by Ronie Kendig
“Willpower! You want your father to live, don’t you?”
Tzivia’s gaze snapped to the still form. Then he wasn’t dead.
“Don’t you?”
“Yes,” Tzivia hissed.
A spigot over her father opened and dumped water on him. Awakening, he hauled in a greedy breath, then gagged and choked, rolling onto his side.
Tzivia sagged against the bars, silent tears rolling down her cheeks as her father dragged himself from the spray of water. A strange muddle of dark brown ran in rivulets across the stone as he slumped even farther from her.
Face pressed to the cold iron, she stared at her father, his spine bent toward her, his face turned away. He was alive, and she had to keep him that way.
But give them the sword? Tzivia was no longer convinced Nur would free them.
Groaning rattled the floor behind her. She ignored it, not caring what was back there. Only what was in front. “Abba,” she called quietly.
But he didn’t respond. Had he fallen asleep again?
A gust of cold air traced her nape. Glancing over her shoulder, she found an open door. Light beckoned. But she turned back to her father and the slivers of brown taunted her. Something that wasn’t quite right.
Yeah, me.
“Your father has two weeks left,” the voice said. “I suggest you get started.”
Returning home to Haven seemed further and further away, especially as Nur’s car stole through the night-darkened city on a traitor hunt. Exhaustion clung to every sinew in Tox’s body. Assuming the life of Kazimir Rybakov required being that man. Thinking of himself not as Tox but as Kazimir, grieving husband and father. Recovering man. Bodyguard to one of the vilest men to ever exist. He could do it. He’d done it for months. But there was an element of his own identity that seemed to fade with each day. A fragment of his willpower that broke off.
After the death of Dr. Cathey and the hollowing out of Tzivia, he struggled to remember why he was doing this. Dropping that grain had given him a name—he’d transmitted that to Ram while en route to London. But nothing else. Nothing about the sword. Was that diplomat an AFO member? For what good it did. He’d found nothing, save proof that Nur Abidaoud was evil personified and led the biggest organization.
And yet . . .
Tox pushed his gaze to the passing buildings. Nur led the AFO, right? But why was that man—the seemingly familiar one walking down the hall—telling Nur what to do?
“You are quiet.”
Tox resisted the urge to twitch, to flinch. It was not merely a statement, but an inquiry into his state of mind. “Tired,” he muttered as he turned to Nur and stifled a legitimate yawn. “Sorry.”
“What happened in London?” Nur’s gaze went dark. “Where did you go wrong?”
The tenuous thread on which Tox’s life hung vibrated in warning. “Men got in, took Cathey hostage. I fought them, but . . .” He shook his head, hating the memory. Hating his failure. “I should’ve killed the gunman first. That was my mistake. He and Cathey wrestled. The gun went off.”
“Did you not tell me the girl had a photograph?”
Tox nodded. Why was Nur asking this? Tzivia had snatched the photo from the frame. They’d fled with it.
“Then where is it?”
“I don’t understand.” Tox felt his pulse power down to a painfully slow pace. “She didn’t have it?”
“Neither do I,” Nur said. “I had her taken into custody as soon as she stepped off that plane. She was searched. Nothing. She had nothing on her person.”
“How could that be? She had it in London.” He felt like he was betraying her, saying this. “I saw it. Twice.”
“Then she hid it.” Nur looked out the window, his reflection painfully clear in the dark glass and etched with irritation. “I’m having the plane searched. Having her watched. We will find it.”
“This makes no sense,” Tox confessed. “She wanted to find that photo. She wants to save her father. Why would she change her mind now?”
Because of Cathey.
“That is what I intend to find out. You will stay near her, Mr. Rybakov,” Nur growled. “We’ll watch her closely.”
“Understood.” It was expected. There was no way he could contact Ram now. No way he could risk café meetings.
The car swung around a corner and glided along the thumping slats of a dock. Soon the repetitive noise gave way to crunching gravel, wobbling them back and forth as the armored SUV chewed its away over a sandy bank.
The river?
“Who’s about to take the long walk?” he asked, praying it wasn’t him. He wished for an M4 and tactical gear. For the familiarity of his team. Of knowing they covered his six.
“Have you heard of the Camarilla?”
Tox shook his head.
Nur spat a curse. “It is as nefarious as its definition—a group of people who advise rulers with a shared, typically nefarious, purpose. In this instance, they set themselves against me. To steal that which is not theirs,” he said, his nostrils flaring as he stared forward.
Ahead, Tox eyed two parked vehicles and an arc of solemnly waiting men.
As their SUV lurched to a stop, Tox opened the door. Stepping out, he smoothed his jacket and slid his gaze over the six suits, expressions stark and cold. Tried to memorize faces in the predawn darkness, features harshly illuminated by headlamps. Though he felt the press of the Russian weapon in his side holster, he wanted his rifle. Tac vest. Ear comms. Eyes on that bridge spanning the area and pitching their location into relative anonymity and darkness.
Another man bled from the shadows with a weapon. One of Nur’s men. He gave Tox a nod. Eyes roving the area, the shadows, the men, the vehicles, Tox kept pace and aware. As they neared the huddle, a shape shifted in a car.
Assessing the others, checking for weapon-betraying bulges and itchy trigger fingers, Tox had to make the call. Satisfied, he stepped aside, signaling the all clear.
Dirt crunched behind him as Nur emerged and stood to the side, buttoning his suit jacket. “Gentlemen,” he greeted the waiting party, then started forward. “Where is Zakavij?”
A sharp whistle coupled with the jutting of a burly man’s jaw pushed Tox’s attention back to the vehicle where he’d seen the shape. A guard exited. Went to the trunk. Opened it. Hauled someone out. Dragged the battered, bloodied man toward the group.
The sick feeling Tox felt earlier intensified. Though he tried to tell himself to relax, to maintain his calm, the thought of what was about to happen made his gut roil. What would he do? What could he do? Saying anything, doing anything would expose him. Get him killed.
“So, Zakavij,” Nur taunted, “you thought you could betray me. Work against me and do all this without being discovered.”
“No, no! I swear it is not true. I”—he slapped his chest—“am being set up.” Zakavij’s accent indicated his Slavic heritage and his panic, words thickened with saliva and desperation.
Igor shifted forward, carrying something.
“Tell me who you are working with, and all this can go away,” Nur said magnanimously.
“I know nothing. This is not—they are not—”
“The Camarilla, Zakavij. Name these traitors and buy your life.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Please, Mr. Abidaoud, this is all wrong. I am most loyal—”
“Yes, but not to me.” Nur snapped a nod to Igor.
Something glinted in the night, grabbing the light of headlamps. Steel sang through the air. A meaty thunk. Then another.
Something wet and warm splatted Tox’s cheek. He heard more than felt the splat in the seconds it took his brain to register what had happened. Igor wielded a sword. Had delivered the pleading man of his head. Tox told himself not to react, he’d seen plenty of horror in combat, but watching someone get beheaded . . .
Tox took a step back. Tightened the sweaty hold he had on his reaction.
Nur strode toward him. Gripped the back of his neck. “You look sick
, Kazimir.”
Sick? No. Angry? Yes. “Surprised.”
“When I am betrayed,” Nur said softly, lowly, lifting his black gaze to Tox and letting the words hang heavily before he finished, “I have swift vengeance.”
I am blown.
He slapped Tox’s cheek with a laugh. “Remember that, da?”
It was a warning. A threat that hung over him as they returned to headquarters.
Back at the penthouse, Tox shrugged out of his jacket and heard a crinkling. He patted the spot and felt something stiff. His mind leapfrogged over the events of the last twenty-eight hours and landed squarely on one possibility. The photo. The one missing from Tzivia.
If that was the case . . . Tox turned off the lights and moved through his quarters, sliding his hand into the right breast pocket of his coat. Felt the stiff corners of photo paper. The glossy face. How had he not noticed it before? But how had she gotten it into his jacket? He recalled her touching him in order to slide past . . .
Tzivia had used that moment to slip him the photo.
Following Nur’s lackey was probably the biggest mistake of Tzivia’s life. But she trusted her instincts. They’d rarely let her down, but this . . . if she was wrong, it could get her killed. Yet it had taken her nearly two days to catch up with the thug on this muggy night.
He emerged from Mattin and stood out front, bouncing on his toes, scanning the street in the guise of warming up. He’s no average Joe. This guy had training. She’d seen his skill in the fights at her apartment and Dr. Cath—the flat in London.
She closed off the grief that threatened to barrel over her.
Rybakov’s gaze hit hers.
No, impossible. She was dressed in black and hidden in the predawn shadows. No way could he see her. But he sure seemed to stare hard. Crisply, he banked right and started jogging. He had a steady, determined gait.
She trailed him by a quarter mile, sticking to shadows, buildings, overhangs, and stoops to conceal her movements. Never once did he falter. Was he not paying attention?
But as he rounded a corner and the bright lights of the Cathedral of Christ the Savior came into view, her heart lurched.
No, not there. Nur’s thugs guarded that place where, far below, her father was hovering near death. It amazed her that so much could go on beneath the church without the leadership knowing.
Her palms grew slick as he crossed the footbridge over the busy street traffic and entered the cathedral.
As she waited, Tzivia slipped beneath the overhang of a tree, then pulled herself up into its thick branches, watching.
What, was the guy religious? Dr. Cathey had been. He clung to his Scripture the way Tzivia did Krav Maga and weapons. And what good had it done him? He’s dead. Suffered a death he didn’t deserve. How was that right? How could God let that happen?
He died for you.
No, he died because of her.
As the minutes fell off her watch, she wondered if Kazimir had escaped out another entrance. Tzivia landed softly on the sidewalk and followed a couple traversing the footbridge. They went right, tracing the street, and Tzivia scurried up the church steps. She slipped inside, dropping into the darkness and mustiness of the cathedral.
A man moved away from her, his confident shadow stretched tall and broad.
Tzivia’s heart spasmed, recognizing one of Nur’s guards. She scurried along the foyer, using furniture to hide. His shadow receded along the far side and skimmed beneath the white arch over the altar. Frescoes covered the walls and ceilings, a glorious sight, if she were inspired by those things. She hurried to the center of the cathedral, then scanned it. A door to a smaller chapel beckoned.
Sure enough, Kazimir sat on a pew in the middle. What was he doing? Making peace with God? Asking forgiveness for not saving Dr. Cathey? For killing him—because that was what they’d done, right? Killed Dr. Cathey by going to his flat to look for the photograph.
A strange feeling swept over her, and she glanced back toward the main altar. There she saw a larger-than-life mural of Christ. Something burned in her chest as she stared at the likeness of Jesus. The professor had so completely believed in Him.
She turned her gaze and guilt away. Checked on Kazimir. Her heart kick-started. Gone! She spotted him making his way out of the pew.
Tzivia slipped onto a pew and bowed her head. She made muttering noises, waiting for him to pass. A thud against the rear door preceded a hail of street noise. She lifted her head—caught the guard pacing Kazimir into the night.
They’re following him. Why spy on Nur’s own man?
If they were, were they doing the same to her?
An icy trill struck her spine. Shoulders hunched, she stood. Studied her feet as she exited the chapel through the rear door. Immediately sidestepped, plastering her shoulders against the stone church. Looked toward the footbridge with its lights and spied the repetitive bobbing of Kazimir jogging away from the church.
Her heart tripped. If she lost him . . .
Sidling up to the corner of the church, she peered around. Saw nobody else. She fell into a loping run, using every slick or mirrored surface to maintain a finger on her surroundings.
Kazimir made his way to the city’s center, and she trailed, keeping enough distance that she didn’t tip off his tail. Who was probably the worst in the history of tails. Unless this guy wanted to be observed.
The thought slowed her. Sent her down an alley, where she sprinted to catch up with the two on a parallel course. When she came up on the juncture, she waited for Kazimir to cross down the block.
In three . . . two . . .
He splashed a puddle, lamplight stroking his shoulders as the idiot jogged unaware.
She rushed to the next corner. In three . . . two . . . one . . .
Nothing.
She stared. Waited. Where had he gone? About to step out, she spied a lithe form gliding through the semidarkened shopping plaza. He snagged something from the ground, then stumbled and caught himself on a planter. And then was moving again.
Picking up rocks? Realizing she was about to lose her vantage, she lurched down the next block and rushed up to the corner. Peered—
Weight slammed into her.
She yelped, but a hand clamped over her mouth.
“Why are you following me?” His words, husky and low, had nothing on the fierce glare in his eyes.
Kazimir! How had he—? His hand slid away, but his forearm thrust against her neck, forcing her chin up.
“They’re following you,” she warned.
“Seems to be a theme,” he said in Russian, mouth curling in a sneer. “Why are you?”
She wet her lips, grateful when he eased the pressure on her throat. “The photograph.”
“What about it?”
“I put it in your pocket.” Why was he still frowning? Did he not know? Or worse—had he lost it?
“That was stupid.”
Worry whooshed out. “Better than them finding it on me. Then I’d never get it solved, and they’d kill my father.”
“So you plant it on me, endangering my life!”
She swallowed. “You had time to hide it. I didn’t.”
“Always looking out for number one.” He sniffed. “You’ve already taken too long. They’ll probably kill him anyway.”
With a growl, she shoved Kazimir back. “Give me the picture!”
“Who is the man with the professor?”
The professor. He kept calling Dr. Cathey that. Most people referred to him as the doctor or Dr. Cathey. “Don’t call him that. You didn’t know him like that.”
“Who’s with him?”
“Give it to me, and I’ll explain. Hurry, before Nur’s thugs show up.”
He angled in. “Trust me, Tzivia.”
Whispers of the past trickled through her. She shivered, recalling another person who’d made that request. But something told her to trust him. Let him help. “Who . . . who are you?” This was insane. This man killed for N
ur. “No.” She wouldn’t trust him. “Never mind.”
“Think!” he hissed, his breath stale. “Think about it, Tzivia. You know who I am. If you think, you know.”
She shook her head. Wriggled free. Backstepped, surprised when he didn’t fight to control her anymore.
“Time is running out—for you and your father,” he said.
Did he actually care? How was that possible? “It’s not the people. It’s what’s behind them.”
“The sword?”
She sighed. “A piece of it.”
He let his guard down.
Which left an opening. She hiked her leg, pivoted in midair, and threw a roundhouse kick to his head. It wasn’t a lethal move, but it was focused. Perfectly aimed. Pitched his head into the brick wall.
She cringed at the crack of skull but took off running. She veered back to the plaza, sprinting through it, eyeing—on a hunch—the planter she’d seen him use for support. And slowed. There was a mark there.
Her heart shuddered.
Who was Kazimir Rybakov leaving a signal for?
The Blood in Gushing Torrents Drench’d the Plains
“You are a true friend.” Giraude clasped the forearm of Matin as dawn broke. “Thank you for easing my mind regarding Shatira and Avram.”
“You have nothing more valuable, and here you trust them to my hands.” Matin lowered his gaze. “It is a task I do not take lightly, to watch over them.”
Giraude clapped a hand on his back. “Who would have thought a year ago that I would call a Nizari friend.”
“Nor I a Dawiyya.” Matin brandished a bright smile. “But here we stand.”
With another firm clap on the man’s shoulder, Giraude turned to Shatira and six-month-old Avram. They had given him a Hebrew name, since he would always carry the Roussel surname. It was a good compromise.
Shatira met him with the babe and sad eyes. “Do not be long,” she insisted.
He pulled her to his chest and held tightly to both of them. Then he cupped his wife’s face. “You please me,” he said quietly, leaning in to kiss her. “Be strong, beloved.”