Thirst of Steel

by Ronie Kendig

  “Acting on the intel provided by Raison, we’re putting together a snatch-and-grab mission for Lukas Gath. You’ll head to Lakenheath, then deploy from there. Also, you’re escorting the civvies,” he said, nodding to Haven, Chiji, and Tzaddik, “to Cathey’s London flat so they can hunt down an artifact.”

  “Ladies,” Thor grumbled, “Wraith is on the hunt!”

  42

  — OUTSIDE MADONA, LATVIA —

  Thwump-thwump-thwump.

  The rotor noise grated on Tzivia’s nerves as she sat across from the traitor. It would be easier to call him Kazimir. To believe him a stranger. The wound would not have gone so deep then.

  But it was Tox. A friend. A man she considered like a brother. Or was he really Cole Russell? He’d never outright said he was.

  His basic frame—shoulders, torso, neck, and head shape—seemed right. But the nose. The eyes. The fact that he’d turned on her. Tox would never have done that.

  No way this could be Tox.

  Everyone betrays me in the end. She had always felt a casual comfortableness around Tox. It was why she’d tried dating him. But he was too loyal to his codes and honor for her tastes. She needed someone who responded. As Omar had. The ache worsened, knowing that each day that went by increased the likelihood of never seeing him again.

  She pushed her gaze to the pretty Latvian landscape of rolling hills, rivers, and glass-like lakes. Tranquil, unlike her thoughts about Tox. She hated him for the many wrongs he’d done her, but the betrayals flew both ways in these muddled skies. If it was him. She wasn’t completely sure.

  “Radio jamming,” the pilot called through the comms. “Going to have to set down well outside the compound.”

  Tzivia perked up, sliding closer to the jump seat where Nur’s soldiers straddled steel and thin air. The location was supposed to be simple, innocuous. But now that they were here, they saw a thick wall surrounding a small wood-frame home.

  “Smart,” someone said in Russian. “Boulders and vegetation on the wall disguised it from satellite imaging, made it look like the rest of the area.”

  “Anyone been out here?” Kazimir asked. “Actually put boots on ground?”

  “Negative,” Igor replied. “This location wasn’t in our files. Lukas has always been secretive.”

  “So this could be a trap,” Kazimir suggested.

  Igor snorted. “He doesn’t even know we’re coming.”

  Right. A chopper barreling at a compound an hour outside any city, and the owner didn’t hear or see it? The descent unsettled something in Tzivia’s stomach—and not her food. A general unease slithered over her, eyeing the walled-in compound protecting what seemed to be a nondescript home. A very ordinary, small home at that.

  The helo touched down a mile outside the compound, forcing them to hoof it the rest of the way to the iron front gate.

  “Need to blast it?” someone asked.

  “Why?” Kazimir nodded to it. “It’s not locked.” His gaze swung to Igor, then Tzivia. “I think he wants us to come in. Which probably means it’s a trap.”

  “He is an old man. Probably forgot to lock it,” Yefim said.

  “If you believe that,” Kazimir said, “you go through first.”

  Tzivia strode toward the home, away from the men, caring about only one thing: getting that scrollwork. Maybe that was why this guy had walled in his one-story home. Fifty paces separated the gate from the first step of the screened-in front porch.

  “Hey, ostanovis!” Igor barked.

  No, she wasn’t stopping. Wouldn’t stop till this was over and she had won her father’s freedom.

  When a hand clamped down on her shoulder, Tzivia spun. Drove a fist at Igor’s face, which he narrowly avoided—but only because she pulled it. “Go in, or I will,” she hissed at him.

  Eyes sparking, he snapped a gloved hand forward. “Alexei, Lyosha. Check it out.”

  Murmurs of complaint rose, but the two men moved forward, weapons warily held up, unsure they’d need them but too scared not to have them ready. As they pushed past it, the iron gate squawked, the noise echoing across the valley, which was hemmed in on all sides by hill or mountain. Protected, Tzivia thought.

  “Watch for mines,” Yefim warned.

  “Right,” Kazimir muttered as he joined Tzivia, “because Gath wants to blow himself up each time he returns home.” He pointed to the hard-packed ruts in the ground that stopped at the porch. “The only tracks are those.” He motioned right and left. “No others. Safe to say he isn’t blowing up his guests.”

  Good enough. Tzivia stalked toward the house, unyielding, despite warnings from Igor. To her right, she felt a presence. Knew it was Kazimir. Tox. She needed to call it like it was. She half expected him to say something, apologize for passing her off as crazy in front of the AFO. But no. He just kept walking. Just stayed close.

  Less than a dozen paces separated them from the wooden steps to the screened-in porch. Instinctively, Tzivia stopped—and so did Kazimir. Tox. Toximir.

  “He’s not going to kill us,” he muttered.

  “How do you know?”

  “He’s had ten minutes to do it and hasn’t. He wants us in there.” He indicated the house. “Let’s find out why.” Stalking forward, he scanned the jamb, probably to insure there weren’t any wires that would send them sailing into the afterlife. He opened the screen door, his boots thudding heavily on the boards as he went for the half-glass door that led into the house.

  Tzivia waited just inside the porch. Pulse thrumming. It felt wrong. And yet right. “What if he’s not alive?”

  Tox glanced over his shoulder. “Then I guess he won’t answer.”

  “No. I meant—” She huffed, eyeing the others who skirted the house and cleared it, some going to the rear, but most circling back to the front. “Never mind.”

  Toximir rapped on the door. “Mr. Gath?”

  Creaking ensued and sent shivers up her spine, and the door squeaked open in a way straight out of a horror movie. Tox stepped back, his posture taut and confident. Fingers twitching, probably for a weapon. The stunt Tzivia had pulled in Moscow had weakened his credibility with Nur, and the decision had been made for only Igor’s team to have weapons. She was finding it difficult to feel sorry.

  “Rybakov, ostanovis,” Igor called, his boots pounding up the steps. He squeezed past Tzivia with five of his men.

  Toximir allowed the others to take point, annoyance playing across his scarred face. And there—right there, she saw Tox. Yet Tox wasn’t scarred. Regardless, this man was used to leading, not being a lackey. And she hated him for it. Hated him for turning on her.

  “You okay?” His voice was quiet as he drew alongside her.

  Spearing him with an angry glare did little to loosen the knot of tension in her chest as Igor pushed open the door. “Fine,” she bit out, following the others.

  She stepped into the dim setting. A living area. Very well kept, but simple. Small. Classical music drifted down a hall on her left.

  Yefim and Igor headed that way.

  Tzivia stiffened as the notes registered. “Oh no,” she choked out. “Chopin’s ‘Funeral March.’”

  43

  — OUTSIDE MADONA, LATVIA —

  Something in the air shifted. A scent or texture—something.

  Tox hesitated. Noted several things in that split second. The inches-thick jambs boxing in the small hall on two sides—one that led to the living room, the other to a back room. The different creaks of the floor as they walked side by side. Yefim’s steps were heavy, pounding. His steps, which should be the same, came more as a groan. Which meant the subfloor was different. The smell here in the passage—clear, cool, and not like the musty space when they’d entered. Grunts in the yard, which sounded too much like men getting taken out. The first hint of confusion in the rear room. And last, the click-whoosh.

  Lunging, he simultaneously snagged the KA-BAR from Igor’s belt and snapped around. Grabbed Tzivia. Hauled her against th
e wall seconds before steel doors slammed down on both sides, trapping them alone in the minipassage. Powder room on the left. Wall on the right.

  “What the heck?” Tzivia breathed, shoving him back.

  From the other side of the steel came distant shouts as the team banged on the barrier. The floor shifted. Vibrated.

  Then lowered.

  Tzivia threw her hands out for balance as they descended. “It was a trap.”

  “Think I might’ve said that.” Not quite convinced they were in danger, though this situation sucked, Tox tried not to cringe at the light falling away into darkness and a cool, sterilized breeze wafting across his face. He hit the shoulder lamp on his tac vest.

  Light bloomed down a lonely, dark corridor. “Crap,” he said, his mind vaulting back to the tunnel that had nearly buried him alive.

  “Always tunnels,” Tzivia mumbled, her voice shaky. She had also been nearly buried alive in an explosion at an excavation.

  Tox grunted. “Let’s just hope we don’t find Tzaddik at the end of this one.”

  — MOSCOW, RUSSIA —

  Darkness pervaded his vision as Ram woke. He blinked, trying to clear the black from his eyes, but nothing changed. Where am I? His head felt like a two-ton boulder, aching and swimming as if he were underwater.

  Memories crashed through him of sitting in the café. Noticing a man hovering at the door. Skating his gaze to the plaza, where four more men in black suits waited, all with military bearing. Knowing he’d been blown. Knowing if he stayed, the chances increased that Mercy would show. He wasn’t going to put her in danger again, so he’d walked out. Sensed the trail he’d picked up, like the wake of a motorboat. Felt the prick in his neck.

  Why was he abducted? Where was he? He pushed off the ground and straightened—and his head collided with something, pain exploding through his skull. He ducked, realizing he’d hit a wall. He palmed it, panicking when he found it cold and damp. Were they holding him in the same place they held his father? Below the cathedral?

  Steps crunched closer and closer, though he could see nothing. A scraping, then the sound of scratching stone sliding closer. “Eat,” a disembodied voice demanded. The steps receded.

  “What do you want with me?” Ram called, his voice bouncing back, taunting.

  Darkness held him hostage.

  — OUTSIDE MADONA, LATVIA —

  Light fractured the dark tunnel, and Toximir advanced, the glint of metal paralleling his forearm.

  “Where’d you get that?” Tzivia asked, hunkering behind him as they moved.

  “Igor loaned it to me,” he said.

  She huffed. “Why couldn’t you snag something useful, like the Kalashnikov?”

  “Because they’re crap,” he muttered.

  She breathed a laugh around the thick tension as they advanced slowly, a step at a time, the shoulder lamp only giving a peek at the next five feet. Over his shoulder, she saw a looming wall. “Uh . . .”

  He shouldered left—more darkness.

  “I really hate this,” she whispered. “And you.”

  “You said that once.”

  “Nine-hundred-ninety-nine to go.”

  He sidestepped forward. A subtle click stopped them. Whoosh!

  Light flooded the tunnel as the wall to their left leapt aside. They both whipped toward it, wincing at the searing flash.

  Tzivia lifted her arm to shield her eyes. “Wha—”

  “Welcome, Mr. Russell and Ms. Khalon. Please, come in.”

  44

  — OUTSIDE MADONA, LATVIA —

  Firming his grip on the knife, Tox crossed the threshold, disbelieving what lay past it. Immaculate and modern, a large living area with television and computer monitors blurred into a monochromatic palette of whites and grays. The entire length of the far east wall boasted tall kitchen cabinets and an industrial stove. Several doors banked off the main area, which stood empty and sterile.

  “What the—”

  Tox swung a hand to stop Tzivia, but the emergence of a man with a beard, wearing a brown tunic and a smile, stilled him. He hefted the knife again.

  “I am not your enemy, Mr. Russell.” The man pointed to the ceiling. “The men up there are. But you know that, don’t you? The changes to your appearance haven’t dulled your instincts.”

  “So it is you.”

  Ignoring Tzivia’s hissed words, Tox studied the man. “Are you Lukas Gath?” This man knew too much, and that could be the death of them.

  Their host smiled, held out his hands. “You came for Lukas Gath, right?”

  Tzivia stepped past Tox.

  “Wait,” Tox snapped, but she pressed forward.

  “You know why we’re here,” she said, glancing around the living arrangements.

  Something akin to grief filled Lukas Gath’s bearded face. In another time and place, he’d be likened to a gypsy or flower child. There was an ethereal quality to him, a way he moved, that was unsettling.

  “Give it to us,” she demanded.

  “My child,” Gath said as a whistle screeched from the kitchen—a teakettle. “The last time I spoke to your father, he mentioned your . . . impetuous nature.” A weak smile twitched his dark beard. “He was proud, yet concerned for your future.” He glided to the stove, where he lifted the kettle. Poured steaming water into a mug, which he lifted, along with his eyebrows, to Tox. “And you, Mr. Russell.”

  Tox snorted. “You knew my father?”

  “No,” Gath said, blowing across the cup. “Your girlfriend.”

  “Haven?” Tzivia’s voice squeaked.

  “No, not his wife,” Gath laughed. “His girlfriend—once, a long time ago.”

  “Brooke,” Tox breathed.

  Gath’s thick, dark eyebrows pushed up beneath his shaggy, shoulder-length hair. “Mm, quite.”

  “Wait—what?” Tzivia snapped around to Tox with wide, shocked eyes. “Wife? You married Haven?”

  Strangely disoriented by this man, Tox shifted his weight and swallowed. There was something . . . familiar. Like that tenuous, just out of reach déjà vu that plagued him sometimes. “What about Brooke?”

  “No,” Gath said, moving to the white sofa, where he sat on the low seating.

  “No?” Tox thumbed the tactile grip of the knife, frowning.

  Gath slurped his tea noisily. “No, that’s not our purpose, talking about Brooke, though she is not what you thought, and I would have you own that knowledge. Brooke was many things, but a traitor she was not. She was a good woman, fighting for those she loved and making sacrifices none would understand. Well, not any of you.” He lifted a finger. “Our purpose here is you and your forebears, Mr. Russell.”

  “Actually, I think our purpose is the scrollwork,” Tzivia growled.

  “Wait,” Tox said, slicing a hand at Tzivia. “You can’t expect me to leave what you said about Brooke at that. Not after . . .”

  Gath’s gaze softened marginally and he nodded. “It is a burden you need not bear. You are not responsible for her death. Look elsewhere for someone whose shoulders carry that guilt.” He lifted his palms. “I can say no m—”

  “You have the scrollwork of the Adama Herev,” Tzivia said, surging forward. “You knew my father, and you need to help me save him.”

  His sharp eyes locked onto Tzivia.

  Unsettled by the eerie sense he’d seen those eyes before—or that look, or whatever—Tox didn’t like it. “Why’d you bring us down here? I’d ask how”—he let his gaze trace the ceiling, noticing joists and hinges in odd places—“but I have a feeling you’ll be as cryptic about that as you are about Brooke and everything else.”

  “Quite right, Mr. Russell,” Gath said, coming to his feet.

  Tzivia’s ire flared. “The sword—”

  Gath flung a searing glare that silenced and pushed her back a step. Then she finally seemed to understand what Tox had as soon as they entered the underground complex. Their host wasn’t just an AFO asset. He wasn’t just a traitor. He was far
. . . more.

  He languidly approached.

  Everything in Tox constricted, itching to pull away. But no. This . . . this was what Gath wanted. Me. But why?

  Placid, sanguine eyes held his. Gath reached out a lanky hand and grasped Tox’s shoulder. Brutal and ironlike, the grip sunk into his flesh. Something spiked through Tox, and he went still.

  Eyes crinkling beneath an aged smile, Gath said, “He would be proud.”

  “Who?”

  “Giraude.”

  Drawing back did nothing to help Tox put distance between that name and this moment. “What . . . ?”

  “You have searched, have you not? Tzaddik told you to, yes?”

  “Haven has,” Tox admitted, confused. “But how—”

  Understanding rippled through Gath’s expression. “You haven’t found it. You haven’t found the connection between you, the sword, Giraude . . .”

  “I’m not sure what I’m looking for.”

  “When you find it, you’ll know.”

  “Sorry, but we’re here for the sword,” Tzivia bit out. “The men upstairs will bring your house down if you don’t—”

  Gath spun. “A threat, Ms. Khalon?” He surged toward her. “You dare threaten me in my own home?”

  “N-no,” she said, leaning away. “I only—”

  Something in Tox reared up, not liking the way Gath confronted her, but he held the instinct, the urge to defend her.

  Gath’s expression enlivened. “Those men can do nothing to me. Bring my house down?” He scoffed. “I think not. In fact, I would venture that they are fleeing the grounds even as we speak.”

  Those words held too much meaning to be frivolous. Tox tensed. “What’d you do to them?”

  “Perhaps you should return to the elevator and find out.”

  “The sword,” Tzivia persisted, her defiance rising. “I saw the bronze scrollwork in a picture of you and Dr. Cathey.”

  “You are thick, aren’t you?” Gath snorted at her. “It’s not here, child. Run and play your war games. The sword will not be known”—his gaze swung to Tox—“until the time is right.”