by Ronie Kendig
8
— WASHINGTON, DC —
They climbed the thousand steps to her front door. Okay, so maybe not a thousand. But it felt that way. Haven groaned. “Really, Chiji, if you’re going to help me, you need to buy me an elevator or something.”
“Perhaps a membership to a gym?”
“Oh, ouch,” Haven laughed, digging in her purse for the key as VVolt sniffed the door, pushing against it with his snout, anxious to be inside. Anxious for another bully stick. “Hang on, boy. We’ll—”
“Excuse me.”
VVolt whipped around her with a barrage of barking and rippling muscles that immediately morphed into a smidgen of a whimper as he rubbed his snout and neck along the thigh of a man Haven hadn’t seen two seconds ago.
“Mr. Tzaddik.”
He smiled, smoothing a hand along VVolt’s broad skull and dense fur.
“Checking up on me?” she asked as she tugged at the Malinois, muttering, “Traitor.”
Tzaddik and Chiji shook hands. “I’ve come to hear what you have learned of Cole’s lineage.”
She grunted and let VVolt into the townhome. “Aren’t you omniscient or something?”
He joined her inside with a smile that wasn’t a smile. “I am not all-knowing. Merely . . . timeless.”
“Timeless.” She squinted at him. “What exactly does that mean?”
“My existence is not of importance here.”
“Well, it kind of is because you, Timeless One, are putting demands on me to find information that is impossible to find. Besides, if you’re timeless but not all-knowing, you got ripped off.” She removed VVolt’s harness, and the eighty-two-pound hero wandered over to his water bowl. “As for what I’ve found about Cole’s family—a big fat nothing. We went to the historical society, and they didn’t have anything on him.”
“What about his mother?”
“Cruising around Italy on vacation. When she gets back, I’ll ask.”
“You must understand the urgency.”
Haven considered him, glancing for a moment at Chiji, who seemed as enamored by Tzaddik as she was confused. “Well, I don’t. And honestly, with Cole on mission—gone—I’m struggling.”
“Which is why I am here. Start with his father’s line.”
Haven dropped her head with a huff. “Fine. They return Sunday, and I’m going over for dinner. I’ll ask then.” She propped her hip against the kitchen counter. “What exactly are we looking for, anyway? A wealthy cousin?”
“Just follow the line. Find the missing piece.”
“Missing piece of what?”
“Follow the line.”
“Must you always be so cryptic?”
“I apologize. If I had more information, I would give it.” Earnestness marked eyes lined with years, but not enough to measure this man’s existence. “As I said, I’m not all-knowing. What I know is limited. Find the missing piece, Haven.”
And he was gone.
Haven twitched, swallowing hard at the sudden chill that came with his absence. She lifted her chin and met Chiji’s wide-eyed gaze. When he didn’t say anything, she couldn’t help but ask, “What? No perfectly placed proverb?”
“I am sure I can think of one, if you would give me a moment to recover from the shock of seeing a man disappear before my eyes.”
— EN ROUTE TO THE CONGO —
“What in the usurper is this?” Cell rested his hands on his tactical vest as the team grouped up inside the hangar.
Leif “Runt” Metcalfe bobbed his head. “I’d feel the same way if our roles were reversed—”
“But they ain’t,” Cell groused. “You’re new, and now you’re taking the lead?”
“Hey,” Maangi said calmly. “We’re a team. First, second, last. No numbers.”
Cell lifted his hands. “You should be annoyed the most, since you should be leading when Tox and Ram aren’t here.”
Shrugging, Maangi didn’t seem to mind. “I don’t have the experience or connections in this region, so explain how that makes sense.”
“Because when Runt screws up and takes a bullet,” Thor sniggered, “Maangi needs to save his butt.”
“Or not,” Cell grumbled.
“I hear you,” Leif said, placating. “I’m the new guy. But I’m also the one who knows the team coming to help us, and I do have general experience in this region. So while your loyalty to Tox is appreciated, let’s get our heads in the game. You have the dossier on this guy, Didier Makanda. Mossad dropped his name, and now we drop in on him and let him explain why.”
Thor nodded to the tarmac. “Welcome party has arrived.”
In the early morning light stood a half dozen men, booted feet shoulder-width apart, hands dangling casually at their sides. Most had on ball caps, and one had flipped his backward. While they wore tactical pants and long-sleeved shirts, their bearing betrayed them. They might try to look like civvies, but they reeked of experience behind scopes and under brain bowls.
“Squids,” Thor said with a sneer.
“Tasty with butter,” Cell snarked.
“I’ll make sure they serve you up cold,” Leif said, slapping Cell’s arm as he strolled out to the meet the men who wore the same Trident he’d earned. “Riordan!”
Dark hair, dark eyes—some even said a dark heart—Riordan was one of the best SEALs Leif had ever worked with. They clasped hands and pulled into a shoulder hug. “Glad you’re still sunny-side up, Runt.”
“Hold up,” Cell said. “You’re the dudes we worked Kafr al-Ayn with,” Cell said.
“I lost some good men there.” Riordan puffed out his barrel chest and adjusted his backward ball cap.
“We all did,” Maangi said.
“Let’s not repeat that.” The SEAL extended a hand, smile stretching his thick beard. “Special Warfare Operator Riordan. Runt, you remember”—he indicated to his nine, then clocked around—“Trigger, Grease, Hyde, and Jekyll.”
“Wait, what? Seriously?” Cell snickered again. “Jekyll and Hyde?”
“Brothers,” Riordan said. “They aren’t much alike, but they’re both deadly.” He didn’t crack a smile, but it was clear he loved that line.
“Heck yeah.” Leif grinned hard. “This is my new team. Big guy’s Thor. That’s Maangi and Cell.”
Riordan squinted at Thor. “God of thunder, eh?”
“Loud and proud.” Thor threw out the comeback he’d always used when people questioned his call sign or assumed he had a god complex.
Amusement sparked, then Riordan pivoted. “Let’s gear up and head out.” He drove them across the airstrip to a small warehouse, then unlocked and shoved back the sliding door. Three beat-up Jeeps waited.
Thor drew back. Frowned. “Last time we were given junk like that, a kid was killed right in front of me.”
“Don’t worry,” Riordan said, a bit of twang in his words, “they look old, but they’re not. Came to us this summer. And”—he swung open the rear door, pointing to the inches-thick width—“armor-plated.”
“Expecting trouble?” Maangi asked.
“Every day of the year,” Leif and Riordan said around a laugh.
“Trigger, Jekyll, get ’em geared up,” Riordan ordered his men, who moved to the remaining vehicles and dug out the weapons.
Leif took a sniper rifle, an M4, and a Glock. He broke them down, checked the magazines, then chambered a round into the handgun and strapped it into a leg holster.
Maangi sidled up, threading the strap of a leg holster. “Lot of hardware,” he muttered as reached for an M4.
“The more the merrier,” Leif said.
The mission should be simple—in and out, grab the guy and leave. But nothing was ever simple. Few missions went perfectly. Preparing for the unknown gave them a better chance of coming out alive. Leif looked past Cell, who was laughing and nearly got punched by Riordan, no doubt for a smart-mouthed comment.
Maangi dropped a magazine and checked the count. “Something seem off to yo
u about this, or is it just me?”
“Not just you.” Leif had a twitchy feeling about this mission, but he couldn’t believe his SEAL brother would knowingly walk him into trouble. He slung a weapon over his shoulder as he worked his way closer. “It’s not the company, though. These men are some of the best I’ve ever worked with. Villages out here are tricky, but thankfully Trigger has a way with the language.”
“And the people,” one of the SEALs muttered.
“Because he’s black?” Cell said.
“Because he knows their customs.” Riordan held his gaze for several long seconds before he turned to the others. “Pack it up, ladies. Time to move out.” He slapped Leif’s shoulder. “Forty-minute trip to the village, then the fun of finding the needle in the haystack. We need to be back before nightfall with our ‘plus one.’”
Vehicle One carried Thor, Leif, and Riordan, who climbed behind the wheel, then pulled out of the bay. Beyond the windows, the lush Congo blurred. Predominantly jungle, the Republic of the Congo had finally entered its dry season, where rainfall would be rare and the sun warm. At least it wasn’t summer. Even still, the air hung heavy amid the thick trees lining the great Congo River.
“Greener than I thought,” Thor said.
“The Congo or your team?” Riordan taunted.
Leif snorted.
Set along a dull sloping hill and hugging the river, the village had rammed mud-and-thatched-roof homes into the hillside, then spread out in an ever-widening arc like the ripples of water on a still pond. Disturbed but not chaotic.
Their caravan jounced along the hard-packed dirt road that carved a stark line through the village teeming with people. Children swam along the shore of the river, which looked muddy but offered relief from the eighty-something-degree heat and the boredom of village life.
“Education is standardized in the cities. In some villages like this one, which isn’t as far out, the kids will walk three or four klicks to get to the nearest primary school.” Riordan snorted. “Kids back home complain about walking down the block to the bus stop.”
They pulled up to a large round structure whose roof draped in an elegant sort of way. Branches stitched together with twine and vine were topped with leaves and fronds. Two men emerged from the structure and waited at the top of four steps. Though one had scraggly gray-white hair, he stood as tall and strong as the younger man to his right.
“This is what you might call the town hall,” Riordan said.
The opening of the rear passenger door and the subsequent thunk of it closing snapped Leif’s gaze around. He spotted Trigger striding toward the structure.
As Trigger climbed the steps casually and respectfully, Leif exited the vehicle and trailed him slowly, sensing Maangi and Cell with him. A stream of words flew off Trigger’s tongue and were received by the two men, who returned a volley of dialogue.
“Dude.” Cell edged closer. “That’s French.”
“No duh, genius,” Leif snarked as Riordan joined them. “The Congo is part of French Equatorial Africa. Primary language is French, with Lingala and Mbosi second- and third-most common.”
Trigger inclined his head to the apparent elders, then returned to the team. “He says we can come in.”
“Come in?” Leif frowned, eyeing the reed-like walls. “We need—”
“There is a custom,” Trigger said, a ferocity bleeding into his dark eyes. “Respect first. Once we earn it, we can ask what we want.” He motioned up the wood steps.
“So much for in and out.” Noting the quickly gathering crowd, Leif entered the structure.
“Won’t take long,” Riordan reassured him as they sat cross-legged on the wood floor. “Eyes out. Makanda may be among those watching.”
Seated on the outer perimeter of the group, which held the two elders and Trigger, Leif glanced around the thickening crowd of mahogany faces etched with curiosity and perhaps even annoyance. But curiosity about the visitors proved too much for them to stay away.
“What’s he saying?” Cell whispered to Leif.
Head angled to hear better, Leif said, “Trigger asked about their health. The older complained about his knees hurting.”
“Arthritis is a b—”
“And,” Leif continued, cutting off one of Riordan’s men, “the younger said they are glad the plague is gone.”
“Dude. Am I going to get sick?” Cell hissed.
“Can’t handle it, get out,” one of the SEALs shot back.
“Now he’s asking about his family,” Leif continued.
“Since when do you speak French?”
Leif looked over his shoulder to silence Cell—but his gaze hit a face. The person shifted and slid behind a woman, but something about him started a buzzing in Leif’s brain.
He waited for the man to slip back into view. But he didn’t. In fact, Leif couldn’t find him now. He skimmed the rest of the nearby faces, but the dialogue was shifting into the purpose of their presence and returned Leif’s attention to the elders.
Trigger spoke fluently and calmly, then pointed to Leif—who acknowledged them with a nod—saying it was very important they locate a young man who could help resolve some problems.
Diplomatic way of putting it.
Leif monitored the mood of the crowd. They’d all been taught to stay eyes and ears out, even when engaging locals. Especially locals. It was too easy for a situation to go sideways in a blink.
That face. The eyes.
Leif jolted out of his musings, brain whiplashing. Where had he just seen that person again? He reeled back through the crowd—there. To his three, where an opening led to a path that wound up the hillside before it spliced in opposite directions. The man had large eyes beneath a thick, bushy brow and hair twisted in knots all over his head, which he bent toward another man—thinner, with hair closely shorn. The two whispered, and the thinner man’s face darkened. His gaze shot straight to Leif.
Knot Head slapped his friend, yanking his attention back.
There were times during a mission when a soldier got that gnawing in his gut that told him to pay attention. Be smart. Be ready. Or they’d put him six feet under. And this was one of those times.
“Something wrong?” Riordan asked.
Leif flinched, meeting Riordan’s gray eyes. “No.” But that person . . . What was Knot Head up to? He retracked the guy and found the thinner man had left. His instincts blazed. Leif searched the crowd. Spotted the thinner man weaving through the throng, straight toward Cell.
“You sure?” Riordan was persistent.
“Well, see . . . there’s this story . . .” Leif muttered.
“Aw, man. He’s always telling stories,” Thor groused. “Don’t get him started.”
It was the perfect distraction, allowing Leif to monitor the thinner man, who’d made a circuit and was coming up alongside the team to Leif’s seven. He tracked Thinner, turning his head to alert the guy that he had his number.
But Thinner was oblivious, intent on whatever he was doing. Scowling. Hands in front of his face. Hiding something. Fingers tapping. Brow sweaty.
“No.”
Thinner reached between two people who stood directly behind Cell. Reached . . .
Leif came to his feet, rotating to face the guy and going for his weapon because training and habit told him he’d need it.
It’s a diversion! From what? The other guy—Knot Head. Where had he gone?
“I see him.” Riordan stepped to the right.
Thinner reached . . . right for Cell’s holstered Sig.
9
— MOSCOW, RUSSIA —
Walking through a field of knee-high manure wouldn’t have smelled this bad. Stomach roiling, arms full of a jug, soap, and cloths, Tzivia cursed herself when she hesitated just inside the cell.
Rybakov jangled the keys as he secured the lock. “Twenty minutes.” He gave the door one final tug before retreating to the shadows. Probably to get away from the smell.
She stabbed a
glower at her jailer, willing it into barbs as sharp and fiery as the ones searing her heart. She hated them—Rybakov, Nur, the Arrow & Flame . . . herself.
Mostly herself. Because she hadn’t looked for Abba sooner. She hadn’t believed the lies that he was dead, so why she took so long to find him . . . And now she couldn’t bring herself to turn and face what they’d done to her father.
Tzivia mechanically forced herself around. For courage, she breathed in—a mistake. The stench coated her tongue. She coughed, eyes watering, and resisted the urged to spin away. Shield her eyes from the horrific reality.
He’s your father, for pity’s sake!
Bracing herself, she squared her shoulders. Clutched the towels and jug of water they’d provided to clean him. Would it hurt the billionaire to give her father a bath?
No, Nur knew this would hurt her. And that was his point.
Tears stung as she knelt beside his huddled body, a gnarled hand clutching a torn, threadbare sheet over his shoulder. “A—” His name caught in her throat. She swallowed, told herself to gut it up. “Abba,” she said, firming her greeting. “Abba, it’s me—it’s Tzivia.”
He grunted, rocked away from her.
She reached for his shoulder, only then noting the brown stains on his hands and arms. Wiry gray hair, dirty and grimy. Unkempt beard. So unlike him. So not him. Her fingers trembled as she reached again toward him, toward the man who’d been a lecturer, a politician, a proud abba and husband, revered across the Levant in his day. The man she knew him to be, not the creature before her.
“Abba.” Tzivia clasped his shoulder and tugged. “It’s me, Tzivia. I’m here.”
“No,” he moaned, again rocking away. “No, leave me alone. I didn’t do anything!”
Tzivia moved to the other side to face him. “Abba, it’s me. See? Your Tzi.”
Gray-green eyes fluttered beneath short lashes as he peered up at her. Confusion creased his brow. “Tzi . . . ?”
Tears blurred as she nodded. “I’m here. To help you.” By all that was holy, she would not let this go unpunished.