by Ronie Kendig
Her mind whirred. The only people who could get Ram out who weren’t Americans were the Mossad. This had to be Omar Kastan. “Why? Why’d they take him?”
Omar checked over his shoulder, watching Ram. “The wrong people wanted to make a point to him.” He sneered, his breath hot against her face. He snagged the pouch from her hands. Held it in her face, shaking it so she heard the tinkling of glass. “One vial. Every two hours.”
She scowled. “I’m not giving him anything you—”
“You don’t—he dies.” His dark eyes narrowed. “And that will be on you, and I will be angry. And you will pay.” Heated anger shadowed his features. “Got me?”
“You can’t expect me to just stick a needle in his neck and inject him with something—”
“Not his neck. His thigh.” He released her with a shove that bounced her head off the wall. “Every two hours, or his death is on your head, and we all come after you.”
With his threat hanging in the stale air, Omar and his men stalked out of the small warehouse, leaving Mercy with an unconscious Ram and a pouch. She opened it—syringes and vials. She held up one of the vials and eyed the milky white solution it contained.
A moan lured her attention away. “Ram?” She went to his side, only then seeing the extent of his injuries. What had the AFO done? Beat him all day long? It seemed every inch of him was covered in bruises and cuts. Reddish-purple bruises. Near-black welts.
A strangled yelp writhed in her throat and pushed Mercy to her knees, grieved. Worried. She laid a hand over his, squeezing.
He moaned again, and his head rolled toward her.
“Ram? Can you hear me?”
Drawing in a breath, he seemed to hear, though he didn’t open his eyes. A minute snuck by before he shifted a leg. Clenched his eyes in pain. Stiffened. Pulled his hand from her touch and pressed it to a spot above his right pelvis.
“Ram, can you hear me?” she repeated. “Please—if you can—”
“Yeah,” he moaned, not opening his eyes. “Tox.”
Beat to a pulp, and he asked about Tox. “Don’t worry about him. You have to get better.”
“I’ll b—” He shuddered through a breath. “. . . okay.”
Time fell off the clock, and his body pulled him back into unconsciousness to help him recuperate.
Mercy stood and retrieved her phone. First, she set reminders for the injections, and then she called the deputy director.
— LAKENHEATH AFB, SUFFOLK, ENGLAND —
Two days after the briefing, Wraith gathered in the hangar at Lakenheath, awaiting instructions. Leif stretched out his legs and leaned back against his rucksack. He glanced around at Wraith and the civvies, all chilling.
“I thought we were doing something,” Cell complained.
“Besides getting R&R in a different country,” Thor threw in.
Maangi shifted his hat over his eyes. “Might as well catch some Z’s while we can.”
Geared up for the last eighteen hours, they still had no “Go” order.
This was a solid team. Leif appreciated their resolve and determination. The grit they operated with. Also the camaraderie that cemented who they were as a team. It reminded him of days long gone.
Haven and Chiji were sitting in the only chairs left. She heaved a sigh. “We could’ve already gone in and been back,” she said. “Not that I’m anxious to root around in his home. It feels wrong.”
“But it is necessary,” Chiji said. “If only to rule out whether or not the bust is there.”
“Or if it’s a bust,” Cell mumbled from where he lay on a folding table, boots on the edge. He rolled his head to look at them. “What’s so important about it anyway?”
“We’re not sure,” Haven admitted. “Just that it needs to be found.”
“Gather up, ladies,” the stern voice of General Rodriguez reverberated through the hangar amid the screech of an F-15E landing.
“What’s the holdup, General?” Leif rolled off the wall and sauntered over.
“There’s activity in the area—right on top of our objective.”
“An attack?”
“That was our initial assessment, but there’s been no indication of weapons’ fire or explosions—until we attempted to send a drone. They took it down, so whatever’s happening up there, they don’t want anyone seeing.”
“Which means it’s probably not good,” Leif said.
The general nodded. “So we’re putting you into this mountain range that circles the dwelling.” He held out a sheet of paper with a satellite photo. “We’ll drop you on this side, and you’ll scale into position. Get eyes on what’s going on.”
“Kind of interesting that someone else shows up on a guy with AFO connections purported to be a turncoat.” Runt glanced at the image. “Think the AFO took out the drone?”
“No way to know,” Rodriguez said. “AFO don’t wear a uniform or stick to one nationality. But”—he nodded—“that’s our guess at this time.”
“ROE?” Thor asked, taking the picture.
“For now, no body count. Get eyes on that place and tell us what’s happening.”
46
— OUTSIDE MADONA, LATVIA —
“Albatross, Wraith in position,” Thor subvocalized as he nestled between rocks and thick-bladed grass on the mountain overlooking a large valley where a lone compound existed in peace. Until today.
“Copy, Wraith,” the droning voice of Rodriguez replied. “Stay low and recon.”
“Roger,” Thor answered.
Leif used binoculars to peer down at the valley floor, where two large vehicles huddled near a chopper. A foot-thick wall enclosed the home, but in the space between it and the house stood a group of people. He homed in on the man who stood about six feet and adjusted the nocs for clarity and grunted. “That’s some nose job.”
“Unbelievable,” muttered Cell from his left, long-range nocs pressed to his face. “This is some kinda messed up, seeing Tox all beak-nosed and crap.”
“How long have y’all known Tox?” Leif asked.
“Dude, I don’t like your tone.”
“Easy, Three,” Thor muttered. “It was just a question.”
“That wasn’t a question,” Cell argued. “He’s looking through nocs and sees Actual embedded with the enemy and gets to wondering if it’s legit. If he’s been turned.”
“I’ve seen bigger men turned faster.” Leif didn’t like the way the enemy combatants were grouping up on Tox. No trust there.
“Well, that’s Actual, so you better shut your pie hole, because that man? They don’t make soldiers like him any—whoa! Hold up. There’s hottie.”
Tzivia Khalon emerged from the house, dragging a hand over her mouth and then up over her head and ponytail. Silence clapped through the crisp afternoon as the team monitored the action below.
“Albatross, confirm visual on Secondary Objective,” Thor radioed the plane circling at thirty-something thousand feet above them.
Tzivia joined Tox, but by the way the small army circled them . . . “Seems things aren’t going so well for Actual,” Leif said.
“Roger that,” Maangi said. “Unfriendlies seem worried.”
“They should be,” Cell growled. “Actual will gut them!”
“Wraith, we count eleven tangos on property,” Rodriguez said through the comms, “but thermals show another nine to your eleven.”
Eleven? Only mountains there. Leif swung his nocs that direction and scanned the vegetation for disparity, movement. A swath of black glared back at him. Whoever was holed up, they weren’t even trying to hide, using black gear. Brazen. “This is Wraith One, confirm visual on unidentifieds.” He visually trekked their gear, weapons, and shoulders for insignia, but like Wraith, they wore none. “Negative on ID.” They did, however, wear ferocity and intent. They weren’t here to monitor.
“Guess these guys to be black ops,” Maangi said. “Middle Eastern.”
“No,” Leif said quietly. “Israe
li special operators.”
“How would you know that?” Cell growled.
“I know,” Leif insisted, lowering the binoculars and meeting Cell’s gaze. “I think they’re here for the same reason we are.”
“Should we attempt to communicate with Actual?” Thor asked into the comms.
“Might compromise our position,” Leif said.
“Agreed,” Maangi said. “Can’t without giving ourselves away.”
“Dude.” Cell snorted. “I thought that was the point of coming—giving away, ya know . . . bullets. Wounds. Holes in the head.” He shrugged. “I mean, let’s not be stingy.”
“Look,” Tox bit out in Russian to the armed men pressing in on him, “how many times do you want me to repeat this?”
“As many times as it takes for me to believe it.” Igor glowered at him. “You seriously expect me to take that report to Nur?”
Tox shrugged. “I’ll take it myself.”
“Your funeral,” someone taunted.
“Give it to me again,” Igor demanded.
Tox sighed. Looked at Tzivia. “Lukas Gath lives in a bunker belowground. He intentionally separated us from you so we could talk privately.”
“And he gave you no information about the sword?”
“None,” Tzivia said, frustration coating her words. “He was . . . infuriating!”
Glad she had answered, Tox looked at the tunnel they’d exited when leaving the bunker. Yefim and the others had searched it but only found a twenty-square-foot area. No opening to a living area like Tox and Tzivia described. Baffled, they’d started a perimeter search for another way into the underground compound, but after two hours had found nothing.
A piercing glare hit his eye, and Tox angled away from the source, blinking.
“Mr. Abidaoud will think you had something to do with this, that you wanted or helped this to happen.” Igor stepped into Tox’s personal space. “You knew Gath would bring up those walls.”
“If I recall, you insisted on taking lead,” Tox countered.
The light again stabbed his vision. Annoyed, Tox shifted. What was that? He peered past his upheld hand, glancing around the walled compound. But it had vanished.
“So you know nothing,” Igor spat. “We came out here for nothing. No sword. No information.”
On the contrary—they had information, but Tox wasn’t sure what it meant. “Gath said the piece wasn’t here.”
“And you believed him?” Igor sneered. “You simpleton! He told you that so you’d leave.”
Yefim returned from his search, shaking his head with a dour expression. “Nothing.”
“Inside,” Igor barked. “Find the mechanism and get us down there.”
“Again?” Tzivia complained. “We searched for the last hour!”
“And we’ll search for another, unless you want to explain about this. Mr. Abidaoud’s already prepared to separate that pretty head from your body.”
Light like a laser blinded Tox again. He grunted and looked away, shielding his eyes, but first he took a second to register the location. High. Past the compound. He pushed his attention in the general direction of the source. The mountains? He’d expected it to be a windshield or metal reflection, but up there?
Another flare flickered from the mountain at his two o’clock.
What the . . . ?
“Move!” Yefim shoved Tox, spinning him toward the house.
Someone’s in the hills. On that ridge overlooking the valley. Who? Who was up there? Someone who wanted him to notice them. But didn’t shoot at him.
Mossad. Or Wraith. Dare he hope?
“Kazimir?” Tzivia’s voice was soft, pliant. “You okay?”
“Fine.” he said, guiding her to the front door. A prismed glare struck the wood. Stepping aside, he let Yefim take the lead, using the moment to press three fingers against the door, then two. Hoping the guys saw. Hoping they understood his signal.
47
— OUTSIDE MADONA, LATVIA —
“Was that a hand signal?” Cell said with a laugh. “Did the chief just give us a hand signal?”
Thor nodded. “He wants us to hold position, stay out of sight.”
“In other words,” Maangi said, “probably no more mirror glares.”
“What about our eleven o’clock?” Leif asked. “Any movement there? I can’t find them.” Why hadn’t someone watched the Israelis?
Thor shifted his gaze in that direction. Sighed. “Nothing we can do. They’re too far away.”
Leif grunted. “Let’s hope it stays that way, or we have a boatload of trouble on our hands.”
— MOSCOW, RUSSIA —
“I don’t think I can take it anymore,” Mercy said into the phone.
Recovery had been surprisingly quick since Mossad had delivered Ram. But she feared he was running mostly on pure willpower. He could walk, though he moved like an elephant trying to navigate Red Square when it was crowded. And yet still he sat at the café, staring at the fountain. Sipping water or a latte or nothing. Just sat. For hours. And that took every vestige of strength. Were it not for the injections, it would’ve been too much.
Mercy had harped about how he needed to rest, but he’d argued, said what he needed was to find Tox.
“Well, I need you to put aside your feelings for Ram,” Iliescu said. “There’s a very big game happening Thursday, and our team is already out there, so we need him in the game.”
“I hear you, but he’s not the same.”
“We just need him there. He’ll figure it out.”
“I’m not sure, Dru.”
“He will. Just—”
Keys jiggled in the lock.
“Gotta go.” Mercy ended the call and turned.
Stiffly, he entered the warehouse, left arm tight against his side. He’d favored that since returning from wherever it was Mossad found him.
She didn’t dare ask if Tox had shown because his dejected demeanor answered that. But she was desperate to talk to him. To hear his voice. To cheer him up. She hated it. Hated not knowing. Hated his ambivalence about his condition. Coming to her feet as he stepped in, Mercy also hated how he acted like she didn’t exist. Granted, he’d done that for years—but they hadn’t been in the same room.
Wind gusted in and shoved his hair into his face.
“You could use a haircut,” she said all-too-cheerily, thumbs hooked in her back pockets.
Ram strode to his computer, which he’d ordered her to reassemble. He pecked on the keyboard, shedding his coat with one hand, which elicited a few painful grunts.
“Still henpecking, huh?” she said, forcing a laugh.
He snatched off his beanie and pitched it toward the bed, but it landed on the floor.
She stared at it, realizing how much everything about them mirrored that tossed-aside beanie. She picked it up and rubbed it between her fingers, glad to have him back, safe. Yet she didn’t like the Ram who’d returned. He was different. Broody. A thousand times more introspective than the man she’d fallen in love with.
What do I do? How do I pull him back?
“Mercy.” Her name was a warm whisper that skated along her neck.
She snapped her head up to find Ram at her side. Close. Very, very close. There was a look in his eyes. She stilled when his hand came to the small of her back, sending darts of fire up her spine and coiling around her heart.
“I need your help.”
“Okay,” she said. At least, she thought she did. She wasn’t sure, because he didn’t move, and neither did she. It worried her. That different something was even more different right now. It confused her. Scared her.
“I need you to give me a haircut.”
Mercy blinked. Laughed. Then she paused. “Seriously?”
A tremor of a smile tugged his lips. Then he took the beanie from her. “You’re good with scissors.”
“I’m good with coding and keyboards. Maybe with a crochet hook, but I’m not a stylist.”
&nbs
p; “Please.”
No. No, he was too . . . soft. Too nice. Too— This isn’t right! It was like he was someone else. Or someone had taken over his body.
He trudged to a box, set aside the beanie. He paused, fingers on the crocheted piece, eyeing it. Then he turned back to the box and dug inside it, metal banging against metal as he did. He returned with a pair of scissors. Handed them to her.
This made abso-freakin’-lutely no sense. “And I’m not supposed to stab these through your heart?”
“Preferably not,” he said with a wry smile.
Staring at the stainless-steel shears, she let her thoughts ricochet through potential purposes. Why would he ask her to do this? Sure, he needed the cut, but in his appearance, he’d always been a bit conservative with a side of Bohemian. It was that quiet, irrepressible spirit that was a perfect counter to her borderline eccentric one.
“One condition,” Mercy said, having no idea why she was even agreeing. “Tell me what they did to you.”
He lowered his gaze. Caught her hand and tugged her toward the folding chair, where he sat.
Standing over him, she realized he hadn’t agreed to her condition. Then again, he hadn’t argued either. “I think they usually cut wet hair.”
Holding his side, he pushed to his feet, strode to the bathroom, and shed his shirt, then dunked his head in the sink. It took everything in Mercy not to rail at the map of bruises laid out across his olive skin, racing up his spine and side. They weren’t angry red but had aged to a purplish blue. Some a sick green. It turned her stomach.
Just look at the muscles, not the bruises.
“Like that would help,” she muttered under her breath. She’d always been weak when it came to Banner’s corded muscles. Ram wasn’t bulked up, but he was sculpted.
Curly, dripping hair hung around his face and shoulders as he resumed his seat, showing off not only his toned pecs but also the mural of tissue damage.
Hair, Mercy, hair. She cleared her throat. “How short?”
“Very.” He gave a firm nod. Touched his temple. “As close as you can get it. A little longer on the top, maybe.”