Thirst of Steel

by Ronie Kendig

  Tox aimed at the closest man. Eased back the trigger.

  The loud crack of the weapon shoved Tzivia and the other man apart. Both took cover.

  Tox stepped back, reminding himself that Tzivia wouldn’t recognize him, but she’d recognize Kazimir. And she wouldn’t know if he was there to end her, the attacker, or both of them. He shouldered the wall but kept a line of sight on the man cowering on the other side of the bed. Tox had to let her know he was there to protect her. She’d think that an interesting twist.

  “Don’t move or you’ll end up like your buddies,” Tox warned in Russian.

  But when the man looked over the mattress, Tox understood what—who—he faced. And that he could not let this man leave alive. Then again, if he killed him, a boatload of heat would come down on his neck. What the heck was he supposed to do?

  Tzivia scrambled toward him.

  The man rose, producing a weapon. Made the decision for Tox.

  Tox fired again. The man shifted, stunned as Tox placed another bullet in his chest. His eyes registered shock, then went vacant as he slumped across the bed.

  Frustration coated Tox’s muscles as he slipped farther into the room. Waited a second, then edged closer. Pressed two fingers to the man’s carotid. Nothing.

  He turned—and a black blur sailed at him. Flinging his hand out, he blocked. Pain rattled up his arm and into his neck. He stumbled from the momentum of the strike. Nearly cursed, realizing his attacker was Tzivia. “Stop!”

  Her fury continued, unrelenting. She punched. Jabbed. Tox deflected but pushed in closer, forcing her backward, exposing her exhaustion. Tzivia would otherwise never have surrendered ground. He moved in again. And again, until she thumped against the wall, pinned. Startled.

  He flipped her around. Smashed her cheek into the plaster and pressed his chest to her spine so he could manacle her hands. “Stop,” he hissed in Russian. “I’m not here to hurt you, but if necessary, I will.”

  “Why are you following me?” she growled, bucking beneath his bulk, which only cracked her head against the wall again.

  “Mr. Abidaoud has trust issues,” Tox grunted. “He doesn’t trust you.” Time to figure out a plan, get himself together. Wailing sirens gave him the ammo necessary to force her cooperation. “The authorities are coming. Do I need to hold you until they arrive?”

  “They can’t arrest me,” she breathed. “If they take me in, I can’t find the sword.”

  “Then we have a problem. You are bent on snapping my neck, but I’m not inclined to lose my head, so . . . will you behave?” Though she glowered, he saw her surrender, and stepped back. “Get your things.”

  After another glare, she stalked from the room.

  Tox hurried to the window and peered out, gauging their opposition. Police racing up the street. He checked the other end of the road. Nothing tha—

  A cruiser catapulted around a corner two blocks down.

  “We have to go. Now.” He hurried to the living room, where she was sliding a laptop into her pack. She slung it over her shoulder with a curt nod.

  That was all she needed? He shouldn’t be surprised. She’d been on the run for a long time. Having a go-bag was part and parcel of life on the lam.

  “The street is littered with cops,” he said.

  She hopped over the dead agent in the foyer and shoved around Tox. “This way.” Halfway down the hall, she picked a lock. The door opened into a maintenance room with a boiler, a pipe, and a washbasin.

  “This is a coffin,” he spat.

  She knelt by a shelf, reached under it. Wood scraped, and next thing he knew, she vanished. He squatted and eyed the darkness.

  A tunnel. Tox nearly cursed. Always had to be tunnels.

  With no choice but to follow, he hauled himself into the dank, dark passage and low-crawled, chasing her boots. She moved as fast as the rat scurrying past him.

  A few minutes later, she turned into a tight room with an iron spiral staircase that pushed through the floor. Tzivia was scurrying down it by the time he extricated himself and shut the panel. He hustled but could tell she was trying to lose him. He would not let that happen and endure explaining to Nur why he’d been too slow. Instead of coiling the last dozen steps, he hoisted himself over the rail. Dropped down.

  She crashed into him with a yelp, and they fell into the wall.

  Tox used his weight to hold her. “Going somewhere?”

  That fire again flashed into her eyes. Her lips tightened. But something twitched in her gaze. A change. Her brows tugged down and together.

  Recognition.

  Not good.

  She blinked. “I—”

  “Let’s go.” Distract and deter. “Mr. Abidaoud will want to know what happened.” He yanked her toward the door, then out into the night.

  “It’ll attract attention if you’re dragging me away from the building,” she said, her voice way too calm.

  “Only if someone sees us.”

  “You seem familiar.”

  He scowled. “Don’t flirt with me.”

  Her expression morphed into shock, then anger. She tried to wrest free. “As if I’d want anything from a dog like you.”

  As long as she kept thinking that, they’d be okay. He sneered, opening his car door and pushing her inside. Behind the wheel, he ferried them away from the apartment. Too bad she couldn’t blow her place the way Ram had with his compromised flat. Erase any evidence. Like those bodies.

  “Want to tell me why the Mossad were after you?” he asked.

  She shifted as they wove down streets lit only by city lamps. “How would I know?”

  “I’m sure it’s no coincidence that your father is Jewish and the Israelis are hiding in your apartment. And I noticed you were in a terrible hurry to get there.” He arched an eyebrow. “Were you taking information to them?”

  This time she twisted to face him, sitting cockeyed. “Did the dead guys look like I gave them information?”

  “Maybe that was for my benefit, to throw me off—”

  “Why would I do that? You have my father!”

  “Not me,” he corrected.

  “To placate your boss, I have bent over backward and violated my conscience more times in the last few months than in my entire life!” The veins at her temple throbbed beneath the occasional street lamp. “I have no pretense, no intention other than doing whatever it takes to get my father back!”

  Glad to have her riled so she’d be less likely to see the man behind the face, he nodded. “Explain why you were in a hurry to return to your flat.”

  “Why were you following me?”

  “Fine. Keep your answers and see how your father fares when Nur finds out.”

  Dark, furious eyes stabbed him as he made the final turn toward Mattin Worldwide. No doubt she wanted to argue, to ask if he was threatening her. But that dialogue would only get her father deeper in trouble. Her struggle was real, and he didn’t like threatening her father to influence Tzivia.

  “I have to go to London,” she finally said.

  Relief and victory churned inside him. “What’s in London?”

  “A lead on the next piece, what else?” She sneered. “A vacation? A lover?”

  No, she’d left him in Israel. But saying that would betray his identity.

  “Withdraw your claws,” he said. “You told me because you need help getting there. That means convincing Nur to send you. So what’s there?”

  Though Tzivia said nothing, her posture revealed plenty. Why did she have to make everything so difficult? He longed for the simplicity of honest, caring Haven. Then again, to Tzivia, he was a stranger. “You don’t have to tell me—”

  “There’s a photograph,” she said with a huff as they entered the parking garage. “In the home of a . . . friend.”

  “Dr. Cathey.”

  She drew in a breath. “How—”

  “You two have a strong connection. He lives in London and worked at Oxford.”

  Silen
ce rang through the car as he pulled into his reserved spot by the elevators. No doubt she probed his answers, wondering if it was commonly known that she and Dr. Cathey were connected.

  “Why can’t you email him about this photo?” He gave her a warning look, one he didn’t really feel. “Is there a reason you need to see him?”

  “I don’t need to see him to see the photo.”

  Tox hesitated, realizing what she intended. “You’d break into the flat of a friend to steal a picture?”

  “It’ll be easier,” she said. “He’s a nosy old man. This way he’s not in danger. And I have no intention of stealing it. I just need to see it again, maybe take a picture of it.”

  “What’s it of?”

  She snorted. “You must really think me stupid.” She shook her head. “I tell you that, and there’s no reason to keep me around.”

  “You tell me and we find it—that’s still only two pieces.”

  “Yeah, and what if the third magically appears?”

  “Now you must think I’m stupid.” When she opened her mouth with a comeback, he motioned her inside the elevator. “I get it. You want to keep your father alive.”

  “And myself.”

  They rode the elevator in silence, and he escorted her to the foyer. Leaving her with the hall guard, he made his way toward Nur’s office. No longer a mere bodyguard, Tox had free access to the inner passage. As he neared the office door, he heard the rumble of conversation and slowed. Always good to seize chances to overhear a nugget or two. But the voices were too low.

  Laughter barreled out, and Tox eased open the door. Late for a bender, wasn’t it? Or a mixer? No, they would have told him about that so he could be here to protect Nur.

  The man he’d seen briefly in the private residence hall sat with a brandy snifter in hand, laughing and shaking his head. Eyes crinkled under years of experience flicked to Tox. His smile changed—as if someone had caught him doing something wrong—but then just as swiftly, it returned. “Ah well,” the man muttered. “Good times, good times.”

  Nur set aside his glass. “What is it, Mr. Rybakov?”

  “Excuse me, sir, but I have Ms. Khalon.”

  “Tzivia?” Nur’s eyebrows winged up as his guest stiffened, though he tried to hide that, too. “At this late hour?” He angled his wrist and checked his watch.

  “I have an early meeting,” the guest said. “I’ll check with you in the morning.”

  Nur inclined his head and came to his feet.

  And though Tox was sure he misunderstood, it seemed Nur offered deference to the other man. Nur Abidaoud gave that to no one. He was head of the AFO. Head of Mattin Worldwide, and in essence, the world itself.

  But he stood there, watching as the older gentleman in his slick Italian suit ambled out without ever acknowledging Tox. Though why would he? Tox was merely a hired gun. And why was he leaving via the inner passage? It would take him the long route to the private residence. All he had to do was exit the main doors and cross the foyer . . .

  “Why is she here?” Nur asked once they were alone.

  “She was ambushed in her flat.” Though Tox didn’t want to admit he knew the nationality of her attackers, he’d shown that hand with Tzivia, and it could come back to bite him if he didn’t mention it.

  “By whom?”

  “No IDs, but I believe Mossad.”

  As Nur absorbed this news, his eyes widened a fraction. He rubbed his jaw. “What did they want?”

  “Her dead, I think.”

  Nur slid his hands into his pockets and drew in a measuring breath, then slowly started nodding. “They know what she’s doing.”

  Tox paused to give his answer a more thoughtful appearance. “That’d be my guess.”

  “You brought her here—why?” Nur was swiftly connecting dots.

  “She wants to go to London to find a clue to the next piece.”

  “But not the next piece itself?”

  Wishing she had been more forthcoming, Tox hesitated. “I’m not sure. She wouldn’t tell me—she’s withholding exactly what it is as insurance against her life and her father’s.”

  Nur smirked. “Smart girl.” He jutted his jaw. “Take her.”

  Tox started. “Sir? Me? Who will protect you, then?” Who will break into Mattin’s system and find the names of the top-tier AFO operators?

  “Igor does quite well. Besides, if she finds it and manages to escape, then my life is forfeit anyway. No,” Nur said with a nod, “you must take her. Ensure she returns with the piece or a certainty of its location.”

  Goliath’s Sword Then Laid Its Master Dead

  When Thefarie lost his Miryam, the time seemed right to Giraude to vow that he would never make the mistake of bending his heart to a woman. Delivering Thefarie’s child to a family in the Golan Heights sealed that choice. Seeing the babe scream and wail, begging for her father and mother, ’twas too high a price. One Giraude’s heart could not afford.

  And yet, how easily an ache welled within him beneath a pair of pretty brown eyes, demanding he toss aside those vows.

  “She is young.”

  The deep warning from Thefarie pulled Giraude’s gaze from Shatira, daughter of Yitshak, the Hebrew healer. True. She was young. But of age.

  The thought shamed Giraude. “My oath is to the Order.”

  Thefarie’s laugh taunted him. “Have you yet convinced yourself, brother?”

  Giraude gritted his teeth, his betraying eyes landing once more on the comely girl. “She harbored the enemy.”

  “Aye,” Thefarie said, tossing a pack over his supply horse, “and neither of us have ended him because he holds information we seek.”

  Focus on the enemy—a better place to set his thoughts. “He toys with us.”

  “Aye.”

  “Must you be so agreeable?” Irritation had been Giraude’s constant companion since the injury left him nearly bedridden. Fever set in after the healer stitched his flesh. Admittedly, he did not complain. It allowed him to be near Shatira longer. But now the wound was an encumbrance, restraining him in convalescence instead of allowing him to return to battle.

  Thefarie chuckled. “Aye.” He nodded, then stepped away from his destrier and slapped Giraude’s shoulder. “Ask for her, brother. She is pleasant, and her eyes seek you as much as yours prowl for her.”

  Giraude lifted his head, surprise tingeing his face with warmth. “Do they?”

  Thefarie laughed harder. “Do it. Her father is amenable, I venture.”

  “I have naught—”

  “Then you are well-matched,” Thefarie grunted, tossing another bundle onto his destrier. “She offers no dowry other than her beauty, both that within and that without.”

  “Shall we ride, brother?” Ameus stalked from the others. “The sun rises.”

  “Aye.” Thefarie pivoted and made his way to Yitshak. He shook the healer’s hand and exchanged words.

  Giraude envied the ease with which Thefarie conversed with others, the respect he commanded. As he watched his brother-knight say his farewells, Giraude tensed when the Saracen emerged from the inner tent.

  Shatira went rigid, a posture that trapped Giraude’s breath. He locked onto her, noting how she peered between her father and Thefarie, then to Giraude, her cheeks flushed.

  Nervous dread wormed through Giraude as Thefarie, smirk firmly affixed to his features, came to him. Slapped his shoulder again. “It is done.” He stood by his horse. “I expect to see a babe in her arms when I return.”

  Breath stolen, Giraude stared at Shatira. Then her father. “Brother,” he pleaded, turning to his brother-knight, who’d just violated every semblance of decency and respect. “Pray, tell me you have not—”

  “Aye,” Thefarie said with a cheeky grin. “Heal well, brother. We shall return.”

  The strangeness of being left behind, of his brother-knight’s imminent departure, opened a chasm in Giraude he had not imagined could exist. “Brother—”

  “Dawiy
ya,” called the gravelly, alarmed voice of the one called Matin.

  Giraude spun to the Saracen, but Matin looked south. Giraude followed his gaze to the horizon, where a band of ten or twelve Saracens rode hard, stirring dust. “They are yours?” he demanded.

  “No,” said Matin. “They want the sword.”

  Giraude tensed. It had been weeks since the great battle. Weeks of recovery and trying to pry from the Saracen the location of the Adama Herev. “Where have you hidden it? We’ve toyed with this long enough.”

  “If they find me here,” Matin said in warning, “they will slaughter all of you.”

  “Then let your blood be the first that is spilled,” Ameus growled.

  “Wait.” Matin held out a staying hand. “I will hide. Tell them I escaped.” His eyes sparked with excitement. “In the night. And stole a horse.”

  “Easier to tell us where you’ve hidden the sword,” Giraude said.

  Grief creased the Saracen’s brow. “That I cannot do. I am sorry.”

  In a flash, he was gone, leaving Giraude confused. Stunned. Why would the Saracen not return to his own? Why would he hide? Unease settled in his gut as he turned with his brother-knights, who were readying themselves to confront the band of marauders.

  A feather-light touch came to his hand. Giraude glanced down, surprised to find Shatira at his side. Fear marred her beautiful face and gold-flecked eyes that met his.

  Something deep and powerful rose in him. “Go to my tent,” he said.

  Pulling in a sharp breath, she stared.

  The meaning of what he’d ordered—by sending her to his tent, he claimed her as his own to provide for and protect, as a husband—could not be discounted. Sending her to his tent would also keep her safe from Matin, who he yet feared they could not trust.

  She squeezed his hand, then rushed into his tent. Accepting, he realized, what he offered.

  When he faced the others, Giraude detected her father’s gaze.

  “I am a healer. We have no bride price,” Yitshak whispered.

  “She is enough,” Giraude muttered as he unsheathed his sword. He stalked forward to meet the enemy, yet remained close enough to protect what was worth protecting.

  A shadowy form rushed at him, a blur of black and steel.