by Ronie Kendig
Speaking of dirt, he feared the data the grain had captured. When he downloaded it, relief had swept him—until he saw what it transmitted. Especially three words: Raison, Yauza, and Camarilla. It was Yauza that alarmed him. He could only guess it meant they intended to kill a person. Sending the information to Ram was risky, but if Raison or Camarilla were assets, then they had a problem. Were they AFO operators? Spies? Maybe someone high enough up to be a threat. If so, could SAARC turn them? Hopefully they weren’t too late.
Risk. So much risk. Every step he took to undo the AFO created more distance between him and Haven. Man, he missed her.
“And you take pleasure in this, that your boss—”
He growled. “The only pleasure I take is in hot showers and long meals.” And Haven.
“What? No woman willing to put up with your beak nose and acidic personality?”
“We all have family, do we not?”
“Then you’re married?”
He pointed to the scars. “Do I look married?”
“A lover, then.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “What about you? Has this quest for your father turned you sour on men? Or are they too threatened by a woman with years of Krav Maga training?”
Tzivia’s chest rose unevenly, lips parting. “How do you know I had years of Krav?”
“I think the dead operative in your flat is proof enough.” Tox knew he’d messed up and hoped she bought his explanation.
She hesitated. “Where did you work before you became Nur’s personal thug?”
Probing. “Bodyguard,” he corrected. “I worked as a Mattin security officer.”
“Before that?”
He had to throw her off. “Interrogating me now? Hoping to find a weakness to exploit?”
She lifted a shoulder in a shrug as she eyed him, suspicion crawling through her olive complexion. “Is there a girl?”
“Is there a man?”
“Yes,” she said quickly, as if afraid she’d regret it. “I’m not entirely sure what he and I are, but . . .” She wet her lips. Adjusted the overhead air vent.
“But what?”
She huffed. “I think of him . . . a lot.”
“You want to be with him.”
“I can’t. Won’t. Not until my father’s free.”
“Does he know what you are?”
Narrowing her eyes in false bravado, she clearly resented him. Probably hated that he could read her so well, though he was a supposed stranger. “And what am I?”
“Easy,” he murmured in warning.
And that moment, that simple word triggered something in her expression. She met his gaze, searching.
“In our professions, we hide a lot as we pursue normality,” Tox said, trying to distract her. “Few can tolerate the secrecy, the silent answers to normal questions—how was your day, what did you do? The man who has your attention—”
“He knows,” she snapped defensively. “You and I? We’ll never have normal.”
— RUSSELL ESTATE, NORTHERN VIRGINIA —
Standing eye to eye with the niece she’d cradled in her arms fifteen years ago left Haven with an incredible sense of the lightning pace of life. “Happy Sour Fifteen.”
Evie touched her shoulder, expression burdened with the memory of being shot with an arrow in London while she’d attended boarding school. The infamous Arrow & Flame Order had sought to teach Cole a lesson, using his niece to deliver the message loud and clear. Then nearly thirteen, Evie had a long recovery after the near-death experience that changed her.
Changed them all.
Now here they were a little more than two years later, celebrating her fifteenth birthday—which wasn’t for another few weeks, but when your father was the president, sometimes events were bumped around to accommodate schedules. So it was party time.
“Well,” Haven said, taking her niece’s hand, “Evie Russell, daughter of the president and America’s First Teen, it’s time to show you and your guests the surprise.”
“Surprise?” Evie had a pique of happiness in her tone as she trailed Haven past the adults, beyond the not-so-discreet Secret Service agents, and out onto the lawn.
Cole’s parents had renovated the damaged outdoor patio area after the altercation with Alec King. She led Evie down the pebbled path and up onto the temporary stage that consumed the north lawn. Thick black curtains rustling beneath a late-fall breeze provided the perfect backdrop.
At the microphone, Haven smiled at her niece. “Ready?”
Evie’s curiosity had blown into wide excitement. “Yes.”
Their voices had the desired effect—Evie’s friends from school were filtering down to the stage, staring up at her from the grassy knoll.
“Let me check something,” Haven said conspiratorially. She hurried to the curtain and ducked her head through. The half dozen band members of Aiken Hearts stood to the far right side, talking. “Everyone ready?”
The lead singer looked up from a conversation and smiled. “Sure thing.” The band took their respective positions, but the singer, Brad Aiken, ambled toward her with a grin.
“Give me a second to open it up.” Haven let the curtain drop and walked across the stage to Evie. With each step, the lawn grew quieter. “Thank you, everyone, for coming out to celebrate the amazing beauty”—she took Evie’s hand again—“who is my niece. And, Hot Shot, have I got a surprise for you.” Smiling at the crowd again, she said, “Friends, give it up for Aiken Hearts!”
Screams rent the evening as the staccato intro of the drummer erupted. The curtains swung away, revealing the band, which launched into a rock song filled with shrieking electric guitars and thumping beats.
Haven slipped offstage as Brad took Evie’s hand and sang the first song to her.
Satisfied, Haven made her way up to the terraced patio. Her parents and Cole’s nodded their approval.
Turning, Haven smiled and looked out over the pulsing teens dancing, singing, and shouting to the songs pounding from the stage.
“Nicely done,” Charlotte Russell said, coming alongside Haven, her gaze on the guests, too. “Any word from my son?”
Her heart tripped over that question. “Last I heard, he was okay.” Not entirely true. There was that tinge in his words, the weariness, the longing to be with her again.
“If you’re going to marry him—”
“If?” Haven laughed.
“—you’ll have to learn to lie better than that, my dear.”
“Why would I have to learn to lie?”
“People are nosy, and they’ll push.”
“Like you?”
“I’m the nosiest of them all.” Charlotte laughed. “Especially with what I see in your eyes.”
“And what do you see in her eyes, Charlotte?” her mother’s patronizing tone intruded.
“Elation, Mom,” Haven said quickly. “Elation that I pulled off this surprise, and none of you were the wiser!”
The party wore on with dinner, more sets by Aiken Hearts, and, of course, presents. During a particularly quiet moment, Haven drew Evie aside and handed her a box. “A small gift from me and your Uncle Cole. And your mom, I guess you could say.”
Evie’s eyes widened, and she plucked the ribbon off and opened the package to find a smaller velvet box. She popped the lid and gasped at the ruby and diamond ring.
“It belonged to your mom,” Haven explained. “She gave it to me when I was your age, so I thought you should have it now.”
Eyes glittering, Evie slid it onto her pointer finger and clutched her hand to her chest. Tears made her irises look like a chocolate fountain. She threw her arms around Haven. “Thank you! I have so few things of hers.”
“Evie!” one of her friends called. “He’s asking for the birthday girl again.”
“Who?”
“Brad Aiken!”
With a giggle, Evie and her friend tore off across the lawn. Haven laughed, wishing for their enthusiasm, their energy. After the hours-long pa
rty, her energy was depleted. She went inside and lowered herself into a tufted arm chair and yawned.
Cool air swirled around her, warning that someone had sat nearby. She opened her eyes to find Galen watching her. “What?”
He glanced away. “I saw what you gave Evie.” The planes of his face, so like Cole’s and yet so different, tightened. “Do you know where Brooke got it?”
With a shrug, Haven wondered what was wrong. “She . . . no.”
He nodded. Rubbed his jaw, then his knuckles. “Cole gave it to her. A promise ring.”
Haven came up with a start. “What? She never—” Adrenaline shot through her. “She never wore it or told me.”
“By the time he gave it to her, we’d . . .” He heaved a sigh. “After we eloped, she wanted you to have it because you liked him. I disagreed, but she said it was appropriate.”
Should she feel guilty or happy? She worked through the confusion that engulfed her, thinking out loud. “It’s still a piece of her.”
“It is.” He gave a nod, glancing at the drink he held. “And Evie should have anything that reminds her of Brooke.”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry, Galen. I had no idea, no ill intentions.”
Another nod. “I figured. You aren’t the type to give backhanded gifts.” He worked his knuckles again, sitting, watching his daughter. A weight seemed perched on his shoulders as the minutes ticked away.
“Is something wrong?” Haven ventured.
His blue eyes snapped to her. “No. No, I’m good.” He rose and smiled, touching her shoulder. “Get some rest. You look tired.”
Haven smirked. If he only knew. She laid a hand on her stomach. Leaned her head against the wing of the chair and closed her eyes, thinking of Cole. Thinking of what he’d say about this. About a baby. Of course, she couldn’t tell anyone, because nobody knew the circumstances, and telling them could put Cole at risk.
“Sleeping again? The only time I was as tired as you have been lately,” came her mother’s singsong voice, “was with each pregnancy.”
Haven’s laughter exploded more forcefully than she meant. “Mom, you’re being ridiculous.” She hated deceiving them. Hated the hollowness in her words.
“Hopefully she won’t empty her stomach every five minutes like I did with Cole.” Charlotte sat beside Haven. “He was the worst of my pregnancies.”
Heat clawed her cheeks. She needed to push their attention elsewhere. “You both should be out there with your granddaughter. And I wasn’t asleep—I was here thinking about Cole, wishing he was here to wish his niece a happy birthday. It’s the first one he could’ve been at, and he’s not.” Tears stung her eyes. Her heart writhed in her chest.
“Oh, honey, if you’re pregnant,” her mom said softly, “you don’t have to hide it. I mean, sure, we’d have preferred you married fir—”
“Stop!” Haven pushed to her feet. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t fight the grief—she didn’t want them to know. Not before Cole. It felt wrong. So very wrong. She had to get out of here. “Just stop.”
She pivoted and raced down the hall, seeking solace. Refuge. She slipped into the library and flung the door closed behind her. Buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
Arms came around her—Mom. Though she stiffened at first, Haven clung to the perfumed blouse of her mother. “I’m sorry.” She shuddered.
“Haven, sweetie,” soothed Charlotte Russell’s voice.
After allowing herself a few minutes’ reprieve to release the agony she’d held within, Haven lifted her face and peered into her mom’s eyes, then the blue irises that mirrored Cole’s. “I just—I didn’t—I wanted to tell him first.”
Charlotte came closer and tucked Haven’s hair behind her ear. “You can keep secrets, when—for the good of those not here—those secrets must not be spilled.”
Her mother cupped her face. “But sometimes you have to find trustworthy friends so you don’t crack under the strain of carrying those secrets.”
Her mom was right. She needed to say it. “I don’t know where Cole is. I don’t know what he’s doing, so I can’t betray him in that respect. But I can tell you that before he left, he had months of”—she had to be careful here—“training. I spent those months with him.”
Charlotte nodded, and her mom considered her warily.
“As his wife.”
Both of them widened their eyes. Their lips parted.
The relief felt like a burst dam. “We married in Israel.”
Her mother-in-law—it was so nice to finally own that name—trembled. “And now you’re pregnant, and he’s still on mission.”
Tears ruptured the tight hold she’d had on them moments earlier. “He doesn’t know. He can’t know. It’d wreck his focus. But . . . I’m dying. Dying that I’m pregnant and he can’t know. That if something happens to him . . .”
“He’d never know.” Her mom sighed. “I think you should tell him, next time you talk.”
“We don’t really talk. Just in codes.”
Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “Then code him in.”
28
— SAARC COMMAND BASE, VIRGINIA —
“How you holding up, Tzaddik?” Maangi eyed the enigma of a man.
“I have been better,” Tzaddik mumbled, then grinned. “And I have been worse. Much worse.” He inclined his head toward Thor. “And you?”
“Holding my own,” Thor said. “Saline and Maangi’s epic skills kept me alive. At least I’m on home turf and can see my kid born.”
Ram stood over Tzaddik with a glower. “How’d you end up in the fortress?”
“You ask as if it were my doing, Mr. Khalon.” Tzaddik’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“That’d be because you’re good at getting yourself into fixes,” Cell put in.
Laughter was the last thing Ram expected, but that was what Tzaddik did. “That I am, Mr. Purcell. What of your fearless leader, Mr. Russell? Where is he?”
“None of your concern.” Ram lowered himself into a chair beside the mysterious man who seemed to know everything. “What do you know about the Adama Herev?”
Tzaddik’s piercing gaze lasered in on Ram. “That it’s missing and should remain so.”
Ram’s phone rang. One look at the caller ID pushed him away from the others. “Khalon.”
“Good information came from the grain planted by your farmer,” Omar reported.
“And the harvest?” Ram asked, skating a glance to the others. “Must be good for you to contact me here.”
“A name you should look into quickly. I think there’s a contract on her life. Sending you the encrypted file now. Good luck. Give Tzi—”
Ram ended the call, refusing to acknowledge the romance between his sister and the security chief. After reading the data, he drafted an email to SAARC and Iliescu with the information. His phone buzzed almost immediately, and this time, he received a file with mission parameters seconds before another call came through. He answered. “Sir.”
“Raison is your next objective,” Iliescu said.
“Roger that. And our ROE?”
“Raison alive. The others alive, if possible. But no matter what,” Iliescu explained, “I want this woman alive and brought back here.”
Ram did his best to stow the frustration coiling in the pit of his stomach. He had to get back to Russia, be there for Tox when he returned from London.
“There a problem?” Iliescu asked.
“What’s the timeline?”
“The timeline is whatever it takes to get it done.”
“With all due respect, sir, I have an asset in play. I’m needed there.”
“Then get Raison back here—yesterday! Because your asset won’t matter if we can’t get ahead of the AFO and stop this.”
“Ahead of them? We’re so far behind, we can’t see their taillights.”
“You’re wasting time and oxygen, Khalon. Get ’er done.”
The line went dead, and Ram lowered the phone, scanning
the team. They were all ready for this whole thing to be over. They’d been dragged from location to location over the last two years, an effort against an entity so large, they might as well be fighting the clouds.
Resignation darkened Thor’s eyes as he sat at the command hub. “Where are they sending us?” He, more than the rest of them, had a bigger reason to get back—his expectant wife.
“France.” Ram palmed the table. “Our objective is Grazia Raison, a French diplomat.”
“French.” Runt grunted. “They’re coloring the map.”
“Yes,” Tzaddik chimed in. “The AFO wants the political landscape restructured so that they have control over most countries, and those they can’t control, they do so through other means—bullying, coercion, or embargoes.”
“What’s with Tox?” Runt stood, arms folded. “Where is he and why isn’t he here?”
“He’s where he needs to be right now.” Ram spotted Dr. Cathey being escorted into the building by a couple of guards. “Professor.”
But the older man beelined for Tzaddik. “How are you? I heard what happened. How did they get you?”
“I am well, old friend. They ambushed me after our visit, but I am well now,” Tzaddik said with a smile as he peeled himself off the cot.
“Our time is very short. The Adama Herev—”
Tzaddik slowed, his gaze hitting Ram again before returning to the professor. “What of it?”
“They have recovered a piece,” Dr. Cathey said.
Tzaddik shook visibly. “No.”
He lit on something beside Ram, who glanced at the floor. The wall? What? Only then did he see the reddish-brown bruise on his arm. He looked at Tzaddik again, only to have those unfathomable eyes come to his.
Anger sprouted through Ram’s chest. Coiled around his lungs like a viper. Constricted.
“Tell me, please,” Tzaddik implored, “that you have not done this.”
“I haven’t done anything!” Rage thickened Ram’s veins.
“You know the price of reassembling the sword,” Tzaddik said. “You know those with the strain will die! How could you—”
Ram grabbed the man by the shirt and hauled him up. Slammed him against the wall. “I haven’t done anything. The sword has no power over the strain or me!”