Thirst of Steel

by Ronie Kendig

  Our Silly Mossad Agent Shouldn’t Have Trusted You.

  Her breath caught in her throat. Having her own muttered words spelled out there made her heart thud like a perfectly placed drone strike. Her mind registered too late that it wasn’t Ram talking to her. In the feed, he hadn’t been on his phone. So he probably hadn’t sent the earlier message either.

  Someone had gained access to his computer. Someone who wasn’t her.

  Remnants of the Greece mission came tumbling back like a hurricane. Ram. Ram was in trouble! She was in trouble. This location wasn’t secure. She had to warn Ram.

  Get out. Get out before they catch you again. Bury you. Like last time.

  Things gathered, Mercy sprinted from the warehouse. Chin tucked, she scurried away. Headed into the city, warning and fear like fire in her chest.

  A new panic thrummed through her veins. They’d seen her. Which meant they knew her identity. She moved fast as possible without actually running to reach the plaza so Ram could allay her fears. Reassure her she hadn’t just destroyed her legacy, her ability as a covert operative.

  “No,” she snarled. She was not starting over again. She was not running. This—this was what superheroes did, right? Faced enemies. Faced terrors. Fought evil and tyranny.

  Call Iliescu.

  She should. It made sense to do that. A good operative would.

  But not until she talked to Ram. There had to be an explanation for why the Mossad spied on their own operative. Because that was who’d sent that message, right? They’d called him “our Mossad agent.” Would they do that—spy on him?

  Of course they would. Just like the U.S. government spied on its own to protect its own. But Ram . . . he would’ve told her, wouldn’t he?

  Maybe that’s why he said not to mess with the system.

  Her steps slowed as the truth dawned. He had known. Ram, more than anyone else, knew the MO of the Mossad. Israel always faced real and catastrophic threats from its neighboring countries. It was surrounded by enemies. It wasn’t a matter of trusting their agents but protecting their country.

  She rounded the corner and scanned the plaza with its red cobbled courtyard, benches, and fountain, surrounded by multistory buildings that were older than her twenty-six years.

  As she approached, Mercy had the paralyzing feeling that she was overreacting. That when she ran frantically up to Ram—and exposed him, which would go over real well—he’d chew her up. Spit her out.

  Clutching her jacket collar to her throat, she paused and stared across the plaza at the café. Remembering the camera feeds, she glanced up. Which she shouldn’t have done. Never acknowledge the invisible watching eyes. It tipped your hand. Revealed you knew they were there, when normal people were too oblivious, noses stuck in smartphones that were recording their facial expressions. She shuddered.

  The café door swung open. Ram strode out.

  Mercy blinked. Already? He’d only been there an hour. Hope leapt inside her. Tox must have contacted him! She surged forward, lifting a hand.

  His gaze connected. Flashed with warning. He started away from her.

  What? She stopped. What was he doing?

  He tripped. Went to a knee.

  She snorted. Clumsy oa—

  Three men converged on him. Grabbed his arms. Hoisted him to his feet.

  Somewhere in her numbed shock, she heard tires peal. A woman screamed as the trio dragged Ram toward a van that lurched to a stop. He hadn’t tripped! He’d been shot with a drug dart!

  Mercy gasped. Pushed forward, a scream lodged in her throat. But instinct, training, shoved her backward. Into the shadows of a shop. Brick digging into her shoulder blades.

  Phone. Get your phone.

  Stricken, she fumbled in her pocket, watching. She snapped a picture as the van sped by. It felt like she stood in stricken terror for hours. But when she finally hauled herself out of the adrenaline-induced reaction, she thumbed her phone. Dialed Iliescu.

  Her phone beeped. No signal.

  She tried again. Same. They must have jammed the cameras to shield the kidnapping.

  A huddle of teens were laughing and talking, drawing her attention. One held a phone, and the others were gaping at it. Covering their mouths in bemusement. Pointing.

  They’d seen it. Recorded Ram’s kidnapping.

  I need that phone.

  Running straight out, knowing if anyone saw her, captured her likeness, she’d be as good as dead, Mercy barreled right into the teens, locked on one thing: the phone. The collision flicked the device out of the girl’s hand. Mercy, still running, followed its trajectory and leapt at it.

  Her finger grazed it. Shot it sideways into the street.

  A delivery truck barreled past, its wheels flattening the phone with a sickening crunch.

  “No!” she screamed, whipping her gaze back in the direction of the van. But it was out of sight. Ram was out of sight.

  A flurry of Russian curses and shouts lobbed at her. Having their attention and anger aimed at her ignited a sea of panic. Escaping, Mercy zigzagged, across the street, avoiding camera angles. Hopping from one shadow to the next. Using cars to hide in places that would have exposed her. She checked her phone for a signal. Nothing.

  She jogged on, legs aching. Lungs burning. About to surrender to the shadows and terror of seeing Ram kidnapped, she glanced around—and her gaze locked on the cathedral.

  There was a camera there. Ram had the feed to it.

  Which meant Mossad did, too.

  — SAARC HEADQUARTERS, VIRGINIA —

  Haven could not shake the dread filling her as she sat at the black laminate conference table with Robbie, General Rodriguez, Iliescu, Tzaddik, and Chiji. She couldn’t explain or shake the feeling, but somehow, being here without Cole—was that it?—an ominous haze shrouded her mind. Though SAARC had allowed the meeting, something hung in the air that they hadn’t shared. Instead, they’d ushered her and Chiji into the room and asked them to wait.

  Merry chatter carried through the hub as Cell, Thor, Runt, and Maangi sauntered in. They shared a look and hesitated in the doorway.

  “Have a seat,” Iliescu said, rubbing his jaw.

  “This feels like a whole lotta messed up,” Cell muttered as the men sat down.

  Iliescu nodded. “Okay, let’s get started. First—I’ll be reading all of you in on a situation and black-ops mission.” Steel glinted in his gaze as he met Haven’s eyes, then Tzaddik’s and Chiji’s. “But what I say does not leave this room. Am I clear?”

  Haven nodded, glancing at Tzaddik.

  “Especially you,” Iliescu said to the Timeless One. “Hear me?”

  “I understand perfectly, Deputy Director. This is not my first battle or war-room conference.”

  Iliescu huffed, lifted his reading glasses, and flipped open a manila folder, from which he started reading. “Yesterday at 1657 hours Moscow time, Ram Khalon was forcibly removed from a plaza two blocks from the Kremlin.” He dropped the folder and peered at them over his glasses. “At this time, details are slim, and there is no demand for ransom. In fact, there has been no communication with his captors.”

  Cell turned over a hand. “Then how do we know he was taken?”

  Lips tight, Iliescu cocked his head. “Because Mercy Maddox witnessed the incident.”

  “What was he doing that he’d drawn enough attention to get nabbed?” Runt asked.

  “Wait,” Cell objected. “Why is Mercy over there?”

  Iliescu considered each of them, but lingered on Haven, where his expression softened, and she knew things were about to be laid on the table.

  “Oh man,” Cell moaned. “This is about Tox.”

  As if someone had cranked the heat in the room, temperatures rose. Attitudes flailed.

  “Hold up,” Runt said. “You’ve been telling us—”

  Iliescu raised a hand. “Six months ago, Ram made a request of the Agency at the behest of the Mossad for an operation that required a detailed, immers
ive mission. The intel provided all but guaranteed inroads to the upper echelon of the Arrow & Flame Order—names, connections, ranks.” His face bore the weight of his unspoken words. “Things we had not been able to secure despite nearly a decade and a dedicated task force.”

  It hadn’t been an easy decision for Cole—or her. Haven lowered her head, staring at her lap.

  “So Ram went deep cover?” Maangi asked, his brow knotted.

  “Negative,” Runt said, eyeing Haven. “Tox.” When she looked at him, he gave a grim, apologetic nod. “Tox went deep cover.”

  “Correct. After reconstructive surgery and an intensive months-long language-immersion program, Tox entered the very bowels of hell—Mattin Worldwide. A man in their security detail had a fatal accident, but with the cooperation of the Mossad and a few other international agencies which shall remain unnamed, we concealed his death. Altered Tox to look like this man, and sent him to work with scars.”

  “Dude, that worked?”

  “Better than we hoped,” Iliescu admitted. “A couple of months ago, Tox was promoted to personal head of security for Nur. The intel about Grazia Raison came from him.”

  Haven startled at that tidbit. It terrified her that Cole was so close to that man.

  Someone hissed a curse.

  “If it was so effective,” Runt said with methodical precision, “why are you telling us now?”

  “Several reasons.” Iliescu swiped a hand over his upper lip. “As mentioned, Ram has gone missing. We aren’t sure if that’s Mossad’s doing or Nur’s people. We assume the latter. Mercy Maddox went over to integrate into Mattin,” Iliescu explained. “We had her cover, and she got in without difficulty. But”—he shook his head—“Mossad identified her. Ordered Ram to yank her. From there, it’s gone downhill.”

  Stomach squirming, Haven wrung her hands, desperate to hear good news. “What about Cole?”

  It was the obvious question, and by the expression on the deputy director’s face, one he’d hoped she wouldn’t ask. “Unknown at this time.” He started to look at her, then retracted his gaze. “He has not made contact in a couple of weeks. We have assets trying to get eyes on him, but as you can imagine, things are helter-skelter there.”

  “You have sent a lot of good people into the heart of the lion’s den,” Tzaddik said.

  “We have,” Rodriguez agreed. “It’s what we do to protect the innocent.”

  “Your willingness to allow us”—Haven glanced at Chiji and Tzaddik—“to be here, then to read us in, makes sense now. But I think you all should know something that may help motivate you beyond the norm.” She folded her hands on the table. Drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “I went with Cole to Israel, where he did his training, went through his surgeries. But we weren’t going to be there and live contrary to our beliefs, so we married.”

  “Dude. I didn’t get to be best man,” Cell teased.

  “Or worst,” Thor threw in with a smile.

  This team was as much a part of Cole as she and VVolt were. She appreciated their acceptance. “I stayed until it was time for him to deploy. I didn’t know where, but I knew there would be little-to-no contact until he returned months later.” Why was she so nervous to admit this? In a way, she felt like a teen who’d skipped classes. “I wanted him to know first, but . . . I’m pregnant.” She cast a glance about the room, still jittery. “Cole doesn’t know about the baby.” Her chin trembled. “I want my child—our child to know his father.”

  “Don’t worry,” Thor said with a fierce nod that bespoke his allegiance to Cole. “We’ll get him back.”

  “Agreed. In light of that, you should all see this.” Iliescu nodded to the wall monitor, but then hesitated and considered Tzaddik. “You were good friends with Cathey.”

  “I was,” Tzaddik said.

  “Will this be too hard for you to see?”

  “I have seen more deaths in my lifetime than you could imagine, Deputy Director.” Tzaddik motioned to the wall. “Please go on.”

  Iliescu nodded. “This video footage was taken from security cameras in Dr. Cathey’s place.”

  “We know who killed him?” Thor asked, fingertips pressed together.

  “Negative. Watch.”

  Haven hugged herself as the grainy feed splashed over the screen. A man and woman entered the flat, their backs to the camera. The woman turned to the man, who hung near the door.

  “Tzivia,” Cell muttered.

  Haven’s heart ricocheted through her chest—that was Cole. She tried to steel her reaction, because she didn’t know if saying anything would expose or compromise him. Her gaze skidded into Iliescu’s, which held question, uncertainty. But then understanding slid through his expression, confirming the man on the video was Cole.

  Tzivia and Cole walked the flat, rummaging through it. Iliescu fast-forwarded to when Dr. Cathey appeared.

  “He’s not happy she’s there,” Maangi noted.

  “It’s not every day you find a friend breaking into your home,” Tzaddik noted.

  Two more men showed up. Shots were fired, the muzzle flash painting streaks of white across the screen. Haven cupped a hand over her mouth, tears blurring her vision. Around her shoulders came strength in the form of a reassuring touch from Chiji. She steeled herself, locked onto Cole. Her pulse danced a wild cadence, frantic that she might actually see him killed. It was horrendous to see the sweet, godly Dr. Cathey die.

  “Male number one has military experience,” Runt noted.

  Male number one. Cole. Haven swallowed.

  Thor nodded. “Yeah, but it’s more than that.” He squinted. Frowned. And looked to be on the edge of epiphany.

  Cell leaned forward, eyes wide. “Hold up!”

  “The guy—that’s Tox?” Thor pointed to the feed, looking at Haven, then the deputy director.

  Iliescu clenched his jaw. “It seems Nur assigned him to monitor Tzivia, which worked in our favor.”

  “I can’t believe Tox let the professor get popped,” Cell muttered.

  Maangi slapped the back of Cell’s head.

  “Ow! Hey, what—” His gaze hit Haven. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

  “I’m sure he did everything in his power to stop it,” she said.

  “He was in the hall taking care of the second tango when Dr. Cathey ate lead,” Runt added.

  “I know Cole respected and admired Dr. Cathey. I’m sure the professor’s death weighs heavily on him,” she said, her voice cracking. “I also know it probably tears at him that he couldn’t prevent it.”

  “I ought to strangle you,” Thor growled at Cell, “inflicting angst on Tox’s pregnant wife.”

  “Tox’ll take care of the punk when he gets back,” Maangi added.

  The elevator door dinged, and a man in slacks and button-down shirt jogged toward the deputy director. “Sir. I was told to bring this to you immediately.”

  Iliescu took a file and flipped it open. His gaze darted back and forth over whatever lay within, then he huffed a laugh. “Mercy . . .”

  Cell grinned. “What’d she find?”

  “Apparently, the virus she planted in Mattin’s system went active, allowing her a back door.” He strode to a computer, typed, then looked at the screen. “She found this photograph scanned into their system.” He cocked his head. “It may be the very one Tzivia broke into Cathey’s apartment for.”

  “You mean the one that got Dr. Cathey killed,” Cell said. “Call it like it is. She got her own mentor killed.”

  Arms folded, Iliescu considered them. “Moving on to item three for this briefing. Wallace has made a significant discovery. The team knows this already, but for your benefit, Ms. Cortes—Mrs. Russell, I’ll repeat that with the help of Ms. Maddox, Agent Wallace discovered TAFFIP was collecting DNA. The two were attacked one night while working on the systems,” Iliescu recounted. “One suspect was killed, two escaped, another captured and bled for intel. He’s loyal to his cause, but he’s also scared spitless, which
will crack him eventually. However, analysts have finally determined that people with certain markers in their DNA are the ones being targeted by the AFO.”

  “Markers?” Runt asked. “And by targeted, you mean being boiled alive.”

  Iliescu ignored him. “Analysis is still preliminary, but the markers are connected to nationality.”

  “Race?” Haven breathed, startled.

  Another nod from Iliescu. “In particular, Jews. Wallace confirmed those already killed with these arrows are all Jewish.”

  “Wait, you mean this is like advanced Hitler stuff?” Cell said with a snort. “Isn’t that a little . . .”

  “Evil?” Tzaddik supplied.

  “I was going to say Hollywood. Or maybe conspiracy theory,” Cell said.

  “Wait.” Runt ran a hand over his mouth, thinking. “I’m not seeing the connection between the Soup Maker and Goliath’s sword.”

  “Yeah,” Cell said. “Y’all did say it was his, right? Like, medieval?”

  “Correct—Iron Age,” Tzaddik pronounced firmly, his gray eyes sparking. “The Niph’al crafted the sword, gifted it to Gulat. The then-shepherd boy David kept the sword.”

  “The sword vanishes from the Bible,” Chiji noted. “It is last recorded that the priest took and wrapped it, keeping it behind the ephod.”

  “You are right. First Samuel mentions that. And yes, it was there,” Tzaddik agreed, “for a time.”

  He was so maddening! Despite his older, handsome features, there was a ferocity about him that dared anyone to challenge him. “You know what happened to it,” Haven noted.

  “What I know is that it has been fought over for centuries. Then, in the time of the brother-knights, the Adama Herev was dismantled into three pieces and sent across the world to keep it from being destroyed or used again.” Tzaddik roughed his hands together. “The Nizari Ismaili—Nur—would have this sword reassembled in the hopes of finding a cure.”

  “Okay,” Runt said, expression heavy with the revelations tossed out in this meeting—and Haven could relate. “You dropped the bombs on us. What are we going to do about it?”

  “Act,” Iliescu said definitively. “We’re mobilizing Wraith.”

  “Hooah!” Cell barked.