by Ronie Kendig
Pocketing his phone, Levi towered over her, his presence strong and confident, yet . . . not. “Let me ask IT for that.”
“No need.” She dragged over a chair and settled in it, watching the two screens. Her fingers went to work, easily bypassing the login screen.
Agent Wallace grunted but said nothing as she worked past the security protocols, digging deeper and deeper. Annoyance leached off him. “You do know the agency has double- and triple-checked for back doors, right? They haven’t found any.”
“I do.” Mercy linked the two systems with a cable, then stood and logged in to the second console. “Can you walk me through this?”
Wallace frowned. “What do you mean?”
She flipped her hands at the black box. “How would I register and add my fingerprints?”
Hesitation gripped him.
Mercy glanced up. “What?”
“You work for the CIA. Do you really want your fingerprints in TAFFIP, if you think it’s corrupted?”
“One, you’re adorable when you’re trying to outthink me,” she said with a laugh. “Two, you’re assuming I’m not already in the system. And three”—she wiggled her fingers at him—“you think my fingerprints will trigger something.”
He considered her, as if he wasn’t sure what to think.
She nodded to the console again. “Show me.”
“It’s self-guided,” he finally said. “Designed to be user-friendly. Agent types in information from government-issued and -approved documents, then the system instructs the person to place their fingers on the glass plate and press down until the light turns blue.”
Mercy nodded, then followed the steps. Fingers on the glass, she did as instructed, watching the red strobing light turn an appealing blue. It registered the print, reported Successful Capture, then returned to the start screen.
Curious. She rubbed the glass plate, eyeing it, then shrugged.
“Satisfied?” Levi asked.
Palms on the table, watching the coding bouncing between the first console and her laptop, Mercy lifted her gaze to his. “Not in a long time, Clark.”
He huffed. “You calling me that because I look like Superman?”
“No, because my ferret died.” She met his gaze, seeing his confusion and uncertainty. “Look, I really could use some alone time with these babies.”
His brow rippled.
“I don’t have to be babysat.”
“I can’t leave you in the building unsupervised.”
“Nice sentiment, Romeo. So cute, trying to outthink me again. I’m a smart girl with higher clearance than you, though. Besides, I’ll be here a while.” She lifted her hand, saw a red dot, and swiped at it. Weird. “Can I get a paper towel?”
Annoyance pinched his face as he had an internal debate about leaving. Finally, he left and flipped the bolt on the door. Was he locking her in or others out?
“Whatever,” she muttered and drew a toolkit from her satchel. She went to work disassembling the console, starting first with the easiest part—the glass tray and plate for the fingerprint pad. Next, she worked to remove the hull of the console and set that aside. A few keystrokes on her laptop sent different worms and Trojans into the isolated coding. It wouldn’t affect the systems out there in the real world, but it would give her a direct response from the program.
Within minutes, she had the frame off, the cooling fan removed, and was working on the motherboard. So far, mostly standard components. The glass plate was a bit weird. Flimsy even.
How could this be used, as Barc suggested, to track down certain bloodlines? They couldn’t do that just with prints. So were they gathering DNA? Was the flimsy glass more than just glass? She held it up to the ceiling light and squinted.
“What the heck?” Levi returned, a stack of paper towels in his hand. “You did all this in ten minutes?”
“Unless you hopped a time machine and were gone for hours without my knowing it,” Mercy muttered. Something about this glass . . . She glanced up at him. “You hanging around all night?”
“No, and neither are you. I’m leaving in twenty, so that means you are, too.”
“Um, no,” Mercy said with a snort. “I’m staying till satisfied. Since you already called Iliescu, you know I’m legit and have—”
“Autonomy. Yes, but I have a date.”
“Oh, with Hot Lips? Or someone else?” She knelt beside the system, realizing the front of the console held an entirely separate, self-contained box. “That’s interesting,” she whispered.
Frustration coated the sigh he tossed into the room before lowering himself to a chair.
She lifted the support plate for the fingerprint glass and held them together, again up to the light. “I really didn’t figure you for the playboy type, Clark,” she muttered as she worked.
“You don’t know me.”
She clicked her tongue. “I do. It’s my job to know people. Read them.”
He breathed his amusement.
“My guess is this case you’re working is screwing you over. Miss Photographer Hot Lips croons and feeds something that maybe you thought had died.”
On her knees, she worked the coding, tracing one rogue program, then another, before settling back into the console disassembly process. The whirring of a vacuum lifted her gaze long enough for her to see the cleaning crew moving through the now-empty cubicles outside the conference room. Her gaze hit the clock. Twenty-two hundred hours. Oops.
Wallace looked worse for the wear, tie loosened and hair disheveled as he fought back a yawn.
“What makes you say those things about me?” Heaviness weighted his expression, and she saw again the “something” hiding behind his confidence.
“Huh?”
“The case is screwing me over.”
“Oh.” She smirked. “I watch the news. They reported just before I showed up that the FBI”—she raised her eyebrows and traced the ceiling of the room—“had no new leads.” She plopped on her rear and scooted closer to the console, unscrewing the self-contained unit.
“That’s cheating, using the news.”
“Is it? Or does it mean I use every resource at my disposal?” She frowned as the case loosened. Lifting it, she felt the weight shift. A second box revealed itself. “What on earth?” She touched it and sucked in a breath. “It’s cool—cold, even.”
Wallace sat forward, forearms resting on his knees. “Why would it be cold?”
“You tell me. Use that X-ray vision of yours, Clark.” She adjusted, planting a hand to brace herself. A prick against her palm surprised her. “Ow!” Scowling, she checked her hand, surprised to find a dot of blood there. What on the floor could have cut her? Her gaze landed on the glass plate. Weird. It was smooth, flat.
“Mercy.”
Her gaze snapped up to Wallace, who nodded to the console. There, beneath the second containment unit, was a very small—no bigger than a dessert plate—cylinder.
“What’s that?”
Her mind wouldn’t wrap around what she saw. “A minicentrifuge.”
A heavy thunk clapped through the building. The lights winked out.
Mercy’s heart climbed into her throat, pulse pounding as she raised her gaze to the ceiling. “Clark, I think it’s time to change into your supersuit.”
27
— FBI RESIDENCE AGENCY, MANASSAS, VIRGINIA —
“Get behind me.”
Did he seriously just say that? “You’re adorable.”
Levi looked confused.
She nodded to his gun. “Glock 22 in .40 Smith & Wesson, standard issue for the FBI these days—well, that or the Glock 23. Unless you failed your safety course, then it’s a lowly Glock 19 to aid qualification.”
He hesitated. “No offense meant.”
“Plenty taken.” She nodded to the door. “Now, let’s not be fish in a barrel, okay?”
Crouching, he slipped out of the room. She scrambled across the open stretch between cubicles and shoved herself up agai
nst the east wall. Levi came up behind her.
The sound of hurried footsteps made Mercy draw back, her shoulder pressing into Wallace’s. Neither moved as the steps grew closer, then slowed. An M4 slid into view as the man approached. Tactical gear. Gas mask.
Gas mask?
Well. That wasn’t good. Were they here to poison or disable them? Both? Did it matter? They were going to release a chemical agent for which neither she nor Levi were prepared. She motioned to Wallace to make for the stairs.
He shook his head. Arguing, just like a guy would, to engage the two. Which was stupid. They were outgunned, and the risk of gas—
A muzzle swung toward her. Mercy sucked in a breath.
Crack!
The noise was like a punch to her ear—Levi had fired. Right next to her. But there was no time to chew him out. The second tango rushed them.
Mercy launched herself at him. Slammed an uppercut into his jaw. Sent him reeling backward. She kept coming, noting in her periphery that though Levi had shot the first attacker, he hadn’t taken him down. Another shot sounded, and the first man stumbled toward the conference room.
Mercy snatched a mechanical pencil from a nearby table and dove for the man, who drew up his weapon.
A shot popped through the air.
Mercy crashed into the man, driving the pencil into his neck. Even as his blood slicked against her palm, she expected to feel the pinch of pain and life slipping away from her. Instead . . . no pain.
She shoved off him, one knee on the ground, the other straddled over him. Shock widened his eyes as he rasped for air. Scanning for more assailants, she let her hands roam the guy for ID. What pockets he had were empty.
With a growl, she punched his chest. He hissed out his last breath.
“Search yours,” she barked to Levi. Not that he needed instructions. He was an FBI agent, after all. But they needed to know who’d sent these thugs.
“Find anything?” She removed the dead guy’s M4, holstered handgun, and the knife tucked in a leg sheath. “Anything?” When no answer came, she glanced over her shoulder. “Clar—” She pulled in a hard breath.
Wallace lay at an awkward angle against the wall.
Mercy lunged at him. “Wallace! Wallace!” She patted him down for injuries but found no bullet holes. She reached for his throat to check his carotid and spied a tiny ampule lodged in his neck—drugged! An expletive escaped her mouth as she yanked it out. Grabbed her phone. Dialed in. As the call connected, she smacked Wallace’s cheeks lightly. Then harder. “C’mon, Wallace, don’t leave me hanging like this.”
“Go,” came Iliescu’s bark.
“We were hit,” she said, hearing the clack of keys on the other end. “Wallace and I discovered a centrifuge hidden in the TAFFIP console. They drugged Wallace. He’s unconscious.”
“You have proof about the machine?”
Mercy glanced through the glass door into the litter of parts splayed across the floor. She eyed the glass plate and centrifuge. “Maybe. It’s—”
A ding from the elevevator alerted her to more trouble.
“I have company.” Heart in her throat, she rushed to a cubicle wall to shield herself from view. Then she slid upward until the narrow four-bay elevator foyer came into view. “Two suits just showed up.”
“Too late for suits to be there.”
“No kidding.”
“Get out of there.”
“I have to get the pieces.”
Mercy thrust herself across the small space. She slipped through the conference room door, which was propped open by the other dead tango. She hauled herself over him, careful not to bump his body and inadvertently move the door, signaling the newcomers. She planted a hand on the carpeted floor, right next to his arrow-tattooed forearm. That explained who these guys were. She lifted the weapon from his hand and kept moving. Scampered across the floor. Retrieved the glass plate and centrifuge. No way could she slip away quietly with these. Or fight those goons and not damage the evidence or herself.
“Wallace is down,” one of the suits grumbled. “Took a dart.”
Mercy scrambled toward the coffee cart in the corner.
“Where’s the girl?”
“I’ll check the conference room.”
She hid the pieces, then dropped to the ground and feigned dead.
“Here! She’s in here.” Feet crunched over the machine she’d disassembled, and then came the creak of an arthritic knee close by.
Mercy groaned and pulled herself up, acting disoriented.
“She’s waking,” the man called.
“Knock her out. She can’t—”
She surged upward. Caught him off guard. Drove her heel into his gut, sending him backward. But he righted himself. Bounced back. His fist collided with her cheekbone. Pain radiated through her skull. She lost her balance and tumbled sideways.
He pounced, hands cuffing her neck, strangling.
Panic exploded. Can’t breathe! Can’t breathe!
She hooked her arm over his. Swung both legs far to the side, then used the floor to gain traction and twist her torso sideways, forcing his hold to break.
On all fours, Mercy dragged in several greedy draughts of air.
The man flipped over. Produced a gun and a sneer as he aimed at her. “Should’ve stayed down.”
A shadow loomed over him.
Crack!
Mercy flinched at the sound as her attacker tilted away. Then dropped into the coffee stand, his head thunking hard against it.
“You first.” She smiled wearily up at Wallace, who clasped his neck. Her gaze whipped to the other dead operative, and she was impressed with Levi for taking him out. She grinned. “Done with your nap?”
— EN ROUTE TO LONDON —
Tzivia’s hands and head still ached from the fight in her apartment two nights ago. Now she sat on a private jet belonging to Mattin Worldwide, headed to London, and she could only hope Dr. Cathey still had what she needed in his flat. He was sentimental to the core and a pack rat. That should work in her favor. She hoped.
In the seat facing Tzivia, her babysitter was scowling at his phone. His legs were stretched out, ankles crossed. He pocketed his device, then folded his arms and closed his eyes. As if he’d done this a thousand times. Minutes fell away into silence.
“You don’t have to fake being asleep,” she muttered.
The din of the airplane bobbed between them for several long seconds. No answer. Was he asleep? She studied his face. Hooked nose with a bony ridge that seemed exaggerated. Strong cheekbones and lips that were neither full nor thin. Unlike Omar’s—nice and full, soft and warm. Plus, he had scars. Freaky ridged welts . . .
She turned her gaze to the window, thoughts drifting to the Mossad agent. The man she’d been determined to work over but ended up falling in love with. Had she developed strong feelings for the gregarious, all-too-perceptive, muscular director? Yes. Did she think about him too much? Definitely. But love?
Even as she scoffed internally, she felt a twist and twinge. Something clanging against something else. Her lies and her conscience? Her heart and her fears? There had always been a demon inside her, one she’d worked hard to conceal. She scared away friends and on most days didn’t care.
Omar was one of the best men she knew. Only two other men fit that description—Ram and Tox. Her brother and her might-as-well-be brother. Oh, she’d had a thing for Tox once, but . . . Haven got the doe-eyed look when Tox was around. But it wasn’t a guppy thing. It was love.
Omar didn’t love her. He was using her the same way she’d used him—for business. Her mistake had been letting her guard down. Peering a little too deeply into his brown eyes. Enjoying the domestic bliss as he made omelets in the morning.
Kazimir’s phone buzzed, and he drew it out again. Slid his thumb over the screen, eyes absorbing whatever message came through. A moment later, he was working on it. Probably sending reports to Abidaoud about their trip.
The attendant
came toward them with a silver tray. “Would you like a snack or something to drink?”
“Water, please,” Kazimir said in a clear, firm voice.
“Vodka?” Tzivia asked.
“No,” Kazimir barked, pocketing his phone. “Water.”
Tzivia bristled. “Excuse me, you’re not—”
“We land in two hours. You need to be clearheaded.”
Glowering, she tightened her jaw. Then slid her gaze to the attendant. “Vodka.”
“Water,” Kaz repeated.
“Coca-Cola,” Tzivia hissed. “I’ll have a Coke.”
Her babysitter tossed back the water he’d been handed, then folded his arms, leaned his head back, and resumed his fake sleeping posture.
The attendant passed Tzivia a bottle of Coke. She grunted and turned her anger on the babysitter. “You are here to make sure I don’t run off,” she hissed. “Not tell me what I can and can’t eat or drink.”
“I’m here,” he said, eyes closed, “because you’ve shown yourself to be reckless and disloyal.”
“Your boss has my father,” she growled quietly but loudly enough that he wouldn’t miss her words. “The only loyalty I have is to freeing him and seeing your boss go down in flames.”
The right side of his mouth quirked.
“In other words, Brainless, I’m getting what I came for and going back. Got it?”
Opening his eyes, he stared at her.
Something sparked at the back of her mind, vibrating down her spine. That move, the angle, the build . . . was so familiar. What was it?
“Something wrong? Annoyed with being caught in a lie?” he asked.
“Something is very wrong.” No—if she was wrong, he’d think her crazy. “You’re beating my father to force my hand.”
Tox hated that she thought of him that way—but of course, it was Kazimir Rybakov she aimed that accusation at. “I haven’t touched him.” He made a stiff expression. “Give a care to what you say in public.”
“Why? Afraid your boss will be discovered?”
Was she really so shallow-minded? “You think he has gotten to where he is by being careless, by not having connections and liaisons around the globe to sweep away the dirt?”