by Ronie Kendig
Wheeler threaded his fingers and rested his hands on the table. “On 23 June, your operator, Leif Metcalfe, while on mission in Taipei, Taiwan, exited the assigned safe house and did not return. Is that correct?”
Dru glanced at Braun, knowing she had informed them of that event, then met Wheeler’s steel gaze again. “General, you know I am under no obligation to answer your questions about operations or persons under my purview.”
“So he is still under your control?” Wheeler pushed.
“Good day, gentlemen.” Dru stood. “If you have any concerns, direct them to Powers.”
“That’s a mistake, Iliescu.” Vanhorn rapped his fingers on the file. “I’m meeting with the POTUS in twenty, and nothing—nothing tells me I shouldn’t recommend direct and immediate action against Leif Metcalfe.”
“You can try,” Dru said with a grim smile. “But they’d have to find him first.” He strode out and headed down the hall, ignoring the feet giving chase.
“Dru.”
He’d expected Alene, but the voice was Wheeler’s, which spun him around. “Don’t play games with American lives.”
Wheeler scowled, drawing back. “What d’you mean?”
“The intel you sent down!”
Confusion rolled through the man’s weathered face. “What intel?”
Dru hesitated, wondering if this was more maneuvering to get out of trouble for the snafu in Durban. “Your assistant called me—”
“When?” Wheeler’s head cocked, then shook. “I haven’t asked her to contact you in . . .” He shrugged. “A week. Maybe more.” Concern filled the gaps between wrinkles. “I’ll start digging.”
Dru was coming to understand that same something—someone had set them up, tried to get Leif killed and Dru blamed. It likely meant there was a mole. Perhaps even Wheeler’s assistant. “Just make sure it’s not my grave you’re digging.”
SEVENTEEN
STUTTGART, GERMANY
“It was like a ghost came out of the shadows,” Andreas said gravely.
Elvestad grunted, wincing over his swollen-shut eye. “Sarsour didn’t have a chance.”
“How’d you get free?” Leif asked, still furious about the op. He shared an angry glance with Vega, who had his own wounds to nurse.
“The alarms . . .” Andreas pinched the bridge of his nose. “They created confusion. The sound . . . I think for some reason it affected the Gen2s, so we seized the chance to get out.” He lifted his arm, revealing bruises and cuts, and shook his head. “They’re vicious.”
“Hermanns knew what he was sending us into and didn’t warn us. I’m going to kill him.” Leif stalked into the training facility and headed up the stairs.
“Wait!” Andreas hurried behind him.
Leif checked the conference room. Moved into the gymnasium—and bumped right into Hermanns. A blind rage drove him to make this man hurt for what he’d done. Instinct threw a hard right hook, nailing the older man in the jaw.
Teeth clacking, Hermanns stumbled back. Blood trickled down his split lip.
“You set us up!” Leif gripped Hermanns’ lapels and hauled him off his feet. Slammed him against the concrete wall. “You want us dead? Is that it?” He shouldered in. “Didn’t think we’d figure it out?”
“Nein! I would never.” Hermanns struggled, choking from the twisting of his dress shirt that was squeezing off his air.
“Hey!” Andreas wedged between them, forcing Leif back, pushing against his chest. He thrust all his meaning into his dark eyes. “Stand down.”
“No way,” Leif growled. “He set us up. Because of him, we’re down one man—how can you be okay with that? Wafiyy died! Hermanns needs to answer with a little blood of his own.”
“Nein,” Hermanns insisted. “Never! It does not make sense that I would do all this”—he motioned to the facility—“to assist your recovery, to help you be Cyrus to the Neiothen, only to try to kill you.”
Man, Leif hated that analogy. “You didn’t think we’d figure it out, but there is no way—no way—that was accidental. The lab was empty. Personnel gone, save Gen2s and animals.”
“It was a night op to ensure such a situation.”
“No!” Leif barked. “What was happening in those labs requires round-the-clock monitoring and research.” He pointed at Hermanns. “Because of you, they knew we were coming. Knew we’d be there.” His next breath staggered through his lungs. “It was an ambush.”
“It wasn’t empty upstairs,” Andreas countered gravely. “There were people in wheelchairs and with walking canes. We avoided them, but things got bad very fast when the shadows came alive.”
Hermanns gaped at them. “I had nothing to do with that—”
“Bull!” Leif charged forward. “You gave us that intel. You sent us there.” He paced, feeling like the gorillas in that place.
“But you made it out—”
“Ibn Sarsour didn’t! Vega and I got out on dumb luck,” Leif shouted. “If that gorilla hadn’t taken out the Gen2, I would’ve been dead. And Vega—maybe all of us. It was muffed from start to finish.”
Andreas shifted, his expression contemplative, concerned, as he eyed Hermanns. “Where did the intelligence come from, Rutger?”
The man hesitated, touching his split lip with a handkerchief. “It was . . . a trusted source.”
Too vague. “Who?” Leif demanded. “Who told you to send us there?” He narrowed his eyes. “Who are you protecting?”
“You must not get distracted,” Hermanns said. “Do you understand what the economic structure will look like if Veratti succeeds? All trading, all purchases—from your toilet paper to your homes—will be done through his program. His authorization. Nobody will be able to trade or invest without this program. He will control everything.”
“It sounds a lot like the mark of the beast.”
“It is so much more than a mark,” Rutger said. “And this power does not belong in the hands of one man. It will crush free trade, and countries will collapse. Poverty will skyrocket.”
“We’re getting off topic,” Leif said with a growl. “That op was compromised before we left here.”
“Not possible!”
“He’s right,” Vega said with a shrug. “Our comms went down when they should’ve worked.”
“It was too coordinated,” Andreas added. “Someone told them we were coming.”
Hermanns shook his head, then suddenly his eyes widened and bounced to Leif. “This.” His voice and body shook as he moved toward Leif. “This is what the painting predicted!” He scanned Leif’s body. “Where is it?”
Leif drew back, still itching to inflict pain on him. Still convinced he’d betrayed them. “Where is what?”
“The triptych!” Rutger’s eyes were alive, his excitement so profound that he didn’t realize his mistake.
But Leif did. Anger charged through his veins at yet another deception. “So there is a third panel.”
Hermanns faltered. “I . . .”
“You said triptych, but there’s only two panels. An expert I talked with said the alignment was off—that there was a missing panel.” He wanted to strangle this man. “Is that true?”
Defeat seemed to press Hermanns down. “Ja, there is another panel.”
“You hid it from me.” Like everything else.
“You stole that painting from my own home!” Hermanns laughed. “But no, I did not hide it from you. I simply . . . did not bring it up.”
“Why—” Leif lifted a hand, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t care about the whys anymore. I’m done. I just . . .” Annoyance cloyed at him, tugging free his last ounce of self-control. Would he ever turn a corner that wasn’t rank with lies or betrayal?
“Do not give up. I beg you. Listen—the triptych,” Hermanns said, “is what helped me find the first pages of the Book of the Wars. Whoever painted it had the book as inspiration. The scenes are both prophetic and allegorical.”
A gut instinct had
told Leif that.
“The scene by the lake, do you recall it?”
How could Leif forget? The twisted depiction of two men sitting by a lake, around them several clouds on which played out violent, macabre scenes.
“Two men,” Hermanns said. “The murders in the clouds. A betrayal of friends.”
A chill ran down Leif’s spine. The expert had suggested that as well. “What’re you saying? That you set me and the others up at that facility?” He might kill Hermanns if he said yes. The rage was hot enough that he wasn’t sure he could stop it.
“No, but a friend did.” Sadness gripped Hermanns’ features. “The same mutual friend who has the third panel.”
* * *
He had not expected his part in this journey to end so soon. But the facts being what they were, Rutger knew the time was upon him. And now he would take to his grave the aggrieved expression of young Leif, upon whom the sun rose, illuminating his anger and the betrayal behind it. He had so hoped to bring peace to the young men who had endured so much, to give them the hope Katrin had begged him to pour into their tormented lives.
It would not be.
Because if Andreas and Leif were correct about being set up —and he did not doubt their veracity—there could only be one answer.
With an aggrieved sigh, he signed the last of the many pages and set down his fountain pen before looking at his solicitor. “That is it, ja?”
“Ja, Herr Hermanns. Your will is complete.”
After a few stamps of an official seal and signatures by the solicitor and his security chief, Arno, as witnesses, it was done.
As Arno walked the solicitor out, Rutger eased into the leather chair in his library, leaned back, and closed his eyes. “Ah, forgive me, Katrin,” he murmured into the musty quiet. “I did so try to change things.”
“Excuse me, sir.”
Eyes still closed, he grunted. “Mm?”
“On the phone, a Frau Wilhelm—”
“Ja.” Rutger opened his eyes as Arno crossed the room and handed him the phone. “Wilhelmina.”
“You old fool,” she all but crooned. “I warned you—”
“And I warned you,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “I will not have to speak to you again.”
“I have no doubt of that, because you are as good as dead, Rutger! He knows—”
“Of course he knows.” Rutger laughed. “That has been half the fun, outfoxing the fox. And what do you call for, but to crow over my demise?”
“I have only been trying to help. You know how I loved Katrin.”
“You did no such thing, you witch!” It angered him how she managed to get a rise out of him so easily. “Your interest has been and always will be for yourself. No one else.” He was so very tired of the game. “I have never been fooled by your pandering. Entertained? Yes, but never fooled.”
“Let us set aside this idiocy and talk about what really matters—those men. You have failed them!”
The connection went dead.
Ah, with that, she did wound him. For her words were true and sharp.
“It is not yet over.” He had hope for the Neiothen because of Leif. But the angry, vengeful young man had a lot of hills to climb before he reached the summit.
Leif would be Cyrus to the Neiothen. One hundred and fifty years before Cyrus was born, God had named the future king to subdue nations, disarm kings. He’d said He would equip and arm Cyrus for battle. It was now upon Leif to be that to the Neiothen—to lead them out, to strip the corrupt from the governments, and level ArC.
So Rutger lifted his phone, opened the camera. “Ah, Leif. You have been betrayed and the truth hidden. If you are getting this video, I am gone, but the truth is not. Recall what I said of Cyrus. Isaiah 45 also says, ‘This is what the Lord says—the Holy One of Israel, and its Maker: Concerning things to come, do you question me about my children, or give me orders about the work of my hands? It is I who made the earth and created mankind upon it. My own hands stretched out the heavens;’”—his fingertips reached toward the tomes lining the wall, and he saw not books but the future—“‘I marshaled their starry hosts. I will raise up Cyrus in my righteousness: I will make all his ways straight. He will rebuild my city and set my exiles free.’”
Rutger sighed, then turned his mind to the Book of the Wars and the seeming sister passage that read so eerily similar to Isaiah 45. The writing he had deliberately concealed from the scans given to the Americans and Leif.
He continued. “What I failed to share with you was a page of the Book of the Wars of the Lord that I feared would deter you from pursuing your destiny, what you are so clearly to accomplish. The page from the book reads, ‘The Lord, the Holy One of Israel, and its Maker, says concerning things to come, you have questioned those from below and given them condemnation about their work. It is I who ordained that what was intended for evil should be turned, thwarted, and worked for good. Al’el will stretch out his own hand against those who rise against the Lord to thwart His Word. Now I raise up Al’el and will make all his paths straight. He will rebuild the army to demolish the strongholds and set them free.’”
Rutger took a staggering breath. “And the most beautiful of all? The truth that forced me to hide this and separate the third panel from the triptych? Al’el that is raised up? Al’el is beautifully transliterated . . . leaf.”
* * *
MILAN, ITALY
“Damage to the facility was significant, but the fallout has really shaken the brass and Hermanns.”
At his penthouse, Ciro stood on the terrace overlooking the city with a near-strategic view of Piazza del Duomo. It always seemed fitting that from here he could see the Gothic cathedral, Duomo di Milano. “It is about time we deliver some of their own medicine to them. That fool.” He shook his head. “Rutger always thinks he is one step ahead.”
“I was more than ready after they killed two of our new gens. It’s a significant setback, but nothing we can’t recover from.”
“Quickly, I hope,” Ciro said with no small amount of warning.
“Already in play. Thanks to the footage and the political fallout, I’m being reassigned. My new position will be of notable use to ArC.”
This secret asset was too high on himself. Still, the empire was growing and taking the economy with it—and annihilating any chance for a comeback. “I am surprised you would so fully and eagerly turn against your own, Colonel.” It reminded Ciro of another who had spent a decade in alignment with the right principles and motives. “And you are sure the facility intel went through him?”
“Only way they could’ve known. We knew there was a leak,” the colonel said, his tone vehement. “Now we found it.”
“No.” Ciro watched the glittering spires of the cathedral as clouds drifted overhead, altering the light that struck the gleaming structure. “No, now we plug it.”
He ended the call and smoothed a hand over his mouth, releasing a long, contemplative exhale. Why must he always teach them? Why could they not simply follow the path? What was so difficult about it?
Rutger was out of touch in that villa of his in the hills. Far too lofty, old friend. Far too lofty. This was why Ciro preferred the thriving metropolis of Milan with its history and beauty. Fashion and business. One was not left to contemplate futile doctrines, and no doubt that was what Rutger was once again caught up in.
Ciro selected a contact on his phone and set it to his ear as it rang.
“I expected your call.”
He nodded, squinting as a shard of sunlight stabbed through those clouds. “You betrayed me. Again.”
“You go too far, Ciro. Your evil knows no bounds—that you would endanger not just innocent children, but the disabled! After what you did to Katrin, I should not be surprised, yet I hoped you would see the light. But no. No, you thirst for power, and Risen . . . it must stop.”
“Agreed!” Finality vibrated through him. “It is time to say good-bye, Rutger.”
EIGHTE
EN
FRANKFURT, GERMANY
Having tucked away the stolen satchel, Iskra walked the cobbled street toward the four-story building where she had once lived and that now harbored her daughter. After hearing from Mercy about the events with Leif and his new friends in South Africa, she felt an urgent need to retrieve Taissia and return to America. Somehow, their apartment overlooking the hazy city had become home. Gone were the mansions and lavish lifestyle with Hristoff. Now she had a budget and bills. And she was glad for it.
Iskra hooked into the empty car-park courtyard and strode over the gravel path, rocks crunching beneath her shoes. At the door, she keyed in the code that had worked all these years. When no click sounded, she glanced at the door and saw it slightly ajar. Bogdashka would throttle the person responsible.
Not her problem. Iskra nudged it open and stepped inside, securing the door behind her. “Hello?” When no one answered, she started up the stairs to the main level, anxious to see her daughter. Taissia would be thrilled to go home. The thought made Iskra take the steps two at a time. As she cleared the landing and hurried up the last four steps, something registered.
The quiet.
She slowed, glancing around. Where was everyone? The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Now she hurried for a different reason. On the second level, she rushed to the library, where Bogdashka officed. Two steps away, she noticed that door was also ajar. Hesitating, she peered down through the stairway rails to the foyer. She normally would have encountered someone by now.
Her gaze rose again to the attic apartments where she had last seen Taissia. It had always been gloomy up there, but now it seemed . . . haunted. Her breath caught, and her nerves vibrated in the eerie silence billowing through the house. This wasn’t right. . . .
Wood creaked to her left—the library.
Iskra eased the weapon from the small of her back. She strained to listen, to catch a voice or even the skittering of rodents in the walls. Nothing. Terrible foreboding rushed over her as she advanced, her mind accepting what her heart denied.