by Ronie Kendig
Leif resisted the urge to sniff his messenger bag.
Her gloved hands rotated the diptych in several directions, allowing the lamp to trace every surface. “The wood—oak, perhaps teak—is in decent condition, considering its age. Marginal scuffing, despite rough handling.” She unfolded it. “Exquisite.”
Leif leaned in as if he hadn’t already studied the piece for endless waking hours, not to mention the times it haunted his dreams.
“Paint is oil, and age is evident in minor cracks, which isn’t surprising, considering the lack of care,” she muttered.
He got it—she wanted him to feel guilty about his treatment of the artwork. But his concern lay more in its meaning and less in its age. Besides, the way she talked about the piece was like a coroner dictating the findings of an autopsy. “You aren’t recording this, are you?”
Ms. Gottlieb started, then looked up as if she’d forgotten he was there. She blinked. “Oh. No.” Pink stained her cheeks. “Sorry—it is just . . . do you realize—?”
“Can you tell me what the different scenes represent?”
Irritation pinched her eyes. “Well, the style is reminiscent of Hieronymus Bosch, but did he paint it?” She lifted a thin shoulder and pursed her lips. “That would be impossible to say definitively without lab testing.”
“No. I just want to understand the—”
“What you don’t get—”
“—meanings.”
“—is that if . . . if this is a Bosch, then it’s worth millions.” Her face was flushed with excitement. “I mean, this could be his work. Bosch was known for working on oak, and this . . .” Again she turned it over, her gloved fingers lightly touching the surface. “He was also very well-known for his religious concepts and narratives, which were fantastic, if not macabre.” A glare glanced off the left panel as she angled it steeply. “Like this scene on the lower right of what we’ll call Panel A,” she said, pointing to it. “It sort of mirrors his depictions of hell, except instead of hell, the key figure in this piece is at a lake with a friend. The clouds around them have macabre images, too—this one might be a demon sitting on the shoulder of this person. And here, the bloody image and the contorted face of the individual in this cloud.”
“It’s twisted, dark.”
“That’s because unlike many works related to hell and the underworld, Bosch’s work made the souls in the paintings suffer psychological distress. They are driven mad by fear, chaos, anxiety. . . .”
Leif could relate.
“And in this painting, I think betrayal is also a key factor in the soul’s demise.”
“Betrayal?”
“Mm-hmm.” She swung a magnifying glass over the panel. “Look at what’s eating the dead man. Birds.” She looked up over her shoulder at him. “Classic Dutch symbol of friendship.”
An anchor dropped in Leif’s gut, forbidding him from moving on. Betrayal. Friend. He’d walked out on Reaper. And it was right here in the painting. “What else?” Desperation prompted him to ask, needing something other than his own prophetic betrayal.
“Well, I can give thoughts on the scenes, but interpretation is subjective, you understand.” When he nodded, she refocused on the diptych. “The upper depiction on Panel B with the nine men—”
“Eight,” Leif corrected. “This man and this one are the same.”
“They aren’t,” she argued. “Look at the noses and hair—one is clearly longer than the other.”
“His paintbrush slipped.” Weak, he chided himself.
She huffed. “Scene one of Panel B”—she pointed to the uppermost section on the right side with a helmeted rider—“has three separate depictions within its sphere. The horseman goes from trampling a king to pointing to this long line of men, probably soldiers or warriors.”
“Warriors?”
Ms. Gottlieb nodded. “Tall, muscled, carrying spears, following this man with a robe. Then the final scene shows this horseman walking among the clouds with a queen. Which means he probably died.”
Leif’s heart twitched. “Come again?”
“The columns, the clouds—classic utopian depictions of the afterlife.”
He was beginning to wish he hadn’t come. This final war didn’t seem to have a happy ending. “And the last one, with the woman?”
“Yes, that’s . . . interesting. The woman is the same in each scene, so I think this mirrors the horseman’s timeline. Here, she’s holding the man’s hand, then another woman’s, and finally, she’s holding the man’s body.” Anna bounced her head from side to side. “Ja, that makes me more convinced that his final scene is the afterlife, where she is holding his dead body.”
So, basically, he was screwed. No matter what he did, he would end up dead.
“But I’m not convinced this is Bosch.”
“Yeah, same.” He didn’t care. And the less worth she assigned to the panels the better. It was time to bug out. He couldn’t take any more bad news. Not today.
She let out a thick breath and sagged.
Fine. He’d bite. “Why?”
“Well,” she said, her enthusiasm suddenly waning, “if you consider his most well-known work, The Garden of Earthly Delights . . .” She set down the diptych and tugged out her phone, pulling up the image of the painting. “You see that despite being broken into three panels—a triptych—the painting has many scenes. If you think of them in rows, they form a three-by-three grid, and overall, it creates one large picture. See?”
Leif nodded, having no idea what her point was. He glanced between the image on the phone and the diptych. “So this is a smaller, different variant.”
Ms. Gottlieb huffed a laugh. “No. Look at it,” she said, as if talking to a child.
Wasn’t that what he’d been doing for the last hour?
“Your panels have no overall picture,” she said, tapping the diptych, then snagging her phone. She motioned in a circle around the screen. “Each of the scenes of the Garden painting creates a big scene—a big picture, if you will.” She tapped the diptych. “This . . . it’s either not a Bosch, or it’s—” She sat up, lifting the diptych and examining it. Suddenly, a vibrancy once more infused her eyes.
Which drew Leif in. “What?”
“This . . .” She laughed. “Look!” She angled it toward him. “The left panel—you can just see the edges of a tree and a hand.”
“Maybe he just didn’t paint the whole tree.”
She scoffed. “I am surprised you missed this. Look at the sides of the oak on Panel A—there are holes.”
“I thought it was just old.”
“No, they match the hinge marks between Panel A and B, which—if I am correct . . .” She grinned at him. “There’s another panel. I am sure. What I have called Panel A is most likely Panel B, and Panel B is actually Panel C. The first one is missing.” She promptly deflated. “Which means this is worthless.”
No, it meant Rutger was holding out on him again.
“Well, thanks for your help.” Leif took it back and pulled open his messenger bag.
“Wait!” she shrieked, holding out both hands to stop him. She gave him a shaky smile and rose. “Just wait right here. I want to get something for you to protect the panels.”
“Oh, that’s not—”
“It absolutely is. I insist.” She left and returned a minute later with a black velvet pouch, which she tucked the panels into before placing them in a plastic protector with a zipper closure. “There.”
“Thanks.” Head down, he started for the front door, sliding the pouch into his bag.
“If you find that missing panel, let me know. I might be interested.”
You and me both. He waved as he pushed open the door.
Mind leaden with her interpretations and the revelation of more, he crossed the street and aimed back toward the warehouse district. Should he be in awe or daunted that someone had prophesied—and painted!—his betrayal and death? A deep conviction, but it too closely paralleled his life right
now not to be prophetic.
So . . . was this God warning him he was going to die?
What kind of revelation was that? Didn’t everyone die?
“Leif!”
Jolted out of his thoughts, he glanced back as the voice struggled through his cluttered mind. Then he saw who it was and broke into a run.
TEN
STUTTGART, GERMANY
Iskra groaned when he started running. “Leif!” With his advanced abilities, she was unlikely to catch him or maintain pursuit long enough to catch up. But she was not going to give up easily. He should know that.
Sprinting, she marveled at the timing—no sooner had she been kicked out of Frankfurt & Stuttgart Biologics than she had crossed the street and spotted Leif rounding the corner. She avoided a collision with a café chair tumbling at her—one of his diversions.
Curse him for being so athletic and so . . . Neiothen. She navigated a thick restaurant crowd, struggling not to lose sight of that blond head. A man stepped from the crowd—right into her path.
Cringing, Iskra shoved him away. Which diverted her. Allowed Leif to slip from view.
Where had he gone? She slowed, searching the area. Hating the cobbled road that threatened to wrench her ankle. Scanning faces left her with a sick feeling. She turned a circle. Where was he? Only strangers stared back.
No . . .
“Hey!” someone complained straight ahead.
Iskra’s gaze homed in on the athletic form bobbing around a building.
Gotcha. Darting that way, she knew rounding a corner presented a perfect opportunity to be attacked. But she was counting on Leif being more desperate to evade rather than confront. She crossed the road.
A horn blared.
Too late, she saw the car but could not avoid the collision. The bumper thumped her hip and knocked her sideways. Pain rocked through her, and Iskra stumbled. Tripped but staggered up. Took a second to catch her breath, reassure herself she still had both legs. She offered apologies over the driver’s curses and obscene gestures.
She moved out of the way, hobbling around the fountain, ignoring the people gaping as she hurried toward the corner—and stopped short. Pale eyes stared back. So did the muzzle of his weapon. Would he really shoot her? She lifted her hands slowly, this scenario reminding her of Greece. Of staring at the handsome stranger through the decontamination chamber door.
Iskra limped closer, slipping into the shadows of the buildings that formed the alley in which he stood.
“Far enough,” he growled.
“Leif—”
“Pretty stupid, following me and nearly getting yourself killed. Who’d take care of Taissia?”
His words stopped her. He was . . . concerned? “I wasn’t sure you cared.”
His expression went hard as he adjusted the messenger bag slung across his chest. “Stop following me.”
“I wish I could.” Her heart raced, recalling what had been in that bag the last time she had seen it.
“You know what I am, what I can do. You can’t keep up.”
So why was he standing here talking? She took another step, knowing she needed to distract him. “I’ll never stop trying.” Mentally, she reached for the knife in her leg holster. Could she get it in time? The knife was necessary to take the satchel. “It’s what we do for those we love.”
“The man you loved is gone.”
He would think she had betrayed him if she took the bag. And they would relive their standoff at the Pearl of the Antilles all over again. “He’s standing right in front of me.”
Leif’s gaze skipped to something behind her.
She seized his distraction and lunged. But he did the same, his weapon still aimed in her direction. They collided and went to the ground amid the report of his gun.
Terrified that he had tried to shoot her, she bucked and kicked, using that to keep him busy while she extricated her knife.
“Keep still!” he hissed.
She brought up her blade.
Gunfire cracked close to her head and froze her for a second, stunned. Her heart pounded. Told her to get away before his bullet found its mark in her chest or head.
She gripped the canvas strap of the messenger bag in one hand and ripped the serrated edge through it. It freed, and she shoved him with all she was worth. Rolled to her right. Came up. Scrambled out of the alley. She took a breath, then shot across the square to the other side of the fountain. Brick and mortar spat at her. She cringed and pulled in tighter. Searched for an exit.
“Iskra! Stop!”
Ahead, she saw her course—a table, a car, an alley. In a zigzag, she could make it, even with an aching hip.
“I don’t want you to get hurt,” Leif barked from the far side.
Startled at the drastic change in him, she knew there could be no arguing it now. That he had shot at her . . .
She launched toward the table. Heard the crack of the gun—which had people screaming and running—almost simultaneous with the cobbled path spitting chunks up at her. In tears, she dove behind a stand and scooted, breathing quick and panicked. Yet focused. She couldn’t stay here for long. Bullets could go right through this cover. Breathing around the ache in her hip, she pitched herself at the small blue Fiat and tumbled around the grill, feeling the thump of the book in the bag as she hugged it close.
Gunfire echoed in the square.
It was then she heard it—not just one shooter, but two.
Which meant he was distracted again. Bolting for the alley, she prayed she didn’t feel fire shoot down her back—or worse, face-plant because of a mortal wound. The shadows yanked her into their cool embrace. Stumbling backward and hugging his satchel, she peered back toward the fountain. Toward the continuing report of gunfire.
Leif crouched behind a vehicle, firing around the front. What was he . . . oh no. Her pulse spasmed when she spotted not one, but two men targeting Leif. He was in a fight for his life. Alone.
Her stomach plummeted as she recognized one of the men—he had been with Veratti. Was he an ArC operative?
A terrible epiphany struck—Leif had not been shooting at her. He had been protecting her. And she had betrayed him.
* * *
TYSON’S CORNER, VIRGINIA
If Jessica Cruz, a Green Lantern, could confront her anxiety and leave her apartment . . . then Mercy Maddox could face this. Even Cruz-conquer it. Granted, Jessica’s anxiety didn’t vanish in one fell swoop. But at least she’d faced it.
Let’s do this.
Mercy squared her shoulders and left the bathroom stall. As she passed the sinks, she caught her reflection in the mirrors. It slowed her. Beach waves framed her face—not too sexy, but gone were the everyday ponytail and snark.
Well, maybe not the snark. That couldn’t be extracted, even with gene splicing. She’d chosen the navy blouse for modesty and touch of feminine flounce along the neckline. Her slacks cast a more casual and conservative tone than flirty flare. She was sure her nerves were as evident as . . . as . . .
Gripping the door handle, Mercy froze, a strange trill running down her spine. What kind of omen was it that she couldn’t even come up with a Marvel analogy for this moment?
A bad one. A very bad one.
Maybe she should leave. Go to the bunker. Because . . . Iskra. It had been ten minutes, and she hadn’t messaged back. What if something had gone wrong? After all, someone had blocked Mercy from piggybacking satellite feeds to help her friend.
Yes. Go back to the bunker.
Ugh! To do that, she’d have to leave the restroom. Which would mean walking right past . . . him. Those puppy-dog-brown eyes would go on full assault against her weak self, flaying her with his hurt. Disappointment.
“You’re being stupid,” she hissed to herself, yanked open the door, and stalked to the table. Planted herself in the chair.
That ever-assessing gaze slid over her. “You are okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” It was her own personal reminder. Because
this was a good thing. Being here. On a date. With a handsome former Afghan commando who had a ready smile and stalwart attraction.
She liked Baddar. A lot. But in so many ways, he was just too . . . perfect. And she was too flawed.
His smile wavered, and Mercy hated herself for it. Because it was her fault.
“It’s hard to relax,” she said, then chastised herself for going there, for opening up to a man who would probably think she was a head case. “Ya know, when we should be looking for Leif.” That sounded legit, right?
His smile slipped. “He would not want us to starve, yes?”
Mercy lowered her head. Nodded. She was terrible at this. She’d never gone through the hoops, so to speak. Her romances had always been with guys she’d worked with, and things had just . . . happened. There wasn’t any of this introvert-annihilating small talk.
“You are quiet.”
Mercy glanced up, only then realizing she’d been staring at her plate since she sat down . . . however long ago that had been. “Sorry.”
“If you did not want to come, you could say no.”
Heart in her throat, she reached across the table and placed her hand on his where it rested beside his utensils. “I’m sorry. It’s not you—and I did want to come.”
“Did.”
Mercy swallowed. Drew back. Fisted both hands in her lap. “Look, Baddar.” She met his gaze and saw what she’d dreaded—hurt in those dark beautiful eyes. “I’m not good at this . . . dating. It’s awkward, like some cruel ritual people force themselves to go through as they chase happily-ever-after dreams. Me? I just want to skip to the end.” And that would be marriage. “I mean—not the end-end, but . . .” Huffing, she blew out a breath. “I only mean, I know you like me. And you know I like you.”
“You do?”
“Of course I do. We’re friends.” The dreams she had just shattered by using the “F word” on their first official date.
The thing was, Baddar Amir Nawabi was a lot of man, a powerful man with a powerful presence. The idea of him swallowed her up. And she had no idea what to do with that. When he found out who she was, who she really was . . .