by Ronie Kendig
“Please.” Braun came to her feet. “Just tell us what you want—”
“On the ground, Admiral. Don’t make us say it again.” The leader nodded to Alisz. “Get with the others.”
As Alisz settled near Cell, Iskra assessed the Neiothen. Which one was Leif? “Do you see him?” she whispered to Leif’s brother.
“Your left, farthest back,” Canyon whispered, looking forward instead of the direction he suggested as he wiped away the blood on his face.
Not wanting to betray their conversation and get kicked or punched, Iskra took her time glancing over her shoulder. The table blocked her view. “I cannot see him.” But another thought struck her—the man who had pulled Dru from their group had the same height and lanky build of her brother. Was that Mitre? If these were the Neiothen, then he would be here, right? She tried to gauge his actions and movements, compare them with Mitre’s.
And if Mitre and Leif were here . . . then was this about the Book of the Wars and the painting she’d stolen? Iskra again checked behind her but still couldn’t see the one Canyon suggested. She shifted and pushed up on an elbow. If she could—
Pain exploded through the back of her head, and her arm snapped out from under her. She fell to the side just in time to see Canyon move like lightning.
He caught the weapon and jerked it forward, flipping his legs and—because Iskra was in the way so the Neiothen couldn’t retaliate—managed to sweep the guy’s feet out from under him.
She scrambled aside and came up. An arm hooked her neck and hauled her back against his chest. She stilled, too aware that these Neiothen moved like cold, methodical machines.
Canyon faltered when he saw her predicament. Eyes ablaze, he lifted his hands. “Easy,” he breathed.
“Two,” a voice called from the back.
With a shove, the Neiothen released her.
Iskra strained and finally spotted the man Canyon had referenced. He seemed right, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking forward. All attention had focused on something at the front of the bunker.
Near Braun’s office, a short, stout man dragged the admiral to her feet. “Let’s go.”
One of the Marines instinctively lunged.
“No!” Braun’s cry mingled with the shot that cracked the air.
The Marine toppled back to the ground, clutching his chest.
“Stay down, stay alive,” one of the mechanized voices repeated.
Canyon stared at the Marine, who was grimacing and pale. He lifted a hand. “I’m a combat medic. Can I tend the wound?”
“Negative,” the Neiothen intoned.
“Shooting and murder are very different charges,” Canyon challenged.
Iskra doubted these men cared about being brought up on charges if they were willing to besiege a black ops command center on U.S. soil. And if they were Neiothen, then most of them were not even American.
“Ossi.” One of them nodded to another.
Ossi. Iskra’s heart skipped a beat at Leif’s Neiothen call sign, but she couldn’t figure out who had spoken or who they spoke to. But it confirmed Leif was here.
Three Neiothen—including the man at the back who wouldn’t let Canyon assist—stalked past them into the area of the joint offices of Braun and the director. She watched the one she thought was Leif for proof of identity. His helmeted head turned toward another, and the two stared at each other. Were they hesitating? Waiting for someone to speak? Or did they have a way to speak without being heard?
Either way, the Neiothen’s stance erased any doubt that he was Leif. He pivoted in front of Braun and Dru, who had their backs to the team. His posture radiated the anger and fury she had seen in the German square.
Two Neiothen snaked in and out of cubicles, cutting cables. They bagged laptops and devices.
A soft scraping came from her left. Iskra spied Cell inching his laptop off his desk until he lowered it to the floor. What did he intend to do? Her stomach tightened, knowing that if he was discovered, they’d likely kill him.
Covering her mouth, Alisz was whispering to him, though she pretended simply to be staring straight ahead.
O Holy Mother . . . Iskra prayed they would not tempt the anger of these men anymore. No wonder Mercy said not to trust Alisz—she put others in danger.
Cell worked one-handed, his other still gripping his wounded leg, so he was slow. Mercy shifted, shielding him from the view of the leader.
Crack!
Smoke puffed over the keyboard. Somehow there was a spray behind Cell, too. He let out a strangled cry. It wasn’t smoke that had erupted from his back.
“Cell!” Iskra shouted, realizing what had happened.
With a groan, he crumpled and landed on his side. Blood spilled over his back and the floor.
Canyon lunged to help Cell, but a Neiothen shouted for him to stay.
Leif—at least she thought it was him—slapped his hand at the other Neiothen, his stance confrontational. Angry. The one who had shot Cell cowered.
“Ricochet—off the laptop and into his gut, out his back.” Canyon nodded to Saito, who checked the Neiothen, then moved regardless of the stay command. Canyon shifted in front of them. “Stomach wounds are tricky. He’s treating him, or he’ll die.”
“No,” came a firm voice from the far side.
“We’re not stopping,” Canyon said. “You’ll shoot us all before we’ll just watch one of our own die. My brother knows that. I think you all do.”
The Neiothen turned, their postures strangely stiff. They were looking at each other but, again, nothing was being said or done. She grew convinced they were talking—Reaper just couldn’t hear it.
“What’s going on?” Mercy whispered.
“Helmets are masking their words,” Canyon said, mirroring Iskra’s thoughts as he glanced back to check Saito, who was hauling a med kit closer and digging out an IV. “That’s top-level gear.” Jaw set, shoulders squared, he met Dru’s gaze and stared for an eternity.
“What’s the director doing?” Mercy muttered.
“Cell,” Saito growled. “Stay with us!”
* * *
“Don’t do this,” a nearby voice pleaded.
Leif didn’t acknowledge Dru. Didn’t give away his identity or position.
“You know this is wrong.”
Jaw clenched, he clicked off his internal mic. “I warned you,” he hissed. “Trusted you.”
“Hey!” Andreas barked, storming over to Canyon. His brother had countermanded the order to save Cell’s life and, with Saito, was running IVs and oxygen. Cell looked bad.
Leif keyed his mic to the team. “Leave them.” He then hit the external. “Only the medics with him. Everyone else back to the center.”
“Don’t get distracted,” Vega warned him. “They’re playing on your sympathies.”
“We can fix this,” Dru intruded again. “Trust me—we can get it sorted. I know I—”
Fed up with the poison coming out of this man’s mouth, Leif lifted his weapon as he rotated and aimed at Dru. “The devil was once an angel.”
“External’s on,” Andreas alerted through closed comms.
Leif didn’t care. He wanted Dru to get the meaning—he was going to be more careful about who he trusted from now on.
M4A1 tucked firmly into his shoulder, he kept his stance relaxed. He’d never felt so in control as he did now—despite the river of rage rushing through his veins.
Hands up, Dru stared at him, unwavering. “Hear me out.”
“No!” Leif growled. “No more.” Never again. He plowed forward. “Down!” He motioned to the floor. Breathing felt like lifting hundred-pound weights. “On your knees, or they’ll be mopping your gray matter off the concrete!”
“Better,” Andreas muttered, his mic still internal. “It’s the end he deserves after killing Rutger.”
“The end?” Leif hesitated, scowling at Andreas. “That’s not the plan.”
“Plans change.”
H
e thought of how plans had to change in the Durban facility because they’d been set up, lost a man, and nearly died facing the Gen2s. Did Dru know about the orangutans? He’d certainly known more about Leif than he’d ever let on. Had spewed years of lies.
“Let’s go, Ossi,” Vega said. “Time’s up. We got what we need to end this.”
It was bad enough, breaching this bunker. Leif had to turn away before he did something he couldn’t take back.
Dru shifted forward. “Please—”
Placing his finger on the trigger had the desired effect. Dru stopped short. Eased back. It surprised Leif how much he wanted to pull the trigger. How much he wanted Dru to understand the futility that had been his life. The gouging effect of betrayal. If only—
White-hot fire speared Leif’s head. With a growl, he slammed the heel of his hand against his temple. His knees buckled. He fought for mental purchase around what felt like a steel pike driving through his skull. He saw Dru rush him.
Andreas manifested between them, slamming his M4 into Dru’s head. He caught Leif’s arm. “You okay?” he asked privately.
Leif shook his head, swallowing as the pain abated. “Yeah.” He glanced at the director.
“He’s alive, but I can change that,” Vega promised.
He recalled the Taipei children’s park—the sound that went through his head. That meant . . . “I think there’s an ArC operative here.”
TWENTY-THREE
REAPER HEADQUARTERS, MARYLAND
A sharp whistle sailed through Leif’s comms, as if confirming his words.
He grunted. “What is that?” he asked, keeping his movements small. He did his best not to react. It was part of the method to this insertion: everyone moved with precision and nobody took the lead, so Reaper couldn’t identify Leif. But Dru had. He’d guessed.
“What are you hearing?” Andreas asked.
“A . . . whistle.” Man, the shrieking made it hard to think. He shook it off. “It’s the same as what hit me in the park, only . . . quieter. Less painful.”
“I don’t hear it,” Vega said, “and that’s not something I’ll forget anytime soon.”
Glad for their internal mics so Reaper didn’t know what was happening, Leif focused on the task. On this . . . ordeal. He eyed Cell curled up with lead in his gut from an apparent ricochet after Vega had shot the laptop. Cell had likely been trying to communicate with someone on the other side of the emergency doors. The punk always had to find those soft spots to poke.
But Leif hadn’t wanted this. Yes, he needed answers. Yes, he still intended to get them, but this? The worst of it was, he wasn’t sure he trusted anyone in this room right now because, to them, he was a traitor. That meant they would treat him as such.
“Six minutes,” Vega subvocalized.
Four to finish up here, two for exfil. It’d be tight.
That whistle resurfaced, and Leif steeled himself with a hissed oath. Was his ear bleeding? It felt like it.
Dru groaned and came to, shifting a hand to the back of his head. His gaze rose to Leif. Sharpened. Full of hurt.
Good. Now he knew what betrayal felt like. Leif had laid trust at this man’s feet like a loyal dog, and the director trampled it without remorse.
Just over Dru’s shoulder stood a woman he didn’t recognize. The others seemed to distance themselves from her. Who was she?
Didn’t matter. Because it was Canyon and Iskra who hammered his conscience, what with her sad eyes and the I’m going to bust you upside your head look from his brother.
“Let’s do it,” Andreas ordered.
Surprise smacked Leif. “What?”
Vega and Andreas cuffed the director’s arms and hauled him to the conference room.
“What’re you doing?” Conflict twisted Leif’s gut, guessing what they intended. “This wasn’t part of the plan.” Making them pay had been the point, but . . . this looked like punishment.
“You’re too soft,” Vega said. “They need to answer for what they’ve done.”
Dru wrestled against them. “Hear me out! I can explain.”
“No!” Leif growled, spinning on him. He was sick to death of explanations, but he also knew that if he didn’t intervene, there was no telling what the others would do to Dru. “No more!”
“Your destiny,” Dru said. “What you’re doing—what you’re seeking? It’s your destiny. I could give you thirty reasons why.”
“Destiny?” Blind rage threw Leif forward. He punched Dru, sending him sprawling. “Is that destiny?” His pulse thundered. “You’re going—”
“Hey!” Carsen shouted, leveling his weapon at the unknown woman, who had tripped into Colonel Nesto.
The brawny officer stumbled and cursed, rounding on the girl. “What’re you doing?”
“I wasn’t doing anything.” She looked terrified. Then again, she didn’t.
“Easy!” Canyon called as he rose from his haunches, hands bloodied.
“Time’s up!” Vega surged forward. “End Iliescu and get out of here.”
Destiny . . . “No! Nobody kills him,” Leif subvocalized, suddenly recalling something he’d seen in Dru’s office when he’d pulled the laptop. He hurried back, snatched the photo from the desk, and stuffed it in his go-bag. “Leave him,” he ordered.
“He needs to go down. He killed Rutger.”
A shriek screamed through the facility.
Vega turned his gun on Dru, and Leif pivoted just in time to sweep the muzzle up. “I said no!”
“Incoming!” Andreas warned the team. “Time to bug out!”
* * *
“Flashbang!”
Canyon grabbed Iskra and spun away, tucking her head and protecting her.
Iskra closed her eyes and opened her mouth as the concussive burst slammed into them. After counting to five, she pivoted with Canyon. Coughing, she hurried through the haze and slowed, not able to see well.
Ahead, a dark circle seemed to move through the smoke. A hatch. It swung closed. A false wall panel slid into place, concealing the access point.
She raced toward it, too late, and slapped the wall. Banged, trying to find a way to release the mechanism.
“Where’d they go?” Canyon asked.
Iskra motioned toward the wall. “Back there, somewhere. The whole wall moved.”
Frustration crowded his blue eyes, but he nodded. “Let’s help the others.” He limped back to the hub with her.
Iskra took in the scene. Chaos was the order of the day, with Nesto on a secure phone trying to release the bunker from lockdown and Braun tending a groaning Iliescu. Saito and Baddar lifted Cell from the floor and hurried him to the small surgical bay. Canyon knelt beside Culver, who was alive but pale and clammy from blood loss.
Groaning reverberated through the hub and lights stopped swirling. The heavy steel barriers retracted into the walls, allowing in more soldiers and Marines, along with a dozen or so other armed personnel. SWAT still milled about, ensuring there were no further active threats.
Iskra felt useless—but also glad that professionals were taking care of the wounded. She watched as an EMT delivered Iliescu to a chair and then placed an ice pack on the back of his head.
“What’s the status here, Director?”
Iliescu winced—whether from the man or the pain couldn’t be discerned. “Unknown, Mr. Secretary. Insurgents are gone, one man is in surgery with life-threatening wounds, another”—he nodded to Culver—“shot in the chest.”
“And you?” The concern in the secretary of defense’s eyes surprised even Iskra.
“I don’t have a wound I didn’t deserve,” Dru said.
The SECDEF nodded as he took in the bunker. “What happened? How in Sam Hill did they get in here?”
Heat darted through Iskra, recalling the hatch the Neiothen had disappeared through. Mentioning it now meant they would have a lead on finding Leif. And she was not sure that was the right thing. Not yet.
Then again, Leif was part of a team
that had shot nearly every member of Reaper and nearly killed the director. But . . . it had been him, had it not, who intervened when the Neiothen aimed at Dru’s head? But still, he participated, attacked his own people.
Guilt over the secret she harbored pushed her away from the conversation, not sure where to go, whom to talk to. She found herself wandering toward Mercy. Hand to her forehead, she struggled to sort out the insanity that had devoured their lives, unable to process her thoughts. It was like her brain and heart were shutting down.
“You okay?”
She flinched at the soft voice of Admiral Braun at her side. “Yes. No.”
The admiral gave a soft laugh. “I can very much relate to that.” She shook her head. “It’s not every day you watch a Marine give his life for you.” The security services were bagging the young Marine’s body. “I’m not even sure I knew his name.”
“Jim Lake,” Iskra said quietly. When she first joined the team, she had made it her business to know all the names of those working in the bunker, because she had deemed every one of them a threat. Hristoff and Veratti had their hands in some deep pockets, and she did not doubt someone was spying on her for them.
“Do you think Leif was here?” the admiral asked quietly, her head tucked.
“Yes.” Admitting it was not a betrayal, yet somehow it felt like one.
“They did a fine job, not really rallying behind one person until the end. It became clear then. Think that was Leif leading?”
Yes. “I do not know.” Iskra deliberately kept her hands at her sides, avoiding the tell of folding her arms, which would suggest she was trying to hide something. “How could he be in charge of another team when he has only been gone a few weeks?”
“You’re having a hard time believing it was him.”
“This was not Leif,” Iskra said. “Not the Leif we know.”
“It’s hard to fathom him working with ArC.”
“He is not.”
“You sound convinced.”
“ArC took my daughter,” Iskra said in a dull voice. “They would not do that if they already had Leif in their corner. They needed a hostage to leverage against him.” Speaking those words helped her cement her own convictions. Her belief in Leif.