Thirst of Steel

by Ronie Kendig

  Alarm coiled through Giraude as he looked at the patriarch. “Tell me.”

  Yitshak glanced toward the tent opening. Then huddled closer to Giraude and his family. “Have you a name for the boy?”

  “Abba!” Shatira said. “Now. Tell him, or I will.”

  “Be at peace, Shatira.” Yitshak sighed, then met Giraude’s gaze evenly, his eyes full of distress. “I am of David’s blood.”

  Was there a meaning to be had? “I don’t—”

  Again, the older man looked to the tent opening and furrowed his brow. “The sword—if the Saracen learns we are—”

  Giraude stood, understanding weighting his heart as he stared at the innocence of his son. Of what he and Shatira had produced.

  “If they learn who we are, they will kill us all—especially your son!”

  29

  — NSA, MARYLAND —

  Brazen wasn’t a term Mercy usually applied to herself, but when it came to hacking or backdoor jumping . . . yeah, perf description.

  At her desk, fingers on her keyboard and eyes on Ms. Takeri, who paced as she talked on the phone, Mercy was burrowing through the security walls into her boss’s computer. She’d tried a few remote accesses to search for the file labeled TAFF-something that she’d seen for a nanosecond. It couldn’t be a coincidence, the TAFFIP console having that weird glass plate and the centrifuge, then this.

  Ms. Takeri hung up, grabbed her purse and jacket. There were twenty-three steps between her office and Mercy’s desk, so she kept working. Right up until step twenty-one.

  “Ready for tonight?” Mercy asked in a singsong voice as she opened another file for cover.

  “Ugh,” Ms. Takeri said, curling her lip. “You know I hate these things. I want you there.”

  “Of course,” Mercy said. “I have a few things to finish, then I’ll run home, change, and meet you at the club.”

  “You have the gifts ready?”

  Mercy nodded. “Finished last night.”

  “Good,” Takeri started away, then muttered something and spun around, returning to her office. With a flourish that would make any exhibitionist proud, she pulled her door closed and locked it.

  And that, ladies and gentlemen, was Mercy’s cue that her days here were numbered. Because Ms. Takeri had never locked her door before. Or shut it. That task had always been left to her faithful admin, Mercy Maddox.

  The clock strikes twelve, Mercirella.

  All the more reason to find that file and close up shop. But the deeper she dug, the deeper her frustration grew. There was no file labeled TAFF, not as a name, an extension, or a partial anything. Nothing hidden. Nothing erased.

  I’m kind of impressed. She hadn’t mis-seen that file. There was a reason three-letter agencies sought her help. It had been there. Ms. Takeri had seen Mercy accidentally open it, a glare of the white file flashing on the darkened screen. So what was in that file that set off Takeri’s alarms?

  It could be a thousand different things, but two were most likely. One, Takeri thought Mercy was a spy—surprise, not so dumb after all! Except she was dumb. Well, not in the strictest sense. She had managed to rise to the top tier of the National Security Agency, after all.

  Or two, it meant that she didn’t suspect Mercy but she worried about the file’s contents being compromised. That was totally possible. Was it too much to hope Takeri wasn’t worried about Mercy, just the file?

  She eyed her boss’s locked door again.

  Yep, too much to hope for. Definitely time to base-jump from this ivory tower. After the event tonight, Mercy would walk away from the NSA.

  Frustrated that the entire existence of the file was missing, Mercy left the so-called personal effects at her desk, knowing full well she’d never see them again, and walked out of the building.

  She changed into something slinkily appropriate for tonight’s dinner, grabbed the bin of goodie bags she’d assembled earlier, loaded them in her car, and headed to the bar. Good sense told her not to attend. To claim illness and let bygones be bygones, but there was this trickle of excitement that said tonight would be anything but boring. And maybe she had this thing about flirting with disaster. There was Ram, after all.

  An hour into the event, Mercy was bored. She made her way to the DJ in the rear corner of the bar. “How much would it take to bribe you into something lively?”

  His eyes sparked beneath a mop of shaggy brown hair. “A couple Gs.”

  Mercy scoffed. Then glanced around the room. “You realize who and what the people in this room are, right?”

  He frowned.

  “They work for a three-letter agency that knows how to make people disappear.”

  “Why do you think I said two grand? I break from this list they gave me, and it’s my neck.”

  She smiled. “I made that list.”

  “Your funeral, then.”

  “Exactly, so change it up. I’ll cover.”

  He shrugged and started working his system. A funky song radiated through the brick-walled club, eliciting a chorus of cheers from the crowd. And a scowl from Takeri, who stood talking to another woman.

  Mercy slipped into the mob, relieved she wouldn’t have to spend her last night with Takeri listening to put-me-out-of-my-misery music. At the bar, she ordered a Killer Whale, then settled into a corner booth. Her phone buzzed, and she eyed the secure message from Iliescu. He wanted to meet. She explained that wasn’t possible, but he insisted on first thing in the morning. She texted.

  No joy with the file. Vanished into electric air.

  Interesting.

  No, that was fabulous, because it meant the file had meaning. Takeri was somehow connected to the TAFFIP thing. Whatever it was. Mercy had to admit the genetic-based algorithm was sexy. Made her curious. Too many gray areas and unverified assumptions.

  She scanned the pulsing atmosphere for her boss, taking in the brick walls, the iron-cord balcony rail and wood floors. Ultra modern. Ram’s scene. Or it used to be when they’d . . . dated.

  Wait. Awareness flared through her.

  Takeri. Where—?

  After tossing back the last of her drink, Mercy walked the club. Sure enough, her boss was MIA. Where had she gone? Mercy tapped into the security cameras via her phone but couldn’t locate her anywhere. Her thumb slipped, jerking her to the alley feeds. She snorted. As if Takeri would be caught in a rank alley.

  But as the screen returned to the interior shot, her mind registered something. She went back. Headlamps splashed light over the rear of the alley. No cars were visible, but the angle . . . Broad shoulders pressed into an alcove by the back door.

  Takeri had posted a guard.

  What are you up to?

  Mercy worked her way out the front door, where the bouncer eyed her.

  “Shouldn’t you be with your boss?” he asked as she flashed him a smile.

  “Needed air.” She turned left instead of right, which would have taken her to the alley. No need to be obvious. Hustling down the opposite side of the building, she spied some apartments and jogged to the steel fire escape hugging the wall. Ditching her heels, she hauled herself up the ladder, then climbed three flights until she had a clear shot into the alley below and to the right.

  Crouched in the corner, the iron biting into her bare feet, she drew out her phone and attached a small device to it, which effectively gave her a long-range lens. She peered through it, tightened up on the group meeting in the shadows. Two men with Takeri and her bodyguard, George.

  Mercy tried to home in on the two men, but the image was grainy at best. She snapped a few shots for Iliescu, then decided to get closer. A risk, but if she didn’t take it, this was over before she could get started.

  She dropped to the ground, stuffed her heels into her skirt’s waistband, and hustled down the back alley of the apartments. She hiked up onto a dumpster, pressed her belly to the nasty steel lid, and slunk forward.

  Less than twenty yards separated her from the tête-à-tête, givin
g Mercy a perfect view of the two men. Her gut protested. Told her to get out of Dodge. But her training forced her to take pictures, stay where she was until she could safely exfil. Yet her mind screamed.

  What was Takeri doing meeting with the White House chief of staff?

  — FRENCH COUNTRYSIDE —

  They were clustered within a quarter-mile of each other, Thor on the rooftop of a home that seemed a retreat rather than a permanent residence, the others hidden in trees and shrubs on the steep hillside. They all looked down into the sprawling private compound that had a ten-thousand-square-foot home, pool, tennis courts, a building that seemed to be some type of office, two garages—one for cars, the other more mechanical in nature and complete with a hydraulic lift—and supposedly a secret bunker that held their objective, Grazia Raison.

  “Sealed up tight,” Cell muttered.

  “Copy that,” Ram said, noting guards posted every twenty feet. Towers built into the corners were outfitted with what looked like high-powered rifles and spotlights. These guys weren’t messing around.

  “Seems whoever owns this anticipated trouble,” Runt said.

  “Is our objective a prisoner or willingly hiding?” Thor asked.

  “Hiding,” Ram answered. “She probably won’t want to come out, but we need to make her.”

  “Roger that,” Runt said. “Let’s get this party started.”

  Shouldering out of his ruck, Ram scanned the hillside, the slope, the ten-foot cement walls of the compound that went another two feet belowground. As if an approaching combatant would have time to blow the wall before having his gray matter splattered on the dirt.

  He crouched and lifted the large spider-looking device from his ruck. Used his phone to activate it. “D-One coming online.”

  “Roger,” Cell said. “Powering up D-Two now.”

  Using the paddle to control the expensive piece of technology, Ram made it hover at face level. “D-One ready to deploy.”

  “D-Two ready.”

  “Deploy the drones,” Ram said, sending his into the air and watching the screen of the controller as he raised the drone a hundred feet, then sent it sailing above the countryside.

  “Over vineyards,” Cell reported. “Maybe we can pick up a case on the way out.”

  “Grab me some cabernet,” Thor muttered.

  “Prefer a good pinot noir myself.”

  “Clearing Blue Two,” Ram said as his screen began to brighten. “Approaching compound in three . . . two . . . over the garage.”

  “D-Two clearing trees and nearing the compound in three . . . two . . . and we are sailing over the pool, where two—”

  A flash of white exploded in the night sky.

  Ram jerked his gaze to the compound in the distance. Saw smoke and fire trailing from the sky to the ground.

  “Son of a—D-Two down!” Cell growled. “They shot my freakin’ drone!”

  Exposed. Ram tightened his focus. “Two, assume control of D-One.” They were down a drone, which meant they needed more eyes on the ground.

  “Assuming control,” Thor muttered.

  Ram slid the control pad into his ruck, lifted his M4A1, and started navigating down the hillside.

  Shouts assailed the night.

  “They know we’re here,” Thor subvocalized.

  Ram paused, his keen gaze picking out Maangi making his way to him. “Have they spotted One yet?”

  “Negative.”

  “Roger. Stay on course.” Ram sorted the facts as he trekked the tricky terrain. There was only one grenade loaded into the drone, and it wasn’t an explosive. That was what D-Two was supposed to do—create an infil/exfil point. “Three, you know what has to be done. Four, stay with Three. One on me.” Two—Thor—would stay remote, watching through his scope to equalize the pressure a little once they breached the compound.

  “Copy,” Cell replied. “A little fireworks for our celebration tonight.”

  “Roger that, Actual,” Runt reported. “En route. Twenty yards and closing.”

  At the base of the hill, Ram took a knee as Runt came up alongside him. They slid on their masks.

  “Approaching the garage,” Thor reported.

  Gas mask on, straps tightened, Ram sprinted to the edge of the tree line.

  “. . . two . . . one.”

  Night turned to day. Light exploded. Shouts raised.

  Ram and Runt sprinted for all they were worth toward the wall. They reached it seconds before it rained bullets. Plastered against the wall, trusting the line of sight would be obstructed until someone got to their exact location twenty feet above, Ram slapped a breaching charge to the wall. Runt did the same. They scurried in opposite directions and knelt, their backs to the detonations.

  A concussive punch to the spine was followed by raining cement and bodies. Ram shoved upward, turning as he did, drew his weapon, and lunged into the gaping hole in the wall. Runt was on his six as they climbed over the debris and into the compound.

  Light exploded across the compound, exposing their locations. Within seconds, the bomb detonation from the drone blurred the focus of the fighters inside. Yells mixed with cries as they pitched away from the fog filling the yard. They coughed. Gagged. Collapsed to their hands and knees, vomiting their guts into the night.

  Seizing the initial confusion and sickness from the CS gas, Ram darted to the garage. To his left, he spotted Three and Four coming strong. Three scuttled to the garage door, now anchored shut, and strapped two blocks of C-4 to it. Hit a switch. Then sprinted away.

  Ram and Runt pivoted away, swinging down to a crouch as the blast ricocheted through the night. Ram pushed to his feet, aiming straight for the new opening without doubt or hesitation. To his left, Runt slid to a knee, swung a launcher around, and aimed at the hole. With a thwack, the second CS cylinder rocketed into the garage.

  Three seconds later, men spilled out like ants from a flood mound, emptying their guts. Those in the yard who’d recovered from the initial attack once more found themselves heaving.

  The ground spit at them. Ram sighted the shooter, only to see him tumble from the wall.

  “Shooter down,” Thor intoned.

  Ram pulled back and raced inside the garage. Someone loomed to the left, but he was too disoriented, gagging, coughing. Ram shoved him out the door and continued on. The map said the stairs were on the opposite side.

  Weapon tucked tight against his shoulder, he slunk along the wall, sighting, breathing. His breath scraped the visor and echoed in his ears. Each puff exhausted yet determined.

  “Stairs,” Ram announced, angling carefully into the open.

  A shape appeared. Plaster leapt off the wall beside him.

  Ram ducked. Went to a knee. Peered over the lip of the stairwell. Sighted and fired.

  The guard at the bottom of the wall, a dark blur against a haze of gray, crumpled to the ground. Ram hurtled down the stairs before more combatants could appear. A door to the right stood locked, secure. He drove his heel into it. Though the wood barrier bucked, it didn’t surrender. He repeated the kick. The door sagged. A third one sent it pinwheeling away.

  Bullets buzzed the air.

  Spine against the wall, Ram drew back, waiting.

  Runt was there, flashbang in hand. He gave a nod of readiness, then lobbed it into the room. They turned their heads and clamped their eyes shut. Waited for the detonation’s searing light. Seizing the disorientation the explosion caused, they barreled into the room, weapons up, hearts jacked.

  Three men were scrambling, fighting the eardrum-piercing effects of the flashbang.

  Ram aimed at the first one, fired. The second. Fired as Runt neutralized the third.

  Clapping hands on the person hovering in the corner, Ram verified the target. Compared the picture with the disheveled face. Her nose was bleeding and her eyes were wildly unfocused, but it was Grazia Raison. Ram hauled her out of the room.

  She flailed in her confusion, not knowing where she was going or not going.
But then she seemed to find her bearings. Realized what was happening and started screaming. Kicking.

  That wouldn’t work. Runt stepped in and coldcocked Raison, then threw her over his shoulder. They hurried back up the steps.

  Cell and Maangi were topside, engaging the enemy. Picking off targets as they came through the door. Ram touched Cell’s shoulder, and the men advanced, backs arced, weapons tightly pressed, toward the exit.

  “Two, we’re coming out,” Ram subvocalized.

  “Copy that,” Thor responded.

  Within seconds, the ground and walls shook. Ram shouldered under Runt to assist as they broke out into the dark night. Haze still drifted across the compound, the effect surreal with the stadium lights glaring harshly. They kept along the cement barrier, hustling to the exfil point.

  “Actual, keep moving. They’re like bees swarming from a hive,” Thor warned.

  “Copy.” Ram signaled their group to the side wall instead of the eastern one intended for their entry and exit.

  Crouching with his back to the wall and facing the opposition, Cell took up point at the hole. He laid down suppressive fire so Ram and Runt could clear it with their cargo. Chunks of wall spit and stabbed at them from the counter-fire.

  “Augh!” Cell slammed back against the wall.

  Ram registered the spray of blood, the grimace on his friend’s face. Instinct had him grabbing Cell’s vest straps. Hauling him through the opening, his body limp.

  30

  — FRENCH COUNTRYSIDE —

  Ram hooked Cell over his shoulder in a fireman carry and made for the trees. They hurried to the others clustered at the base of a gnarled, waxy-leafed tree. Ram’s pulse thundered. Heavy breaths fogged the visor of his gas mask. But he didn’t stop. Wouldn’t. Not until they were clear. Not until they were barreling toward the extraction point so the chopper could ferry them to safety.

  “Command,” Ram huffed as he scaled the hill, his legs aching and threatening to disobey his order to continue, “en route with the package and one member down.”

  “Enemy’s ticked,” Thor muttered. “Don’t stop. They’re coming.”