by Ronie Kendig
Work. Get to work. She dug through the mound of files to find information about the Saudi site and Tzivia Khalon’s dig. After retrieving contact information from Vander for the two organizations, Kasey dialed the first contact, a cabinet member of the SCTH.
Identifying herself, Kasey moved onto the meat. “I’m calling about the Jebel al-Lawz archaeological site.”
“Yes, a historic discovery.”
“Definitely, but we’re looking into the bombing—”
“What bombing?”
Kasey hesitated. “The one that leveled the dig site.”
“There has been no bombing!” He shouted something in another language to someone else, then the line went dead.
Kasey stared at the phone. Maybe he just hadn’t been informed. Or maybe the site hadn’t been bombed. Could they pull up satellite footage of the dig? It made no sense, but she’d call the Israel Antiquities Authority and see what they said. Then try the SCTH again, and talk with someone higher up. She’d need—
“Haven.”
“Yeah?” She turned.
The world whirred to a stop in a stunned, slow-mo second. Staring into Cole’s blue eyes, she realized her second mistake of the night. Haven. He’d called her Haven. Nausea coursed through her as he stepped into her personal space.
When had his chest filled out so much? Laugh lines pinched the corners of his eyes. A deep tan made his blue irises glow.
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. For years, she imagined this moment. When he would step into her space and take command. When he’d finally see her.
The left side of his mouth lifted in a partial grin. He gave a small shake of his head with a breathy snort. “Unbelievable.”
She struggled to smile, knowing guilt hung on every inch of her body. “I knew you’d figure it out eventually.”
But then his gaze went . . . weird. “Was it Galen?”
His words made her feel like she’d stepped from a hot summer afternoon into the middle of an icy, cruel winter. Her mind tripped over his question and whiplash change of direction. “Was what Galen?”
“Why did he hide you from me?”
She swallowed. Hide her?
Hurt flickered through his eyes that now so closely resembled cold steel. He nodded. Backed up. “Good to see you.” He retreated another step and turned away.
She caught his arm. “Wait.”
In a split second, Cole pivoted. His expression hard.
Kasey drew up. Be strong. You’ve got this. “Please. Just listen. I . . .”
“Why are you here, Haven?”
“To catch Tanin. And stop this plague.”
He indicated over his shoulder. “Almstedt and Wallace can handle that.”
“I have a part in this, too—I helped you earlier. At your request.” Did he not remember that? Was she really so . . . forgettable? Easily discarded?
Stony and implacable, he stared at her. Then finally said, “He’s right.”
Kasey frowned. “Who?”
Cole looked away, his fingers thumping the table. “I’m dangerous.”
She drew in a quiet breath—he’d heard Levi.
“Go home, Haven.”
And Cursed Be He Who Sells It
Light may shine brightly through the curtains of his home, but it had shone brighter through the lace ones handmade by Gratzia during their first six years of marriage in Israel. Benyamin smoothed a hand along the arm of the chair. It had been her favorite, their first piece of furniture when they’d come to America. She’d loved the richly embroidered tapestry. It was beautiful to the eyes. Painful to the backside. Lumpy and lopsided after all these years, it put a crick in his back.
He grunted. Bracing his hands on the chair, he pushed himself up enough to shift. His body collapsed against a new bump in the seat cushion. He sniffed, recalling how he’d wanted to buy her a whole houseful of nicer, better furniture—anything for his Gratzia—but she refused. Comfort, she said, dulled the senses. The chair reminded her of the rocky shore upon which they’d met. Of their first years married, and their grand adventure moving to America, where they worked hard and laughed more.
He looked across their living room to the front door. A sigh sifted his joy, remembering . . .
In awe that they had their own place with three bedrooms, they stood there for a long time simply holding hands, Daoud in her arms, Yitshak toddling around the empty living room. Benyamin was still amazed that she had saved so much money, never once telling him. Had it not been for that money . . .
“What is that?” Gratzia asked, nodding to a chair that seemed illuminated by the morning sun.
“It is a gift,” he murmured. “For you.”
Gratzia gingerly made her way across their new home to the lone chair basking in the sunlight. “The tapestry!”
Benyamin could barely suppress his excitement. “It shows your favorite passage.”
Her eyes rimmed with tears. “You?” She swallowed. “You made this?”
He lifted his shoulders and chin. “For my beloved.”
“Oh, Ben!” She ran her fingers over the fabric then lowered herself into it. “It’s wonderful.”
It wasn’t, really. He’d known even then, but at that point in his career, it was the best he’d ever made. The cushion was lumpy. He could perfect the wood and carpentry elements, but a seamstress he was not.
“Is it really all ours, Abba?” five-year-old Miriam asked about the home.
“Yes, little one. It is. Yahweh has blessed us.”
With a squeal she went running through the house, checking each room before rushing back and throwing her arms around his legs.
He smiled at Gratzia, but even then, she had the weight of worry rimming her eyes. “We will make it,” he reassured.
“There is so much to do. Perhaps I should not—”
“We agreed,” Benyamin said, bending over and pressing a kiss to her temple. “This is our home. We will do what we must.” Hard work had never been a stranger to them. He’d found work here and there in Israel, but he wanted to establish a business, and there were more opportunities in America.
“Will they find us here?”
He went to the window where light glared through. When he stepped into the beams, it felt like a warm embrace. He closed his eyes and drank it in, allowing the heat to wash away the stress. The missing parts of the Codex had created an uproar against their fathers and many elders. Some had said the missing parts burned in Aleppo. Others said the Muslims had torn the Codex apart before it could be rescued. How was he to know? He’d last seen it when he was but twelve. What could a boy of that age remember?
“Benyamin?”
He let out a breath. “Yahweh knows.” Turning, he met her gaze. “We cannot let it devour our lives. We—”
“Wow, Abba! Look how many cars are down there,” Miriam said, her voice awe-filled. “Do they all live here like us?”
“Indeed.” Down the street beckoned a playground. A little girl with a red coat ran for the swings. She thrust herself into it, arms splayed, and rode it as if she were an airplane. Benyamin lifted Miriam into his arms and pointed. “Look, a little girl just like you.”
Miriam’s brown eyes brightened. “She has a red coat. I want a red coat.”
“Perhaps you will have one,” he said as Yitshak slapped the window in excitement.
“Do not make such promises, Benyamin,” Gratzia chided as she set Daoud at the window, helping the baby grip the ledge and look out.
“Oh, tsh,” he said, smiling at his beloved. “It is good to dream.”
“Abba must find a job, first, Miriam,” she told their daughter. “We must pay for this home and our food.”
“And a car!” Miriam’s wide eyes followed a black Chevrolet down the street.
“Definitely a car,” Benyamin whispered conspiratorially to Miriam.
Gratzia sighed heavily, and when he looked at her, his smile faded. What he saw there was more than matronly annoyanc
e with his dream-building. A weight lurked behind her brown eyes. Pulled on her shoulders. He set his daughter down and urged her toward the rooms again. He turned to his wife. “What is it, beloved?”
She shook her head. “I am only tired.”
He frowned. The trip had been long, but they’d rested well and eaten before coming to the house.
Her smile was weak but endearing. “I think we should have asked for four bedrooms.”
Benyamin again frowned at her—then gasped. “Fo—you are . . .” He could scant hope for the news. The cost.
She nodded and sighed again.
“When?”
“By Purim.”
He folded her into his arms and breathed of her beauty. “Another blessing of the Lord!”
Daoud tugged at them, whining for attention, too. Gratzia drew out of his arms and lifted their son. “I will visit Devra,” she said, speaking of their lone friend, who lived two buildings down. She started for the door to the small hall.
“Gratzia.” His heart was full. Life was full. Yahweh was good.
Silhouetted in the doorway, she looked back.
“It will be well. You will see.”
“If you say it will,” she said and left the apartment.
He returned to the window, breathing in the new air. New life. They had a few friends in the city and a job. It would be enough to get them going, but he dreamed . . . oh, he dreamed of his own shop. Providing for his family. Helping their relatives come over as well.
A shape in the door drew his attention. “Oh, back so soon?”
“So soon?”
Life flipped, then flopped. Shaken, he waved at Alison. “Time is but a blink to an old man like me.”
A man appeared behind her, and she shared a look with him. One that warned Benyamin she now had more faith in this stranger than in her sabba.
The memory of Gratzia, the ache of that day, pulled him into darkness. It had been the last day he saw her healthy and happy.
23
— Day 10 —
New Delhi
Three years ago, Tox’s life had been cleansed of soft targets because of his innate ability to destroy. Things were better that way. Everything had changed now that he knew who she was. Her true identity.
He stalked back to the SAARC corner. “I want her out of here.”
Almstedt looked up from the planning station where she and Wallace bent over a map. “Excuse me?”
“Cortes. I want her out of here.” Tox nodded to where she sat at a computer.
“No,” Almstedt said. “She’s a deception expert. With the language barriers, we need her now more than ever.”
“She’s the president’s sister-in-law.” Tox pressed his lips into a thin line. “But you knew that. She’s a risk!”
Shoulders squared, hands on his hips, Wallace shifted around and faced Tox. “Former sister-in-law.”
So the possessiveness Tox had noted before was real. “Get your girlfriend out of here. If you cared for her at all—”
“You know nothing!”
“Get rid of your ego and protect her!”
“That’s not—”
“Remember?” Tox took a step forward to amplify his point. “I’m dangerous!”
“Hey!” Almstedt snapped. “Enough.” She breathed out heavily. “Kasey stays.” Weariness weighted her shoulders. “Those orders come from above.”
Exactly the information he’d needed. With a nod, Tox pivoted—and saw Haven staring at him, hurt etched into her pretty face. Exactly why he wanted her out of here. He strode . . . to where, he didn’t know. Just had to keep moving. Outside wasn’t an option. Not now. He walked from one end of the warehouse to another, his anger bubbling.
Galen . . . Galen had deliberately put Haven in his path. Why? Did he want him to kill her, too? Why keep her identity hidden? What purpose could that serve?
He turned.
A stick sailed at him.
Tox caught it before his mind registered Chiji tossing another. Armed with two thirty-six-inch kali sticks, Tox rolled his shoulders, stretching. Adjusted his stance. Within seconds, a natural rhythm clacked through the air as they went through several drills. Twisting with the right stick and connecting with Chiji’s, then following that path, letting it rebound from his waist to a low strike.
Clack! Then with the left. Clack! Back and forth. Each collision of wood jarred his injured shoulder, but also invigorated him. Their speed picked up. As did the complexities.
It didn’t take long for his arms to ache, but Tox pushed himself. Sweat drenched his shirt. He’d need another shower, but he didn’t care. The physical exertion stimulated him. He fought through the knot of frustration and anger. His brother . . . always running his life. Ruining his life.
But putting Haven in his path . . .
Hiding her.
Pain exploded across his temple. Tox bit back an expletive, pressing the back of his hand to his head.
Chiji lowered his sticks. The surprise rippling through his friend’s eyes was enough chastisement. Awareness rushed through Tox that he wasn’t focused.
“You are not here,” Chiji said.
Tox sighed. Used the tail of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face.
And like that, Haven was there. Holding a towel. “Not sure there’s a dry spot left on your shirt.” She extended her arm. “Thought this might help.”
He accepted. Didn’t trust himself to speak. Truthfully, he had no idea what to say. This person, this woman—Kasey Cortes—he didn’t know. But Haven Linwood, the twelve-year-old little sister of his then-girlfriend, that girl he knew. He moved to a small plastic cooler and perched atop it, toweling off.
“It wasn’t your brother.”
Scruffing the back of his neck with the towel, Tox peered up.
“When he told me you were alive, I didn’t give them a choice. I threatened to make your presence public.” She shrugged as she stood over him. “I never would have, of course, but it was the only flashbang I had to get their attention.”
He smirked. “You haven’t changed at all.”
Hurt splashed across her cheeks, the blush fading. He remembered—painfully remembered—all her doe-eyed looks, the way she followed him around when he was at their house to see Brooke.
“I meant that in a good way.” He stood, noticing she only came up to his chin. “Haven, this isn’t good, your being here.”
“I’m a deception expert with the FBI.” She had changed—there was a lot more woman framing her green eyes now. “This is what I do. And you have to admit I’ve helped already.”
“But you’re not combat trained. I can’t worry about you while we’re out there.”
“Worry about me?” Anger reddened her face. “I’m not out there in the field. I’m here in this dull, maddening warehouse behind a laptop and my notebook. And my status isn’t in your hands.” She breathed out. “But yours is in mine.”
The pardon. “You always knew how to get one over on everyone.” He looked down because he would worry about her. Especially because it was Haven. He couldn’t handle another death on his conscience.
He ran his hand over his head and glanced at his team. They were working hard to act like they weren’t listening. But they were. Every one of them. “What’s happening here—your parents would kill me if anything happened to you. And Galen—”
“Hey, at least I’m not going to run off with him.”
Tox flinched.
Haven hung her head. “Sorry. That was—”
“Expertly delivered.” Somehow he had to convince her that going home was the right answer. “Haven, this operation—”
“Is my job.” Her words were soft but ardent. “I know you only remember me as—”
“Tox!”
At Ram’s shout, he pivoted and saw his friend’s expression. He was instantly in motion. “What’s wrong?” Wait—Haven. He shot her a glance and knew instantly his priority shift to Ram had hurt her. But bigger matters
were in play. This was why he didn’t want her here. “See?” he said and held out his hands. “Worrying.” He headed toward his friend.
Ram nodded him to the side. As they moved, it seemed their presence had a magnetic pull, drawing the team.
“What’s going on?” Tox shouldered in, getting the vibe Ram had some stiff news.
“A friend called—IAA is going ape over Tzivia’s dig.”
“Why?”
“It’s about the leaf she found.”
“Dude, I can send them a bag full of leaves from my backyard,” Cell smarted off.
“A leaf—a page from an ancient manuscript.” Ram pushed on. “If Tzivia found one from the Aleppo Codex, IAA wants it. But so do a lot of other organizations who will do whatever it takes to get it from her.”
“So she’s in trouble?”
“Most likely.” Ram adjusted his beanie. “When dealing with the Aleppo Codex, you get a lot of silence from pretty much everyone. There are those who want it to go away at all costs.”
His intensity and confidence warned Tox this was a classic Ram scenario, where he knew more than he was letting on. And Tox knew to trust his friend. “And the censers? Tzivia’s out there looking for the one Bhavin stole, right?”
“At this point, censers are secondary. A concern, but not like the Codex. I mean, this thing is holier than holy to my people. And if Tzivia has a piece of it . . .” Ram glanced at the SAARC assets. “I have connections who say the underground is lit up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. They know she found this leaf.”
“What are you saying?”
“We need to get to Israel,” Ram said. “The leaf belongs to them and needs to be safeguarded.”
“I thought you said they would destroy it.”
“I said there are those who want to destroy it. But there are also those who can guard it—the only ones I trust. They know this leaf, which was with a fourth censer, just as has been written in ancient texts.”
Tox frowned. He was missing something again.
“The censers and the plague are connected, and this leaf is connected to the censers.”