by Ronie Kendig
“Are you insane?”
“Usually.” She shrugged, but there had been enough lies and nuances. “Something about what happened here felt off.”
He frowned. “You think he was in on it?”
“No,” she said quickly. “Nothing like that. I just—I think to find Leif, I need to follow the director. Whatever Leif took from his office at the end . . . it’s important. When I asked the director about it, he blew me off.”
“So that’s what the weird vibe was earlier.”
“I know he is concealing something, and I hope it is related to Leif.”
“You’re asking me to do something very illegal that could cost me my job.”
“It could also save lives. Is your job more important?” It was an unfair challenge but one she needed to use to coerce him.
“No,” he said grimly, “but the paycheck helps a lot.” He roughed a hand over his face. “I find myself wishing I was still facing timeless heroes and supernatural artifacts.”
“I . . . do not know what that means.”
He sighed and shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m going to do this, but I’ll give you twenty-four hours.” He nodded to her phone. “I’ll send the link, but you have to promise none of your Viorica talents come out to play.”
“Thank you.”
“Nope, you did that thing—evaded the promise.” He wagged his hand at her. “Cough it up.”
Iskra kissed his temple and hurried away. She could not make that promise, because those skills were exactly what she needed to shadow the deputy director of the Agency. She headed over to her station and grabbed her things. Her phone pinged with the link from Cell, along with a text:
He likely has software that alerts him to tracers. Be ready.
Ten minutes later, she was in her car heading east. Thankfully, it was dark enough not to worry about Iliescu spotting her when she caught up.
Using the GPS tracker link, she finally spotted him after nearly thirty minutes, coming out of a grocery store with a bag of food. He climbed into his SUV and pulled away. Next stop was a liquor store, where he purchased some spirits. Back in his car, he headed out toward Annapolis. Iskra allowed more distance, relying on the GPS and grateful it allowed her to lag and still know his location.
Her phone rang. There was no name on the screen.
Iskra faltered. When Veratti called, his information did not show up. There were few people who had her number, so the chances that it was him were high. She accepted the call and waited for him to speak first.
“Too busy to talk to me, Iskra?” Veratti chided.
“I am driving,” she said. “It is illegal in Maryland to use your phone while driving, and I must avoid drawing the attention of the authorities.”
“I thought you would take this more seriously.”
“I take being arrested very seriously.” She squinted against the headlamps of a vehicle in the oncoming lane. “But let us skip formalities. You took my daughter.”
“No. That was not me, though I found the move brilliant.” He clicked his tongue. “I wish I had thought of it. What better way to tie up your loyalties, yes?”
“A dangerous way,” Iskra warned. “You know where Bogdashka took her.”
“Of course.”
And yet he withheld that information. “Do you expect me to find that book for you when you threaten my daughter?”
“You already found the book,” he said, making her heart hiccup.
How could he know that? Only Reaper knew. . . .
“If you want little Taissia to remain alive and untainted, I would move quickly to get me that book. You’ll be contacted. Don’t let me down again, Iskra. It will be a costly, childish mistake.”
When the call ended, Iskra banged the steering wheel. Resisted the urge to do something violent. Her anger crested then collapsed, leaving her in tears and challenging her ability to see the dark road clearly.
Oh, Taissia. My sweet, innocent girl. I am so sorry . . . so sorry I handed you into this nightmare. God, protect her. Please.
How? How did Veratti know what Reaper knew?
Alisz. Iskra hated the thought, but it made sense, since the young woman was new. Suspicious.
Glancing at the signal tracker, Iskra realized Iliescu’s vehicle was no longer moving. After verifying the map, she turned onto Chesapeake Avenue, then slowed, gliding past Second Street. Driving down that road could reveal her.
Taillights vanished around a corner that dead-ended in a building. Iskra parked on Chesapeake. Using her phone, she walked First Street and was halfway down the block when Iliescu’s tracker showed him in the water.
What? Iskra craned her neck and spotted the yacht club signs. Skipping a step, she wondered if he was already on a boat. He had to go through several steps to get a boat powered up before he set out, right? Still, she hurried and banked left at the large building marked Bavaria. His SUV occupied a slot perpendicular to a dock with a dozen boats and yachts moored.
Iskra made it to a white SUV and peered along its length, watching as the director stepped onto a very nice yacht with black windows running its length. The design was sleek and impressive—expensive. She drew in a breath as light caressed the name of the yacht scrolled across its transom. Your Destiny.
Somehow, Iskra connected the final dots. Dru had said something to Leif in the bunker about destiny. The photo on Dru’s desk of the two men on this same yacht—that was what Leif had taken in the raid. And Dru had been trying to draw him here. Leif was coming here!
Should she just wait? Follow Iliescu onto the yacht? And then do what?
“Yeah.” The director’s voice boomed amid the clanging masts and lapping water, the dock eerily quiet at this late hour. “Heading out now. Yeah, okay—no. Look, I told you I’d take care of this.” He grunted. “He’ll come to me.” He snorted. “Don’t worry how I know. He will.”
“He’ll come to me.”
When he climbed the stairs to the top canopied section of the yacht, Iskra seized the chance and scurried aboard, moving as light on her feet as she could along the Portuguese bridge. Afraid of being seen, she hurried to the foredeck, where she found an open lounging area.
Oh no. Where would she hide? A table was straddled by two long cushioned benches. Panic drummed—there was nowhere to conceal herself.
The director’s form, silhouetted by soft lights, appeared almost directly above her and moved to her right. With a gulp, Iskra flattened herself against the bottom wall, peering straight up past the blackened windows to the bridge above, and prayed like never before that she wouldn’t be discovered.
TWENTY-SIX
YOUR DESTINY, CHESAPEAKE BAY
Cool night air tore at his windbreaker as Dru guided his Monte Carlo 86 yacht down the Chesapeake Bay. Dropping the hint to Leif in the bunker, in front of everyone, about Your Destiny had been a risk for many reasons. One, anyone there might’ve recalled the name of his yacht. Two, Leif might not remember. He had perfect recall, yes, but he was also greatly affected by that chip in his head and the months-long programming. Third, Leif was ticked, so inviting him out to a secluded area . . . But he believed in Leif more than he was afraid of him.
Seated on the flying bridge, Dru reveled in the beating wind. The yacht had been an extravagance, one of a very few he allowed himself. It was perfect for an escape from technology, agents, and stress when he needed to think and breathe. But with its top speed at twenty-nine knots, he wasn’t going to outrace anything. On the other hand, with four cabins, a galley, two wet bars, a hot tub, and a salon, he was set up for a nice weekend getaway with friends . . . or alone.
This trip, however, wasn’t about relaxation.
He glided beneath the Chesapeake Bay Bridge and headed to open water, trying not to think too hard about the danger he was walking into. At the bunker, he’d been certain one of the Neiothen was going to shoot him and that the one who’d stopped him was Leif. Anger, though controlled, had radiated off him like ste
am.
Forty nautical miles out, Dru let the engines idle and sat back, thinking. Praying his clues about Your Destiny had been enough, and yet afraid they were. It meant—
Something creaked behind him, a noise inconsistent with the yacht.
He whipped out from the upper helm and turned to the salon. “Le—” The name died on his tongue as he stared past the upper galley into the salon, where a person emerged from the shadows. “Iskra,” he breathed. Then he cursed the implications of her presence onboard. “No, you can’t be here.” He rushed up into the salon.
She leveled a weapon at him. “Stand down, Director.”
He drew up short, flashing his palms. “Iskra, this is a bad idea.”
“There’s been a lot of those, apparently.” She wagged her eyebrows. “Nice boat.”
He hesitated.
“The name—you used it in the bunker during the attack.” She tilted her head. “Why are you luring Leif here?”
“I understand that you want to find—”
“I do not know what you are doing,” she snapped, “why you are ambushing him, but—”
“Ambushing? No!” Dru inched forward.
“Unless you want holes in this luxurious yacht or your chest, stop moving,” she said, her eyes unusually dark in the low night lighting he’d set on the flying bridge. “Just tell me why you did it.”
The throaty twang of a high-speed boat snatched Dru’s attention. He glanced starboard. “Pray that’s not what I think it is.” He hurried back to the upper helm and nodded at her weapon. “Aim that out there, not at me.”
Moonlight ran its bright fingers over the hull of a fast-moving craft.
“Who is it?” Iskra asked.
“Either Leif or ArC. And at this stage of the game, I’m not sure which is worse.” He motioned aft. “Go belowdecks.”
“No, I am better in view. If it’s ArC, Veratti would not want me killed.”
“Why?” Dru said. “Do you really think you have value to him?”
“He wants the book, and he knows I have it.”
“Where did you hide it?” Did it matter anymore? He wasn’t sure.
She huffed. “Where he’d never think to look—his own loft.”
Dru paused and smirked. “Smart.” He activated the touch-screen control panel. “I think the book is a moot objective at this point in the game. And Leif will kill me if anything happens to you.”
“I do not know that he cares,” Iskra said.
“You know better than that.” He opened a panel and drew out his own weapon.
“I’m not sure I do,” she said quietly, her gaze on the approaching boat. “They’re not slowing.”
“Yeah, I noticed.” He focused on the custom touch screen of the yacht’s helm, directing power to the engines and activating them.
“They’re coming straight at us,” Iskra noted, her voice pitching.
The speedboat roared nearer.
Dru watched, somehow trusting—stupidly?—that the boat wasn’t going to broadside them. Iskra shied away, as if that would protect her. In truth, if she wasn’t killed on impact, she could be ejected through the glass canopy.
The speedboat swung hard to the foredeck, sending a wave of water across their bow as it shot away.
“What are they doing?” Iskra whispered, her voice breathless, mirthless. “Are they just playing with us?”
Dru stood, glancing at the speedboat as it circled around. “The next pass won’t be a scare tactic.”
“Or a distraction.”
At the new voice, Iskra spun aft at the same time as Dru. Her weapon came up instinctively at the dark shape there. “Leif.”
Amazed Leif wasn’t wielding his Ruger, Dru flung a hand to the side, catching her arm so she wouldn’t shoot. “No.” He wished he could explain without stirring the boiling pot. He had no idea how many Neiothen Leif had brought aboard, and he wasn’t going to take his eyes off him to find out.
Leif hadn’t moved or spoken.
Tension radiated through the salon, and Dru shifted. “I’m glad you understood my message.”
“What do you want?” Leif asked, his voice terse. “Did you bring her to soften me up?”
“No. You know Iskra has her own mind. She snuck aboard at the dock.” He shrugged. “As to what I want—isn’t this more about what you want?”
“What is going on?” Iskra started toward Leif. “What are you doing? Why—”
“Stay there!” Leif ordered.
Iskra drew up short. “Leif . . .”
“I’m not here for a social visit. Let’s get on with it.”
“Can we go belowdecks?” Dru asked, wanting a semblance of privacy and reassurance there wasn’t a crosshairs painted on his head.
“Negative,” Leif said. “We stay here where my team has a bead on you. If anything goes wrong or I give the signal . . .”
Exactly what he’d hoped to avoid. “STK.” Shooting to kill felt overzealous but helped Dru gauge Leif’s frame of mind. The threat was clear. “I was surprised at the disabling tactic you and the other Neiothen used in the strike on the bunker.”
“No small talk,” Leif said, resolute.
Rubbing his jaw, Dru lowered himself to the long couch that spanned the upper salon. Ironically, he realized his head was probably the only visible part of his body to the Neiothen. Like one of those shooting gallery ducks at a carnival.
“Why did you want me here?” Leif asked.
“To offer my defense.” Dru squinted at the young man packed with resentment and anger.
“Not interested.”
“Then are you interested in knowing that Mr. Purcell is fine? He had surgery, and by some miracle, the ricocheted bullet one of your men fired missed vital organs. Braun’s Marine wasn’t as lucky—dead. Culver is stitched up and more than a little ticked, but—”
“Not my concern.”
Iskra huffed, apparently disliking the coldhearted answers as much as Dru did. She seemed to want to say something but didn’t.
Had Dru miscalculated? Had something been done to Leif since he left? Had that implant triggered something . . . else? What if Dru’s earlier misgivings were right—that this man wasn’t the Leif he knew, the one he wanted to protect?
“Do you mind if I pour myself a drink?” he asked, pointing to the wet bar.
“They’re watching,” Leif warned.
“Right. Your team.” Dru used the time and distraction of getting a drink to figure out what to say, how not to end up as shark bait in the Atlantic. He pulled the whiskey from the cabinet and poured a drink.
Leif stood silently.
“I’m sorry,” Iskra said with more than a little irritation in her voice, “what are we doing here?” She moved toward Leif. “What is this? Why are you treating us—”
“One more move, and they’ll tag you,” Leif warned. “Viorica is a trained assassin, and they won’t let you any closer.”
The words seemed to strike Iskra hard. Her eyes glossed. “Who are you?”
Oh, that wasn’t good. Her question would only drive Leif toward more frustration and distance.
Dru needed to draw the attention back to himself. “Leif, I did not kill Rutger.” He lifted his snifter and moved closer again.
Fists balled, Leif stared back—hard. The recessed lights seemed to pulse along the bulging veins in his neck. “With his dying breath, he named you his killer.”
Rutger had said Dru killed him? “No—”
“I asked,” Leif growled, his lip curling, the words churning and mirroring his roiling anger. “I asked who killed him, who broke into his home and shot him point blank.” His blue eyes sparked with the pain of that memory. “He named you.” His nostrils flared. “Tell me you haven’t been working all these years to hide the truth from me.”
Dru pulled his gaze away, disheartened. Grieved. He looked at his drink. Tossed it back, willing it to numb him. “I don’t know why Rutger said I killed him. It wasn’t me. I was her
e—and I didn’t hire anyone to do it.”
“Then why did he name you?”
Dru moved back to the wet bar and poured more drink. “Rutger has been in contact with me for a while. Years. We are—were—friends. Maybe he was going to tell you—”
“About this?” Leif held up the painting.
Guilt made Dru swallow hard. He set down the liquor. Braced himself against the alabaster wet bar, drowning in self-hatred.
Leif stormed over and slapped the painting down on the bar. “You had this. The entire time. You knew everything.”
The painting sat in Dru’s periphery, next to his hand. But he wouldn’t look at it or acknowledge his guilt.
“How long have you known about this painting, that it’s about me?” Leif breathed down his neck. “That this whole thing is about me?”
The truth hurt. “It does involve you, but not only you.”
* * *
“You didn’t answer my question.” Anger was a poison, hot and virulent. Streaking through Leif’s veins, demanding vengeance that would not be sated. At the back of his mind, he knew that. Knew that this was a dangerous, empty path.
Dru considered him for several long seconds. “Do you really want to know?”
The question nearly pushed Leif over the edge.
“Because the answer isn’t nearly as simple as you think.”
“Try me.”
Dru turned his glass on the counter. “Before I do, promise you will hear me out. All of it.”
“No. No promises. Not anymore. Not to people who can’t keep them.”
“Fair enough.” Dru sighed. “What I know, I’ve known for a long time.” He swallowed, guilt trudging through his olive skin. His shoulders lifted. “Since the Sahara.”
The whole time. The whole. Freaking. Time.
Battling for restraint, Leif fisted his hands. Bit his tongue to keep from lashing out. “You’ve been lying to me all these years. Telling me you were looking for answers.”
Dru watched him, his expression . . . broken. “Did Rutger tell you about his sister?”
What did Rutger’s sister have to do with this? “Yes.”
“Katrin was brilliant,” Dru said. “She started an experiment to help soldiers fight unwinnable battles after her nephew—Rutger’s son—was killed in combat.” He motioned with his hand. “There were other generational motivations, but that was her catalyst.”