by Ronie Kendig
She clung to him, their son cradled on her hip. “For you. Hurry back.”
“Like the wind,” he promised, then pressed his lips to his son’s head.
“Before our next babe is born.”
Giraude started at her words. Stared into brown eyes that sparked with amusement. “What say you, Shatira?”
Smiling, she could not hide her blush.
“You are sure?”
“Quite,” she said around a smile.
He laughed, tugging her tight into his chest. Kissed her cheek. “I will be here for you. But this . . . this must be tended to. If Avram is to live in peace. If I am to—”
“Go.” She patted his chest. “We await your return.”
He threw himself up onto the destrier, glanced once more at his wife and son. A moment of panic struck him—what had he done? That babe so innocent despite the blood in his veins. The blood Saracens sought to wipe out.
He rode hard and fast with his brother-knights along the rocky terrain, barreling down on the band of Saracens.
35
— MOSCOW, RUSSIA —
Returning to the Old City frayed his nerves. Ram stared at the bank of monitors, scanning and assessing, searching for Tox and Tzivia. He’d checked the planter outside the café before dinner but found nothing. Tox was late in reporting. The news of Dr. Cathey’s death worried him. He needed to talk to Tox. Find out what had happened. Communication with him had been limited at best in the last few weeks. But the delay and the professor’s death aroused alarm.
Mossad was breathing down Ram’s neck. So was the CIA and DOD. They had nothing on his own roiling self-hatred for letting Tox do this. For not intervening, stopping things. He would never forgive himself if something happened to his friend. Ram had talked him into this. Activating Tox’s embedded tracker would only alert Nur to the traitor in their midst, and it had been implanted as a last resort. He couldn’t panic yet. Only four days had passed since Dr. Cathey died.
C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. Where are you?
Arms itching, he scratched and scanned. Scratched and recorded. Where was Tox? Why hadn’t he contacted? He was nearly a week overdue. Was he in trouble?
Ram’s email dinged, signaling a new message. Jerking his gaze to the right monitor, he noted the subject line: He needs to know.
Haven again. She knew better than this. No way would Ram deliver any personal intel to Tox right now. Distracting him could blow his cover. Yet when the email opened, his breath stalled. No text. Just an image. A grainy black-and-white sonogram photo that told him those months in Israel had grown more than a legend for an operative.
Oh, Yahweh.
He scrubbed the back of his head and groaned. Why couldn’t a mission be simple? Get in. Do the job. Get out.
His phone buzzed. He saw the ID. Fisting a hand, he tucked aside his anger. Forced himself to answer. “Khalon.”
“You have a problem,” Omar growled.
More than one problem, he thought, his gaze hitting the emailed picture.
“Sending details now. Take care of it, or we will.”
“Like you took care of London?” Ram barked. “What was that? You realize—”
“That wasn’t us. He was dead when we got there.”
“Then who? And why were you even there? Why were you following her?”
“You know the answer. What she’s doing!”
“We have Tox—you put him there!”
“And he hasn’t stopped her. Hasn’t intervened as you said—”
“She went there for a clue. We had to know what it was.”
“She had to be stopped.”
Gut churning, Ram turned a slow circle, his mind tracing what that meant. Where that reasoning would lead. “Are you telling me—” He couldn’t breathe. “Tell me you aren’t going after her.”
“The Valley of Elah is in two weeks,” Omar said, his voice burdened and vehement. “If she found a clue in London, then we are too late. She’s closer to assembling the Adama Herev.”
“My father—”
“Don’t forget the truth of him or complicate—”
“I know my father is in the catacombs. That is the only truth I have.”
“How long will you lie to yourself? Think—think, Ram!” Omar growled. “If you don’t convince her to give it to you, then we have no choice. You know I love Tzivia, but I can’t stop this.”
“You don’t know what it means to love, Omar.” Ram heaved a breath that felt as if a tank had parked on his chest.
“We’re off track,” Omar said quietly. “The problem is on your doorstep. Take care of it, or we will. And we can. There are plenty of assets there.” Silence clung to the words. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Ram blinked. “Ye—” He took in a breath. Heard the warning. Heard what Omar could not say. Tzivia had Mossad agents close enough to kill her.
“Do you?”
“Yes,” Ram ground out.
“Good.”
When the call ended, Ram lowered his phone, mind warring. Omar was warning him. If an order was given . . . but one hadn’t been given yet.
Because of Omar? Was he protecting her by slowing things down?
He had to contact Tox. But Tox hadn’t made contact since before London. He’d been relocated to the penthouse residence, making it ten times more difficult to meet or communicate. No doubt Tox’s phone was being monitored.
Frustration tightened Ram’s shoulders and chest like a fiery band. He had to figure out how to warn Tox.
His system dinged the arrival of a new message, reminding him that Omar had warned of a problem. What else? Ram skidded the laptop toward himself and punched in his code. Opened the email. And froze at the image.
The front doors of Mattin Worldwide. Security camera capture of a woman approaching the front desk.
“No,” he breathed. Clicked on it, enlarging it. Still disbelieving what he saw. No, not what—who. Bold as brass. Beautiful as ever. Trouble—as always.
Easy breezy, HackerGirl.
Mercy sat at a monitor in the application center of Mattin’s IT wing, going through myriad no-brainer tests designed to weed out the incompetent from the skilled and the skilled from the threats. Iliescu had done his part, securing the second-tier interview. Now the magic was up to her—and these manicured fingernails tap-tap-tapping on the keys. With a few intentional mistakes, a long pause here and there so she didn’t do too well, she’d get the job.
And while the system she was operating right now shouldn’t have access to the main hub, Mercy helped it along a little. Provided a pathway.
Shoes clicked closer, and she, with a few rapid-fire keystrokes, snapped the safewalls back to the doldrums. “Hmm,” she said, frowning at the test.
“Impressive,” intoned Pavel as he came alongside her. “Ah, the final tier always proves difficult.”
Mercy sighed. “It is . . .” Acting confused always helped men grow overconfident. Miss obvious things. Like the fact that her left hand typed in her personal code for a subroutine that would spirit through the system, removing all traces of her roving access, while her right worked to finish the test.
And get it wrong.
“Oh,” she said, deflating in her chair.
Pavel laughed. “Don’t feel bad—most don’t even get that far.” His smile was genuine and showed interest. Which always worked in her favor.
“I’m mad I got the last one wrong. I don’t—” She held up a finger. “Oh, I know what I did wrong. If I’d just—”
“Mr. Petryovich?”
Pavel turned to the door.
A dowdy woman in an expensive wool suit shot Mercy a dark look, then lifted her gaze to him. “A word, sir.”
Touching Mercy’s shoulder, Pavel apologized. “Sorry. This won’t take but a minute.” He pointed to the system. “Go ahead and log out. We have the record.”
Alarm squeezed her confidence. “You don’t need to download—”
He held up a finger. “Ju
st a minute. I’ll be back.”
Oh snap. Her heart raced as she eyed the keyboard. The monitor. Iliescu had given her bad intel. This system shouldn’t have mirroring capability. She glanced around, searching for a fountain. A bottle of water.
“Ms. Morozova?” he said, returning.
Snap snap snap. Last name. That wasn’t good. She turned, lifting her purse as she came to her feet. “Yes? Did I do well?”
His expression fell. “I’m sorry, but it seems we’ve had a concern raised about your visa.”
“What?” She frowned. “I don’t have a visa. My father—”
“I’m sorry,” he said, his expression tightening. “We have a strict policy. Any security concerns raised—”
“But I was cleared! Call them—”
“—means an automatic disqualification.” He pointed to the woman who’d just ruined Mercy’s day and mission. “If you’ll follow Mrs. Gorsky, she’ll take you to the consulate officer waiting for you.”
Consulate officer? Mercy’s spine exploded with heat. Were they kidding? “I—I don’t understand,” she said, her hands trembling. “This is a mistake. I haven’t—”
Guards appeared at the door.
Mercy’s heart thundered.
Petryovich took her by the arm and pulled her toward the security detail.
“This is a mistake,” she objected. “I just need a job. Please! I’ve worked so hard to get here.” They had no idea how hard—Iliescu had made her fly on Morozova’s papers, which meant no first class or even business class. On a ten-hour flight!
Two guards cuffed and hauled her to the elevator. In the box, they punched the ground-floor button.
She wrested free to straighten her clothes and dignity. “This is a mistake,” Mercy told the woman. “I came back when my father died. I need this job.”
Mrs. Gorsky glowered and was the first one out of the elevator, as if she couldn’t wait to be rid of the pestilence.
The guards had mastered the hovering thing all the way down the sterile white corridor, even though they allowed her to walk on her own. They urged her quite persuasively through double doors, beyond which the space widened into a steel and glass multistory waiting area.
“Mr. Kalev, thank you for notifying us,” Mrs. Gorsky said as she stalked past Mercy to the waiting consular officer. “Here she is.”
His back to Mercy and the guards, the man rose. Gave a nod. “I thank you for your patience and understanding. As I said, we are unsure of her intentions but felt it only fair to alert one of our country’s most powerful influences.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Gorsky said, inclining her head all too graciously.
When the man turned, Mercy nearly choked at the green eyes that locked onto her. Though he wore an expensive suit and sleek wig, there was no denying the Bohemian gorgeousness that was Ram Khalon. What was he doing here? Iliescu would rake him over nuke-heated coals for this!
Fury collided with relief. “This is a mistake,” she hissed at him.
“We will determine that, Ms. Morozova.” He held out a hand.
Did his sexy-headed self really think she’d just give up?
Yes. Yes, he did. Because he knew—as did she—that she had no options. Not with two armed thugs and near-impenetrable security walls. The only way she was leaving this facility was with a police escort or with Ram.
She lifted her chin and swore on all the vices of every superhero she’d ever called him that he would pay.
“Thank you,” Ram said in Russian and gave a half bow to the Mattin woman, then wagged his fingers at Mercy. “Come along, please.”
Defiance had always been a skill she’d mastered. That and an iron will. Right now, she flung both at Ram. But quickly recognized the futility and danger. “This is a mistake. You will hear about this.”
“I’m sure,” Ram said as he produced plastic zip cuffs.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Sorry, it’s necessary.” Ram caught her upper arm. “Thank you, Mrs. Gorsky.”
“Anytime,” the frumpy woman said. “We are grateful for your timely visit.”
Teeth grinding as Ram led her out into the afternoon, Mercy found herself willing the sun’s rays to become lasers and bore holes through his thick head. “Release me at once,” she hissed as they walked down the twenty-three steps to the parking lot.
“And risk my cover?”
“I will kill you for this.”
He guided her to a black sedan and stuffed her into the rear passenger seat, then leaned across to buckle her in, his face within inches of hers. Handsome, rugged jaw.
“I could bite your ear,” she said.
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” He backed away but paused. His green eyes swept her face and sent heat rushing into her cheeks. He reached toward her neck.
Mercy froze, her heart hammering.
He picked something from her shoulder—lint? A hair? Held it up and arched an eyebrow.
She had to angle away to look at it and her confidence evaporated beneath her very obvious stupidity. From the front console of the car, he lifted a bottled water, uncapped it, and dropped the tracking bug into it. Petryovich had planted it on her!
Mercy kicked the front seat with a barely held shriek as Ram climbed behind the steering wheel. After weaving quickly through the city, he swerved into a parking lot and eased the car next to a trash bin, where he pitched the water bottle. Then they were moving again.
“Do you have any idea what you just did?” she asked.
His gaze hit hers in the rearview mirror. “Do you?”
“The CIA sent me.”
“I don’t care if it was the president—which would be saying something.”
“Dru is going to be livid.”
“New boyfriend?”
“Try director of the CIA.”
“Deputy director.”
She growled again. Didn’t anything get past all that fake hair? “Stupid wig.”
Though she couldn’t tell from the back, it seemed he was smiling by the way his cheek balled.
“You blew my cover,” she said.
“No, you did that.” Again, his gaze caught hers in the mirror. “Within minutes of entering Mattin Worldwide, you were ID’d and I was notified. Lame cover. No disguise.” He glared at her. “I taught you better.”
“I had to get in, Ram. Now you’ve blown that chance.”
“Better than you blowing my asset. We’ve been working on this for months. Things are too close, the op too tricky for you to screw it up.”
They were on the south side of the city when he veered into a warehouse district and wound through the creepiest sections.
“Seriously, what are you? Penguin, holing up in the sewers?”
“They found me once. Won’t risk it again,” he vowed as he steered into a dank warehouse. She heard the garage door sliding closed as they slowed to a stop.
Darkness closed in, and she had to tell herself she was safe. Ignore the assailing memories. The all-too-real fear that slammed against her. Ram was there. It’d be okay.
“Lovely dark pit of despair you have here.” She forced her voice to stay calm. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. “Did you decorate it yourself?”
When a car door swung open, she expected the interior dome light to come on. But it didn’t. Probably inoperable on purpose. Blackness snapped tight around her. Smothered her.
Her pulse spiked. Chest constricted. She closed her eyes. Listened in the darkness for the sound of Ram stalking around the vehicle to free her. But heard nothing.
Her heart thrashed. What if he left her here? What if he wanted to punish her for this perceived violation against his operation?
“Ram?” she said quietly. “Ram.” A little more forceful. She whimpered. Choked back the terror. “Ram!”
The door opened.
Mercy dove to her right. Planted her feet on the ground. Shoved upward—right into the solid mass that was Ram.
“Easy.” His hand c
ame to her waist. Held her firm. “It’s okay.”
“That wasn’t funny.”
“Open your eyes.”
Through her swimming panic, through her fear, she’d forgotten. A dim light glowed from the far right. She let out a shuddering breath as she visually latched onto it. “You’re cruel.”
“I had to set the alarm,” he said quietly, steadying her. Watching her. “That’s why it took me a minute.”
“You could’ve wired it. You know how.” She swallowed. Looked down.
He was still watching her, touching her. And that had to stop. He’d made his choice.
She shoved her hands up between them, displaying the cuffs.
Ram smirked, green eyes holding her hostage, as she heard the faint click of a folding knife. The steel blade dusted her arm before biting through the plastic. Freed, she rubbed her wrists and shot him daggers. Serr—
“Serrated daggers?”
She would not smile. Would not acknowledge how much he knew about her, knew her vow. She threw serrated daggers from her eyes. “I hate you.”
That washed the arrogance from his stubbled jaw. A glimmer of something rippled across his features, and it clawed at her. Grief.
“You don’t.” Ram stepped back. “This way,” he said, his voice hoarse as he turned toward the dull glow that caressed four steps to a doorway.
She followed him into a walled-off room where a bank of computers buzzed and hummed. A torn leather couch was stuffed into the corner with a table. The space had a lot of old and ton of musty, but not much light or new. “Wow, same decorator, huh?”
He headed to a dorm fridge and pulled out a bottled water. Handed it to her.
“You know, even Bruce’s cave is better outfitted than this place.” She took the water and opened it.
“When I have his billions, I might add curtains. Gold brocade.”
Mercy smiled, a sudden ache flaring across her heart. She missed this—missed them. Him knowing what she didn’t like—gold or brocade. Her taunting him. He watched as she took a swig of the water.
And she missed something else. She reached toward his face.
Ram caught her wrist, his eyes darkening.
“Easy, Gorgeous.” She twitched so he’d release her arm. Then she slipped her thumbnail beneath the line of the wig and peeled it off. Tousled his curls. “Better. You and ‘slick’ don’t go together.”