Thirst of Steel

by Ronie Kendig

  “Remind her what she’s fighting for, Igor,” Nur said.

  “Would you like me to go, sir?” Tox offered. “I can be persuasive.”

  “No.” Nur nodded to Igor and the lesser guards, then pulled his attention back to Tox. “I have a breakfast meeting.”

  Tox nodded but winced internally. He followed the AFO commander out of the penthouse, hating how those thugs would treat Tzivia.

  14

  — MOSCOW, RUSSIA —

  “Abba! Abba, I’m here.” Tzivia rushed into the cell, grateful they had allowed her inside again.

  A barking cough rattled her father’s frail form.

  She went to her knees beside him. “Abba,” she whispered, catching his shoulders. Heat radiated from him. She gasped and leaned over to see his face. His eyes were closed, and he looked flushed. “He’s feverish,” she shouted to the guards, who stood motionless outside the cell. “He’s sick. He needs a doctor.” She carefully turned him onto his back.

  He broke into a coughing fit, his shoulders hunching. Slowly, his eyes flitted open. “Tzi . . .”

  “Yes, Abba. I’m here.”

  “Go,” he growled. “You should not be here. I am old and useless.”

  “Not true! You are important to me.”

  He groaned, and she removed the jacket she’d intentionally worn to give to him. She cocooned him in the warmth. “It’s not much, but”—she glanced at the guards, who scowled back—“they won’t let me bring anything to help you.”

  He patted her hand, grunting. “You are good to me, Tzivia.”

  She leaned closer. “There’s a knife in the pocket. If you can get close, maybe you can pick the lock or force the guard to free you.”

  “No, no. They will beat me if they find it.” His trembling fingers reached toward the pockets. “Take it back.”

  Tzivia took his hands in hers. Held them to her face. Kissed his dirtied knuckles. “Keep it. It might help.”

  “You are . . . thickheaded.”

  Surprise held her fast, then a laugh bubbled up. He’d always complained about her stubbornness. “As an oak.”

  A crooked smile worked its way onto his face, though his eyes were closed, and she could see him—see the abba she’d loved and cherished as a girl. The abba who admonished her, chastised her. Over and over. Threatened to beat the wildness from her. What she would not do to hear him rail again. To hear him strong and confident.

  “The sword, Tzivia,” he murmured.

  “I know. I might have another lead.”

  “No,” he groaned. “You must not give it to them. Must not do this.”

  “If I do not, they will kill you, Abba.”

  “Then let an old man die in peace.”

  “No!” Tzivia threw herself at him, hugging him tight. “I won’t. Mama is gone. I will not lose you, too.”

  Coughing choked off his words, rattling his entire body. “Tzivia, the Valley of Elah celebration—”

  “It’s in two months.”

  “Yes. They want the sword for that. It would be”—more coughing—“catastrophic.”

  “Shh, Abba. Do not worry about the sword.”

  “I am an old dying man. Let me be done with it and—”

  “You will get better. I am doing this for you, for me. For Ram.” She held his hands again. “We will be a family again.”

  He shook his head, but then he grew still. “Your brother is here?” His gaze was on the ceiling.

  “I don’t know where he is.”

  The guard rattled the door. “Time’s up.”

  “I barely had ten minutes!” Tzivia snapped.

  “Let’s go. Out.”

  She glared. Fisted her hands. “I will not. I want—”

  “Out, or I will drag you out.”

  Defiance flared. “I’d like to see you try.”

  He hoisted a gun, aimed it, and fired.

  Something struck her leg. Startled, she glanced down to once again find a dart sticking out of her thigh. The feeling in her body faded with her vision. “Coward.”

  When they arrived at the restaurant, Tox climbed out of the armored Rolls Royce and paused in front of the door, scanning the plaza. Satisfied there were no threats, he moved aside, signaling to Nur that it was safe. The door opened, and his employer emerged. Tox escorted him into the restaurant. His job was to remain innocuous while Nur had lunch with an Asian businessman.

  As he stood guard, Tox tracked every person and vehicle that passed the restaurant or the table. The woman with a little girl. The Sikh man with a white turban. Teens, noses stuck in their smartphones, hung out in sharp contrast to the elderly man shuffling by on his cane and accompanied by what must’ve been his wife in an electric scooter.

  Tox wanted to smile, wondering if that might be him and Haven in fifty or sixty years. If I survive that long.

  Behind him, Mr. Abidaoud said his good-byes.

  Tox keyed his mic. “Exiting now,” he alerted the driver, who’d bring the car to the curb.

  As they strode through the plaza to the armored vehicle, a white van slid by. Tox’s pulse jacked when something registered. Snagged his brain. Made it buzz. On the other side of the street, he spotted two men hovering near a car, smoking.

  A cyclist circled round, riding past a small candy vendor where a woman waited. Staring. With something in her hand.

  The car that slid by—turban.

  The people across the street, by the vendor, the cyclist—all Middle Eastern.

  Things out of the norm. Too perfectly placed. An ambush!

  Tox stepped back. Flashed out his hand, pushing his boss behind him. “Down!” He snapped up his gun even as the first man dove for cover. Urging Nur to the safety of shelter, Tox fired, noting the woman producing a gun of her own, then taking cover.

  Tox grabbed Nur by the collar, half dragging him to a waist-high wall. “Ambush! Under attack,” he said into the comms even as cracked wall spit at them.

  This was it. This could be the end. He could let Nur die, and the head would be cut off of the serpent. But Mossad would not have the other names. And he had to locate them first. Killing the head would drive the others deep underground. They needed a coordinated attack to take down the entire beast.

  He glanced at Nur, who held a gun. Where had he gotten that? Tox shouldn’t be surprised, after seeing him shoot the failed archaeologist.

  The thudding of approaching feet stilled Tox. In the reflection of the restaurant window, he saw a man sprinting toward them. Tox watched, waited.

  “What are—”

  Tox held up a finger, eyes on the ghostlike figure closing in on them. He eyed angles. Obstacles. Clear.

  In three . . . two . . . He threw himself to the side, shoulder colliding with the paving stones, weapon aimed up at their attacker. He fired. Once, twice. Three times.

  The man pitched forward, face thudding against the cement as he dropped hard.

  Tox searched for more contacts.

  Screams rent the afternoon, pulling his attention to where their armored vehicle barreled over the plaza’s curb and shot toward them.

  Tox grabbed his boss’s jacket again. “To the car,” he ordered.

  Nur scrambled to his feet, stumbling before he found traction. He raced toward the SUV that torpedoed through the vendor carts, sending candy and magazines flying. Tox sprinted to the vehicle with Nur and yanked open the door.

  Sparks zinged off the armor plating.

  Tox pivoted and sighted the Sikh he’d first noticed outside the restaurant. The attacker hurtled at him. Slammed Tox into the car. But he caught the man’s shoulders. Flipped their stances. Drove a fist hard into the man’s nose.

  The Sikh punched, but Tox deflected, twisting him and ramming his head into the limo. Tox hauled him up and did it again, this time also nailing the back of the guy’s neck with his elbow. A sickening crunch told him he’d at best paralyzed the man, at worst killed him.

  A weight plowed into Tox. He grunted, pi
nned between the body of the dead Sikh and a new attacker, who hooked an arm around Tox’s neck. Stupid.

  Tox clamped onto the man’s arm and dropped his weight dead, slipping under the hold, then stepping back, twisting the man’s arm down, back, and then up.

  Pop! The man howled.

  Tox wasn’t up to killing this one, too. He pitched the guy onto the ground, then lurched at the car door. Dove into the rear.

  “Go, go!” Nur shouted.

  The car surged, bucking and jouncing away from the plaza ambush.

  Tox peeled himself off the floorboard and climbed onto the seat, rubbing his jaw and then his knuckles.

  “I’m impressed,” Nur said.

  “I should’ve picked up on it sooner,” Tox muttered, annoyed he hadn’t paid more attention when he’d noticed the Sikh earlier.

  “This morning I was concerned that you might need to be . . . retired.”

  That pulled Tox’s gaze to his boss. Retired meant dead.

  “But after that”—Nur shook his head and laughed—“I would be a fool to retire you.” He huffed. “Those were Stroebel’s men.”

  “Retaliatory strike.” Tox silently thanked God he was still alive.

  “Now, we plan one of our own. They must understand that what I do is for the ultimate good.”

  The driver returned them to Mattin headquarters. Tox followed Nur up the private elevator to the penthouse offices. Palming his weapon, anticipating trouble as they entered the office. But it was untouched and unoccupied.

  “Maybe you even need a raise,” Nur suggested.

  “I make enough already, sir.” Tox inclined his head. “But thank you.”

  “You are a hero.”

  “No, sir. Just doing my job.”

  “To me,” Nur said, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, “you are a hero—you saved my life. They would have killed me had it not been for you.”

  “That’s why you have me there, sir.”

  Nur laughed, then pointed to Tox’s hands. “Go get some ice for that. And clean yourself up.”

  Tox glanced down at his bloodied suit. “Yes—”

  A shadow moved where one shouldn’t have. Shouldering in, Tox snapped his gun toward the intruder.

  Shorter than Tox by a head, the man had brown eyes that were dark. Not just in color.

  “No!” Nur shouted, slapping down the weapon. He patted Tox’s shoulder. “Go—clean up, get something to eat, then come back. I don’t want you gone too long.”

  Tox eyed the man who stood near Nur’s private office, uninvited yet there. “Of course, sir,” he said, then turned away, discreetly lifting his phone and snapping a picture.

  “That man just saved my life,” Nur informed the uninvited guest.

  “Fortunate.”

  “Indeed. So.” Nur’s tone changed. “What do you think? Is it working?”

  Tox slowed, wiping at something on his pant leg as he stood a few feet from the door.

  “Like a charm. Our American counterparts will be pleased, too.”

  15

  — NSA, MARYLAND —

  Diana Prince had her Steve Trevor. Superman had his Lois Lane. Bruce Banner had his Betty Ross.

  Mercy Maddox had her . . .

  “Nobody.” She slumped against her chair, staring at her ringless left hand and a picture of her pet ferret, which had recently been euthanized. With a sigh, she peered around her cubicle peppered with comic book paraphernalia and stubby plastic figures of her favorite TV and movie characters. “Surrounded by heroes . . .”

  When the company phone rang, she wiped away her sadness and pressed the button. “Maruta Takeri’s office. How may I help you?”

  “Sure are moving up, aren’t you?”

  Breath stolen by that voice, a blast from the past, Mercy leaned into the phone. “Barclay?”

  He chuckled. “Very good.”

  She skated a glance around the office maze. “What’re you doing, calling me here? I can’t take personal calls.”

  “Well, good. Because this isn’t personal.”

  It had always been personal with Barc and his never-ending attempts to weasel a date out of her. “It’s not?”

  “Okay,” he said in his awkwardly adorable voice, “maybe it is. I need help. Professional help.”

  “You need the counseling hotline again?”

  “No,” he growled. “And I told you that was just a joke.”

  She remembered, but taunting him never got old. “Suicide isn’t a joke.”

  He growled again. “For someone named Mercy, you don’t give much.”

  Definitely true. Hurt me once, shame on you. Hurt me twice, shame on me. These days she skipped the first one in exchange for preventative maintenance and upkeep of her mental state. “Did you need something, Barc?”

  “Can we meet? I want you to look at something.”

  From the corner of her eye, Mercy saw the perfectly coiffed hair of Ms. Takeri bobbing across the office. “Gotta go.”

  “Meet?”

  “The Rave. Same table. Ten o’clock.” She disconnected and looked up with a smile. “Ms. Takeri, how can I help you?”

  “Did we get that packet from Langley yet?”

  “No, ma’am.” A tone sounded in her headset, and Mercy checked her monitor, which logged calls inbound and outbound, as well as messages within the NSA building. “Though I did just receive a ping from the front desk that we have a package. I’ll go down right now and check.”

  “No, no,” Ms. Takeri said, her blood-red manicured nails raking the air. She touched her dyed-black hair. “I’m on my way out. I’ll pick it up.”

  “Very good.” Though Mercy noticed her boss’s strange expression, she said nothing.

  Ms. Takeri’s eyes scrunched and shifted to something on Mercy’s desk. With a grimace, she demanded, “Why do you have a picture of a rat?”

  “Not a rat,” Mercy replied without anger or annoyance. “He was a ferret. My dad gave him to me, and he was euthanized last night.”

  “Ugh. Good riddance.” Ms. Takeri shuddered. “You had that thing in an apartment?” She shuddered again. “I can’t imagine living somewhere people can keep rodents.”

  Smile before you say something ugly or kill her. “Have a good evening, Ms. Takeri. I hope your dinner with Senjen is pleasant.” Redirection was better than explaining a body.

  Her boss’s face pinked at the mention of the Indian businessman. “Make sure your work is done before you leave,” she said, sauntering off.

  “Of course.” Why did that woman always look down on Mercy? Treat her like she was second-class or something? Maybe it was time for a little payback.

  Watching Ms. Takeri wait for, then step into, the elevator, Mercy silently plotted how to frustrate her opinionated, mean-spirited boss, who had known about Clark because Mercy left work early yesterday for the euthanasia appointment. She also knew Mercy loved that ferret the way normal people loved children.

  An idea struck her. “Hmm, going to a restaurant, are we?” She turned to her keyboard and let her fingers roam. Ms. Takeri might find her credit card didn’t work. Wouldn’t that be embarrassing when she insisted, as she always did, on paying for Senjen’s meal? Or maybe she’d find her employee ID failed in the morning. Again.

  “Silly woman,” Mercy murmured as she worked the system, bypassing protocols, diving deep so they couldn’t backtrace her cyber trail. “Don’t you know leather purses deactivate cards?” She gave a dramatic gasp, then mimicked her boss’s voice. “Do they? But it’s a Torry!”

  She wrinkled her nose and rolled her eyes, executing her revenge. “I’m so sorry you’re foolish enough to pay a thousand dollars for a purse but can’t remember it makes your security access card for the NSA dead in the water.

  “Of course,” Mercy said with a jut of her chin, chuckling to herself, “that could be the case, but we all know it was really the brilliant computer hacker of an assistant who wrecked your day. Again.” She lifted her fingers and
wiggled them over the keyboard. “Boom!”

  “Uh-oh.”

  Mercy jumped, letting out a small yelp as she glanced up at Henry, an analyst who’d given her a lot of attention and leniency.

  Handsome as far as nerds went with his brown hair and brown eyes, Henry had a little too much slick-business-professional about him for her taste. “How’d she tick you off this time?”

  Mercy lifted her photo. “She called Clark a rodent. Again!”

  “Oh, ouch. For an NSA director, she’s not real quick. I’m sorry about Clark.”

  Mercy sighed. “Thanks. I miss him.”

  He nodded to her terminal. “So she still hasn’t figured out you’re the phantom behind her troubles.”

  She flashed him a devious grin, then returned to her cyber warfare. “I’m not mean to her. Just . . .”

  “Wearing her down.”

  She smiled, disappointed at having her surly side revealed. She should be ashamed of herself, but when someone went out of their way to run over others, to berate and belittle them—well, Mercy had no mercy. Like someone else she’d known once.

  “Heading home?” she asked.

  Henry shook his head. “Out for drinks.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Want to come?”

  Anything to get out of here and unwind. “Sounds wonderful.” Wait. Barclay. “Shoot. No, I’m meeting someone later.”

  “Oh.” Henry frowned. “A date.”

  “Not like that.” Mercy snorted. “I mean, Barc’s nice and a nerd—which means he’s good people—but he’s . . .” She pursed her lips. “Not right for me.” Instead, a pair of hazel-green eyes invaded her mind. She swiped away the image as easily as if it had been on the screen of her phone.

  “Who is he?” Too much legitimate interest and offense sat in Henry’s question.

  “Well, Bruce has a lot going for him—smart, kindhearted—but he gets a little green sometimes.” She snorted, avoiding a real answer with a playful one. “But his anger—woofta!”

  “Ha. At least I can control my temper.” Henry leaned on the wall of her cubicle and peered down at her. “What do I need to win you? Four legs and a long, segmented tail?”

  “Ferrets have furry tails. They’re not rats, Henry. You lost major points there.” At the embarrassment reddening his face, she added, “But maybe a pink button nose could salvage you.”