Soul Raging

by Ronie Kendig

  “Okay, we’re accessing,” Cell said.

  “Can I see the coding? This seems familiar. I might know the genius behind it.” She wrinkled her nose.

  “Seriously?” Karzai said. “You can do that?”

  “Coding and spam, I know them, Mercy I am.”

  “Dr. Seuss!” he exclaimed with a laugh. “My daughter love him!”

  They really were too easy. “Just as you recognize his style of writing, we do the same in my profession. There is always some madness to the method with coding.”

  “Do you not mean method to the madness?”

  “Where’s the fun in that?” Mercy refocused on the laptop and noticed the access light was still on. Hmm, taking longer than expected. Which meant a lot of data was being transferred. A flicker of nerves raced through her. What was going on?

  “Is something wrong?” Labonte reached for the laptop with a concerned look.

  “No.” Mercy nearly choked. The light still glowed. What on earth had Dru put on this USB? “I just . . .” What was it? A virus? A Trojan? She would sear the living daylights out of him. Those could so easily be detected, especially with the firewalls in this system. Had Cell finished his magic?

  “Slow is smooth,” came the calm voice that had a tinge of Leif mixed with years of authority—Canyon. “Smooth is fast. Bees are buzzing.”

  “What does that even mean?” Cell said in the comms.

  “Please.” Labonte wagged his hand at the laptop.

  “It means we move,” Culver subvocalized, his back to Mercy.

  As her mind processed the comms chatter, Mercy saw Labonte reach for the system. About to let him take it, she palmed the USB—and he snatched the laptop from her, knocking her hand.

  She sucked in a breath—and coughed, perfectly timed to cover the sound of the USB hitting the floor.

  Baddar was there, rattling in his native tongue, no doubt lodging an objection over Labonte’s treatment of her.

  But Karzai wasn’t distracted. “What is that?” he demanded.

  Oh no . . .

  Saito slid between her and Labonte, shoving the laptop into the man’s face and swiping his feet out from under him. In a blur, Culver dove for the doors, securing them while Baddar rushed at her and pulled her aside.

  “Wait!” Karzai called. “Take me with you. Friend, please.”

  Baddar glanced back, nudging Mercy toward the door. “Samurai, go. Get her down.”

  When she realized what was happening, Mercy stopped short. “What? No!” She had no idea why Baddar would even think of bringing the Durrani CEO with them. “You can’t—”

  “Take her,” Baddar barked at Saito, who caught her arm and pulled her toward the rear stairs. “This is dangerous,” he said to Karzai. “If they learn you defected . . .”

  “They will not. You will kidnap me, yes?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Baddar inclined his head and motioned Karzai ahead.

  When they moved into the stairwell, Mercy hurried down a few steps, still not sure about the change in plans. It was risky. They didn’t know Karzai well enough. What if he was tagging along so they could be tracked?

  “Coming down, plus one,” Culver said into the comms.

  “Negative,” Canyon bit back.

  “Yeah, I’m going with Midas on this one—bad call,” Cell muttered, using Canyon’s call sign. “Boss-man won’t like this.”

  Mercy peered up toward the landing, where she saw two things almost simultaneously: Baddar’s arm hooked Karzai’s neck, choking his air off, and the door to the office bucking.

  “Go!” Saito shouted at her. “Go go go.”

  Mercy flew down steps as fast as she could, her shoes clanging loudly.

  Crack! Tsing!

  “Get down!” Culver shouted from below, where a skirmish erupted.

  Something impacted her, shifting her momentum. Slammed her into the concrete wall. Pain exploded across her face, jarring through her head, neck, and back. Her teeth clattered. Disoriented, she fell and twisted to Saito for help. Only . . . it wasn’t Saito. The man standing over her had a weapon and black intent in his eyes.

  She froze, afraid this was how she’d die. No more superheroes, no more saving the world one code at a time.

  He pitched forward, head cracking against the wall, and collapsed, blood pooling like a twisted halo around his head. Behind him and up a few steps was Saito, who gave her a wag of his eyebrows as if to say that had been close.

  Too close.

  Mercy struggled to her feet and spied a blur above. Another man dropped from the upper floor, landing with a thunk near Mercy. He never hesitated as he pivoted to deal with Saito.

  Impossible!

  He sent Saito flying with a perfectly placed punch. A vicious hand-to-hand battle between skilled opponents ensued, but the attacker fought like he was on steroids with his rapid-fire strikes and relentless pursuit.

  Thud!

  Mercy felt the impact more than heard it, and turned to her left, where a third man lunged at her. She scrambled away but not fast enough.

  As the third attacker’s blow landed, her head snapped to the right, and her vision grayed out amid the violence.

  Then a new whirl of movement—Baddar.

  Echoing thuds and warbling grunts pulled Mercy back from the shadows. A heavy thud pounded against her. She blinked open her eyes and saw a dark shape. A body fell on her. But a flurry beyond distracted her.

  On the landing above, Baddar fought like a fury with a man in a dark gray tactical uniform. It was terrifying, watching them brawl. Baddar so skilled and fierce. The other so . . . ambivalent, yet no less lethal.

  With Baddar fighting for his life, Mercy shifted the body off her—cringing at the blood soaking her slacks. Through the steps below, she saw Saito and Culver fending off more gray soldiers. It felt like the Mad Titan swarming his army to slaughter their homeworld.

  She had to do something. Mercy looked around, her head woozy from the blows. What could she do? She couldn’t fight. Baddar was teaching her handgun proficiency, but she was still a beginner. As in, kindergarten. At this point, she was more likely to hurt herself or one of her team than an enemy. She cursed herself.

  Then she saw it. The solution waited through the fireproof window of the door of the landing. She lurched upward and grabbed the door handle.

  A weight plowed into her back. Her head bounced off the door. Then she was drawn back. Tasting blood, she rammed her elbow up and back—straight into the guy’s nose. Flicking the door handle, she expected her attacker to come again. But he didn’t. She glanced back and saw the storm that was Baddar pummeling him.

  Door open, Mercy flung herself into the hall. Surged at the small lever. Yanked it down.

  Claxons screeched. Blinding warning lights whirled.

  Almost at once, the gray assault stopped. They sped away with a shout to clear out. Civilians began to pour into the stairwell in response to the fire alarm. They stared at the bodies and Mercy, their faces ashen.

  Sagged against the wall, she wiped the blood from her mouth as Baddar hurried toward her. His arm hung limp, and his leg had a vicious wound.

  “You are good?” he asked.

  Was she? Too many things. Too many pains. And her head ached like thunder. “Yes.” Maybe. She didn’t know. “Where’s Karzai?”

  “In a better place.” Grief rippled through his Arab features. “Can you walk?”

  Karzai was dead. Should she feel bad about that? She wasn’t sure he’d been on the up-and-up, but his death had clearly affected Baddar. And he was beat up. “Can you?”

  He nodded, then hooked her arm around his shoulder and led her out of the nightmare.

  This mission had been a loss—unless Cell had managed to infiltrate via that USB. Which was somewhere upstairs. They’d have to remotely fry it, or it’d be a link straight back to Reaper.

  SIX

  FRANKFURT, GERMANY

  Better judgment was for those who had op
tions.

  The crisp German air reminded Iskra of too many nights spent in this very attic, hiding from those who sought to use and abuse her. Hiding under the protection of a woman she neither trusted nor liked, but who provided an alternative. Now Iskra was doing the unfathomable. With Dani out of town for a couple of weeks and Leif MIA . . .

  It is just for a short time.

  “Mama, I don’t like it here.” Turning away from the dank room, Taissia wrapped her arms around Iskra’s legs and pressed her face into them. “It’s cold and smells funny.”

  “I know, my sweet.” She squatted and manufactured a smile. “Did you know I lived here once myself?”

  Taissia’s gray-green eyes pooled with suspicion.

  “It was many years ago, when I needed a place to stay.” Iskra pointed to the bed beneath the dormer window. “I would lie there on a cot—there’s a bed there now, so it’s even better—and each night, I counted the ravens who roosted in the crow’s nest. They can be seen if you look through the window just right.” She angled them both to peer through the grimy panes.

  Taissia pouted. “I don’t like birds.”

  Frustration cinched this bad decision like a noose around Iskra’s throat. “Neither did I,” she confessed as she crouched. How could she convince Taissia it would be okay when she herself was not convinced? “It will just be for a short time.”

  “Please, don’t leave me here,” Taissia pleaded, burrowing into Iskra’s shoulder and crying. “I’m scared.”

  “Only because it is new.” Iskra wished she believed her own words. “And guess what? When I come back—we are going on a very long vacation. Just you and me.”

  Taissia lifted her head, quieting her sniffles. “And Leif?”

  Aching at the hope in her daughter’s words, Iskra pressed a finger to her small rosy lips. “Shh, remember? No names here.”

  “I want him. I miss him.” Taissia gave a forlorn look at the bed and room. “He wouldn’t make me stay here. It’s ugly.”

  The tug on Iskra’s conscience was powerful. Her daughter was right—Leif would not make her stay here, and he would probably be enraged that Iskra thought this was a good idea.

  In fact, she did not think that. But it was the only option she had. If he knew what Iskra was doing right now . . .

  Well, he does not. He was lost to his own fears and past. Which was why this was necessary. “We must be strong until he returns, yes? He needs us—”

  “No, Mommy. Pleeease,” Taissia whined, bouncing her legs in emphasis. “Don’t make me.”

  “Taissia, please!” She cursed her short temper borne out of her own misgivings and desperation.

  “This is where you were born, child,” came a voice made husky by years of cigarettes.

  Iskra shoved to her feet, glowering at the intruding woman. “I asked you to give me a moment.”

  “And you had one, kotyonok.” Hands clasped over her stout frame, Bogdashka marched into the room, her low-heeled pumps thumping on wood floors. She rotated and stared at them. “You are a strong girl, are you not, Taissia?”

  “Do not,” Iskra growled, moving between her daughter and the older woman’s glare, “work her. She is not one of your girls. She is not me.” She advanced, narrowing her gaze with each step. “I swear on everything you hold sac—”

  “I only try to help, kotyonok. You are making it hard on the girl—”

  “Taissia,” she snapped. “Her name is Taissia.” She erased the last foot of distance, leaving no room for the older woman to gain control. “She will be safe here. Is that not right, Bogdashka?” It was not a question but a warning.

  “If you have doubts, perhaps you should take her elsewhere.” Cruelty hardened Bogdashka’s face. “But”—her head wobbled as she gloated—“you do not have anyone else. Do you?”

  Iskra lowered her chin and voice. “You know what I’m capable of—”

  “Of course, I do,” Bogdashka said with a dismissive wave as she sauntered around her. “I trained you.”

  “You started my training.” Iskra moved to the window to regain her composure, hoping to draw Bogdashka’s attention away from her daughter. She blew out a long, uneven breath, hating the truth, that she had no options. But it would be okay—for just a few days. All those years being kept by Hristoff had taught her that the only person she could trust was herself. And this was . . . wrong. “Listen.” She turned.

  Her heart skipped a beat, then two. Bogdashka’s hands rested on Taissia’s shoulders. The wide set of her daughter’s eyes—terror—undid Iskra. That Taissia should know such fear at this young age dismantled every wavering conviction Iskra had that this would be okay. “Get your hands—”

  “Where else will you go, Iskra? Who else will keep the child alive?”

  Anger churned at this woman’s exertion of power. “I will find something—anyone else.”

  “I thought this was urgent, dangerous, this mission of yours.” A knowing gleam filled Bogdashka’s eyes. And with it came a promise and a warning. She never killed children. She trained them, morphed them into weapons, each tailored to some purpose. “To find someone, yes?”

  Iskra returned to the logic that had allowed her to come here: Bogdashka might not be the best thing for Taissia, but she wanted power over Iskra, so she’d keep Taissia alive. And her time with Taissia would not be long.

  “Now, guess what I have downstairs,” Bogdashka said to Taissia, physically urging her toward the steps. “Baklava!”

  “With chocolate?” Taissia cast an uncertain glance back to Iskra, who stood trembling in fear—rage. “That’s my favorite.”

  “I know, kotyonok. I know.”

  She always knows. That was her hidden message, and it recalled so many secrets tucked beneath that woman’s graying plait. Those secrets were her power, her ability to destroy. . . .

  Even me. Especially me.

  No one in her right mind would willingly leave their child with this woman. You are a terrible mother.

  But staring down the Armageddon Coalition and Ciro Veratti called for desperate measures. It was why Leif had gone rogue, why she was placing her daughter in the hands of the person who held the power to turn Taissia into everything Iskra had escaped. But the influence would be short-lived. Bogdashka would not have years or even weeks to ruin Taissia. A few days, and then she would never again see that woman.

  Just a few days, Iskra vowed.

  * * *

  STUTTGART, GERMANY

  Cracking his knuckles, Leif stared out the window of the Land Rover as Andreas drove into a city congested with traffic and pollution. He’d left the safe house a week ago. Enough time for the team to get stateside, rest up, and figure out how to hunt him down. Would they come?

  Without a doubt.

  What would he do when they did? Talking wouldn’t do any good, because they’d have one goal—take him back. But he also had a goal: do whatever it took to get answers. He wasn’t returning to Virginia for more of Dru’s platitudes and excuses.

  Iskra was his biggest concern. With her skills and the stake she’d claimed on his heart, she could do a lot of damage. The moment when she confronted him—and she would—her tenacity could be a problem. He’d seen what she’d done to find her brother, and it had been near-miraculous how she’d found Mitre, aka Andreas.

  His gaze hit the guy driving the SUV. Light brown hair and trim beard. Intense eyes just like Iskra’s. Both had an unparalleled mission focus, but unlike Andreas’s methodical precision, Iskra was more . . . impassioned.

  Which made her beautiful. And dangerous. Thus the dread about when she came for him. That couldn’t happen until he had answers, because he didn’t want to hurt her.

  “Are you going to be my daddy now?”

  Leif shifted. Taissia had whispered those words as he carried her half-asleep self to bed one night. It had stopped him in his tracks.

  He pressed his knuckles to his lips, mind catching up as Andreas turned onto a strasse of row home
s. Leif ducked to look out the window and take in the multistoried residences stacked on top of each other. Some shops on the lower level, apartments above. Rooftops perfect for snipers. Windows for shooters. This might not be A-stan or Iraq, but it still buzzed his nerves.

  No good. No good. Too crowded, too easy to ambush. But Rutger wanted Leif to meet some people.

  Andreas eased the vehicle to the curb and cut the engine.

  Leif eyed the street, then used the side mirror to check their rear. To the right. And the left. Convinced he wasn’t stepping into a shooter’s alley, he opened the door. Brisk German air smacked him as he climbed out, ready to pull his weapon if a threat presented.

  He stalked up the path with Andreas, around a corner, and then fifteen paces to the second red-brick house. Anemic and dilapidated, the building had an enclosed foyer with mailboxes. Andreas thumbed a code into a keypad whose numbers had long worn off. When a click sounded, he pushed open the door.

  They stepped inside, and something raised the hairs on the back of Leif’s neck. He unholstered his weapon as they climbed the stairs to a landing and entered the flat. It had a small front room with a fireplace and bookshelves. Just beyond, a small kitchenette and table. The setting reminded him of the haunting images from Chernobyl—dishes on the table, food half-eaten. TV playing in the front room. Playgrounds emptied. This was . . . wrong. Ominously, eerily wrong.

  To his nine, a short hall offered three doors—likely two bedrooms and a bathroom. One of the doors creaked open and released a beam of light.

  Leif snapped his weapon in that direction, as did Andreas. Advancing, they were ready to meet the threat.

  A man turned the corner, zipping his pants. He looked up and, with a shout, pitched himself backward.

  Holstering his weapon, Andreas stormed forward, barking in German at the man, who shouted back. A heated exchange ensued. The two were clearly familiar with one another.