by Ronie Kendig
“What crash?” Huber asked.
Leif frowned. “The chopper crash.” Were they jerking his chain?
“The one that killed Zhanshi?” Huber asked. “The same Zhanshi who was resurrected to attempt an assassination of the Chinese prime minister?”
“Or Guerrero,” Andreas added.
“Who died on the table,” Leif muttered, catching their drift. The wild, panicked eyes he recalled switched from one location—that mountain—to another—the American Institute in Taiwan. His suicide.
Krieger’s knees and panic buckled, sending him to the rocky path. He let out a string of curses and cradled his head. “Why do I feel so screwed up?”
Leif hadn’t felt right either—nobody did after crashing on a mountain.
Another flashback hit—the embassy. “My head,” Dempsey murmured, frowning. “I keep having these thoughts. . . .” Fingertips to the side of his forehead, he flattened his lips. “The things I keep thinking about . . .” His face screwed tight. “It’s not me. I was—Distinguished Service Medal. Service Medal. Up for Military Medal for Gallantry with Distinction.” Confusion flayed his features. “This . . . what’s in my head—it’s not me!”
A thump against his chest startled Leif back to the present. He caught the hand, twisted it—
But Andreas anticipated and thwarted the move. His gaze sharpened. “What’re you remembering?”
Leif released him, stepping back. Wanting to step back from the mangled mess of memories. “A lot. Krieger. At the crash, he said his head felt weird—but we all felt that way.” He shrugged. “I thought . . .”
“It was normal, after a crash.”
“Yeah.” Leif wet his lips. “But at the AIT, Dempsey said he was having thoughts that weren’t his”—he squinted—“or something like that. Right before . . .”
“He killed himself.” Andreas nodded. “He’d been initiated, but it went wrong. He was able to fight it. I couldn’t get to him in time.”
“Yeah, he kept talking about his commendations.” Leif gritted his teeth. “I didn’t care—just wanted him to put down the gun. Those memories . . . they kept blurring. Repeating. Different, though.”
“We’ve all had that,” Huber said. “Memory glitches. Tell us what you remember on Shaib al-Banat.”
Leif swiped a hand over his mouth, a little freaked that he could talk about this in public when he’d been forced to bury it for years. And yet, suddenly not wanting to talk about it. “I came to on the mountain.”
The other five nodded firmly.
“I was choking on the smoke but tried to assess the situation. You—” Leif frowned as he squinted at Huber. “You fell when the ground gave way.” He angled his head as if he could get a better bead on what really happened. “You . . . were—”
“Dead?”
“Injured.” He couldn’t be dead if he was standing in front of Leif, but he also knew he’d come off that mountain believing his team dead, not injured. “They said everyone died. All of you.”
Andreas folded his arms. “What were we doing there, our objective?”
“Extract a VIP asset.”
“In the Sahara. Men from different countries.”
“It’s the military,” Leif replied. “I’ve done stupider things.”
“No doubt.” Andreas jutted his jaw. “How’d the chopper crash?”
“RPG,” Leif said. “Hit the rotors.” As he said the last three words, the others said the exact same words. Haunting.
“What type of bird?” Vega asked.
“Huey,” Leif said, expecting more unison speech, but he was wrong.
“HT-29 Caiman,” Vega asserted. Spanish chopper. Not surprising, considering Vega’s country, but . . .
“I recall a Mi-171Sh,” Andreas said with a huff.
“Lynx Mk7,” Elvestadt countered. “Which doesn’t make sense, since they haven’t deployed since 2015.”
Leif laughed. “None of this makes sense.”
“The Lynx was one of many mistakes,” came the ever-intrusive voice of Rutger Hermanns. “And the point they would have you grasp? The crash never happened.”
NINE
STUTTGART, GERMANY
“What do you mean it didn’t happen? I was there!”
“True. You were there, all of you,” Selma Bostwick said with a grin and more than a little amusement. High off her own juice, it seemed. “But the crash itself never happened. It was staged.” She and Rutger were joined by the retired brigadier general. “We had to find a way to reintegrate you into your lives, so we engineered the crash, being sure to give each of you—from your own perspective and respective countries—a narrative that was believable and cohesive.”
“Which explains all the different choppers.”
“But why fake the deaths?”
“Crucial,” Selma said. “ArC did not want anyone to find you or for you to contact each other. That was the reason you were each assigned random code names that had nothing to do with personality quirks, appearance, or nationality. If the program collapsed or was discovered, they did not want you traceable, should someone come looking, so they buried you.” She lifted a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “In more ways than one. The crash was the only way to make that happen. To convince you all that it happened, the last few weeks before releasing you entailed hours of training and enacting that scenario. You were drilled over and over.”
“Brainwashed,” Huber grunted. “No wonder we all had the exact same story.”
“But the reports,” Leif said. “The Pararescuemen who—”
“Our men. Reports fabricated with assistance from those within a military branch of each of your respective countries.”
A trill of disbelief hit Leif. “The Sahara Nine . . . the men I thought were dead . . . the crash I blamed myself for . . .” The one that had driven him into deep depression, convinced him he wasn’t fit for command. Anger rushed through his veins. It wasn’t real. He looked at Hermanns. “None of it’s real?”
“The Neiothen are very real.” The German’s vehemence seemed to carry a warning. “Never forget that. ArC took something that could have been good and perverted it. They intended to ruin your lives, but nobody can hide from God. He foresaw this and sent help.”
The Book of the Wars. The paneled painting.
“And that’s your justification?” Leif wanted to hurt someone. “Force-feeding us lies, sending us back to our homes with busted brains and backgrounds? Did you really think it’d work?”
“It did work!” Hermanns said with a laugh, but then he shook his head. “And this wasn’t my idea. When I was able to decipher Katrin’s works, when I found the first leaf, then the book, my next mission was to free those of you who’d innocently volunteered. Netherwood should never have looked like this!”
“But it does,” Leif said, stepping back, a torrent tremoring beneath his skin. “You’re good at keeping lies and being at peace with that. What else are you hiding? We can’t finish this if we aren’t playing with all the cards.”
Hermanns gave him a long, appraising look. “‘Learn from me, if not by my precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge,’” he quoted, arching an eyebrow. “And we all know how well that turned out in Mary Shelley’s story, ja?”
* * *
OUTSIDE STUTTGART, GERMANY
“Iliescu is blowing a major stack that you’re MIA.”
Phone to her ear, Iskra wiped her tears and squinted across the city from the top of the Frankfurt & Stuttgart Biologics office building. “Too bad.” Her thoughts skipped back to Taissia. “She begged me not to leave her.”
“Well, let’s finish this so you can get her back.”
“I am a terrible mother, leaving her there.”
“No, don’t go there,” Mercy said, her voice clear despite the distance. “Sometimes the less-than-stellar option is all we have. She’s out of mortal danger, and that’s what matters.”
“You do not understand.�
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“I get it. I do.”
“No. I lived with Bogdashka. That woman seems sweet as sugar, but her sweet will rot your teeth and soul. She plays mind games, and I am afraid she will traumatize Taissia.” The thought made her latte curdle in her stomach.
“Then we jump on this so she doesn’t have time to do that. And trust me, I can relate.”
Iskra hunched her shoulders, kicking the low brick wall that formed the terrace of the roof. “She was so upset.”
“She’ll be okay.”
“You do not understand—”
“Stop saying that!” Mercy hissed. “I do. I do understand.”
“How could you possibly? You had a good life—”
“Stop right there, Ororo Munroe. You have no idea what life I had before we met.”
Startled by her friend’s sharp tone, Iskra hesitated.
“My parents were married to their careers, so our home was literally at their lab. When they died, a partner took me in.” Mercy scoffed. “No, she took charge of me and . . . well, she did more than care for me. She messed me up, nearly drove me to suicide. She’s why I bailed. Went solo. So, trust me, I get it, and I’m going to do everything I can to bring you and your girl back together ASAP.”
“I am sorry,” Iskra said. “I did not know.”
“No worries—nobody knows, and I wish I’d kept it that way.”
Sensing her friend’s regret, Iskra offered reassurance. “I am a vault.”
Mercy sniffed a laugh. “Let’s just do our best to keep a certain deputy director happy, because he’s in a rage about you ruining his efforts to save you-know-who.”
Eyeing the fountain in the square across from Frankfurt & Stuttgart, Iskra resented the director’s insinuation. “Too bad. I have seen how he helps, and it is not helping him. I must do something.”
“If he finds out I’m talking to you—”
“Then make sure he does not.”
“Yeah, so not helping or happening. I’ve almost got—aha!” Mercy said. “And ping-o.” She groaned loudly. “Do not tell Cell I said that, or I’ll never live down using a Cell-ism. In fact, I might just dip into self-flagellation to punish myself for it.” After clearing her throat, she exhaled. “Okay, yeah—looks like your patience is going to pay off.”
Patience? This was determination.
“Hermanns’ car is about two klicks out, seems to be headed in your general direction, so you might’ve been right about him going in to work.”
Anticipation tightened Iskra’s stomach. “Even if he is not, it is close enough for me to make a point.”
“Uh, sans bullets, right?” Mercy said, her concern clear. “We agreed.”
“You agreed.” Iskra would do what she must to alter the course of this insanity. “Recall what I am.”
“Leif’s girlfriend? Super-hot Bulgarian with a twisted past?”
“You forgot the less positive aspects.”
“And you can do the same. Because, hello? We need Hermanns alive.”
“Why?”
“Be . . . cause . . .” Mercy drew out the last half of the word as if buying time. “He has the book, and if Leif really went off the rails and joined Andrew-who-is-Mitre, then Hermanns probably knows Leif’s current location.”
Point made.
“Things are messed up,” Mercy said, “but we have our priorities: find Leif and get your daughter back. You can’t do that if you let rage rule.”
“Not rage, efficiency.” Iskra stalked to the front of the rooftop and crouched, hoping to create less of an impression to passersby below. Between two structures on the other side of the road, she caught sight of Hermanns’ black BMW SUV. A second later, it glided around the corner and aimed toward F&SB. “I see his vehicle.”
Though Mercy’s shout to wait sailed out of the speaker, Iskra ended the call, pocketed the phone, and made her way to the private stairwell. Down the steps, she hit the floor of his office and apartments. Why wasn’t he staying at his estate after the fiasco in The Hague? It was more secure. More guaranteed he would stay alive. But perhaps he, too, had a lot to clean up after Veratti’s bold moves.
In the main corridor, she mentally patted the knife strapped to her ankle and slipped her gun from its holster. Cradled it in a firm grip. She eased the door to a private passage open for a quick look.
Clear. Weapon at the ready, she crossed the marble, cringing at the way her shoe squeaked. She quieted her steps and slipped down the narrow corridor toward the suite.
Voices skated along the floor, distant and conversational.
Iskra strained to hear what was being said but couldn’t make it out. She reached for the door handle.
“Drop it!” a voice commanded.
Iskra wheeled around, bringing her gun to bear.
Crack!
Concrete splintered, spitting shards into her face. Jerking away, she cringed and switched tactics. Hands up, she faced him. “Okay, okay.”
“Drop it!” he barked again, advancing. His posture, his dark expression—and the bullet he’d already sent her way—warned he meant business.
So did she.
The door to her left opened. Iskra flinched.
Laughter bellowed into the corridor. “Iskra! Imagine my surprise.”
A hand hooked her neck and drew her back against a strong chest. She hated herself for not hearing the second guard come up behind her. Sloppy. The first guard moved lightning-fast, disarming her. She possessed the training and skills to get out of this, but not without a lot of bloodshed that could injure her ultimate goal.
With a huff, she freed the tension from her limbs. “Apparently not too surprised,” she said to Rutger.
“You always have to do things the hard way,” he chuckled.
“You haven’t seen hard,” she growled. She may not have her gun anymore, but she still had her knife and her wits.
“If you wanted to talk, all you had to do was ask for an appointment.”
“I’ve had enough talk.”
Hands patted her ribs, waist, hips, and down her legs. Her pant leg lifted, and she was relieved of her knife. So just her wits.
“I want those back,” she said.
Rutger shrugged. “What would we want with them?” He motioned her inside. “Now we can do business.”
Iskra marched into the suite that was more penthouse than office. “Where is he?”
After a long, silent look, Rutger turned his attention to the room, then to the guards. “I thought you said you searched this place.”
“Whole building, sir,” the guard said. “It’s clear.”
Rutger laughed—and Iskra knew he was toying with her.
“We saw him with Mitre.” She would never call her brother by the name he’d assumed. “Where are they?”
Rutger shrugged. “Not here.” He pursed his lips. “Why would he be?”
“You know why!” She started forward, but a guard shifted. Awareness flared—he’d reacted very quickly. “You know what he is.”
“A very skilled American operator.” Rutger peered at her, his distinguished face needing some scrapes and bruises from her fists. “What else, Iskra?”
“The book—”
Another shrug. “He never returned it to me.”
Frustration strangled her patience. “Enough of your games. I want to know where he is.” This man was notorious for using nuance to deceive. He said Leif had never returned the book to him, but had Leif brought it back . . . and kept it? “Tell me or—”
“You are in no position to threaten me, Iskra.”
Frustration depleted her energy. “Where is he, Rutger?”
“Leif is where he wants to be.” He nodded to the guard. “I think Miss Todorova is done here. Kindly see her out of the building.”
Iskra started. “Just tell me—is he in danger?”
“The only danger he faces is himself and the truth. And for both of those,” Rutger said, “I think you should look closer to home—that
is, if you want Leif to survive what’s ticking inside him.”
* * *
STUTTGART, GERMANY
Crisp and clean, the gallery smelled of light antiseptic. Dim lighting stirred tension at the base of Leif’s neck as he spotted several black bulbs in the ceiling. Skirting the perimeter, he kept his head down and made his way to the back. At a desk tucked in a corner, a woman chatted on her phone, its glow illuminating her face.
Leif focused on a nearby painting, turning his back to the nearest camera.
“Hello,” the woman said. “May I help you?” Now she stood in his periphery, but if he turned, he’d be recognizable through the black eye.
“Are you Anna Gottlieb?” he asked.
She blinked and smiled. “I—oh, are you Mr. Chase?”
It had seemed appropriate. “Yes.”
Palms together, she pointed her hands at him. “Do you have—”
“Private, remember?” The topic of their conversation sat heavy in his messenger bag, and he’d made sure she couldn’t detect it. He didn’t want this exchange recorded. Most security cameras were video only, but he wasn’t willing to risk it. Still, who would know he’d come here?
“This way,” she said, leading him to a side office.
Head tucked, Leif followed.
“There’s no camera in here, as requested,” she said, opening the door to a room with black walls and furniture.
Leif closed the door, checking ceiling corners for bulbs and sprinkler heads for bugs.
“I take it this is a small piece.” Ms. Gottlieb faced him with more than a little anticipation as she shoved her hands into gloves. “Where is it?”
Her near-reverent anticipation and respect for the artwork chastised Leif for tossing it into his bag. But he’d had little time for long-term preservation—of the diptych or his life. He retrieved it from the interior pocket and handed it over.
Light bloomed in her eyes. She murmured something in German. “You were right,” she said with awe, carefully turning the diptych over as if it were fragile.
Maybe it was. Leif hadn’t really given it thought.
“Incredible,” she whispered as she lowered herself to a chair and swiveled toward a lamp, its beam waiting in quiet repose to illuminate the past. “And he had it in a dirty, smelly bag.”