by Ronie Kendig
“You came for me.”
“Of course.” He held her at arm’s length. “We must go. Our teams are nearby. Come.”
Making sure Haven and Chiji were with them, Tzivia followed him into the shadows. They trod across the ridge, scurrying behind tents and vehicles, to make their way to the southern edge of the valley.
Haven drew in a sharp breath.
Tzivia glanced back. Saw Haven’s stricken expression, her gaze glued to something in the distance. There could be only one thing that caught her attention so wholly. “We have to go,” Tzivia urged.
“Cole,” Haven choked out.
Head down, shoulders sagging, Chiji wrapped an arm around her. “Ngozi, you must get—”
A guard fell upon them. Even as Chiji shoved Haven toward Tzivia with an order to go, he hefted a stick—Where had he gotten that?—and cracked it against the skull of the guard. The man stumbled but raised a weapon.
Elegant and lethal, Chiji was a flurry of strikes and moves, steadily, ferociously advancing. Several cracks—bones? hits?—sounded, but he never slowed. Not until the man lay in a heap.
Only when fierce, intense eyes met hers did Tzivia realize she hadn’t moved. “You have to teach me that,” she breathed.
“Someday.” Chiji moved determinedly toward Haven and guided her away.
Omar loped across the field and delivered them safely to where his men and Wraith were protected but engaged—at a distance—against AFO fighters.
“Look,” one of the guys said, pointing to the field. “Who are they?”
At the sight, a swell of pride bloomed in Tzivia.
Dr. Cathey—Ameus—fought with his brother-knights, protecting the remnant of the Israelis, who were fleeing the battlefield. Their white mantles were mottled with blood, their faces carved with ferocity as they drove toward the battle of champions.
“Ram,” Tox said miserably, deflecting yet another strike. “Stop,” he hissed.
Thrusting, Ram drew in close. “I am no Gulat,” he whispered.
Tox frowned, glancing at his eyes, trying to read—was Ram telling him something?
The Adama Herev sliced through the space between them. Tox leapt away, arching his spine to avoid the tip of the ancient sword.
He’s just distracting me. Focus.
Sword in both hands, he assumed a sparring stance. He had no idea if this was right, if this was how swordsmen readied themselves, but it centered him. Helped him focus.
With fluid grace, Ram advanced. Attacked. “No Brutus.”
Tox parried, ignoring the words. Watching the steel.
“No Benedict.” Ram’s breath was as hot and searing as the blade, which trailed a fiery line across Tox’s side, from near his belly button to just below his arm.
“Augh!” Tox hissed, holding the worst of the cut, blood trickling over his fingers. For one who said he wasn’t a betrayer, Ram was excelling at it. What was he doing, then?
“C’mon!” Ram growled. “Lift your sword, coward. Strike!”
“That’s right,” Yared shouted. “There is no honor in killing a weakling, but it can free us all the same.”
Something shifted in Ram’s gaze. Gritting through the pain helped Tox study his friend. Think through his words. No—names. They were all na—
Ram lunged.
Tox yanked up his sword. Steel clanged. Sang as they scraped lengths.
Ram elbowed Tox in the back. Made him stumble, nearly falling to his knees. He came up, his gaze dragging along the crowd, which now included Thefarie and his brother-knights. All three nodded as they moved. Spread out. What were they doing?
Again, Ram came at him. Deflecting the blade, Tox launched into his friend’s gut. Felt the swords rattle loose and fall to the ground. Hand-to-hand combat was his preferred method. He threw a punch. Nailed a right hook in Ram’s side.
His friend howled.
The primal sound pitched Tox back, as he realized what he’d done. Who he’d struck. No. No, he wasn’t doing this. He stepped away and reached for his sword. He took another step back. “No more, Ram. I won’t—”
“No!” howled someone from the side.
Tox jerked his gaze to the source—Yared. His face a fright, eyes wide. Mouth agape. Shaking his head. What—?
Ram leapt to his feet with his sword. Glanced at the blade. And a strange, surreal smile broke through his tortured expression.
Tox lifted his sword in both hands, all too aware he was weak. Bleeding. Injured. His grip slipping because of the blood.
“You know me,” Ram said with a greedy gleam. He eyed Tox’s sword.
Something happened right there. Tox wasn’t sure what—but then he was. In the heartbeat in which his brain registered that he’d accidentally picked up the wrong sword, that he now held the Adama Herev, he heard Ram’s howl.
His friend threw himself forward.
Instinct tensed Tox’s grip. He realized Ram’s sword was uplifted. His abdomen exposed. Screams tore through the crowd.
Ram drove himself at Tox.
Straight into the ancient blade. Bone grated against steel, flesh surrendering.
A gurgling breath reached Tox’s ears as Ram jerked back violently, freeing himself. Then he stumbled forward and slumped against Tox, shoulders colliding. Blood slipped down his lip. A fountain of sticky warmth soaked into Tox. “No!”
Weary, relieved eyes met Tox’s. “Forgive me,” Ram breathed, “brother.”
“Ram,” Tox choked, peripherally aware that chaos had broken out around him. “Medic!” he screamed, catching Ram. Supporting him. More blood spilled over his hand—his friend’s blood. Ram had driven his body onto the blade. Why? Why would he do this? “No. No no no.”
A roar came from behind—Yared. “No! You fool, Ram. You’ve re-cursed us for another thousand years.” Blazing eyes turned to Tox. “Kill Russell!”
Nur charged them.
In a lethal blur, Thefarie manifested. With screaming steel, he delivered a deadly blow, severing Nur from this life.
“I could not,” Ram said with a staggered, weak breath that drew Tox’s gaze back to his friend, “let him win. Could not . . . betray.”
Thefarie turned and touched Ram’s shoulder. “Well done.” He retrieved the Adama Herev, glanced at Tox with an apologetic expression, then strode away.
Boom! Boom!
Tox shifted, clutching at Ram, who sagged further against him. “Help!” He glanced back, startled to see the generator tanker engulfed in fire, pitching flames twenty or more feet in the air.
There he saw the outline of Thefarie. Striding purposely, AFO operators chasing him, straight into the raging inferno with the Adama Herev.
Maangi sprinted toward Tox with two others. They took Ram and laid him on his side. Tox staggered back, hands covered in blood, in death. He dropped to a knee, unable to bear the burden. Unable to forgive himself. Unable to believe. Ram was dying. Would die. He could not survive that wound.
On all fours, Tox moved to his friend. Touched his head. “Why?” he cried miserably.
Ram brought heavy eyes to his. “It had to end.”
He heard a strangled cry and realized it was his. Shaking his head from side to side, fighting the sqaull of grief, Tox dropped to his elbows. Tears blurred his vision. Angrily he growled at them, because they blocked his sight of his friend. “Brother,” he choked out.
“‘I will not fail . . .’” Ram coughed.
Strangling the tears did no good. They poured out, hot and angry. Tox picked up the line of the Special Forces creed Ram had begun. “‘Those with whom I serve. I will not bring shame upon myself or Special Forces.’”
Wincing at the pain and blood pulsing from him, Ram gave a strange smile. “No . . . shame . . .” His gaze grew distant. Empty.
“Ram!” Tox shouted. “Ram, no! Stay with me!”
One of the medics with Maangi cursed. Shook his head. The three of them shifted on their haunches, fists to their mouths, as if they could not fig
ht the terror of seeing a brother die on the battlefield.
A cry of rage went up.
Tox looked up, seeing two things at once—Maangi’s holstered Glock, and Yared Khalon rushing them with a dagger. Tox came to his feet, snatched the Glock, and brought the weapon to bear. Fired twice into the chest of the man who, by using him as a pawn, had murdered his own son.
Yared stumbled, shocked. Slumped to the ground and breathed his last. Near him lay Nur Abidaoud, a gaping hole in his chest. He lay strewn over the bodies of Barry Attaway and the woman, Zoryana. Most of those who had stood with Yared and Nur now slept eternally with them, the work of the brother-knights.
“You wanted freedom from that curse?” Tox growled. “Done.”
54
— ISRAEL —
This was not how he’d imagined the battle ending.
Bent forward in a metal folding chair, Tox stared at the ground hours later. Though he’d scrubbed his hands, he still saw the blood. Saw Ram’s life spilling out before him. He sat in a field command tent with Rodriguez, Wraith, and Israeli intelligence. Haven and Chiji flanked him but afforded him the space to work through this. It would take months, if not years, but right now he felt ready to lose it.
“Tox,” Rodriguez said from a table where the Israelis were huddled over some military-grade laptops. “I think you’ll want to see this.”
He didn’t. Not really. He didn’t want to see anything except Ram’s face again. Still, he dragged himself to his feet and crossed the tent. Let his gaze hit the screen. Black and white. Satellite imaging.
“What is that?” Runt asked.
“Inbound missile camera.”
“Target?” Tox heard himself ask.
“Mattin Worldwide,” Rodriguez said. “With Mercy’s code and virus, working in conjunction with Wallace, we determined the code they used to track down their victims originated there.”
Tox lifted his head and drew in a breath, watching as the target grew in size and shape as the missile closed in.
“Late at night,” Rodriguez added. “Limited casualties, but enough damage that whatever he had developed will be lost.”
Omar Kastan turned to Tox. “Nur was stupid enough to keep almost everything in one location. But they had some other sites, and our teams are hitting them now. The AFO no longer exists after this morning.”
Tox met the Mossad agent’s dark eyes. “Thank you.”
“It wasn’t just for you. He was one of my men, too.” Omar looked over Tox’s shoulder. “And I had hoped he’d be my brother.”
Tzivia slipped through the crowd and tucked herself against the Mossad director’s side.
Turning away from the screen, from the sea of death, Tox saw Haven. Took her into his arms. Held her. Closed his eyes and this book on the war against the AFO.
Epilogue
— OUTSIDE JERUSALEM —
Tzivia stared out the window, the sunrise now and forever a reminder of the moment her brother sacrificed his life. She wrapped her arms around herself, throat raw as fresh memories sailed over her. Watching her brother die, even from a distance, and seeing him struggle for breath, to assure Tox that he hadn’t betrayed them—it had nearly killed her.
Though she was still alive, she was determined to make sure the Tzivia who’d played a hand in that fateful battle was no longer the Tzivia living and breathing today.
“Breakfast is ready,” Omar called from behind her.
She pivoted and smiled, shaking her head at the sight of him. Bare-chested but wearing an apron, he held two plates of shakshuka.
Tzivia teared up, biting back tears. It was Ram’s favorite.
He slid one toward her.
Wiping away the tear, she accepted it. “Delicious.”
“Me or the food?”
Smiling at him, she folded herself onto a chair and left him wondering. Lifting a fork, she looked at the plate. And froze. “What is that?”
Omar sat down with his food and shrugged. “A ring.”
“I know it’s a ring, but—”
“I didn’t want you to forget the vows we took.”
“How would I forget?”
“You can be pretty forgetful. Like that time you forgot to tell me where you were going and ended up in Moscow.” He winked and stabbed his fork into the eggs.
“I was so selfish.”
“Yes, you were,” he said with a rumble of laughter. He set aside the fork and plucked the ring from the bread twist he’d threaded through it. “But I love you, Tzivia. And I do see the change. Just make sure you are true to yourself.” He held her hand and slid on the ring. “Now you’re mine.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t see a certificate of ownership.”
“Sure you did,” Omar said, stuffing shakshuka into his mouth. “It’s called a marriage license!”
— A MONTH LATER
— NORTHERN VIRGINIA —
The surgical scars to reverse Tox’s transformation were healing, but the loss of Ram never would. The pain might lessen, but he prayed it never faded. They’d buried Ram in Israel, and shortly after, Tzivia and Omar made things official. Other wounds were more tender. But he and Haven were putting that behind them. All of it. The sword. The crown. The miktereths. The team.
Having stepped down as team commander, he was determined to focus on building a life and family with Haven. First step was this house. He stood in the empty living room, looking around.
Domesticated. He grunted. Never thought it would happen.
“What is the point of saying between eight and two,” Haven growled as she stomped across the wood floors with VVolt’s nails clicking behind her, “if they show up at four?”
He smiled, taking in her round belly, her beauty. “To rile you.”
She stopped and gaped at him. “And the point of that?”
“So I could see how beautiful you are when you’re ticked.”
“Well, you’re about to get a full dose if you don’t stop getting so excited over my anger.”
Three long strides carried him to her. He caught her shoulders. Pulled her back against his chest, then slid his hands around her belly, feeling the swell of life there. Kissed her temple. Her cheek. That spot that drove her crazy below her ear.
“No,” she said with a giggle, “you aren’t getting away with that this time.”
“This isn’t about you,” he said, coming around in front of her and dropping to a knee. He cupped the baby bump and kissed it. “I need to talk to my son.”
“If it’s your daughter in there, you just ticked her off, too.”
He grinned up at Haven. Marveling. Amazed. As he came to his feet, he cradled her face in his hands. “If it’s a boy, I think we should name him Ram.”
Emotion danced through her eyes. “Absolutely. How about Charlotte Elisabeth if it’s a girl?”
“I have one Charlotte in my life, and she’s plenty.”
Haven laughed.
Tox sighed. “I still can’t believe—”
The doorbell rang.
“About time,” Haven said, pulling away and stalking to the door. She flung it open and stopped short.
“Surprise!” a chorus of voices sang out as bodies, one after another, flooded into their mostly empty home.
Thor and Maangi brought in folding tables and chairs. Thor’s wife, Steffani, pushed a stroller that carried not only their newborn daughter, Justice, but several bags of food in the bottom. Toting a drink cooler, Runt sauntered in with a grin. Behind him, Cell led a demure Mercy Maddox, who’d lost a lot of her spunk and spitfire since Ram’s death.
“Hope you don’t mind me crashing this,” she said around a wan smile.
“Can’t crash somewhere you belong.” Tox squeezed her shoulders. “You doing okay?”
“No.” She nodded, then shook her head. “He’s not . . . I can’t . . .”
Tox nodded. “Yeah.”
“This party starting or what?” Maangi asked.
Tox scowled. “What pa
rty?”
“A party,” Maangi said, “for your birthday, which we never got to celebrate.”
“And a reception,” Tzivia said, coming in after the others and giving Tox a playful slap, “for the wedding we never got to attend.”
“And a gender reveal,” Haven announced.
The voices died down.
Tox thought his heart did, too. “You know?”
“Of course not,” Haven said with a mischievous grin. “I told you we’d do it together, so”—she motioned to the team—“we’re doing it together.” She held up a finger. “Wait right there.”
“You know, it’s a good thing you married her, or I would have,” Cell said.
“You want to be punched?” Tox lifted an eyebrow.
“Not today, thank you. I have a date.”
“You mean, you brought a friend along for a bash at your team leader’s house,” Mercy corrected.
“Yeah, that. Look at the food!”
The doorbell rang again, and Tox considered his team. Heart full, he answered the door and laughed. “I should’ve known she was up to something.” He pulled his mom into a hug and shook his father’s hand. Welcoming the Linwoods was a little more awkward but still genuine. “Come in.”
“I just want to know what my grandchild is,” his mom said as she stepped into the empty living room and peered across it. “Oh, a baby!” She was there in a second, asking to hold baby Justice.
His father met Chiji at the door, and the two fell into tense dialogue.
“Here we are,” Haven said as she hoisted up some colorful papier-mâché thing. “Okay, outside. The gift-shop lady said this would make a mess. So we’re not doing this in my new home.” She waved everyone out and stood on the freshly sodded grass.
Tox finally got a good look at the object she held. “Is that a grenade?”
“Appropriate, don’t you think, considering the bomb dropped on you about this baby?” Haven grinned, rubbing her belly. She handed the grenade to him. “You have the honors.”
“What do I do with it?” he asked, turning it over. “There’s no pin.”