by Ronie Kendig
“Almstedt.”
“That’s the one. Give her a call. Find out what they have.”
Levi felt the growl in his throat and swallowed it. “Just once, I want to do our job the way we’re supposed to and solve the case. Like old times.”
“You’re up for my position, remember?” Parker wagged his gray-blond eyebrows. “Solve this, and you move into the big office.” He smiled, but then it slipped away as he eyeballed the crime scene and the chaos engulfing it, the media swarming the street. “What’s got you scared, Wallace?”
“Like I said, not scared, just—”
Parker scowled. “Lie to someone else. I’ve worked with you too long to believe the crap you’re shoveling out. You’re running scared.”
Levi shouldered up to his boss, dropping his chin for emphasis. “I’ve got my life back. I’m focusing on my career. I don’t want to go backward or deal with those people again.”
“You mean Cortes?”
“No,” he growled. “Yes. But only because she’s tied to that team. They’re . . .”
“Bad?”
Levi snorted. “No, they’re the best. But they’re . . . military. Different breed. I don’t fit there. And what they track, what they hunt? I don’t want to do that anymore. I want”—he couldn’t believe he was going to say this—“normal neuroses and psychosis.”
Parker barked a laugh.
Levi drew in a measuring breath. “Let’s just catch this guy. Plain and simple.”
“Simple it isn’t.” Parker glanced off to the side, his eye catching on something, and clicked his tongue. “Let me know what SAARC knows.”
7
— MOSCOW, RUSSIA —
“I already told you—I haven’t heard anything about AFO killings,” Ram said across the live feed from Russia as he teleconferenced with SAARC and Levi Wallace.
“It’s the second death by phosphorous arrow here in the U.S. within the last month,” Wallace said. “That’s notable.”
“Noted,” Ram replied, unable to avoid being sarcastic with him.
“Look,” Robbie said, “we’re not alone in these attacks. I’ve been in contact with the Netherlands’ Special Interventions Division because they had an arrow death three weeks ago that got swept under the carpet as an unsolved murder. They’re forwarding the files on the victim, Jens Abrams, who is influential among the Dutch.”
“Again, this is great, but all you have is unsubstantiated proof of AFO involvement.” Ram held up a hand when they both started arguing. “I get it. This isn’t a coincidence. Still, there’s no artifact. No reason to engage SAARC.” He touched his temple. “Or am I missing something?”
“You’re missing the fact that we are involved because this organization has been the bane of our existence. They’ve killed our people and a lot of innocents,” Almstedt said. “Not to mention, you’ve got Tox out there doing who-knows-what to find the top-tier leaders. That connects this, regardless of an artifact. We need to end this organization.”
“Any move that endangers Tox will be met with resistance.”
Almstedt narrowed her eyes. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s a promise,” Ram said. “Mossad has invested a lot in this mission, and we aren’t going to rush things to satisfy some agenda you have with the brass.”
“Understood.” Wallace had terminated his involvement with SAARC, but now that he wanted help, he came back. The agent needed to feel the repercussions of bailing on the team. Besides, he had taken too long to surrender his feelings for Haven and for a while actively sought to draw her back to himself. He lost points for that in Ram’s book. “They told me to ask, so I said I would.”
“Special Activities Artifact Recovery and Containment. No artifact?” Ram shrugged. “No SAARC.”
Levi gave a nod. “Figured you’d say that.”
“He’s not calling the shots,” Robbie countered, “but he’s right. We’re stretched thin at the moment. Levi, you’re dealing with some awful murders, and we don’t take that lightly. So we’ll keep our ears open. Should anything come up, we’ll notify you.”
“I appreciate it. Thanks.” Wallace terminated his feed.
Almstedt waited, eyeing something—probably verifying that Wallace was gone—then shifted. “The AFO is stepping things up, Ram. Killing people in broad daylight with those vicious arrows. What is going on?”
“If I knew, I doubt I’d be sitting in a flat, staring at a data wall.” He shrugged, recalling the heinous mission eight months ago that had them chasing a crown-wearing madman on a killing spree that could, technically, have been considered a serial killer case.
“So,” she said with a sigh, “they found you.”
What he’d lost in that explosion still ticked him off. “I took care of it.” Authorities had recovered two bodies from his flat. No other casualities or injuries.
“Are you compromised? You sanitized the apartment, but—not to sound like a broken record—they found you, Ram.”
“They found the flat. There’s a difference.” He hoped. Finding the flat could just be logistics. Knowing who owned it and lived there—that could be a problem.
“Timing is all that separated you from being exposed.”
He folded his arms and stared back.
“We’re looking into official reports, watching underground chat rooms to see why they were there, who they were, what they wanted.”
As he had been and would keep doing until he knew who he’d killed in that explosion.
“Could’ve been innocent—”
“They weren’t,” he said.
“Then you slipped up.” Robbie clicked her tongue. “You can’t afford another mistake like that.”
There was no argument, no defense. Had a mistake been made? Maybe. He wasn’t sure at this point.
“And your sister—is she really MIA still?”
Almstedt was probing too much. She knew better than to ask these things. But this one wouldn’t hurt. And he’d respect the fact that she’d worked with Tzivia, too, so she might legitimately care. But . . . “Are you asking if I lied?”
“You’re playing incognito, and you’ve taken one of our best assets—”
“Borrowed.”
“—but you can’t just string us along. You cannot expect us—”
“Didier Makanda.”
Robbie blinked. “I . . . what?”
“It’s a gift.” This probably wouldn’t go over well. “I do not know what or who he is. Only that Mossad said to pass the name on.” He shrugged. “I would look into it if I were you.” He paused as she wrote it down, then abandoned note-taking for a keyboard.
After a moment, Robbie glared into the camera. Silence hung rank and rotten between them. “You’re sure?”
“As I said, a gift.”
“Why?”
This was where things got a little hairy, fudging the truth in a way that wouldn’t set off her alarms. “You’ve allowed them to borrow your operator and made it clear that SAARC has one goal: taking down the AFO.”
“This man is connected to that?” she asked, typing. “What am I supposed to do?”
Ram smirked. “Director, if I have to tell you that, then maybe I should be sitting in your chair.”
“Don’t get smart with me, Mr. Khalon.” She caught her mouse, clicked around, her face awash in monitor light. “Where are they getting this information? What are they basing this intel off of?”
“As soon as you’re ready to share your methods, assets on the ground, and intel gathered, maybe they’ll reciprocate.”
“You know very well we can’t do that.”
In silence, Ram waited.
Almstedt let out a long sigh. Her hazel eyes peered long into the camera, and the length of time that stretched, the way she stared, made it creepy. “How is he? Can you tell me that?”
Ram considered answering. Weighed the pros and cons. The latter greatly outweighed the former. An enormous amount of trust—not just politica
l, but tangible, real lives—had been placed in his hands. He wasn’t going to make careless mistakes now and screw up everything. “Good night, Director.”
Creaking and groaning surrendered to an explosion of light. Tzivia winced away from the glare, then peered at the large shape that loomed. At the rock walls. Bars. A prison? Were they kidding? Something about that form tugged at her brain. Or maybe that was the knot they’d put on the back of her head when she’d climbed into the car. How long had she been out?
She hopped to her feet. “Why are you holding me?”
“For being out for two days, she’s pretty feisty,” a voice growled.
Two days?!
Keys jangled, but the door wasn’t unlocked. The man who’d found her on the dock tucked his chin and eyed her. “Hands,” he said, motioning her forward.
What she’d heard wasn’t keys, but the metal cuffs he held. “You’re kidding right? I did what—”
“Would you like to stay, then?” The tall oaf indicated the exit. “Because I can leave.” He shrugged. “Who knows what will happen to your old man, left to rot because you didn’t want to come for him.”
Glowering and fingers laced, she shoved her arms between two bars so he could secure them.
“I’ve heard these hands are lethal.” He strapped on the cuffs. “Killed two men in an alley.”
She threw as much threat as she could into her response as she drew back. “Those are only the two they found.”
He snorted. “Tough talk.”
“Not tough. True.”
He moved to the lock and freed it. “I know cuffs won’t inhibit you, but since you’re so desperate to see your father—and to have him remain alive—I know you will not try any more stunts.”
Futility roiled as he took her arm and led her from the cage. Her muscles tremored, aching to deliver a lethal strike to this arrogant jerk’s face. But he was right—she wouldn’t. Because she did want her father alive.
“What did you do with the sword piece?” she asked as they climbed stone steps toward an ever-expanding speck of light. She squinted against the glare cast by sconce embrasures in the narrow passage.
He gave her a sidelong glance. “You think I would keep it?”
“You could’ve lied and said I hadn’t brought it.”
“Then Mr. Abidaoud would not only be angry with you, but also with me for failing him.”
“And you like living too much.”
Something glimmered in his eyes—again, familiar somehow—that allowed a trickle of hope into her desperate world.
He caught the cuffs and tugged her forward, pain chomping her flesh as he led her down a series of passages. Distracted by the familiarity ringing this man, she quickly lost her mental map. Maybe because he had the same nose as Omar.
Her chest squeezed at the thought of him, but she shoved it back into the past. She couldn’t think of Omar. Couldn’t think of the hurt she’d caused.
Emerging into the thick, damp evening, they passed through a barred entrance and descended a flight of steps, unusual tapestries lining the walls. Gruesome, bloody depictions of beheadings. Only as they reached the final step did it dawn on Tzivia that it wasn’t several killings. Each was a different portrayal of the victory of the Hebrew king, David, who’d slain Goliath.
A shudder traced her spine. She shouldn’t be surprised. They were forcing her to track down the sword that delivered victory to the Hebrews.
But Abidaoud is Muslim.
After a corner, they stopped short before steel doors to an elevator. She frowned. “I thought we were in the cathedral’s catacombs, or whatever you people call it.”
“Why would we be there?” He pressed a button, and a panel slid back, revealing a slick black surface. After palming that, he entered a code—too fast for her to catch.
“Because my father is there, and I was promised—”Air gusted with the swift whoosh of the opening doors. She drew in a breath and eyed the interior.
He motioned her in.
“No. I gave you the piece—”
“Your arrangement is not with me. Now.” He nodded again to the yawning elevator. “Please.”
Tzivia curled her fingers into a fist, deliberating. If it weren’t for her father . . .
“He holds something over your head . . .”
“I don’t need the reminder.” She pushed herself inside, feeling his presence behind her, sealing her into the contraption. Immediately, her mind went into fight mode. The box was small. Confined. That could work for her or against her. She wasn’t inclined to let it be the latter.
He was tall—probably six three or four. A bit taller than Tox. Lankier build. But there was nothing lanky or lazy about this man. He held his arms loose at the side. Ready. But was his left arm held a little higher? Maybe an old injury?
“Considering options?” He chuckled. Shook his head.
“What? You don’t think I could—”
“No.” His expression turned hard. Angry.
“Why?”
He angled to her, his gray eyes odd but fierce. “You’re too ticked at me. You’re assessing me, weighing whether you can take me. But you won’t do it.”
“Think you know me that well?”
“You love your father, Miss Khalon, and that will keep you in check.”
But her fist struck out.
Lightning fast, he caught her hand. Gripped it in a vise and twisted it—and her—around. Slammed her into the mirrored walls. “Think,” he growled, “of what he holds over your head.”
The words were hissed right in her ear. Into her soul, which breathed, Abba. Grimacing against his pinch hold, she pushed her gaze to his. A wealth of meaning piped through his strange eyes. To behave. To guarantee her father stayed alive.
“Understood?” His voice was a growl again.
Anger, confusion, desperation coiled around her throat, allowing the merest of nods.
After giving her a small shove into the reflective glass, he stepped back.
Tzivia lowered her head, gathered her senses and pride as the elevator climbed. With a quiet tone, the doors glided open.
Scowling, he nodded her out.
Irritated, feeling powerless and out of control, Tzivia removed herself and wished she could be removed from this man’s all-too-perceptive eyes. And why? Why was he helping her, unlike the other bloodthirsty thugs ready to put her down?
Marble spread out in luxury and extravagance. Yet where she expected to find van Gogh or similar paintings, the walls were once more adorned with the same dark theme of David slaying Goliath.
Making their way to a set of double doors, the lanky guard kept pace with her. Slowed when she did. Resumed course at the same time. The doors swung open, and Tzivia slowed.
Nur Abidaoud sat in a high-backed leather chair like a king on a throne. Too bad he didn’t have the Crown of Souls on his head—but only at the moment it had melted the brain of its wearer. Which made her wish for Barclay Purcell and his genius tech mind to help her find a way out of this mess. It’s your own fault.
The guard cuffed her arm, forcing her to continue. The move invigorated her courage. She stepped forward, sneering. “Where is my father?”
Wood scraped gently against wood as Nur, mocking eyes on her, reached to a side buffet and lifted a long, thin box. He set it on the desk. Opened it.
Carved steel sat in black velvet. Tzivia stiffened. Hating that he had it. Hating that she had only found half of the famed blade.
Nur sat back, the leather chair hissing like an elongated sigh. “I will choose to believe you were bringing this to me. Not escaping with it.”
“Had your men”—she glowered at the thug beside her—“given me the chance, I would have come directly here with it.”
He sniffed a laugh. “Since we are all versed in your attempts to evade and escape, I thought it best to send Mr. Rybakov to . . . motivate you to keep our agreement.”
“Does that include holding me hostage for two days?�
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His shoulders bounced in a lazy shrug. “I was out of the country. You were drugged.”
“Well, you have half of the blade now,” she said. “I want my father. You promised I could take him.”
Abidaoud sneered. “Nice try, Miss Khalon. I said you could see him, care for him.”
Tzivia pinched her lips, nostrils flaring under the very strained, toxic breath she pushed out. “What good is he to you? I’ve cooperated—got you the piece.”
“And you have two more to acquire, as agreed.”
She tightened her fists.
“Oh.” He looked at her hands. “Have you changed your mind? Would you like an incentive?” He lifted a remote and aimed it at the wall.
Rybakov moved closer to Tzivia, making her frown.
The upper portion of the wall above the fireplace slid away, revealing a screen, which sprang to life with video footage. A barking dog snapped through the feed, then the camera zoomed in on a shape—her father.
“Abba!”
Tzivia realized it wasn’t a dog barking. Her father was coughing. She lunged—only to be restrained by Rybakov. “Release me, you ape!”
“The second piece, Tzivia,” Nur crooned.
She wrested free. Glared at Nur. “Take me to him now. Before I do anything else.”
Smirking, Nur kept his eyes on her. “What do you think, Kazimir? I mean,” he said with a laugh, “she tried to attack you in the elevator, right on my doorstep!”
Ice filled Tzivia, realizing how much this murderous filth had seen. Why had she thought he couldn’t? His reach seemed to extend to the heavens.
“She tried,” Rybakov said.
“So punish her?”
Chest tightening at the way they toyed not only with her, but also with Abba’s life, she grew infuriated. But her anger, her propensity to attack first and think later wasn’t working so well for her this time.
“You have a good mind, Tzi. I just wish you’d use it first.” Omar hadn’t meant the words to be mean, but they’d cut. Deep.
“I think she’s punishing herself enough,” Rybakov said.
“Perhaps.” Nur stood and gave her a smile that felt as slick as the oil beneath her car. “If it takes her as long to find the remaining two pieces, the next time she comes, he may not be alive.”