by Ronie Kendig
“There is a book,” Veratti finally intoned as he returned to the fireplace and stared into its dancing flames. “It is called the Book of the Wars, and it is imperative that I recover it.”
“Recover.” Bringing his attention back to herself wasn’t what Iskra had intended, but his word choice was significant. “Then you had it at one time?”
He hunched over the fire as if protecting it. “No.” He downed some liquor before facing them. “Not in its entirety. We had only a page. Discovered a few decades earlier, it is but a clue that the book exists. It had been thought lost to history.”
“And it’s not now?” she persisted.
“Iskra,” Hristoff hissed. “Quiet.”
“No,” Veratti said, wheeling around. “It is good that she asks. Unlike you, Hristoff, she seems interested in cooperating with ArC, which makes her a very clever, beautiful woman.”
Iskra skidded a glance at Hristoff, sure he would be livid by now. Fists balled, he was reaching below the counter. The Ruger.
She drew in a breath at the thought of him challenging Veratti. Nobody challenged the Italian prime minister.
“If she intends to succeed and remain alive, then she will want every vestige of knowledge about the Book of the Wars.”
Her mind snagged on his last sentence. Remain alive? Her understanding of the relationship Hristoff had with this man radically shifted with those words. Hristoff owed Veratti a sizable amount of money, and her failure with the Cellini had greatly impeded his ability to repay it. But since when was he subordinate to Veratti?
“It is not a question of if it will be found,” Veratti said. “The first leaf has been decrypted and revealed where the book’s journey began.”
“And you’re a cryptologist or linguist that you know this?” Iskra’s stomach tightened. She’d gone too far with that, teasing in sarcasm, and she saw the same thought darken his expression.
“I am not,” he said, his words controlled, “but someone who owed ArC a great debt was part of decrypting the leaf.” His black gaze ensnared hers again. “You want to live, yes, Iskra?”
“I prefer it.” Going after this was her last hope. Her last chance.
“And you would do everything in your power to stay that way, yes?” He wanted to taunt her. Make her squirm. Which was why he was inching closer, peering at her from beneath those thick brows.
“Yes.”
But not for the reason he believed. That was her secret alone, and one that fueled a treacherous thought. It hung in her mind, taunting, tempting—Hristoff’s fear and submission, Veratti’s anger. A plan hatched in the fertile soil of desperation. She might—just maybe—have the answer she’d been looking for. But it would be the most dangerous mission she’d ever taken. Her heart thundered.
“And you would do anything to get the Book of the Wars back, yes?” He crossed the room. Towered over her.
“Yes.” She felt his hot breath fan her cheek. And she saw his meaning and intent. Did he see hers staring back?
“Good. It’s in the salt mines of Israel.”
She gave a sharp nod.
He grabbed her ponytail and jerked her head back, forcing her to look up at him.
Her fists and anger coiled.
“Fail this time, and I will own you.”
TWO
ROCKVILLE, MARYLAND
“Two protons walk into a black hole.”
The attractive bartender grinned at him. “Yeah, and?”
“That—” Leif deflated. That was the joke. He shook his head, knowing he probably shouldn’t have tried that one on her. He felt bad she didn’t get it. He’d just humiliated her without trying. “Never mind.”
She set aside a buffed-clean glass. “You know most of your jokes go over my head, Handsome.”
“Yeah. Sorry.” He’d thought about asking her out. Considered it every time he sat here. But she didn’t need that kind of trouble in her life.
When he stood, she smirked at his glass. “Will you ever actually drink what you buy?”
He snorted. Pivoting away, he lifted a hand. “’Night, Mallory.” He shoved out of the bar and past a crowd of rowdy patrons heading in, the nightlife just getting started.
As he drove his Jeep back to the house, Leif wrestled the thoughts he’d intended to drown in liquor. The same intention he had every Thursday night. He wasn’t trying to drown the memories. It was the emptiness. The void of . . . anything. Nothing. No memory. He just wanted to know what was missing. But the last several years had taught him to leave it alone.
He turned onto his street, and his headlamps struck a sleek black sedan in front of his house. Government plates. “What the . . . ?” The dash clock showed 2228 hours.
Was something wrong with his mom? He eased alongside the vehicle and saw the face of the driver. “Not Mom,” he muttered as he pulled into the driveway and parked. Bouncing his keys in his palm, he stalked up the sidewalk, where the man met him. “Director. Kind of late for a briefing, isn’t it?”
Dru Iliescu nodded to the door of the house. “Need to talk. May I come in?”
What choice did he have when the deputy director of the CIA showed up at his house? “Come on.”
Inside, Leif flipped on the light and stalked to the kitchen. He tossed the keys on the counter and grabbed some water from the fridge, watching the director take his time joining him.
Leif tried to stuff down his anxiety, but it was dancing like a bird on a live wire. “Guess you have a good reason for being here. Because it feels like an invasion of privacy.” Not that he had any. Not after what happened.
Was that what this was about? His gut roiled—with excitement, then dread. No, it couldn’t be. They’d agreed.
“Take this position, work with the team, and I can get your record buried. No more questions. Nobody will be nosing in the shadows of your past.”
“Kind of hard to know if someone is nosing around when you can’t remember.”
“I know. We’ll make it work for us. It’s a chance, Leif. A chance to start over.”
“Is it about—”
“It’s not,” Iliescu said with a breath that hinted at both regret and relief.
Leif wasn’t sure whether to be aggravated at still not having answers or relieved they weren’t going to touch that void. It always felt like playing fetch with a land mine.
Iliescu motioned to two recliners facing the TV. “Please. Let’s talk.”
Roughing a hand over his mouth, Leif noticed the stubble on his face for the first time as he bent forward in one of the chairs, elbows on his knees. He’d given himself permission to slack off while Wraith wasn’t on mission.
“You drunk?” Iliescu asked.
“Not in years.”
“You were at The Lone Star.”
Leif wasn’t surprised they were keeping tabs on him, but it still ticked him off. And that leaked into his response. “So?”
“You’ve been there every Thursday night for the last two months.”
“Three,” Leif corrected without regret.
Iliescu considered him for a long minute, his features tight and disapproving. “You go in and order a vodka tonic. But you never drink it. Not once.”
Masterful at not reacting, Leif stowed a twitch. Stowed the anger. They were prying into his life. Again. Heat thrummed through his veins. “Do you know how much toilet paper I used when I hit the head, too?”
The director’s blue-gray eyes burrowed past the smart-aleck remark and seemed to test the darkness of that black hole in Leif’s heart and life. “I think you’re searching for answers that don’t exist.”
“They exist,” Leif countered. In fragmented, out-of-order pieces.
A shower of rock and debris. Dust clouds plumed.
To his nine, Krieger grinned. “I’m too pretty—”
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Krieger froze.
The ground was rending. Leif lunged toward his teammate.
A chasm opened below
Krieger. He dropped.
“Oh, they exist.” The ferocity bleeding into his own words surprised Leif. He thought he’d buried it. Accepted after all these years that it was better left alone.
“It will drive you into the ground, son.”
“I’m not your son,” he growled, wishing he’d downed that vodka tonic. “My dad died eleven years ago, but thanks for the sentiment.” He wiped his face again, then straightened. “Is there a reason this psych eval couldn’t wait till morning?”
His gray hair in a high-and-tight, Iliescu nodded and glanced at the wood floors. “I’m taking you off Wraith—”
Leif punched to his feet. “Nothin’ doin’.”
Iliescu slowly lifted his head and squinted at him from the chair.
“I have not had an ounce of liquor since you pulled me from the drunk tank five years ago. I don’t smoke. I am there, one hundred percent, to the mission, for the team.” He was growling, so he dialed it back, knowing that didn’t go over well with Dru. “Never have I wavered in that commitment. There is no reason to pull me.” He huffed, the thin cords that held his mind together straining. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t keep your word. I know you two have a mission to save the little brother, but Canyon—”
“Doesn’t know about this.”
Leif stilled. His older brother had fought hard and long to attach him to a team, to get his head out of the fog of hopelessness and dead-end intel hunts, and back in the game.
“And he won’t.”
“So you just screw everyone who’s loyal to you?”
Iliescu shook his head, a near-smile pinching his gaze. “It’s a good thing I like you. Now sit down and shut up.” Squeezing his hands together, he sighed. “I’m pulling you from Wraith to give you your own team.”
Leif jolted. Didn’t see that coming. Especially after mouthing off. “Seriously?”
“I need your expertise with linguistics and . . . other skills.”
Other skills. Leif lowered himself back into the chair. “Bull.” He felt the world cratering around him. “This has nothing to do with my linguistic skills. That specialty is a dime a dozen in this field. This . . . this is about . . .”
“Let go! Let go!”
“No,” Leif growled, eyeing the boulder. If it came down, it’d crush his guy like a cockroach.
“Chief.” Krieger locked onto him. “Let. Go.”
Heat skidded across Leif’s shoulders, knowing how that had ended. And he didn’t want a repeat. “No.”
Dru frowned.
“No team. I’m not . . .” He hung his head. Balled his fists. He was not hauling out his private arsenal of skills. He couldn’t explain them except to say he’d come out of Egypt . . . different. He’d always been a quick healer, but what his body could do now—docs couldn’t break it down into comprehensible science, but they wanted more tests. He’d refused.
Those skills were unexplainable, and using them only stirred questions and concerns. Made him a freak. Surreal endurance, the ability to shut out pain, to heal crazy-fast, and to remember. Everything. Save six months of his life plus one day.
He gritted his teeth. Swallowed the bile. “I thought we weren’t going to do that,” he said quietly, despite the buzzing at the base of his brain.
“I know.”
“I thought we agreed”—it took every semblance of restraint not to go ballistic—“that the less of that we introduced into the equation, the safer it was—is—for everyone.”
The mere mention of opening that vault, that side of himself . . . Leif coiled his fingers into a fist. No. He wasn’t going there again. Wouldn’t sit on a plane again with nine flag-draped coffins. Wouldn’t watch wives and families sobbing into one another’s arms. Wouldn’t listen to one hundred twenty-six rifle cracks at Arlington. Not again.
He’d played on the game board Dru had created. “I joined Wraith. It worked, kept questions minimal. They were impressed but not concerned. I did it—buried myself and that mission.” Breathing hurt. “Now?” He choked out a laugh. “Now you’re saying bring them out. Show them around.” He squinted. “Seriously? Do you realize how messed up—”
“Indirectly,” Iliescu asserted with a nod, “I’m adhering to our agreement. Nobody will know what you’re doing or can do. But I think your abilities will prove not just useful but vital for what I’m sending you after.” He had the gall to meet Leif’s gaze without regret or hesitation.
Didn’t he get that the very abilities he wanted to use—against Leif’s will—could also put him in a coma? Or a grave?
“This isn’t adding up,” Leif said. “I hid these things because you said it was best. You told me to play it close to my vest while you dug. It’s been five years. I’ve done that. But we have no answers. No progress. Are we even getting closer?”
“I know, Leif. I know I did. And . . . some things are beginning to emerge from the shadows—”
What? The words punched the air from his lungs. What things?
“—but they are still in the shadows. I can’t call it. I don’t have definitive proof. You know me. I’ve put my own assets on the line for you.” Dru scowled. “What I’m asking of you isn’t easy.”
“Convince me, because this smells like a big dung pit right now.”
“An artifact—”
“That’s Wraith’s game.”
“—before an enemy coalition gets it first.”
“Again, Tox and Wraith.”
Annoyance scratched at the deputy director’s face. “We aren’t the only ones chasing this thing. Of particular concern is a notorious operative named Viorica and a German power player—a businessman—named Rutger Hermanns. Viorica is the bigger concern. She’s effective, lethal.”
She. Okay, that intrigued him. “What artifact?” Why was he even asking?
“An ancient text called the Book of the Wars. Honestly, brass has been tight-lipped about this one. I just know we need to get it first. But trust me, I’m digging hard to find out why they want us to retrieve this at all costs.”
All costs. Leif had heard that before. Experienced that. “So.” If the director claimed ignorance on the artifact, then . . . “You’re not holding the leash.” Which was a game changer.
“Yes and no. Ultimately, DoD and DIA want this thing.”
Leif drew back. “DoD.” Military. He’d been attached to the CIA after the DoD threw him out. It’d been better to get away from the military, because someone was keeping secrets about the hole in Leif’s life. DoD had their way with him and didn’t want to touch him after the Sahara. “How come?”
“This book,” Iliescu said after a lengthy pause, “has information. I don’t know much more than that.”
“But you do know more.”
Conflict teased the edges of the director’s mouth. “I do,” he admitted.
“And you’re not going to tell me.”
“I can’t. Not yet.”
“Just like the things in the shadows.”
Dru dropped his gaze.
Leif let the pause linger, irrationally wishing it would coerce Iliescu into saying more. “This doesn’t make sense.” He leaned back in the chair. “None of it. We don’t know what happened to me. Six months of my life are missing—me, who never forgets anything—and you want to dig that up. Send me out half-cocked.”
“You aren’t half-cocked, Leif. You have the best instincts I’ve seen on a SEAL. Do some research. Learn about Viorica. She works for a steel magnate cum crime lord out of the Volga District, Hristoff Peychinovich. They’re some serious trouble—if he gets his hands on this, there are world powers he could sway, powers he could manipulate and control.”
Leif noted the way the director’s face twitched. “Like America.”
“Among many.”
“But we don’t care about ‘many,’ because we’re Americans. We’re just here to protect American interests and lives, right?” Leif said, feeling confrontational. Sensing the thrum of anger. It vibrated his veins f
ull of adrenaline.
“No,” Iliescu countered, sincerity creasing the corners of his eyes. “That’s not true in this scenario.” He cocked his head. “We do care about the many, because this book—if it’s true what they say, it . . .”
“You know,” Leif said slowly, “I’ve never seen you hesitate so much.”
“Maybe that’ll help you understand my position. There’s a lot at stake.” Iliescu rapped his knuckles on the table. “We do care about the many because those are the lives at stake. We need that book, Leif. Need eyes on it and control.”
“The last time you were this worked up . . .” Leif swallowed, remembering that night. Cuffs biting into his wrists. Rough hands wrangling him into compliance. Things would’ve been so different had Iliescu not intervened.
“Yes.” A placid guy who cut it straight, the director grew more animated. “Yes, it’s on that level.” He scooted to the edge of his chair. Stabbed a finger across the gap between them. “I need you on this, Leif. And believe me, I know what I’m asking.” Ferocity bled into his expression. “I know it’s not kosher, and both of us would rather wash our hands and go our merry ways. It could blow up in our faces, and there could be a boatload of trouble from Langley and Belvoir.”
“We’ve stayed low, stayed quiet.” To stay off their radar. To placate the brass who wanted Leif deemed a threat to society and sent to Leavenworth. Now it felt like all that was unraveling. “I don’t want a team. Not again.”
“Let go! Chief. Let. Go.”
Iliescu expelled a ragged breath. “I know. But if you do this, if you succeed, I vow to help you get those answers.”
Setting off a nuke wouldn’t have had the impact of those words. “Don’t do that.”
Iliescu frowned.
“Don’t dangle fruit you can’t deliver to buy my cooperation.”
“I—”
“Because if I find out you had a way to get this thing sorted, that you knew more than ‘things in the shadows’ and you sat on it?” Leif lifted his eyebrows. “That you didn’t bring to bear every resource at your disposal to find out what happened to nine special operators?” He fought the tempest within. Shook his head, bringing it back under control. He splayed his fingers. Pulled his spine straight. Met the director’s gaze. “Don’t do that.”
