by Ronie Kendig
Ram sidestepped her. Reminding her that he’d made a choice—he’d set her aside.
Seeking a distraction, she glanced at the monitors. And something caught her eye. Mercy sucked in a breath. “Ram.” She couldn’t take her gaze off the grainy image of a plaza. More specifically, a planter near a building’s foundation. The camera was focused on it.
He came to her side. And cursed.
It was the same mark he’d taught her to use when they worked together. The mark that signaled an emergency.
“Who’s in trouble?”
36
— MOSCOW, RUSSIA —
Think, Ram. Think.
Palms on the table, he stared at the mark. When had Tox left it? Ram had checked just before he got the call from Omar. The email. Augh! He pounded a fist on the table, rattling the systems. Mercy sucked in a breath and twitched. Making him all too aware of his anger.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Who is it?”
Ram grabbed the car keys, then stopped. Looked at Mercy. He couldn’t leave her here. Not with the equipment. She’d shred him. Ruin it. But he couldn’t take her with him—she was exposed now. Tie her up?
Guilt suffused him. She had an unnatural fear of dark places because of him—because of that mission. The one that changed everything between them.
“Is it Tox?”
He snapped back to her. Surged into her personal space. “How do you know about him?”
“D-Dru.” She stumbled back, tripping over a stack of boxes. She caught her balance. “Dru told me he was embedded. That you were working with him on a mission.”
Ram erupted in a flurry of curses and rage. He couldn’t see straight. Couldn’t think straight. “He had no business doing that!” Were they compromised? Was Tox? That could dissolve all their efforts in one fell swoop. Son of a gun. He lifted his eyebrows at her. “You going in there today could’ve ruined everything,” he growled. “If they trace you back to—”
“They won’t.”
“The AFO’s tendrils plague every country, infect every government. Even the Americans. Especially the Americans. They planted a bug that you missed, so don’t underestimate them.”
“Ram.”
“Iliescu’s going to screw it all up—get them killed. Then I’ll kill him!”
“Ram!”
He jerked, startled by her yell. By the vibrating hum of his own shouts.
“What is with you?” Her amber eyes narrowed. “You’re never unhinged.”
He swallowed at her words. At the truth buried within them. “Unhinged?” He told himself to calm down. “You haven’t seen unhinged.”
“I have,” she said quietly, ominously.
His mind ricocheted to the Greece mission. “How?” He paused at her haunted expression. “You were . . . in that box . . .”
A shaky nod. “I could see. There was a sliver of a space between the boards,” she said with a hesitant nod. “I saw . . . everything.”
He’d shown up for the drop, knowing she was hiding nearby with other members of their team. But when Ram saw the crates being buried, he quickly realized their man, Tommy, had betrayed them to the target. Burying the crates meant burying Mercy alive. He’d lost it.
“That wasn’t me.” Ram lowered his gaze, disappointed she’d seen that side of him. “I broke character.”
“Then . . . why?”
He looked up at her. How could she ask that? “It was you.”
“But I knew the risks, Ram. You killed Tommy. Your friend.”
“He betrayed us! Compromised me, nearly killed you—”
“But you were better than what I saw. Why? Why go—”
“It was you!” he raged, his veins straining against the effort of making his point. “If I did nothing, you would’ve died. And he betrayed us—you. Put your life at risk.”
Mercy drew up short. Studied him. Her chest rose and fell unevenly. “Then . . . why did you leave me?”
Ram deflated. Hung his head. “Doesn’t matter—”
“It matters to me.”
He scratched his head. Turned a circle. “I made a vow,” he said miserably. “When my father vanished, I vowed to find out what happened to him. And the only way I could do that was by selling my soul to the Mossad. To Israel. I knew whatever my father was involved in, it was connected to our nation. Our people. If I . . . you . . .” He shook his head.
“So it wasn’t me who drove you away.”
He’d let her believe it was her fault. Let himself believe it. Anything to assuage the guilt. “No.” He shrugged away the weight pressing down on him. “Look. That’s . . . we have a mission. One I’m not going to screw up, because my friend’s life is on the line. My sister’s.”
Mercy closed the distance between them. “Let me help.”
Objection seared his tongue. “You—”
“I can use the comms to stay eyes-out as you go in.” She nodded to the monitor. “I’ll cover your six.”
She always knew how to buy his agreement—keep it mission-oriented. But letting her in, opening that door again . . . there was too much happening. Too much with the operation. Too much with him. The last thing he wanted her seeing was the disorder eating him. The way the thirst of steel rummaged his veins for weakness.
Her plan made sense. But it scared him, too.
“Come on,” she said with a grin. “My HackerGirl senses are tingling.” Her expression seemed to clear, and she backed up a few taunting steps and touched a monitor. “Unless you want me to stay here and . . . babysit.”
She was toying with him—knowing he’d never leave her alone with his computers. The things she could find and do left a bad taste in his mouth. “You need to change.”
Her grin dulled the sun.
He pointed to a small room. “Extra clothes in there—they won’t fit.”
“They never did before.” She took a skipping jump to hurry toward the room.
This is stupid. She’ll be your undoing. Like last time.
At his bank of monitors, he wormed into the security footage until he found the moment Tox had marked the planter. Eyed the timestamp. Just before dawn. How had he missed this?
He had to get to the café. Park his butt there. Find out what was wrong. He—
“I thought you’d try to lock me in there.”
Ram straightened, surprised yet not that she was at his side. Far too distracted by the last few distracting things, he turned to the most recent. “Would it have worked?”
Her left cheek twitched with the barest hint of a smile. “Not for long.”
“Exactly.” He shifted away. “Besides, I’m never again locking you anywhere.” But that made sentimentality swell within him.
Her gaze rose to his head. “I’m glad you still wear it.”
The beanie. He’d kept it when they went their separate ways, convinced she’d never see him using it. She’d made it, said crocheting relaxed her. But he’d grown so used to it, he hadn’t given it a thought. A part of him said he’d messed up, showing her that it meant something to him, she meant something.
Her smile bloomed. “Good to know.”
Oh, he missed her. Missed the way she called it like she saw it—but with flair. Toyed with his anger and invariably demolished it with logic or playfulness. That was what had created a lure to her that he hadn’t been able to resist. In a world of deadly missions and dark souls, she was the laughter and balance that kept him this side of sane. Even now, just looking into her amber eyes, he felt the draw. An ache to once more experience the tangibility of what she embodied.
It was a cliché. She was a cliché, with her name that so perfectly spelled out what she possessed. It was a mercy to know her. To have her in his life. A respite from the intensity and driving compunction to prove himself.
Somehow, his hand hovered between them, fingers begging to trace the soft contours of her face. Eyes filled with relief and understanding, she caught his wrist. Brought his hand to her cheek, giving him
what he himself refused—more Mercy. Her skin was still as silky as he remembered. He inched closer as she cupped his arm between her hands. Breathed her smile.
Like a waterfall that drowned the noise of the world, Mercy had silenced his every argument. As she always had. She went still.
Ram slipped his hand to her nape. Homed in on her lips as they parted.
“Are you sure?” Her whispered words skated along his jaw, slamming into his chest, his heart.
Reminding Ram he’d broken up with her. Reminding him that as long as Israel came first, a girlfriend was—at best—second.
“I’m crazy about you, Ram, but”—she wet her lips—“I can’t do that again. I can’t breathe life with you, then have you crater me again. It’s not fair.”
He nodded. Huffed at his own idiocy but also at his desperation not to be the guy who broke her heart twice. Not to be the guy who walked away. He wanted to stay. To kiss her until she forgot Banner and Clark. So she remembered only one hero—him.
“You’re right,” he said, backing up. “Won’t happen again.”
Nerves frayed, Tox strode up the steps and into the glass-and-steel building. Made it through the security checkpoint with merely a nod from the team before he accessed the private elevator. Thirty seconds later, it delivered him to the penthouse.
“Did you hear about the security breach?”
Tox looked up from swiping his access card through the reader and frowned at Yefim. “What breach? Anything I need to alert Mr. Abidaoud about?”
“He’s already aware,” Yefim said.
“Guess I’m last to know.” Tox waited. “That is, if you’re going to tell me . . .”
“Some woman faked an interview for a systems analyst position. Everything went slick as snot until she showed up for the deprogramming test.”
“Depro—”
“They sit her at a computer, and she has to deprogram it.” Yefim shrugged his thick shoulders, making Tox note the imprint of a weapon holstered beneath his jacket. “She was in there working her fingers, fast and furious, when IT gets a call that someone is there to take her into custody.”
“Custody?”
Yefim nodded. “Some embassy guy or something. It caused quite a stir. They’ve been testing that computer since she left.”
Intriguing. Should he worry about this? The longer he lived and breathed Mattin Worldwide air, the more convinced Tox became that the AFO either never or rarely met together. Preventative measures.Which made it impossible to gather names and intel.
“Hey, you going up?” Yefim pushed out of his chair.
Where else would Kazimir be going?
“I’ll come with you. I have business.”
Yefim’s unusual behavior unsettled Tox as they rode the private elevator. Nothing in particular had set off his internal alarms. Just . . . something about Yefim. About all of this—the security breach. Being escorted.
As he carded into the penthouse, Tox held the door. Allowed Yefim to take the lead, strategically placing him where Tox could see any sudden movements. Give him time to get his bearings. He tried to isolate what was off, what felt different, but everything seemed right. Fine.
Yet not.
When Yefim started for Nur’s office door and lifted a fist to rap on it, Tox headed to the residence hall and aimed his card at the access reader.
“Rybakov!” Nur barked from his office, where Yefim was entering.
Tox stilled. With two long, measured breaths, he took a step back from the residence and looked over his shoulder at the office. Anything to keep his distance and hopefully buy a reprieve. Just long enough to figure out what was wrong and formulate an exit strategy.
But he couldn’t see Nur. And he didn’t dare holler his response. Reluctantly, he crossed the foyer. “Sir?”
“Come in,” Nur insisted. “Close the door.”
Shifting heavily into his Kazimir persona, Tox eyed Yefim. And the two other men in the room. He’d been right. Something was wrong.
He intentionally turned a slow circle to close the door so he could take in his surroundings. Determine his options. Exit strategies. He faced Nur and held one hand over the other as he stood at the ready. “Sir. How can I—”
“Where were you last night, Rybakov?”
“At the river, sir. With you. With—”
“After.” Nur waved a hand, dismissing Tox’s ready explanation. “We returned, but you went out afterward.”
Aware the others had not moved or spoken, Tox managed a brief, disconcerted look. “I went to the cathedral.”
Nur’s eyes flashed. “You have never been a religious man.”
“Nor am I now.”
His employer gave a confused laugh. “Then why were you at the cathedral?”
“To think.”
“Think?” Nur snarled. “About what?”
Doing his best to appear grieved, Tox lowered his gaze. “My family.”
“Your family is dead,” a man snapped from the corner.
Tox locked onto the shadowy figure. “In body, yes. But in memory”—he let the ache of missing Haven twist through his features—“they live. Some days more than others. Some days their absence is difficult.”
Nur’s expression had begun to morph from accusatory to questioning. A very necessary and big step if Tox was going to leave this office alive. The realization that he could be breathing his last stirred his survival instincts. Pushed him to be more assertive. “Am I on trial for visiting the cathedral?”
Nur punched to his feet. “You are on trial because you met privately with Tzivia Khalon.”
“Not true,” Tox countered.
“I was there,” Yefim said, coming forward. Buttoning his jacket.
Pinning his gaze on the man who’d had to eat his own pride when Kazimir was promoted over him, Tox met his eyes. “Tell me where! Where did I meet her?”
“An alley. Just beyond the plaza down the road from the Kremlin,” Yefim said, lifting his chin. “Saw the two of you back there. Real cozy.”
Tox rolled a disgusted look to Nur, who was watching intently. “This—this is who you trust over me?” He glowered again at Yefim. “Did you also see me slam her against a wall? Did you see me demand to know why she was following me?”
“What I saw was a very good performance,” Yefim said with a curled lip. “You lingered too long while holding her throat—she should have died with you holding her that long.”
“Had I strangled her, then she could not secure the sword for Mr. Abidaoud, and I would have been standing here answering very different questions. If I was allowed to live at all.”
Nur jutted his jaw at Tox. “And what was her answer? Why did she follow you?”
“She saw me as a soft target. Thought she could manipulate me to get her father released.” It wasn’t a whole lie.
“What did you tell her?” Nur asked.
“That I wasn’t the answer to her problems.” Again, not a lie.
Nur glanced to the right, where the two men waited. The shorter, grayer of the two shifted his gaze from Tox to Nur. “He’s telling the truth.”
A new wave of panic hit Tox. They had a “lie detector” assessing his responses the way Haven could.
“But he’s also holding something back,” the man added. “As I mentioned while watching him discuss the breach with Yefim.”
Watching me? That entire conversation with Yefim had been staged. To test him. The sands of time on this mission weren’t just falling. They were using jet propulsion.
Nur slid a narrowed gaze toward Tox. “Have you anything to tell me, Mr. Rybakov?”
Tox Russell wouldn’t be threatened by this man. Instead, he would feed off the anger and accusations. But he wasn’t Tox right now. He was Kazimir Rybakov. And that man would be panicked. Truth be told, there was more than a little of that coursing through Tox’s veins. “About what, sir? That I’m supposedly hiding something? Or about the alley where I failed to kill your asset?”
/> “You’re being sarcastic, Kazimir.”
“Sorry, sir.” He let his gaze drop a little. “I’m angry—angry that I stand accused when I have done no wrong.” He remembered Haven’s instructions in the past and shifted his feet. “I’m nervous, sir.”
“Nervous?” That amused the power-hungry man.
“I’ve seen what you do to those who betray you, sir.”
“Have you betrayed me?”
Since I first entered this building. “Only by thinking of my wife more than of being your security officer.”
“There is more,” the gray-haired man prompted.
“Shall we beat it out of you, Mr. Rybakov?” Nur stood, pushed back his chair, and came around the desk. “You are giving me half truths, according to Mr. Sergeyev.”
Tox hesitated. Held his ground.
“If you do not answer, you convince me that I should have you punished or killed.” The gleam in Nur’s eyes warned Tox that he was on borrowed time right now.
He grasped at the one thing he was sure wouldn’t go over well but might keep him alive. “I . . . I think you should release her father.”
Face darkening, Nur edged closer. “You think I should. You think!” His nostrils flared as he squared his shoulders. “I do the thinking. You are a dog that does his master’s bidding.”
Tox yanked his gaze down.
“I have a meeting.” With a flick of his hand, Nur stormed out.
That flick was not a dismissive one. It was an order. Given to the guards, to Yefim, who remained. The door closed.
Yefim came toward Tox and offered his hand. “Sorry, man. I have a job to do, too.”
Have a job to do. Though he wanted to drive the man’s nose through his gray matter, Tox reluctantly accepted the hand, convinced his apology was not legit. Sensing there was more to it. And the next second proved him right.
Yefim clamped Tox’s hand. Yanked him forward. Another weight caught his left arm, constricted.
Tox twitched away. But the bigger man grabbed him. Jerked Tox’s arm back and up, effectively forcing Tox to his knees. Awareness rushed through him: they were going to teach him a lesson.