Thirst of Steel

by Ronie Kendig

  “Our objective.”

  “Roger that. Which means our window is closing,” Ram bit back. “Four and Three, move in.”

  Runt shimmied closer, rocks and dust dribbling down the rugged terrain as he slid into place beside Ram. “What’s the call?”

  “Four and Three moving in,” Maangi informed.

  At this hour and considering the anticipation of those in the fortress, whoever was in that car had one of two missions: kill Tzaddik or take him. Ram couldn’t let either happen.

  With Cell and Maangi advancing, Ram’s options were limited. He met Runt’s pale gaze, white against the moonlight. But there was no panic in his eyes. Just a calm focus. Resolution to get the mission done. “Force that car to turn around.”

  Runt nodded. “Split up. You take high. I’ll go low. Draw them out of the nest.”

  “Less chance of both getting caught.” And a greater chance of mission success. But at least one of them could get caught or killed. Ram hit his comms. “Two, I need you to shoot at that car.”

  Silence gaped. “Repeat, Actual.”

  “Fire! Do it now!” Ram rolled to his left and came up in a crouch, jogging away from Runt. “Keep shooting till they turn around.” He found a spot, wedged in, and started firing at the sentries. He picked off the first two without engagement.

  Shouts and the report of weapons rent the air.

  “Time to wake up, boys,” Runt said calmly through the comms. “So, a major was assigned to a new office on base,” he started, telling a joke. “While he was setting things up, a private knocked on the door—”

  Rock spit at Ram, chunks peppering his face. He ducked and rolled again, taking shelter in a better position. When he reacquired the target, he was surprised to find two men rushing down the steps from the fortress.

  “Look at that, boys,” Runt muttered, his voice still creepily calm, “they’re coming to us. Fresh meat delivery.”

  Crack-crack!

  The second man on the stairs pitched forward into the first. They both tumbled into the darkness.

  “Car’s turning around,” Thor intoned.

  Relief chugged through Ram. “Three and Four, get our objective and get out. We’ll have company soon.”

  “Two, can you help us with a little headache?” Runt asked.

  “Roger that.” Thor’s sniper rifle finished his answer, pitching a guy off the wall. Ram cringed as the shadowy form hit the ground with a soft thump.

  “Where’re they coming from?” Runt asked.

  Up top rushed another half dozen guards. Dread churned and knotted in Ram’s gut. “Move move move!”

  In a bound-and-cover manner, he and Runt threw themselves up the hill. Bullets cracked and rocks spit at them.

  “Crap!” Thor groused. “I’m hit.”

  The knot tightened. Ram dropped to a knee. Without cover fire, the odds fell against them. “Two, start toward rendezvous.”

  “Roger,” their sniper grunted. “Moving out.”

  Climbing the side of the mountain, Ram eyed Runt sprinting for the terraced part of the fortress. He leaped over a wall. Skidded up against the cliff face, making those directly above him blind to his location. Smart. He’d made the most progress.

  Hope clawed back to the surface. They might actually be able to do this still. Ram hit his comms. “One, keep moving.”

  “Roger.” Runt flew into motion, lightning fast as he scaled the steps.

  Ram provided suppressive fire as he navigated the terrain, angry. Furious. This mission had gone south in a dozen different ways. All for Tzaddik. Logic told him Tzaddik was a threat to the AFO because he had answers. But that threat often seemed to work against Wraith. Ram dove over a rock, landed hard and twisted his knee. Felt a jarring pain but didn’t stop.

  “We have the objective,” Cell reported amid gunfire. “But we’re trapped. Taking fire.”

  Ram made for the fortress wall. Sprinted, his weapon cradled in both hands. He took the steps, realizing they weren’t level or even completely intact. They made for tricky navigating, but he wasn’t leaving his guys there. Their rendezvous point for an evac was two klicks out. With Thor shot and their objective in tow . . . could they make that?

  Fire punched his arm.

  Ram dropped against the wall, eyes swinging upward to the shooter. He glanced at his upper arm, where a dark line split open his tactical sleeve. Weapon tucked to his right pec, he peered down the stock and sighted the top of the wall.

  A head moved into view. Ram eased the trigger back. A short burst delivered a heavy thud—the shooter—to the stairs a dozen feet away. Ram started forward, only to have a spray of bullets force him down. He grunted. Lifted his weapon and edged—

  Crack! Pop!

  A trail seared his cheek. Lips pinched, he harnessed the fury roiling through him. “They’re ticking me off,” he subvocalized. Took a step out. Only to again be forced to the ground amid a hail of rocks, plaster, and bullets pinging off his weapon and helmet, jerking his head back.

  Ram cursed. “I’m pinned down.”

  Crack!

  A few feet away, around the switchback of the stairs, came another thud. Then another. Seizing the quiet, Ram shoved himself into the open, hooked the switch, and propelled himself up the next ramp, staying close. At the next switchback, he crouched at the last ramp before the terraced top. He’d be in the open. He’d either make it or he wouldn’t.

  “Five!”

  Ram jarred himself. “Five. Go ahead.”

  “We’re out. But there’s a buttload of ’em in the passage. We can’t get past.”

  Slingshotting around the corner, Ram tore up the incline, then dropped to a knee at a half-wall. Scanned with his weapon. Keyed his comms again. “One, report.”

  “In the passage.” Runt’s calm voice defied the severity of their situation.

  Crack! Crack!

  A deafening cacophony of shots and shouts reached Ram. He stilled but realized he wasn’t taking fire. In fact, he hadn’t for several seconds. Shoving himself forward, he crouch-ran along the wall to the last corner. On a knee, he carefully tested the angle. No shots. He eased forward.

  They were running. Four guards raced toward the passage.

  Ram took aim and fired. Fired. Fired. “One, target them! Don’t let them enter.”

  “Three and Four—take cover,” Runt called. “Frag out!”

  With that, Ram punched to his feet. Shoulders forward, eyes on the targets, he advanced, firing. Neutralizing. He hustled up to a waist-high reconstructed wall and went to a knee again. Aimed at the mouth of the passage.

  Boom!

  The ground shook. Dust and dirt dribbled from the mantel of the opening. Shots pursued the concussion. Haze drifted out, delivering with it four more guards.

  With tight, controlled bursts, Ram dropped them in their tracks.

  “Friendly! Coming out!” came Cell’s gruff voice. A second later, he appeared in the smoke cloud with Maangi, supporting between them a battered Ti Tzaddik.

  25

  — MOSCOW, RUSSIA —

  Tox had to own up to his failure. He wanted to get home to Haven. Home to the life they’d promised to build together. But he was stuck in this cold, dirty, godforsaken country. To go home, he had to complete this mission, discover the names at the top of the AFO’s org chart. But he’d found exactly zero.

  Not acceptable. Which was why he was sitting in a pew at the rear of the cathedral’s smaller chapel. He lowered his head, whispered the last of his prayers that God would help him get it done and get back to Haven, then stood. He rounded the row and collided with a man.

  “Prosti,” the man apologized.

  Tox muttered, “Izvinite.” Excuse me.

  A small object dropped into his palm, an exchange. As Tox pushed out the rear door of the cathedral, he shoved his hands and the small piece into the pocket of his heavy wool coat. Shoulders hunched against the cold, he trudged back to Mattin Worldwide, formulating his plan and cracki
ng the protective plastic case around the tiny object.

  Since Nur had assigned him work detail with Tzivia, that meant less time in-house. Less time to compromise the system and get those names. He had one last shot to access the system, and to facilitate that, he’d just been given a spy camera no bigger than a grain of sand. It had a six-hour shelf life from the time he activated it, which would take some planning to figure out when Igor was most often at his desk. The short lifespan and its size limited the camera’s abilities, so it would only send a single burst with the gathered intel to Tox’s phone, then the battery and all electronic circuitry would fry.

  It was a big risk. If they caught him, there’d be no explaining why he had such advanced technology. Its size and sophistication, however, made it less likely he’d get caught. It also increased the chance this could be for nothing if the camera somehow failed.

  Getting into Nur’s locked office was out of the question. If he tried, a dozen different alarms would trigger. Kaz was just a hired gun. He wasn’t trusted beyond his ability to detect and neutralize a threat. But someone had to make flight arrangements for Nur, right? Probably Igor. Beneath that bald head lay a lot of secrets. At least, that was Tox’s guess.

  At Mattin Worldwide, he pushed through the bulletproof glass doors. As he neared the security hub, he lifted a hand in greeting, cupping the small grain between his palm and the phone, using the phone to shield any electronic signal emitted by the camera.

  “Grigor,” he said with a nod to the security guard.

  Tox strode toward the elevators, head up, pace brisk. When he stepped into the metal coffins without an alarm or shout being raised, he felt hope. The door slid shut, and he staggered out a breath, slowly, carefully—because even the elevators had cameras.

  He pressed his hand against the scanner and selected the twenty-seventh floor. With a deceptively quiet thrum, the elevator lifted and quickly delivered him to the senior floor. No sooner had he stepped through the doors than he felt the steely gaze of Igor.

  Silently pleading with his boss not to call him in just yet, Tox stalked to his cubicle and powered up his computer. Once the boss left his office, Tox would need a reason to stop by and plant the grain—and there it was. An email from Igor with details for the trip in which Kazimir would escort Tzivia to London.

  After he printed the itinerary, Tox slid it into a manila file folder, but his heart slowed as he scanned the information. He was to leave with Tzivia shortly after midnight for a red-eye. But the grain needed six hours before it would transmit, and Tox had to be nearby to receive it. Otherwise the information would be lost, along with the tech. He’d planned to show up early tomorrow morning to receive the data drop. But now he’d be in London.

  Crap.

  “Rybakov!”

  He jerked his head up and saw Igor holding a phone to his ear, beckoning Tox into his office.

  Could he plant the grain now? Without Igor noticing?

  He was about to find out.

  After grabbing his phone, the grain, and the manila file folder, he headed to the office. Rapped on the jamb and entered. “You wanted me?”

  Face alive with irritation, Igor talked quickly in Russian. There was a furor over someone named Raison, it seemed.

  Glancing at the computer monitor, Tox guessed the best placement of the grain would be on the credenz—

  No. With Igor sitting there, it’d only get his broad back. The grain would have to be on the desk. A stack of books and ledgers sat on the corner, along with a bottle of vodka, an ashtray, and a snifter. With all that on the pile, the books were unlikely to be moved any time soon.

  “Da. I will tell him.” Igor hung up and cursed. Then cursed again. “You leave tomorrow with the girl.”

  Tox nodded. “I got the itinerary.” He set down the folder, flipped it open, hiding his left hand as it positioned the grain between the pages of the top book. “But I don’t understand why we’re on different flights.”

  “What?” Igor balked. “That’s not what—” He peered at the printed page, effectively giving Tox time to make sure the grain was firmly embedded. “What are you talking about? It’s the same flight.” He stabbed his finger at the info. “Look!”

  Tox blinked. Frowned. “I . . . I swore it—Sorry. Must be tired.”

  Igor scowled up at him, his burly face a knot of frustration. “Nightmares still?”

  Relief teased Tox’s nerves. “It was worse at home in bed without her every night. Here, not so much, but on occasion.”

  “See? And you thought moving you here was just for control.” Igor’s menacing laughter didn’t help. “London will do you good, no?”

  Tox arched his eyebrow. “With that woman?”

  Igor barked a laugh. “We must go up.” He stood and grabbed his phone from the desk, pushing around Kazimir. “Still a full day for you, regardless of the flight.”

  A full day, indeed. He rode with Abidaoud to a cocktail meeting at a restaurant, then a brief dinner engagement that ended quickly and poorly with a perceived slight. By the time they returned to headquarters, Tox barely had twenty minutes before the grain sent its burst of information. If he wasn’t within range, this would all be for naught.

  He delivered Nur to the penthouse, then started for the elevators again.

  “Where are you going?” Nur asked, hesitating at the residence foyer.

  “My cubicle,” Tox reported. “I left my itinerary down there.”

  He told himself to keep moving, act natural. Besides, he was the only one who knew something was up. Lose his mind, and he’d betray himself. He pushed into the stairwell, skipping the wait of the elevator, and hustled down the steps, drawing out his phone. Thumbing it, he unlocked it, then tugged open the door of the twenty-seventh floor. He emerged and rounded the corner, and despite his training that said to keep moving, his body faltered. Hesitated for a fraction.

  Igor was still at his desk.

  The phone still works. Keep moving.

  Tox dropped his gaze. Realized he shouldn’t put his attention on the device. He strode to his cubicle and glanced around, searching for the file.

  “Rybakov!”

  Panic drilled through him, but he crushed it. He pivoted. “Sir?” He fisted a hand.

  “Long day?”

  He exhaled. “Yes.” He glanced around his desk.

  “Looking for this?”

  Tox looked back at Igor, who held up the file. “What . . . ?”

  “Must’ve left it in here earlier.”

  Tox walked toward him, feeling his phone vibrate in his pocket, signaling the burst from the grain. But even as he closed in, the security chief turned back into his office.

  Just has to get more difficult . . .

  Entering the office felt like entering a minefield. “Sorry. Didn’t realize I’d left it here.”

  Igor sat behind his desk and grunted. “Right there,” he said. “We were in a rush to get topside.” He laughed, swiping at something on his desk.

  The grain dropped from the stack of books, and with it went Tox’s heart. But it had transmitted, so it was dead.

  He held up the file. “Thanks. I’ll report in.”

  “Do that.” Igor went back to his work, and Tox left the office, glancing at his phone.

  He saw the file and initial drop of information, but even as he did, the phone glimmered and glitched. Then went black. He pressed the home key. Held the three buttons at the same time. Nothing. “What . . . ?”

  “Something wrong?”

  Tox jumped. Turned to find Igor glowering.

  “Yeah,” Tox muttered. “I think my phone just died.”

  Did that mean the burst was lost? That the entire attempt to ghost the system had failed?

  — VIRGINIA —

  Her morning had gone wrong—with the exception of discovering she carried Cole’s child—and now the genealogy hunt was going down the same path. She couldn’t help but marvel that there would be another name added to the Russe
ll lineage now. It was hard not to be distracted, to focus on hunting down a marble bust and more names.

  “You would think,” Haven muttered as she turned another page, inhaling the sinus-drying mustiness that came from being among books, “that they would have caught up with the times and digitized this information.”

  Chiji smiled at her over another large black binder.

  She glanced at the light fixture, which was just as antiquated. “An auction house that specializes in antiques. I guess they want to make sure there’s plenty of ambiance.” Cheekbone pressed to her knuckles, Haven scanned another page. Four hours and nothing to show for it save an ache in her neck and a throb in her temples.

  Aunt Agatha’s information had led them to the Emerson & Hyatt Auction House in downtown Washington. As an auction house that dealt with wealthy clients and near-priceless pieces, E&H stunned Haven when the director said they were simply too busy to go back more than ten years in the files and update.

  So here she sat. Stifling a yawn, scanning a ledger that recorded sales. From there, once they found the right entry, they’d need to pull the file. That wouldn’t take nearly as long, the curator, Ellen, had reassured them.

  Her stomach rumbled, protesting that she’d skipped breakfast. “I’m not even sure why we’re doing this,” she admitted with a sigh as her finger skimmed line after line of entries. “Except that Tzaddik said we needed to.” They should just go home. They could look for days and probably not find the listing.

  “And we trust him,” Chiji put in. The scrape of another page turning finished his sentence.

  Haven met Chiji’s probing gaze. She sighed again. “We do.” She shook her head. “I’m not sure why, but yes, we trust—”

  “Good to know.”

  Haven whipped around, her heart in her throat. Tzaddik stood behind her. “Where did you come from?”

  His eyebrow arched. “Do you really want to know?”

  He looked terrible, bruised and battered, and she decided she probably didn’t want to know.

  “Wait a second. If you can appear and disappear anywhere, why have Cole and his team ever assisted you?”