by Ronie Kendig
Téya frowned. What was she supposed to remember? “What, that you tried to kill me in Paris? Or are you talking about Greece?” She held up the brand.
“Come.” The almost light tenor of his voice and his amusement vanished. “On your feet.”
“What? I thought I was to be your prisoner.”
“Do you remember what Nesim told you about this place?” He stood at the door, gripping the handle.
She did not want to cooperate. But what choice did she have? She couldn’t fight him. He was stronger. Faster.
“You may believe me to be the biggest threat to your safety here, but you could not be more wrong.” He cocked his head toward the door. “Ready?”
“What are we doing here?”
Light flicked into the room. “Quiet,” he hissed at her, grabbing her arm.
Téya flinched at his tight hold. She was about to cry out when she saw two men in black tactical gear stalking down the hall ahead of them. Heavily armed. Intent on something. Had they discovered the fan where she and Nesim—The Turk—had entered?
The realization that she was with The Turk made her head spin. What if he planned to kill someone and frame her for it? It was the only thought that made sense. Why he’d drag her through this facility and not tell her where they were going.
Téya jerked back, planting a foot hard so she could break free of him.
The Turk, again, had lightning fast reflexes. Before her hand could even come up, he held her in a stranglehold from behind. “Stop!” he hissed as he manhandled her over into a shadowed alcove.
“Why? Why me? What do you want with me here?” she squeezed out, her pulse whooshing in her ears.
“There are cameras here. Security officers more than double the staff. Do you want to alert them to your presence?”
Téya considered that. Would it be so bad if she were caught? That would mean he was caught, too, right?
No, he’d escape. If he could outmaneuver her so easily, he’d be gone in a heartbeat.
“You want to know why? I will show you why,” he said, loosening his hold then nudging her into the corner, his forearm against her throat. “You must do exactly as I say, or the guards will see you. And they will not hesitate to give you that bullet you asked about earlier.” His eyes bored into her, but the tattoo was peculiarly distracting. “Clear?”
Téya swallowed around the pressure of his arm then nodded.
Slowly, he released her. “Come.” Again, he took her by the arm. Led her hurriedly down a series of doors and passages.
As they navigated the facility, Téya realized something. It was terrifying and yet reassuring at the same time—he knew where he was going. Which meant he didn’t need her to lead him in the back door.
What is going on?
They rounded a corner, and a single door stared back. It was marked SECURITY. It was the same door she’d been herded into the night they’d caught her.
“Wait,” she hissed.
But the Turk rushed into the room. In the time it took her to shut the door, he had incapacitated the two security officers sitting at the monitors.
“What—”
“Quiet,” he hissed and leaned over the keyboard. He took control of a security camera. Made a few clicks. “Come.”
She hated the way he commanded her. The way he assumed she’d do what he said. She toyed with grabbing one of the weapons from the guards.
“Reiker,” he growled.
And something twisted sideways in Téya. A chill raced up her spine. She joined him at the desk, feeling unsettled. Unnerved. Her mind struggling to catch up with whatever had triggered the weird feeling.
“Look,” he said, one hand on the desk, the other pointing to the monitor.
“That’s Red Wing.”
Téya’s breath caught. “I thought it was an organization. Nesim said it belonged to Red Wing.”
“Red Wing is a man, that man.”
The man stood with his back to the camera, poised as he spoke with a group of guards. Several other guards ran in. Red Wing’s body language changed from composed to enraged. Arms flailing. Pointing.
“Why didn’t you just tell us where he was? Why bring me—”
Red Wing turned, exposing his face to the camera. To Téya.
Téya went ice cold. No. “Not possible,” she whispered, tears blurring her vision. Her heart went from dangerously slow to a rapid-fire beat that made it feel like it’d climb out of her chest. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. “He—that can’t be…he’s…he’s dead.
Part 4: Act of Treason
XI
Téya
Frankfurt, Germany
9 June – 2355 Hours
Téya glanced at The Turk, stunned and confused. Slowly, she swung her gaze back to the monitor. Every nerve ending buzzed. The man in the video was her stepfather. “How…?”
The Turk watched her in silence, holding her gaze but saying nothing.
“How is this possible? He died—six years ago.”
“His death was faked.”
Téya straightened, feeling as if a tidal wave of unbelievable information pummeled her. “Faked?” Mind ablaze with that revelation, her brain immediately leaped to—“My mom.”
The Turk’s expression didn’t change. “She died in that accident.”
“If he survived, then she—”
He took a step forward and squared his shoulders. “Your perceptions about the man who married your mother were borne of a cover story he fed your mother and you.”
“Cover story?” Téya felt as if a bucket of ice had been dumped down her back. “What are you—” She severed the question and her thought. Did he seriously expect her to believe anything he said? “You lure me in here, you deceive and lie to me—why would I believe you?”
Again, The Turk said nothing.
Téya’s heart still beat wildly, scrambling to iron out the truth. Sort the deluge of shattered facts about her life. “My sister…” Her mom married Georg Hostetler when Téya was only four. “All those years…”
The Turk took a step back. “We need to leave.”
Téya flinched, looking at him. His eyes weren’t brown as she’d thought. They had tinges of green and gold. And they were intense. And he wasn’t looking at her. She followed his gaze to a monitor that showed a throng of guards racing through the halls.
Alarms shrieked through the cement halls, screaming about their intrusion. Alerting everyone here and around the mountain.
A sharp hiss snapped her back to him. He stood out in the hall. When had he even opened the door? The dude was lightning fast. Téya bolted into the cement corridor after him. He moved fast, not waiting for her. Not checking on her. Téya told herself to stick close. She wouldn’t put it past him to leave her to the wolves.
What bothered her more was his skill in navigating the passages. He knew them. Knew them well.
Uncertainty poured through her as they banked right. Téya used the opposite wall to rebound and keep moving, propelling herself faster. She toyed with the idea of tackling him. Demanding information, an explanation. But those instincts were muddied by the out-of-left-field reappearance of her stepfather.
He’s here. I’m here. And I’m running.
She would love to go back and hammer the answers out of him, the explanation of how he survived. But something about the way The Turk stared at her…left her sick to her stomach and uncertain those answers would provide closure.
No. Right now, she had to get out of here. And her ticket to escape just vanished into a room. A dart of panic threw her forward, narrowly catching the door before it slapped shut, dulling the blaring alarms. She rolled around to avoid getting hit by the door. Four steps in and she saw shadows flying toward her.
Hands up, she braced as the first attacker rushed her. She avoided his initial strike, but her ears rang with the meaty thuds and crack of punches and hits behind her. Fighting hand to hand was hard enough. In a room lit only by dim emergency
lights, it was next to impossible.
She missed a block and the guy’s fist connected hard. Téya stumbled. He came at her. Rammed his boot into her side. Knocked her to the ground. She grunted and rolled to get back on her feet.
He pounced. Hands around her neck. Choking.
Flailing panic seared her mind. She gripped his wrists. Then the training Quade had thrown at her came rushing back. Téya dug her knee up under him. Oxygen deprivation thumped against her temples. She strained. Pushed. If she didn’t succeed, she’d die. Right here. Without answers. And Trace…
With a primal growl, Téya rotated her hip. Her knee went up under him. She used her other leg and swung it up around his neck. She arched her back and snapped her hips, effectively bringing him to the ground, his neck between her legs.
Something slid across the cement and bumped against her hand. But Téya focused on incapacitating the man.
“The gun!” someone hissed—The Turk.
Téya glanced down. Saw the Glock at her fingertips. She grabbed it by the barrel and rammed it over the guy’s temple. He went limp. Extricating herself quickly, she shoved her foot against his side. Held on to the gun. Scrambled to her feet.
“Here,” The Turk said. Robed in darkness and shadows, he waved to her.
She barely saw the motion before she sprang into action. Téya sprinted toward him. Out a door. When they rounded a corner, he slowed. Hesitated at a corner.
She saw then the damage of the fight on his face. His left eye was swelling shut. His lip was busted. A cut on his temple dribbled blood.
His lips quirked up, and the hint of a smile crinkled the edges of his other eye. “You don’t look so bad yourself,” he said through heavy breaths after a hard fight. He handed her something. “Here.”
She took it then frowned. “It’s a twig.”
The Turk huffed, turning it over, as if that made a difference. “It’s a rose.”
Téya held it up. “A twig.”
“You are seriously lacking in imagination.”
Was he losing it? Only then did the pain in her own lip and temple register. She reached toward the spot and regretted it. “Why are we stopping?”
He thrust his jaw toward the other hall. “C’mere.” He tugged her closer, so her back was pressed against his chest. Awareness flared through Téya, but she shut it out. At least, she tried. More well-muscled than she remembered, The Turk exuded power.
She chided herself, told herself to grow up. Pay attention.
“Shadow,” he breathed against her ear.
Heat skidded down her neck, eliciting too much response from her betraying body.
But then her mind snagged on what he meant. Against the wall, which wasn’t in view when she’d stood behind him, a subtle shift in color—a shadow hung on the wall. She took in a breath, realizing someone stood out of sight, lying in wait.
Had she rushed ahead, she wouldn’t have noticed and might’ve ended up dead. But The Turk had seen it.
Did he miss anything?
His hand covered hers. Not for romance. But to remind her of what she held—the gun. Did he want her to give it to him? Nervous jitters squirreled through her. Give him the gun and she was defenseless. Powerless.
But he’d been in a place to kill her twice now, and hadn’t.
Even as she acknowledged that fact, she felt his other arm moving. Saw a dark object and knew he had a gun of his own. She shouldn’t be surprised. And she wasn’t. Not really. She doubted a man like him was ever unarmed, whether with a gun or some other type of weapon. And he probably didn’t need anything to kill. The time he’d pressed her against the wall and rammed his forearm into her throat told her that. One more thrust against her skinny neck and she would’ve been dead.
He touched her shoulder then slid out from behind her, shimmying along the wall like some type of spider. Crazy fast. Crazy quiet. He had to be half ninja or something.
As he closed in on the person waiting, she realized he had never looked back. Never verified that she’d stay with him. But where else would she go? They were in this together.
Unless he was part of this.
Unless he was the mastermind.
How else would he know the passages so well?
How else would he know Georg was here?
Sidling up against the juncture that held the attacker, he pressed his back to the wall. Téya scuttled up right behind him, breath jammed into her throat. He lunged around the corner.
A shot cracked through the deafening blaze of alarms. Téya sidestepped out, weapon ready. She took aim. Tangles of arms and bodies made it impossible to sort out who was who.
“Shoot!”
The voice, even in the thickly padded noise of the alarms, was distinctly The Turk’s.
Shoot. Right? But who? She couldn’t—
In a split second she saw The Turk’s profile. Instinctively, she fired at the other man. He thumped back against the wall. Turned to her. Angry.
He wore a vest beneath that security shirt.
Téya fired again—this time at the guy’s leg to at least slow him down.
The Turk spun around and retrieved his gun from the floor. He snapped it up. Fired at the guy. About to object to the brutality, Téya froze when she saw the serrated fighting knife in the man’s other hand.
He was going to kill her one way or another. The Turk had saved her.
She pushed her gaze to The Turk. He grinned. “You can’t be the hero all the time.” He caught her hand and jerked her around the corner, then down the long corridor. Ahead, a door beckoned, a glowing sign above it declared it an exit. They ran toward it for all they were worth.
Out. They were almost out. Téya felt a little giddy.
The Turk pitched toward the door.
Yes. Out. Home free…
Only, The Turk’s legs buckled. A dark stain spread over his shoulder. The door flung open. The Turk clung to it, using it to pull himself around.
Téya nearly tripped over his legs. Like a pileup on the highway. Her legs tangled over his. She flew forward. Rolled against the fall and came back to her feet.
She jerked toward The Turk.
He hauled himself up as he shut the door. Dropped hard against it. Holding his right arm.
Téya lifted his arm and hooked hers around his waist. Then they were rushing on.
“The guard hut on the south,” he said as they broke out across the parking lot.
She knew exactly what he meant and headed there. They came to a small overpass, the tunnel below part of a rail system.
“There.” He huffed and stumbled toward the rail.
“No, it’s—”
His legs were over the edge.
Téya gasped. Then saw the open-bed truck waiting below. Only a dozen feet, but it’d hurt if they landed wrong. Behind them shouts erupted.
Time for a leap of faith.
Téya climbed over the rail, feet perched precariously on the ledge. She looked at The Turk. Sweat dotted his brow in the lights of the facility. With a nod, he took her hand then stepped off the ledge.
They dropped like a sack of potatoes into the truck. Téya’s legs crumpled, and she pitched to the side. Their heads collided. It felt as if a hammer hit her and knocked her sideways into the bed of the truck. Pain darted down her cheekbone and neck.
And even before she could untangle herself from The Turk, the truck lurched into motion, barreling into the darkness of the tunnel.
Hands hooked beneath her arms, startling her.
“Easy,” someone said, hauling her backward, up against the hull of the cab.
The deafening, windy roar of the tunnel gave way to the intermittent streetlights. Swerving right, the truck sailed over the track and onto the street. The high rate of speed made conversation impossible, wind whipping her hair in her face like tiny snapping needles.
They’d made it. They’d actually escaped.
She turned to The Turk to share her excitement. And found him slumped agai
nst a wheel well, someone tending his wound. But The Turk was watching her. Smiling.
A silent message telegraphed through that moment. What it said, she didn’t want to think about. She didn’t want to read that message right now. Guilt rushed in. Reminded her she was only working with Zulu to get Misrata resolved. To get back home to David. Not to fall for an assassin. Especially one who clearly had no compunction against beating her up, one who’d tried to kill her.
Was she really that stupid?
Annie
Lucketts, Virginia
10 June – 0800 Hours EST
“Téya and the others are back on U.S. soil,” Houston announced. “She’ll head this way in about an hour.”
Annie nodded, sitting at one of the computer terminals in the bunker, working on threads to the mystery with Misrata, but her thoughts kept bouncing back to Téya, Nuala, and Rusty. Were they okay? How had the mission gone? Mostly, she wondered if The Turk had betrayed them. Killed them all.
A ridiculous thought. Had to be. Trace wouldn’t have let them go if he had doubts about their security. Then again, Trace hadn’t exactly been himself lately. A bit terse, distant—well, except when he wasn’t kissing her.
Yeah… She couldn’t deny how much she’d wanted that to happen or how many times she’d dreamed of it since he’d broken her heart five years ago. Kissing him was every bit as good as it had been when they’d started seeing each other secretly. He’d said she was too young for him. Maybe he’d been right, but she fell head over heels for him. She adored Trace Weston. Admired him. Respected him. Slept with him.
Annie lowered her head, still a bit ashamed at how far their relationship had gone. But there was more guilt at how much she’d wanted it back over those years since their paths diverged. How much she’d wanted the warm comfort of his arms around her. The passion of his kisses. The reassurance of his love.
But he’d left her. High and dry.
She could forgive him. Had forgiven him. But that didn’t mean they could just pick up where they’d left off.
“Can we talk?”
Annie blinked and looked up, startled to find Sam standing there thumbing over his shoulder toward the lounge. Coming out of her chair, she nodded. “Uh, yeah.” This certainly didn’t sound good. Had he read her thoughts, known she was thinking about Trace? Or worse—had he somehow seen her kiss Trace? “Should you be up?”