by Ronie Kendig
Yefim drew back a fist and drove it at Tox. Again and again. Nailed his side. Pain exploded like white-hot fire. He howled, only to have what felt like a brick wall slam him into darkness.
37
— MOSCOW, RUSSIA —
It hurt to breathe, let alone move. Tox could only thank God that the surgical alterations couldn’t fall off. After the beating Yefim and the other guy had delivered, it felt like at least half his face and guts were left on the office floor.
When he made his way back to his quarters and opened the door, he stilled, instincts buzzing. Something snagged his brain. The fringe of the carpet—on the far side where he hadn’t walked. Though everything was in place, the room had been searched.
They’re looking for Tzi’s picture. His gaze skipped to the nightstand, and for a second, he feared they’d located it. But on the floor lay a book, a notepad, and a pen.
They hadn’t found it.
Lungs afire, he stepped in and let the door close. Flipped the locks. Gratefully, the injuries gave him justification to move slowly. No doubt they were monitoring via the cameras that weren’t as hidden as Nur thought.
With a groan and flare of fire through his side, he eased onto the edge of the bed, noting the messy, untucked corner. Hospital corners had been hammered into him in Basic. Tight creases. No wrinkles. And yet, here were wrinkles.
Tzivia had only found one piece of the sword, so it made sense that Nur was getting desperate. Making mistakes. He was already ruthless, but he’d become downright vicious.
Tox had to talk to Ram. Update him. But while he was monitored around the clock, there was no way. He could not afford to risk exposing himself or Ram. Unless he somehow threw off suspicion. Bought his way back into Nur’s favor.
There was only one way he could do that.
Tox lifted the pen from his nightstand. Considered it heavily. If he did this . . . Tzivia might never forgive him.
“Your assassins aren’t very effective, Belda.”
The woman, snow-white hair coiffed in a severe blunt style along her jaw, struck Nur with a hard look. “If we did not have interference from the authorities, like you promised, the list would be considerably shorter. But each day you add to it!”
“The list grows,” Moriz said dully from his spot at the table, “because the system works. And starting with the Americans was smart—”
“Smart?” Belda bristled. “I warned you both we should start slow—”
“Slow isn’t in the books,” Nur hissed. “The Valley of Elah happens in less than two weeks.”
“And we only have one part of the sword,” Labaka said through the feed.
That was not entirely true, but Nur would allow them to believe it. “Labaka, you’ve earned my anger. I heard the Americans have your programmer,” he said calmly, though he only felt rage.
“Makanda doesn’t know what he was coding. Only that he was.”
“Did he hear anything? See anything?”
“Nothing.”
“You are too confident, my friend,” Nur chided. “But because you were so clever, using that disgusting game to conceal the code’s true purpose, I will forgive this mistake.” His gaze slid to Belda. “I spoke with your sister.”
Belda scoffed. “Zoryana is too caught up in her own pride. She should have killed them before they left her home.”
“Who visited her and asked about the Adama Herev?” Nur asked.
“The man she knew, Dr. Cathey, is now dead in response.” Belda shook her head. “But the woman and other male are unknown. We’re working on it.”
“Should we recall the assassins?” another voice asked. “The FBI agent is too close to the truth, and our agents failed to kill him. Now Grazia has been taken right out of her compound! They are brazen, so we must return the favor.”
“Agreed. Can you find Grazia?” Nur asked.
Hesitation clogged the line. “I . . . don’t know.”
“Find her. We cannot afford for them to pry answers from her. She was always a little soft, I thought,” Nur said, poison in his words.
“You think she’s part of the Camarilla?”
“I never said such a thing,” Nur said, glad the seed had been planted. “It would be a shame if she were, but we must be careful regardless.”
“Understood,” the voice said.
“On second thought, I want Grazia dead. They keep pushing and getting closer to the truth, to stopping us, and her knowledge could change everything,” Nur said, annoyed.
Belda growled. “We should go after the head of that dragon.”
“The Americans? Are you insane?” Moriz shouted.
Nur rubbed his forehead. Told himself to stay calm. “Moriz is right, Belda. If we go after them, we awaken the entire world to what has taken decades to build. This battle has been going on too long. We cannot have them preventing the reversal at Elah. Our ancestors have fought for centuries to make this day possible. It ends at Elah.”
Names. He had names. Leaning against the wall, the fiery pain in his ribs nearly unbearable, Tox pulled in greedy draughts of air. Months of work. All this time with Nur. Beaten and humiliated—punished. It had all netted him nothing but one name.
Until now. Dumb luck. He’d gone out for athletic tape for his ribs and ibuprofen . . . and returned to hear voices coming from the hall.
Belda. Moriz. Zor-something.
Go. Get them to Ram. How? He pushed off the wall.
“Rybakov.”
Jerking at the call of his name shot daggers through his side and shoulder. He tensed, shuffling around to look beneath pain-hooded eyes at Yefim.
“What are you doing?” Yefim asked, sauntering menacingly toward him.
The talk with Ram would have to wait. First Tox had to buy himself more time. And there was only one way to do that—by betraying a friend.
“I need to talk with Mr. Abidaoud.”
38
— MOSCOW, RUSSIA —
Ram sat at the café, grateful the barista recognized him as a regular and kept his coffee coming through the two hours he waited, reading. Mercy sat across the aisle with a laptop, earbuds tucked in, cords straggling against her long hair. It was hard not to look at her. More than once he caught himself staring. Still annoyed that she’d told him to stand off. As if he’d enjoyed taunting her.
The thought jarred him. Was that what she thought?
It was stupid. The only way he could protect Israel and Mercy at the same time was to leave her in safety so he could do his job for his country. Were he to be honest, his efforts weren’t wholly for Israel. Staying connected to the country had been a means to an end: to intercept news of his father.
Snapping taut the paper he held, Ram did the same with his attention, bringing it back to the reason his butt was sore. Waiting on Tox to show.
What was going on? Why hadn’t Tox made contact? They had an agreement—even if he missed a rendezvous, Ram would wait. If he missed two, Ram would attempt to set eyes on Tox but not intervene unless absolutely warranted.
But for Tox to leave that mark, then never show . . .
Something was wrong.
Ram’s phone buzzed in his pocket. His secure phone. Nerves twitching, he pulled it from his pocket. Eyed the screen. Though his heart thudded, he steeled his response. “Hello.” Not a standard greeting for him, but in public, he couldn’t afford to draw attention.
“I will keep this short since you are in a café,” Omar’s gruff voice announced.
Ram huffed. Struggled not to panic. Shoved aside the irrational anger that had been tumbling and roiling through him over the last few weeks. “What?”
“Your sister was seen two nights ago in an alley with your asset. He didn’t seem happy to see her, but then, appearances are deceiving.”
Tox was with Tzivia in public—two nights ago. That was when he’d left the mark. Internal claxons sounded as Ram wondered why they’d been out together, in an alley.
“We believe things a
re starting to collapse.”
Ram swallowed, hiding it behind the white coffee mug and his silence. If Tox was seen with Tzivia in an alley, then yes. Things were bad. “Let me go to the cathedral.”
“Negative. You do that, and our suspicions become reality.”
“He’s there.”
“Your mission is not Yared. It’s the AFO and their leaders. We need names, Ram.”
“They do not meet on-site as believed.”
“He is there. He can find out. We need them now.”
Okay, that was obvious. So what wasn’t obvious that had forced Omar to call? Ram tensed, waiting.
“We believe the pressure and the collapse is because of the Americans and their hunt for the AFO leaders. They need to back off. The stunt they pulled with your girlfriend—”
“She’s not—”
“—was a very bad move. Things are exposed. Security is heightened.”
“You gave them Grazia and Makanda. You put them on those scents to keep them busy. It’s not their fault they’re effective.”
“Too effective. It was meant to distract, not complicate our efforts. Things are going south. Dr. Cathey’s death was an aftershock we didn’t need. We barely contained that, showing up after the Arrows.”
Anger pulsed through Ram. This whole thing stank. Every aspect, every angle failed.
“What has Tox said? Why was he with her in the alley?” Omar asked.
Ram flinched. How was he supposed to answer that? If they knew he’d lost contact with Tox, they’d consider Tox a threat. They’d want him neutralized before he could do damage. Give names to the AFO.
“You’ve lost him,” Omar accused.
“I’m waiting on him now.”
“While you’re waiting, tell the Americans to back off.”
“I’m not sure they’ll listen.”
“They will if they want their man back alive.”
— NORTHERN VIRGINIA —
Haven studied the sonogram picture, staring at the black-and-white snapshot of their baby. Cole’s baby. Inside her. It was still so surreal. And it was killing her not to be able to tell him.
With a sigh, she set the photo aside and tugged the journal closer. She was nearly done transcribing the Russell lineage. Working through the century-old writing, she kept coming back to the amazing fact that a Russell had married a Linwood before.
She turned the page, and her hand froze. The paper was different, as was the handwriting. It had been folded, and she carefully released the anchor that held the pages to the leather folio and drew out the odd page. Her heart skipped a beat. The handwriting was very different. Her eyes traced the slightly blurred ink to the bottom, where it was signed Avram Roussel, 1750.
The page opened with a short explanation: What follows is the lineage of forebears as far as is known. This record is copied that my line and my father’s might persist across time. It is a true and accurate account of those who have gone before me.
Haven’s gaze traveled the forty or so names listed. About halfway down, it started listing only the male names, no wives. She backtracked and stilled. “You’re kidding.”
Devra Roussel m. Jorim Linwood. Only one child was listed: Thefarie.
“But that can’t be,” she muttered.
“Ngozi?” Chiji said from the side chair where he was reading.
“Hmm?” That can’t be Tzaddik. Can it?
“We have company.”
Haven glanced at her guardian, but even as she did, she caught sight of a dark shape to her left. She whipped around and sucked in a breath at the sight of the Timeless One lowering himself into the other chair.
“Tzaddik.” Shaking off the adrenaline surge wasn’t easy, but she tried. “Interesting timing.”
“The times are interesting,” he replied. His gaze fell on the journal, but his grave expression returned.
Alarm shoved through Haven’s veins. “Wh–what’s wrong?”
“Grave news, I’m afraid,” Tzaddik said. “Our friend Dr. Cathey is dead, killed by the rebel sect within the AFO, the Camarilla.”
A wave of nausea swept her, chilling her. “Are you sure?”
Though he managed a smile, Tzaddik’s graveness remained.
“I can’t believe it.” Haven cupped her head in her hands, bending forward. Feeling sick all over again. Not because of the pregnancy but over losing such a genuine man and the chance to find the bust.
“Have you found it?”
Annoyance cloyed with grief. “Found what? Dr. Cathey is dead. What does it matter—”
“It matters all the more. You said interesting timing. That could not be more true. The hour is upon us.” Ferocity bled through Tzaddik’s features.
She blinked, confused. “What hour?” She waved at the journal, notes, and printed genealogy charts. “You’ve had me chasing names.”
“No, not names.” He switched from the chair to the sofa beside Haven. Touched her arm. She half expected a jolt of electricity, but instead it was merely warm. Firm. She glanced at his large hand and imagined it wielding a sword in the 1200s, then sniffed a laugh.
“Have you found it?” he repeated.
Something about his insistence on that question made her not want to answer. Instead, she grabbed the odd page she’d just found and held it up. “Is this you?” she asked, pointing to the name. “It lists the child of Devra and Jorim as Thefarie.”
Amusement creased his eyes. “It is not. The closer you return to the time of Giraude and Shatira, the more you will see the same names: Avram. Giraude. Shatira. Thefarie. It’s important now, Haven, especially with Joseph dead—have you found it?”
“Found what? The irony that my line and Cole’s crosses throughout history?”
A faint smile touched his beard. “No irony. The bond has always been strong. It does not surprise me that you continued to find each other through generations.”
Haven put her feet on the floor and scooted to the edge of the cushion. “If that’s not what I was supposed to find, then what? The bust?” She saw something flash through his eyes. “This is about the bust?”
He reached toward the table and retrieved Aunt Agatha’s photo of the statue. Relief washed over him, lifting his shoulders and head, then lowering them. “You found it.”
“No,” Haven countered, “I found some pictures. I have no idea where it is. Dr. Cathey bought it in the late ’70s from the Linwood estate. For the last several days, I’ve been trying to reach him to ask where it is, but now that he’s—”
“Try his flat in London.”
“How would you know that?”
Another maddening smile. “He is an old friend. We talked . . . often.” Sadness touched his eyes, coloring them with the gray pallor of grief. “He hid much there.”
“What’s important about the bust?” Haven hated the question, because the piece had been a near obsession since she’d found out about it.
“Since Joseph’s death, his flat has been secured as a crime scene,” Tzaddik said, ignoring her question “You must talk with your government friends. You must go to his flat.”
“I don’t understand,” Haven admitted. “You’re timeless. You can go here, there. You show up in places without opening doors. Why can’t you go to the bust? Why this chase you set me on?”
This time, the emotion that flashed through his face was stronger than sadness. “I cannot,” he said. “The journey is not mine, and much has been hidden from me. His flat is a guess.”
“But you just—” She waved a dismissive hand. “Why did Dr. Cathey buy it?”
“I told him to,” Tzaddik said, then drew in a long breath and slowly let it out. “I suppose the history of the sword should be told. But not here. Let’s contact your friends at SAARC. They will be needed for the Elah battle.”
39
— SAARC HEADQUARTERS, VIRGINIA —
“My name is Grazia Raison, and I am a member of the French Parliament.”
Leif considered the
woman, her gray-streaked hair cut short and neat around her face. Face weathered with age and worry. “Not to be disrespectful, but we had to drag you out of that compound.”
“Yes,” she said, eyes narrowed, “after punching me in the face.”
“I hit you after you hit us. And you hitting us?” Leif sniffed. “Meant we came back with more holes in our bodies than already existed.”
“Uh, yeah.” Cell raised his good hand. “I did come back with extra holes.”
Raison nodded, repentant. “I apologize for my part in the events at the compound. My resistance was vital to maintaining appearances.”
Cell grunted. “I have your appearances in my gut,” he said, pointing to the still-bandaged wound.
Her chin lifted. “It was necessary that the guards believed and security feeds showed that I was not a willing participant in what happened. If anyone suspected I was complicit,” Raison said, “they would go after my family. My children—adults, but still my children.”
“Wait.” Leif eased forward, spidering his hand on the table, fingertips to the laminate. “Are you saying that you wanted to be extracted?”
“I had to be extracted,” Raison said, her tone sharp, decisive.
Leif looked at Almstedt then Iliescu. “Did we get played? Ram gave us that name.”
“It actually came from his asset,” Almstedt said. “Ms. Raison, are you aware there was a kill order against you?”
The French woman flinched. Her eyes widened. “My family.” Iliescu picked up the phone and started talking quietly, and that apparently gave the Frenchwoman the reassurance she needed. “I should not be surprised that Nur has done this. Being taken from the compound, I am now a liability to him.”
“What am I missing?” Thor asked.
After watching Iliescu for a few seconds, Raison glanced at Almstedt, who gave her a nod.
“What’s said in this room, gentlemen—as you know—doesn’t leave it,” Almstedt ordered.
The words were clearly for the diplomat, because everyone else here didn’t exist, nor did this organization or bunker. It seemed to satisfy whatever lingering concern Raison had.