a busy command center. Finally, “Check your access portal.”

  When Ram glanced at the file that landed in his inbox, he grunted. How long had they had this name and withheld it? Why play games? Why not just deal with it? “Thanks. Later.” Ram ended the call—his second hang-up on superiors in one day. Man, what was wrong with him? He’d never been short-tempered, especially not with superiors.

  The dossier was on a Congolese male, nineteen, Didier Makanda. Awful young to be AFO. Might not be legit, but Ram needed SAARC off his back.

  Fed up, he shoved away from the workstation. They were so close. Tzivia was out there, neck-deep in a big pile of dung that reeked around the world. Following three months of training, Tox had been in play for two months and still hadn’t found her or infiltrated the AFO as hoped.

  The intricate plan included excruciating preparations—more so for Tox than for Ram, yet painful all around. Pacing, Ram yawned and caught sight of the clock. So late? No wonder he couldn’t think straight. He dropped onto the bed and stared at the data wall, thinking. Plotting. It was quiet, and he was glad he’d rented the flat that abutted his three-story base of operations. Both in different names. For privacy and security.

  He woke to an annoying buzz and spotted the telltale glow of his secure phone. His heart slammed into his throat as he catapulted off the bed. Snatched the device and scanned the text. He grabbed his beanie and jacket, then rushed out.

  Across town, he shoved his way through a raucous, throbbing nightclub. Bodies pressed on every side, all but carrying him to the bar. He planted himself on a stool and ordered a vodka and tonic. He wasn’t a drinker, but coming into the bar and not ordering would mark him as trouble.

  A scream shot up from the right. Ram glanced over his shoulder, eyeing the men fighting over a scantily clad woman. He shook his head and turned back to his glass.

  A new napkin rested beneath the snifter. Black ink read: She’s alive. Eyes on her. Contact soon.

  Ram skated a look around but knew better than to expect anything. The contact had a way with disappearing. Had a way with finding people and staying out of the grave. Yet . . . couldn’t he have given more explanation? “Alive” simply meant breath pushed through her lungs and her brain still worked—maybe. Was she okay? In danger? Where?

  It was worth it, even though this trip could expose him. But it also fed Ram’s futility. How hard was it to provide details?

  Details that could get her killed?

  The cryptic message prevented Ram from rushing into the fray. Going after his little sister. Doing whatever it took to bring her back alive. All his life, he’d worked to find the truth about their father. There had never been ironclad proof that their father was alive, but enough clues added up to hard-to-ignore possibilities. Tzivia’s belief was a naïve hope. His grew on the clues—the phone call, seeing his father leave without a suitcase. They never got more than that. But Tzi didn’t let that stop her, so he’d done his best to keep an eye on her. To protect Tzivia from those who wanted her to bleed.

  Hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, chin to his chest, he trudged back to his flat. Nearly at the steps, he stopped short, some awareness, some dread buzzing his nape. He lifted his head from the stupor of frustration and scanned the street. Quiet. Cars. Homes. Lights in flats. Dogs—

  “Lights,” he murmured, gaze striking his place. Lit up. Shapes moved through the rooms. Who knew what they’d discovered, relayed back to their home office. Crap. He had only one choice now: those intruders couldn’t leave alive.

  He pivoted. Pulling out his phone, he cursed himself, his carelessness. As he entered the code that would detonate the well-hidden charges throughout the flat, he started the walk back to anonymity.

  Bright white cracked the void of night. The concussion punched him forward a step. Rustled his hair into his face. He glanced back. A cloud of smoke and fire engulfed the building. Destroyed his work. Eliminated the enemy.

  He’s alive. Abba is alive!

  Gear in her satchel, Tzivia trudged down the alley behind the restaurant, taking solace in the clanking boat masts nearby. At the door, she gripped a new stainless steel lock. What the—where had this come from? She jangled it. Grunted and glanced around. Someone had apparently discovered her last trespass and tried to prevent another.

  With a snort, she rammed her booted heel against the jamb. It rattled but held. Another kick freed it from the lock and splintered the jamb. No time to mourn the damage. She pushed through the long passage to the kitchen, where she lifted a grate from the middle of the floor, then dropped into the old tunnel. She hurried through its rank innards toward the lapping of water. There, she knelt and dropped her waterproof pack.

  Shouts gave chase.

  Tzivia peered toward the voices, surprised to see flashlight beams sweeping the darkness. With a grunt, she continued her course, faster now. Grateful for the neoprene that coated her body against the frigid water temperature, she slipped on her mask and rebreather. She stepped off the cement floor and into the hole, sinking into the shallow waters. Swam a meter out to a small shelf in the river wall. There, she retrieved a plastic-wrapped object.

  Beams of light probed the dark waters.

  Tzivia surged aside, taking shelter behind a pier post. Frantic, she searched for safety, but there was no choice except to swim through the boat-laden canal. Away from the obscurity of the restaurant and wall. After tucking the piece into her sack, she swam out farther, aiming toward the nearest dock. It took her longer than expected, her limbs growing r
ubbery, her legs cramped. Once she broke the surface, she tugged out the rebreather and hauled in a greedy draught of air.

  Cement scraped her fingers as she traced the dock’s shape to a steel rail. Gripping it, she hauled herself up—and lost her footing. She splashed back into the water. Nearly swallowing a mouthful, she clamped her lips tight. Pushed herself back to the dock. Demanded her weary limbs cooperate instead of working against her like everything else in life.

  Cement scored her knees as she scrabbled over the incline. Water puddled beneath her as she hung her dripping head and steadied her ragged breathing. Closed her eyes. Fought the urge to lay there. It was too cold. She was too wet.

  “You have it?”

  Tzivia jerked straight, snatching her knife from its leg sheath—and found herself staring at the barrel of a gun. A tall man, the one who’d secured her when she’d stupidly tried to go after Nur in his office, stared her down.

  Defiance flared within her. “What if I do?”

  “You don’t value your father’s life?”

  Swimming a freezing river proved she did. But she hated this man and his confidence. And . . . “Your English is too good.”

  “And your Russian is bad,” he countered, shaking his head. “Artifact.”

  “I’ll only give it to Nur.”

  Eyebrow arcing and impatience marking his response, he extended a hand toward a waiting car.

  Tzivia stomped up the steps. Passing him, she thought about stepping back with her right foot and throwing—

  “Keep moving,” he growled, relieving her of the sodden satchel . . . and the artifact.

  She whipped around, but he cocked his head, sending a warning. A strangely familiar one. “Give it back,” she said.

  He didn’t comply.

  “Give it back or we have fun . . . in reverse.”

  He started walking. Not guiding her. Not manhandling her. He just walked to the car. “In.”

  Tzivia hesitated, confused. Concerned.

  He opened the rear passenger door. “I thought you wanted to see your father.”

  Hope threw her into the armored vehicle.

  6

  — CAPITOL HILL, DC —

  Though the historic landmark was rife with senators, staffers, Supreme Court justices, and law clerks involved in the negotiation of bills, Capitol Hill was also home to nineteenth-century row houses and tightly packed neighborhoods.

  Levi skirted the residential areas, his destination the domed and columned Capitol, though he wished it wasn’t. “You’re sure?” he’d asked at least a dozen times, unwilling to believe the murderer would strike at the heart of the nation’s capital. Where security was the highest imaginable. Where surveillance cameras proved innumerable.

  This might just be the break the Bureau needed. He needed.

  He produced his credentials for a Capitol Hill police officer, who granted him access to the crime scene, a parking lot along Southwest Drive. He strode beneath a sun that did little to subdue the early spring chill.

  “Wallace!”

  At Santi’s voice, Levi searched for his partner, who stood amid a cluster of suits and uniforms. Levi joined them.

  “This is some seriously messed-up stuff.”

  Levi wasn’t surprised, but he still had to ask. “Same as last time?”

  As Santi nodded, a woman rose from a squatting position, camera angled as she thumbed one of the controls. The same woman from the Schenck crime scene? What were the chances? She lifted brown eyes, which widened as they met his. “ASAC Wallace.”

  He wouldn’t correct her that they didn’t pronounce it as ay-sack anymore. Really didn’t matter. “Hi . . .” Levi hesitated, flicking confusion into his face in the hope she’d offer her name, since he didn’t recall catching it previously.

  She extended her hand. “Maggie Lefever.”

  He definitely would’ve remembered that. “Surprised you’re here.”

  “I’d say the same,” she said, squinting one eye, “but it’d just come off as lame and flirtatious.”

  He started to laugh. Wait, was she accusing him of flirting? “I—”

  “Greco!” someone shouted.

  After a pat on Levi’s shoulder, Santi started away. “Be right back.”

  “I was kidding. I contract with the Bureau.” Maggie motioned around. “This was in close enough proximity for me to get called in again.” She gave Levi a coy nod before glancing at her camera. “Guess I’d better get to work.”

  And he’d better start.

  Levi walked the scene. The victim lay partially caught on his car door, body at a weird angle. Sagging between two vehicles as if his spine was missing. Levi shifted around and stopped short. His breath crammed into his throat. He swallowed a curse.

  An arrow protruded from the victim’s back. There could be no doubt this time.

  “His name is Travis Seaton.”

  Turning toward the soft voice, he couldn’t hide his surprise at the news Maggie dropped. “Congressman Seaton?”

  “The one and only.”

  The congressman had been in the news a lot lately, both sides hating him for one thing, loving him for another. Recently, there’d been a big falling-out over a piece of legislation he’d championed in conjunction with the Justice Department: the Twice As Fast Fingerprint Identification Protocol.

  “It’s strange,” she said. “You’d expect one of his political enemies to be the culprit, but with the tie-in to the Soup Maker, you can’t really—”

  “Soup Maker?”

  Maggie paused. “That’s the nickname LEOs are giving the killer.”

  He snorted. “Great.”

  “You know, because he makes soup out of their—”

  “I get it,” Levi grumbled, shaking his head at the macabre humor. Was it humor, or a way to cope? He nodded to the scene. “Anything unusual?”

  “Besides the deflated corpse and the arrow sticking out of his back?”

  Why her sarcasm bothered him, he didn’t know. Maybe because he couldn’t run from the truth that this was AFO handiwork. “Excuse me. I need to check some things.”

  Anger trailed him to the other side of the car, where he spent too long looking for evidence. He couldn’t help but feel close to this one. Congressman Seaton had worked with his field office to tailor TAFFIP into an effective, efficient system. Now the FBI used it to quickly identify suspects across a uniform, national database. It’d given them an edge in tracking down criminals and had increased productivity 28 percent.

  Besides the arrow and the body, nothing else pointed to the AFO. Most likely the perpetrator had stood at a distance. Levi straightened and scanned the area, searching for shooting spots. It could’ve even been a drive-by.

  But this was Seaton! Grimly, Levi glanced down at what was left of the man. What did you do to draw the AFO’s eye?

  “Hey!” Santi jogged over. “What’s that look for?”

  “I can’t believe this is Seaton.”

  “I know. Sick, right?” Santi tapped Levi’s arm. “But good news.”

  That’d be a change. “What’s that?” His gaze surfed the crowd, knowing some killers liked to watch the crime scene get worked. His gaze bounced to Maggie, snapping photos of the gathered people, many using smartphones to video and snap pictures. Reporters were clustered to the far side.

  “Security footage—which is crazy thorough around here, of course—caught something.” Santi thumbed over his shoulder. “Parker’s talking to Capitol Hill police to get the footage. Rumor is it captured the killer.”

  And nobody said anything to him? Levi stalked toward the SAC.

  Parker caught sight of Levi and smiled. “This might be our lucky day,” he said. “Waiting on final approval, then we’ll see it.”

  “Okay, gentlemen,” said a uniform, who motioned them to follow.

  They made their way up the side entrance of the Capitol. Inside, they were led to a security office where one uniform ordered another to play the video feed.
The screen was crisp and clear. A silver van slid up behind the sedan. A midthirties man emerged, aimed a crossbow as the congressman opened his car door.

  “Insane,” someone muttered.

  “He didn’t care about being identified,” Levi noted.

  “We’ll need a copy of that, and print off a still,” Parker said. “Sooner we get this out there, the sooner we can bring in this psycho.”

  They were so brazen. As if they thought themselves above the law. Disbelief cinched Levi’s throat as he warred with the truth. Truth he’d hoped never to face again. Sickening, disgusting minds that dreamed up heinous methods of killing their victims. If there was even a scrap of doubt that this wasn’t them, he’d seize it. But the method was too unique.

  Parker indicated the monitor. “Run it again.” After watching it a few more times, they found nothing new. No anger on the killer’s face. No apparent motive. Just sheer determination. He knew who he wanted to kill and carried it out in broad daylight. That alone told them a lot.

  They excused themselves after getting a USB copy of the video. Parker tapped the drive against his palm as they stepped back into the chaotic crime scene. “What was that in there?”

  Levi stopped, looking out toward the chaos that was Washington. He expelled a heavy breath. “Just reminds me . . .”

  “Of?”

  Opening this can of worms could be more trouble than Levi wanted. “My time with SAARC and an organization they came up against repeatedly called the Arrow & Flame Order.” He exhaled deeply. “I would’ve taken on the Crown of Souls psycho again over this group.”

  “They’re that bad, huh?” Parker eyed him. “What makes you think it’s them?”

  “The phosphorous arrow.” He shook his head. They walked a dozen more feet, silence thick between them. Levi wanted to leave. But he wasn’t finished here. They weren’t.

  “So this is SAARC territory.”

  “It just won’t leave me alone.” Levi shook his head.

  Parker squinted against the sun just over Levi’s shoulder. “Why don’t you contact them?”

  “Already asked Haven to do that.”

  “Well, follow up. You have connections there, so give that woman, the chief there, what’s her name—”