by Ronie Kendig
“Not playing God,” a male voice echoed through the hub, sending Leif and Vega back to reality with a dose of alarm. “Helping Him.”
Leif scanned the hub, the ceiling, searching for a camera and suddenly realizing he and Vega had no escape. No way to contact Andreas or call for help. Crap. He finally spotted a small circular nub on a monitor.
“Ah, see? You’re one of the finer specimens we’ve created,” the disembodied voice said—but something in Leif’s mind snagged on an inflection. Did he know this person? “It’s sad that we must terminate you, because really, if you were the success we’d hoped, you wouldn’t have trapped yourself here.”
I know that voice. A face drifted in the fog of the past. Leif angled his head, as if that’d help him pull it up from the dregs of the past.
“We’re not alone,” Vega said to the camera.
“Ah, do you mean Mr. Krestyanov, Mr. Ibn Sarsour, and Mr. Elvestad? They are being dealt with as we speak.”
It wasn’t a surprise that this person knew their names. The Neiothen and whatever was going on here were undoubtedly connected. ArC knew about the Neiothen, since they’d originally created them. But something else disturbed Leif. Something he couldn’t put his finger on.
And then it came to him. “Veratti!” Leif growled.
“Good-bye, Mr. Metcalfe, Mr. Vega. This time? Do us a favor and stay dead. It would make things so much easier.”
Hissing filled the hub, snapping Leif’s gaze upward. To a vent.
“Gas!” Vega covered his mouth and nose, jerking to the main door. He jiggled the handle. Eyes watering, he shook his head saying it was a no-go.
Leif banged on a section of wall with a door-shaped depression, but it wasn’t an exit. His chest tightened as the odorless gas seeped around his nose. Just like China. They had to get out, but there was no—
Wait! Leif threw himself at the joystick and clicked back, left. Then one more. The hub whirred, and he nearly smiled. The door-shaped depression now lined up with a half-glass, half-steel barrier. He toed the half-steel wall, and it popped free, providing an opening between the hub and lab.
SIXTEEN
DURBAN, SOUTH AFRICA
They broke out of the observation room into a very cramped security hub. “Close it,” Leif muttered over his shoulder.
Vega shifted, bumping him as he squirmed to give room so he could swing the door shut. A heavy click thunked through the confined space. It reminded Leif of the first time he’d encountered Iskra in the lab in Greece, when she’d beaten him and escaped with the Book of the Wars, which she’d stolen from him again in the square.
A barrier jutted out from the security hub, dividing the space into six cages, three on each side.
Even as he searched for an exit, Leif had the chilling realization that the creatures had stopped shrieking. Warm threat spilled over his shoulders, raising his hackles, and somehow he knew. Knew they were watching. With extreme stealth, he slid his gaze to the side.
Almost immediately to his right, a large, hairy spine rippled as the creature unfolded and came to its full height.
Holy crap.
It was easily seven feet tall, and though he half expected red, crazed eyes, Leif found normal brown eyes flecked with a raw, determined awareness.
“Um, Chief . . .” Vega whispered, his words worried.
“Yeah,” Leif breathed, still staring at the gorilla.
“Plan?”
Running wasn’t an option. Behind them—a gas-filled chamber. Ahead—beyond the security vestibule, six creatures seemed to grow in size, reacting to Leif’s and Vega’s presence.
Not good.
Why have a vestibule here if there wasn’t an exfil? What am I missing?
“Chie—”
Thud!
The vestibule wall bucked beneath the impact of a gorilla’s punch. Though this primate was normal, Leif couldn’t help but recall the other one. The one that seemed eerily human. The gorilla lifted both arms and banged again, the steel cage rattling beneath the blow.
Vega grabbed his tac vest and jerked him back.
Then Leif saw it—the thin plastic barrier jutting out from the vestibule divided each side from the other, forming a very narrow corridor. He hesitated into it. Wondering if the cages would hold the primates.
Their exit enraged the gorilla. With a chortling roar, he lifted both fists over his head. Shrieking and squawking vibrated as the other primates, smaller but still fierce, copied their alpha. The wall again bucked and wavered.
Just a few more fe—
Leif cringed as the hairy shoulder of a gorilla barreled toward him. It slammed into the thin barrier that bowed out. Pressed against Leif, pinning him. He gritted his teeth, looking away from the gorilla that roared in his face.
Uttering a curse, Vega dug in and pushed to help Leif get free. “Company,” Vega growled.
At the other end, a lab came alive with lights and moving shapes.
Banging erupted behind them—the other primates alive with fury at the human invasion into their territory. With a grunt, the largest gorilla shifted, which allowed Leif to scramble free.
Vega hauled him to his feet. “Go go go!” he hissed as they tripped over each other to get clear.
Shot by security or pummeled by primates—there weren’t a lot of options. More than a little unnerved, Leif rushed down the expanding corridor.
Vega corkscrewed out of the passage, landing on the floor. Stalking around the perimeter with his weapon up, Leif went wide, sweeping the lab.
A guard leapt at him. Slammed him against the concrete wall of the bunker. His head bounced back. Leif stabbed a knife-hand into the guy’s side.
The man groaned but didn’t relent in his punches.
Leif didn’t either. He had to change this. With his boot, he swept the guy’s leg—but the man hopped away, thwarting the maneuver. Blocking one strike after another, Leif noticed Vega locked in a similar battle. Only as he switched tactics did it dawn that not only did his attacker have the same skills, he also had a vicious determination—not to immobilize but to kill.
This had to be a Gen2.
Dread spiraling at the revelation, Leif threw himself forward, sliding his forearm along the guy’s neck while simultaneously hooking a leg.
Again, his opponent anticipated the attack.
Desperation whispered in Leif’s ear. Fear, something he hadn’t felt in a long time, spilled through his veins, a quiet whisper that caused hesitation and mistakes. His next blow missed. The Gen2’s didn’t.
A tremor of alarm made Leif stagger. If he went down, he probably wouldn’t get up again. The realization threw him into fight-or-die mode, jacking his system with adrenaline. Which then bottomed out at the cold, painful truth that he couldn’t win this one.
The Gen2 launched. Shouldered Leif’s gut, knocking the air from him. He blinked and did his best to drop, but he was pinned between the concrete and the Gen2, who pummeled him. Agony radiated through his torso.
With a growl, Leif slipped his arm over the man’s head and hooked his neck. Squeezed for all he was worth. Pulled up, applying more pressure against the throat.
The Gen2 didn’t slow.
So help him—Leif knew he’d vomit or pass out if the guy threw another punch. His legs trembled.
An enormous shape loomed behind the Gen2.
Breath backed into his throat, Leif froze as the gorilla roared and threw a large, meaty fist. Despite the waffling barrier, he struck true and hard against the Gen2’s head. Dropped the man to the ground, unmoving. This seemed to satisfy the enraged beast, which gave a grunt and then turned away.
Leif pivoted. Saw Vega in a worse situation—on the ground in a choke hold. But this guy wasn’t just trying to put Vega to sleep. Dark intent gleamed. There was little chance of stopping him, so Leif scrambled across the floor for his weapon, came to a knee, and turned. Aimed and fired. The Gen2 toppled.
Vega flipped onto all fours, coughing, rubbing his th
roat. He shook his head as he met Leif’s gaze with a look that mirrored his own terror.
Cradling his aching ribs, Leif indicated the exit. They hurried out of the lab, spotted an elevator and a second set of stairs. They chose the stairs for options and the ability to defend themselves. Though neither had much fight left in them, Leif knew they had just escaped Death’s knell by nothing more than dumb luck and a gorilla’s rage.
* * *
ROCKVILLE, MARYLAND
He was going to jinx this and end up arrested or sacrificed on some weird altar.
Cell didn’t have good luck when it came to women—they were either too good for him or too dangerous. For once, he just wanted to meet a woman who was somewhere between lovely and lethal. Mercy would ask where the fun was in that, but the fun was in actually keeping a girlfriend . . . and his head.
The smarter side of his brain said that Alisz Vogt was more trouble than she was worth. It still bothered him that she’d backtraced him. That alone said the head he wanted to keep was likely to come off.
He glanced at his phone, once more taking in the reddish-brown hair and blue eyes in the photograph. She was pretty. And smart. Wicked smart.
Which totally confirmed Mercy’s point that he lost his mind—she had no idea—when a pretty girl was involved. She’d tried to talk him out of this, and he should’ve listened. After all, she had a point—but this wasn’t about him. It was about Leif. If Alisz knew something, and she claimed she did, he’d be remiss not to follow this lead.
He peered out the coffee shop window, looking for Alisz. So what if she was pretty? He needed to connect with the intel she had, not her blue eyes.
He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. Head in the game, Barc.
What if he screwed this up? Or said something stupid that made her leave?
“You really are adorable, aren’t you?”
Startled, Cell glanced over his shoulder. “Alisz?” He came to his feet, his foot catching the leg of the table. He tripped into her worse than a cheesy romance movie.
“And graceful,” she said with a laugh.
He shrugged, straightening as heat climbed into his face. “Thanks for meeting me.” Though according to intel he should stand two inches taller than her, he noted they were eye to eye. That forced him to check her shoes.
Black combat boots gave her the extra height. Shredded jeans, tank top, and a flannel shirt tied around her waist beautifully complemented her personality.
“I’m sorry,” she said with a lilting German accent, her brow rippling in apparent confusion. “Anything else you’d like to inspect?”
More heat crowded his cheeks. “Sorry. I just—you’re taller than expected.”
“Yeah, and you’re not.”
Wow, rude much? “Is that a bad thing?” He sounded defensive.
She lifted a rueful eyebrow. “We will see.”
Feeling awkward, he stuffed a hand at her. “Barc—”
She rolled her eyes and shifted around him. “I thought we were past all that. I mean, I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t know who you were.” She moved to the chair facing his laptop, which she tapped. “Are you ever without that thing?”
Surprised by her casual demeanor, Cell returned to his seat. “Rarely.” He frowned, realizing he never went anywhere without it. Was that a sad commentary on his life?
With a mischievous grin, she reached into her messenger bag and produced her own laptop.
So maybe not sad. At least, she couldn’t think so, especially considering her system, which wasn’t an off-the-shelf variety. “Custom?”
“Is there any other way?”
Man, she got it. Understood. He found himself grinning. “I’m glad you came.” Remember, possible ArC agent. “I appreciate the risk you’re taking.”
A braid dangled over each shoulder, and a small tattoo peeked out from her tank strap. It looked like a twenty-sided die. No way.
“TAZ?” If there were a litmus test for the perfect woman, she was rapidly ticking off the boxes—especially if she honestly knew about The Adventure Zone podcast.
“Barclay,” she said coyly. Swiveling into a better position, she leaned across the table and folded her arms. “Are you flirting with me?”
“Definitely not.” But he was. Because he hadn’t learned with the other perfect women.
* * *
WASHINGTON, DC
Having survived the nightmare that was the Beltway, Dru cleared the security checkpoints and made his way down the old halls of the Eisenhower Executive Office Building for a meeting he’d known would come but had hoped wouldn’t. Answering for what happened in The Hague was taking longer than expected, only because the incidents were large-scale and the investigations in-depth.
“You ready for this?” Admiral Alene Braun asked as he approached the meeting room.
“They know I don’t have additional intel for them,” he grumbled. “They just want to bludgeon me with their disapproval.”
“They’re going to ask about Leif.”
“Of course they are. But I’ve given them everything I can, so this is a waste of time.”
“So you do know about the attack last night.”
Why had she brought that up? “Our people on the ground reported in about it.” He wouldn’t say more.
At any given time, operations were happening around the globe that few knew about and even fewer would acknowledge. After hearing from their asset and station chief, Dru had phoned Hermanns—four times—with no response. Whatever happened in South Africa, it had gone bad. All he cared about was making sure Leif was alive.
Alene met his gaze. “HUMINT and SATINT show Leif onsite.”
Her words made his heart skip a beat—as if she were reading his thoughts. “Then show me, because I have no intel that says he was there.” Lying came easy in the protection of those under his charge.
“You’re too close to this.” Challenge glinted in her gray eyes. “You’ve made some questionable calls related to him in the—”
“We made calls, Alene. We.” He wagged a finger between them. “You and me. It’s our task force, our guys.”
“When he went rogue, I gave you a warning.” Her lips were taut. “Clearly you didn’t take that seriously.”
It finally connected. This meeting, him being called to answer for Metcalfe. “You did this? This is because of you?” He cursed. “You have no idea what you’re doing, and with only half the intel—”
“Plan to hold us up all day?” growled the voice of Secretary of Defense Tucker Vanhorn behind him.
Dru muttered to Alene, “This isn’t over,” and turned to the stout SECDEF, who glowered openly. “Morning, Tucker. Sorry for the delay.”
He followed the SECDEF into the room and tried to remind himself that he was the deputy director of operations of the CIA. Not some punk kid facing detention. Secretary of State Hugh Luther and two other uniforms—General Bradley Wheeler and Sergeant Major Rick Wayne—sat, their expressions strained with annoyance.
“I take it you’re aware of the situation in South Africa?” Vanhorn took his seat at the table.
Eyeing Wheeler, Dru situated himself next to Braun. Though he resented the way the SECDEF said that, Dru focused on one key fact: his chain of command did not include the SECDEF or the secretary of state. He answered to his boss, Collin Powers, who reported directly to the POTUS. “I’m aware of an incident there.”
“Incident? A hospital for disabled persons was attacked and heavily damaged! Years of research lost and innocents injured,” Vanhorn said, his voice growing louder.
“What’re you talking about?” According to Dru’s asset, none of that had happened.
“Last night,” Wheeler said, “five men broke into the belowground laboratory of a hospital that treats and cares for disabled persons.”
“That’s news to me.” Dru tugged out his phone and looked for communication from the station chief in South Africa. Nothing. Had it happened afterward? Was the SE
CDEF’s intel fabricated? “I have no knowledge of an insertion into a facility like that. You have people on the ground, verifying this information?”
What if it was the same facility? What if the narrative was wrong? Or what if . . . had he been given bad intel?
SECDEF wiped a finger under his nose. “They’re en route as we speak. Are you telling me you sent this guy down—”
“As stated, I had no knowledge of this.” There were times in his career when he knew he’d been set up. When he saw the light in the dark and knew it was a missile heading right at him. “Even if I had assets down there, you would not expect me to compromise them.”
“Let’s cut the bull.” Vanhorn drew off his glasses and tossed them on the table. “Your man was seen exiting that building. Your man. You told me—”
“I’d like to see that intelligence.” Dru glanced at Braun. Then to the others. “Where are the images? Where are these accusations coming from?”
Wheeler nodded to the sergeant major, who opened a leather folio and slid two glossies across the table.
“Our asset will not be named at this time,” Vanhorn said.
Hovering over the photos, Dru thought through what he was seeing. Interior images. From within the facility. Armed men moving through semidarkened halls. “Images are grainy.”
“Are you seriously denying that’s Metcalfe?” Vanhorn demanded.
Dru shrugged. “The photos are grainy. Leaves room for doubt. But as said, I didn’t have a man down there. And if I did, why would I hide that?”
“Maybe because disabled persons were injured in this incursion.”
Dru hesitated, as would be expected. “Like I said—I have no knowledge of that. How many ways or times do you want me to say it? Where did you get these stills? They’re from within, so I’m guessing you got access to the facility.”
“I’m disappointed,” the SECDEF said. “We want to know why Metcalfe—”
“A hospital for the disabled—you seriously think he’d do that? And why does a facility like that have high-end security feeds? In South Africa?”
There could only be two reasons for disparate reports—someone was trying to cover up something, or he was being kept in the dark. Maybe both. He’d been in the espionage racket long enough never to think himself immune to betrayal.