by Ronie Kendig
Mercy swallowed, feeling terrible. “You’re very good . . . but you see a pretty face and lose your mind!”
“She told me,” he said with a huff of disbelief. “She told me you’d do this.”
Mercy drew back, surprised at the shadows crowding his normally lighthearted features. “What?”
“That’s right. You’re not the only one with knowledge about those you think are dangerous. Alisz said she knew you, that you grew up together in Germany.”
Bile rose in her throat.
“Funny—that’s not something you ever told me.” He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “And she said you’d think she was a plant, that she was just doing this to get into my system or something.”
The blood drained from her face. Alisz had told him. She’d told him. “Barclay . . .” Realization washed over her, as cold as the dread draping her shoulders and spilling down her back. “She’s just like Typhoid Mary—”
“C’mon!” he roared, rage exploding through his features. His right arm swung and nailed the coffee mug on his desk. It flung across the room. Splashed her face with cold coffee before shattering against the wall. A shard flicked her face.
With a gasp, she jerked away.
Barc’s eyes went wide. “Mercy!” He started forward.
She scrambled back—right into a solid mass that swept around her. Barricaded her. Tall, with broad shoulders. Dark wavy hair. Eyes black as night and lit with fury, Baddar held a hand toward Cell. “No. Stay there.” His other arm reached toward her.
Instinctively, Mercy caught his hand and felt him nudging her backward.
She moved out of the office, rattled. Shaken. Angry. Hearing sounds, knowing Baddar spoke low and evenly to Cell before turning toward her.
His thick arm curled around her as he guided her down the corridor toward the elevator. He punched the button, and though she had no messenger bag or keys to drive herself home, she entered the steel trap. The doors slid closed.
Baddar pulled her into his arms. And she went. Willingly. Sobbing. Unable to understand what made her cry. What made her accept Baddar’s comfort. But she needed both of them, desperately.
* * *
STUTTGART, GERMANY
“Guardians! It is a good name, yes? Better than this blood-lust name Neiothen,” Rutger said, addressing the men gathered in the warehouse. For this talk, he’d opted for their training area, which had a more rudimentary, rigorous feel than the sanitized conference table that seemed to make them feel like cornered lab rats. “You have been through much and endured more than any person should have to. They stole from you not only your identity, but your will. Both of which you have regained. And now . . . now I return to you what you are—warriors, soldiers. The finest. The best.”
The men glanced at one another in question. Leif stood to the side, arms folded over his chest. Beside him, standing in similar fashion, Andreas.
“Do you not think it time to give back what they have wreaked?” Rutger continued. These were dangerous words that could get him killed, but enough was enough.
Interest lit their expressions. All, that is, except one.
“So,” Leif said, roughing a hand over his mouth and neck, “you’re telling us that someone stole our identities and will from us—made us slaves to their whims. And now . . . are you having a whim, Hermanns?”
“I’m having relief, Mr. Metcalfe, because I am finally able to hand you the opportunity to strike a blow against ArC,” Rutger said with a sardonic smile. “We are working to confirm the location where we believe they are genetically engineering the newer models of your kind. This is a much more advanced technology than what my Katrin designed. In this program, they care not for the protection of the soldier, only the result. Therefore, these soldiers are less human and more program.”
The men shifted, agitated and anxious.
“You want us to stop these new Gen2s—the very ones we’ve already been told we can’t stop?” Elvestad asked in his grating voice.
“Nein, this is not about me or the Gen2s. It is about you! About a chance to destroy a lab like the one that altered you. That violated your sacred trust in them to help you, not turn you into soulless, will-less soldiers.” Indignation wove through Rutger. “Netherwood must be stopped. We have people working to tear down the infrastructure, corrupt the technology and coding, but we must also destroy the labs themselves. No stone is being left unturned against this insidious work.” He had expected the men to be ready for this opportunity, but their blank expressions made him wonder if he had pushed too soon.
“What you’re suggesting is lethally dangerous,” Leif said. “I’ve seen Veratti’s handiwork. I know his vengeance.”
“If you did not come to stop this, then why did you come?”
“Answers. I want to know—”
“You do know—these are the men you trained with. The program that robbed you of six months so they could reintegrate you as sleepers.”
“But how did they get that past SOCOM? Or JSOC?”
“You must ask this?” Rutger laughed. “Do you really think only foreign armies are infected with ArC agents? Do you think only”—he motioned to Ibn Sarsour—“London was infiltrated? Or perhaps only Sweden? No! They are everywhere. Just as demons can enter churches through corrupted vessels, so have these agents entered the American military and government. They hold the highest positions, and that is how ArC has managed to remain hidden and unhindered.”
A vibration rumbled in his chest pocket, and Rutger drew out his phone and saw the ID. “Please,” he said, glancing at the men again, particularly Leif. “I will let you talk to decide if this is what you want, ja? But time is precious. The longer we wait, the more Gen2 operatives you will have to go up against.” He met Andreas’s gaze, hoping to relay the imperative nature of convincing the others to join them. They were not trying to make them soldiers for a cause, but to end the nightmare once and for all.
He answered the call as he started toward the secure wing. “Hello, mein alter Freund.”
“The facility’s in Durban, South Africa.”
Conviction firmed in Rutger. “I am surprised you are giving me this intel.”
“As am I, but hear me—I have no time to vet this, so it may not be legit. However, I’m told this camp will be gone by the end of the week.”
Rutger rubbed his brow. If it was a ruse . . . “We’ll see to it.”
“You’re hesitating.”
“I am not, nein, but they—the men are afraid my intention is to use them as Veratti has.”
“Tricky waters.”
Rutger heaved a sigh. “Ja.” A knock on the door drew him around. “Ein moment,” he said to his friend, then met the pale gaze of his visitor. “How can I help you?”
Leif Metcalfe glanced at the phone, hesitating. “Going up against Veratti is too dangerous. Half the men here aren’t strong enough to confront anyone, let alone Gen2s. This’ll get them killed. And sorry, but if I’m dead, I can’t get the answers I need.”
“Ja, it is dangerous. And those not ready are not going,” Rutger agreed. “But you . . . not going against him will get you killed, because he will hunt you down, just as assuredly he is already hunting me.” He drew himself up straight. “I have done what I can, though my actions are late in coming. No more vacillation. My affairs are in order. Should Death come for me, then I meet it with a clear conscience, knowing I have done what is in my power to stop Netherwood.”
Rutger motioned to the window overlooking the gym. “See them, Mr. Metcalfe? See them training and toiling so hard to beat their situation? The Jews were taken into captivity in Babylon and toiled for hundreds of years, but there came a Babylonian king named Cyrus. He is mentioned over thirty times in the Bible.”
Leif gave him a confused look, no doubt wondering where Rutger was going with this.
“In Isaiah 45, God says:
“‘Cyrus is my anointed king.
I take hold of his right hand.
>
I give him the power
to bring nations under his control.
I help him strip kings of their power
to go to war against him.
I break city gates open so he can go through them.’”
Rutger smiled at the young man with such a great burden on his shoulders, a burden he never asked for. “God did not do that to elevate Cyrus, but to free His people so mankind would know He was Lord.” He drew in a long breath and exhaled slowly. “Think of these men as the Jews. And you are their Cyrus.”
Leif’s jaw tensed, considering him. “I have no idea what that means, but I’m ready to do violence against Veratti.”
“I am relieved to hear it,” Rutger said earnestly. “They will need you and your leadership.”
He gave a grim nod. “I’m in.” After one more glance at the phone, Leif asked, “Who’s that?”
Rutger flattened his expression. “No concern of yours.”
Lips taut, gaze sharp, Leif left.
Rutger returned to his call. “Now . . .”
“Bet he didn’t like that last line.”
“It made him angry, made him more invested in what he’s doing, more determined to carry it out.”
“You are a cold son-of-a-gun.”
“I learned from the best.” Despite the other man’s laugh, Rutger felt no humor. He had learned much from his friend, who had not always been friendly. “You should know that I believe he is on to me.”
“Leif?”
“Nein.”
“Veratti.”
“He was aggressive this last time we met. If I am killed, be sure you finish this. For Katrin. For Leif.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“That is the only way I am still alive,” Rutger said. “Promise me you will do it. Promise you will give him the answers.”
“He’ll be ticked—”
“Promise!” The chill of death raised the small hairs on the back of his neck and trekked across his shoulders.
“Fine. But I cannot promise to be as effective as you, since you’re already plugged into that blasted coalition.”
“There are assets around you, Dru. Find them before they destroy everything.”
FOURTEEN
DURBAN, SOUTH AFRICA
Buttoning the jacket of his Zegna bespoke suit, Ciro Veratti emerged from the armored SUV into the belly of the concrete facility that shielded the inhabitants and personnel from the unrelenting fury of the South African sun. Several industrial fans groaned in their struggle against the inhumane temperatures.
A sniveling man rushed toward him, his sweat-thickened mop clumping into his eyes as he inclined his head and stretched out his hand. “Mr. Ver—”
Ivo and Ettore swept in front of the man, cutting him off.
Ciro had seen this face numerous times—Cecil Bordeur, the director of scientific operations at the southern facility. And he liked him no more now than he did with thousands of miles and technology separating them. So he focused on the other person here to receive them. Janina Bisset had never given him a warm reception, but she certainly gave plenty in her ability to fine-tune their technological efforts with the Neiothen.
“Ms. Bisset.”
“Mr. Veratti.” Her fine square jaw and mauve lips perfectly accented her brown hair, which was queued back. Ah, the fire in her eyes! “To what do we owe this unexpected visit?” Annoyance tinged her question.
“Are you bothered by my presence, Ms. Bisset?”
“On the contrary,” she said, motioning toward the large steel doors the guards opened, “we are honored. But every interruption and distraction could set our progress back by weeks. I understood we were short on time, so this . . . visit is unexpected.”
“You suggest I might sabotage your work.” He nodded her ahead of him through the doors.
With elegance and authority, she moved into the corridor, which boasted bright lighting and much cooler temperatures. “I would never say that, sir.”
“But you feel it. You are frustrated with me for coming.” He entered a small room with an expansive bank of blackened windows whose uppermost sections leaned out of the room over something not visible.
Ms. Bisset considered him, more than a little fear in her eyes. No doubt wondering which would get her killed faster—a placating lie or bald truth.
Bordeur slithered in and coiled around her. He looked at his counterpart, then to Ciro. “I—”
“Yes,” she asserted, speaking over the snake. “I know you see everything that goes on here, with all the surveillance equipment and nightly reports from Haverstock. Risking a slowdown in production—”
“Would be infuriating,” he agreed, ambling toward the windows. “So let us get on with this demonstration. I do not want a report or a video to tell me what you are doing.” He slid his gaze to hers with an appreciative smile. “Nothing but good has been said of what you’ve accomplished, so I would see it for myself, experience it.”
Reticence held her fast, but she finally skirted a look to Bordeur and nodded. He rushed to the side of the room and palmed a panel. Lights in the control room dimmed, and the blackened windows cleared, revealing a series of walled-off areas set up in a two-by-six grid.
“As you know,” she said with a nod, “each room has a different challenge, and they are incremental, with the easiest being the lower left, then up the left side until they end on the right.”
Peering down into the giant box created a sort of elaborate and expensive dollhouse effect. Ciro’s gaze rested on the center, where two walls that looked like a jagged rock with multicolored, randomly placed divots devoured the floor-to-ceiling space, interrupting the view. A man was nearly at the ceiling, pausing and two-handing one of the grips as he assessed a parallel wall.
“These have graduated and are merely keeping on top of their training,” she said.
“So,” Ciro said, his own palms sweating when he realized the man hadn’t anchored himself to a safety line. It was easily a thirty-foot drop. “They’re”—he hauled in a breath as the man shoved with his legs and launched out at the other wall, seemingly suspended midair before he caught a blue grip—“ready.” A smile split his uncertainty, dividing him from any doubt. “Incredibile!”
“Ready?” Janina Bisset repeated with a furrowed brow. “There are still irregularities in their biorhythms, among other concerns. It would be better if we had more time.”
“Mm, indeed it would be, but I’m afraid we have no more.” He eyed a man on a treadmill, head high and his pace a steady clip—not quite sprinting, but not far from it. He couldn’t last much longer at that speed.
“I respect that you have a timetable, but you brought me on—”
“I brought you on because of your brain, not your mouth or arguments,” Ciro barked. He clicked his tongue. “You are much like Katrin.”
A grievous realization. Hopefully Dr. Bisset would understand her place and responsibilities before she ended her time, too.
The man was still running. “How long has he been on the treadmill?” Ciro asked.
Bordeur nodded eagerly. “Five—”
“Minutes?”
“—hours.”
Ciro glanced at the director, incredulous. “He is not even sweating.” Concern replaced his surprise. “You run them too hard. Keep this up—”
“It is not us,” Janina Bisset asserted. “He is on his rest period, but he is trying to break his last record for the run.”
“And what was that?” Ciro asked, disbelief choking him.
“Eight hours.”
“It cannot be. That is—”
“Impossible?” she mused. “That’s what we specialize in, Mr. Veratti, as you’ve insisted.” She looked down into the training center. “As you know, the men are given supplements and other medicinal cocktails that increase stamina and inhibit pain and fear, so they can act decisively and effectively. Of course, that is after they have been enhanced with our innovative procedures.”
Disbelief gave way to thrill. They had a chance. They truly had a chance. “I would see more!”
She indicated a door. “We can walk the entire facility without intruding on their training or distracting them.”
“No, I will go down.”
“I—”
He faced her, hoping he did not have to encourage her to oblige him.
She tucked her chin. “Of course. This way.”
Through the door, she led him around the side of the training center and into a stairwell as she typed into a phone. They stepped into a narrow passage, open above just like the rest of the boxed-off spaces that bisected the length of the building. As their entourage approached the center, he heard the clink of weights and the grunts of athletic effort fall silent.
A man appeared from the right—he had a presence about him that commanded respect and attention. He could clearly handle himself.
“Colonel,” Ms. Bisset said, easing forward, “Mr. Veratti wanted to . . .” Her hesitation bespoke her confusion. Perhaps her concern as well.
“Meet our prodigies,” Ciro said with a rueful smile. “See what they are about, what they can do.”
The colonel snapped a nod, then pivoted and shouted something that sounded more like a primal call of the wild than intelligible words. In seconds, the men formed up, feet shoulder width apart, hands behind their backs. Relaxed. Confident.
“Raoul,” the colonel said.
A man jerked straight. “Sir.” His black hair was shorn close.
“A demonstration of your abilities for our benefactor.”
Dark eyes shadowed by an intensity that left little doubt as to what he could do flashed to his colonel. “ROE, sir?”
“Rules of engagement,” Ms. Bisset whispered in explanation.
Ignoring Bisset, Ciro gave a sharp nod to the hesitating colonel. “Impress me.”
The colonel turned to Raoul. “Whatever it takes, soldier.”
Raoul’s eyes hit Ciro—and he would not admit to the sick feeling of dread that tumbled through his stomach. But when the man’s gaze surfed the others around him, Ciro felt relief at not experiencing whatever this man would do to impress.