by Ronie Kendig
“Most American girls aren’t so bold.”
She smirked. “See?”
“What?”
“You said American. An American wouldn’t qualify that.” She intentionally looked at his lips, hoping to drag his mind from her probing questions. “So—”
Tires pealed outside, snatching his attention.
He muttered something, gaze darting to his phone. “I must go.” He stood.
Her heart was in her throat—not over Mr. Gorgeous, but because the team had left.
Andrew stepped away, his focus now wholly divided. He turned back to her. “I’m sorry. I’d better go. Storm’s coming.” He tossed a C-note on the table, nodded to her. “I hope our paths cross again, Lara.”
“Hope so,” she said, the pout in her words genuine. It was easy to appreciate his good looks and smooth manners. And to be disappointed she hadn’t pulled more out of him.
Must be rusty. It’d been a while since she’d had to operate. She made her way out of the restaurant, catching sight of Andrew hurrying to a black sports car. No, not just a sports car. A Lamborghini Centenario. If Andrew was in acquisitions, what was he acquiring—beyond people—to be able to afford that beauty?
“Stay out of my head!”
Mercy jerked around to see Peyton and Lawe quibbling. She took a second to compose herself, then stalked down the path toward the lovebirds.
“You promised—”
“No,” Lawe growled, “I never—”
“You are a coward! You da—”
“You know,” Mercy interrupted, “Felicia Hardy wasn’t honest with Spider-Man either.”
The two blinked at her, their argument scuttled at the introduction of superheroes. It always worked. Not many people knew much about comic book characters, so their initial confusion afforded an opening.
“Felicia. Black Cat,” Mercy explained, nodding to Peyton. “When Doctor Strange helped Peter, he ended up giving Felicia more superpowers, but she kept it to herself. She couldn’t live with it or the secrets she kept from Peter.”
Peyton’s gaze slipped away from them. Touché.
Mercy pursed her lips. “She left, then when she returned years later, she was angry because Peter had married.”
“I’m not married,” Adam countered.
Mercy tilted her head as she started walking. “I didn’t say it was a perfect analogy. Just similar. Besides, Black Cat lost her memories of—”
“Mercy.” Peyton sliced a hand through the air. “Enough.”
“It is, isn’t it?” She smirked at them. “Just kiss and get it over with already. Tell him you’re angry because he didn’t ask you to marry him.” Adam looked like he’d been on a boat too long. “Because he chose the Navy over you.”
“I never—”
“And you, tell Peyton you’re terrified of letting her down but also afraid that if you give up your career, you’ll be less of a man. Which you won’t. Because”—she squeezed his bicep, or tried—“hello! Too much man packed beneath this skin.”
“Mercy,” Peyton hissed.
She held up her hands and started backing away. “Middle ground. All I’m sayin’. I mean, we’re on the same team, so it’s not like either of you lose what you want.” She clapped her hands. “Chop-chop. Get it done. We have a mission, and by the number of times my phone has buzzed, I think the director is a little peeved.”
Adam and Peyton considered each other, their uncertainty blatant. Wondering if what she’d said was true. Which it was. The truth was as obvious as the blush on Peyton’s face and the flush on Adam’s—both ticked yet both wanting to be together. It was painful to watch.
“Middle ground,” Mercy whispered.
Adam growled.
“Cute.” Mercy shrugged. “But Hulk does it better.”
SIX
NASSAU, BAHAMAS
“We were wrong.”
Arms folded, legs shoulder-width apart, Leif stared at the live feed of Admiral Braun and three other uniforms. “About what, this time?”
Her ire and eyebrows rose, but she stayed her course. “Mr. Purcell anticipated the artifact would be detected here on the island—”
“Let’s be clear,” Cell interjected, hands lifting in a placating manner. “It was here, but by the time there was enough actionable intel—”
“It’s pinging in Greece.” Braun cut him short.
“Greece.” Culver scoffed, pushing back in his chair and stretching out his legs. “That’s the other side of the globe.”
“Why didn’t we hit this thing when it was here?” Lawe asked, stabbing the table. “You have those trigger words, right?”
Silence gaped through the hangar.
“Trigger words,” Klein repeated, easing forward in his seat. “To have a list of trigger words you’re monitoring, you’d need to have a knowledge base.” He squinted at the screen. “How do we have a knowledge base to work from if we’ve never had the scroll itself? If this thing has been lost—”
“We’re getting off track,” a captain said, angling into the camera. “Let us worry about the intel, and you guys pound the ground.”
Irritation skidded around the team, who were not cool with a shut up and do the dirty work attitude.
“Thank you, sir,” Leif said firmly. “You are?”
“Leif,” someone muttered.
“He’s giving orders, and I can’t know his name?”
“Captain Aznar.”
Aznar. Aznar. Why was that familiar?
“We work with the intel handed to us,” Iliescu said, his gaze straying to Leif’s for a second. “And then we move.”
Aznar. Intel handed . . .
Reimer.
Was the deputy director saying this intel came from Reimer? Or was he saying they’d intercepted it? Because those were two very different scenarios. It had to be the latter, because Iliescu wouldn’t send him out on intel from Reimer. Not after the Sahara Nine.
Would he?
“The facility is Aperióristos Labs in the Port of Igoumenitsa.” Admiral Braun smiled through the live feed. “Gentlemen, this is right up your gangway.” Using a laser pointer, she circled a location. “The port is approximately ten klicks outside Athens. It primarily services ship docking along with passenger and vehicle traffic. Abutting the inlet,” she said, slowing her explanation as she zoomed in on the satellite image, “is this lab just up the hillside from the main road that cuts through the area. You’ll boat in, then dive and take props inland. You’ll cross the road, then hoof it up and around the facility to come in on the back side.”
Leif folded his arms as he considered the building. “Large facility. How do we know where to find the book?”
Braun nodded to another uniform, who lifted a remote.
“Bill Masters,” he said in introduction. “When the trigger words were detected, we were able to narrow down the location—that facility—but we haven’t been able to isolate beyond what—”
“I can,” Mercy said in a demure tone.
Nobody responded, probably too stunned that she’d say she could do something CIA analysts hadn’t been able to pull off.
“Look, I appreciate—”
“No, I really don’t think you do,” she countered.
This was why guys fell hard and fast for the hacker. From the corner of his eye, he noted her sit back and cross her legs. Throwing every bit of her femininity behind her words so the tech would discount her because she was beautiful and a woman. She’d use that to her advantage and face-plant the guy right in his own arrogance. It was cruelly effective in getting her way.
“Ms. Maddox, certain systems are locked down tight. The company knows there will be hack attempts, so they layered in redundancies.”
“Really?”
It wasn’t a question but probably sounded enough like one to feed her ruse. Leif tried to hide his smirk so he didn’t steal her incoming thunder. He could feel static building in the air.
“Look, I know you—”
“Let’s stop right there.” Mercy squared off her tone and her body language. “You don’t know me. Won’t. And neither will this facility, because I’m good at what I do. Give me access. I can find the book’s location.”
“It’s a scroll, actually,” the tech snarled. “And you’re out of your pretty head if you think—”
“If I think?” Mercy laughed—that caustic, almost lighthearted laugh. “Dude, you have no idea. Never will either. But thanks for calling me pretty. Now, get over yourself and get out of the way. Allow the big girls to do their work.”
Culver and Saito barked laughs. Though Mercy had shredded this tech, Leif tried not to laugh. No need to make things worse. Because this would be remembered. It would create problems down the road if Masters didn’t recover some face.
“Ms. Maddox—”
“Do you even know what a reverse port forward is?”
“Sure,” Masters said. “I use Metasploit all the time.”
“Why are you even worried about that?” Mercy asked. “Look, if you just Nmap their servers and probe for SQL injections, then we can gain access and move along.” She huffed. “I can spend the next twenty minutes explaining, or I can spend the next twenty doing.”
“You can use mine,” Cell said, sliding his laptop to her.
“Thanks, but no.” Mercy pulled a laptop from her bag.
“Ms. Maddox,” Braun huffed, “just a minute.” She leaned over and whispered something to Masters.
Saito glanced at the team, then the screen. “What’s going on?”
Leif noted the granite-like quality of Mercy’s face. On the screen, Braun and Masters were still talking, the latter making sweeping gestures with his hands, indignation marching a cadence across his jaw.
“Mercy?” Leif asked.
“They want me to use a CIA system so they can piggyback what I do,” she growled. “It means they can steal my secrets, and that’s so not happening.”
Leif moved in front of her, nearly toe-to-toe. Not breaking eye contact, he slid her laptop between them. “Mercy,” he said loudly enough to be heard through the feed but his face telegraphing a hint, “we need to work as a team.”
Mischief tweaked the hard edge that had overtaken her expression. She had a silicon keyboard protector that all but silenced her typing, yet he felt the weight of her fingers as she logged on.
“For this to work,” Leif said, trying to add irritation to his voice, “we all have to be willing to make sacrifices.”
Her eyes lifted briefly to his.
“Yeah,” Culver drawled, joining in, “it don’t work for us to fight each other. We have to fall in line. Be good submissive soldiers.” His chest pressed against Leif’s shoulder. Another presence formed on his left, shielding Mercy from the camera. They weren’t lying. The team was working together now. Just not in the way the upper echelon intended.
“It is good thing,” Baddar added, “to work as a team. To be most effective.”
“I get it,” Mercy said, her fingers flying. “But sometimes . . . it’s just a little much . . . asking a girl to expose herself.”
“That is appreciated, but the—”
“Ms. Maddox?” Braun’s voice grated from the feed, staticky but tinged with suspicion. “Ms. Maddox, we feel—”
“What’s she doing?” Masters asked.
“Hey, we’re just trying to talk her through it,” Saito said, angling the lens more toward himself. He grinned, eyeing himself in the reverse camera, and scoffed. “I had parsley between my teeth. Sorry about that.”
“Inside their servers,” Mercy murmured.
“Mr. Saito!”
“Hai.” Classic Saito, acting like a foreign national when it suited. “I mean, yes. You gotta admit—Ms. Maddox isn’t used to working within the system, so give the guys a minute to talk her down.”
“We can’t see her anymore,” Masters complained. “What’s she—we’re picking up . . .”
“Mr. Purcell.” Braun tried a different tactic, attempting to get their new dog on a leash. “You have a job—”
“Yes, ma’am.” Cell took over the camera angle. “What can I do for you?”
“Level two o-bliterated,” Mercy muttered.
“Shut her down!” someone barked. “She’s hacking.”
“Ms. Maddox, I insist you stop what you’re doing.”
“How long?” Leif didn’t bother whispering.
“Few more minutes,” Mercy said, her work fast and furious.
“She’s running algorithms.”
“Wait,” Cell said. “Masters, I thought you were the expert. If you think Mercy is hacking, surely you can shut her down. But I’m starting to wonder why you’re sitting in the seat of power and this beauty is kicking your—”
“This is not a game!” Braun barked. “You could seriously compromise—”
“Not a chance,” Mercy bit back.
“Cease your attempts immediately, Ms. Maddox, or you will force our hand to—”
“Mercy,” Leif warned.
But she wasn’t listening. She was working. Flying through what she called cyberocity.
“Can you find her system?” Braun asked Masters. “Locate her signal. Backtrace her.”
“It’s all over the place,” Masters complained.
“C’mon, c’mon,” Lawe said.
“Mercy . . .” Leif said again.
“Yeah, yeah. Shush.” She took the laptop and swiveled around to the table, shedding all pretense.
Leif and the guys followed her, more curious than protective about what she was doing. And if command came after her, it would be through that laptop. He hoped she had protocols to protect herself and that system.
Watching, he saw her gray screen filled with black letters. Folding an arm over his chest, he covered his mouth.
The screen went black. The text changed to turquoise.
“Hello, Masters,” Mercy said, never slowing but apparently registering the breach.
“What does that mean?” Baddar swung to her right, placed a palm on the table.
“It means . . . they’ve detected and located my system.” Her long auburn hair hung in her face as she worked. “Started countermeasures.”
“That’s not good, right?” Leif asked, noting a din of curses and raging on the CIA side.
Mercy continued typing out strings of commands. The screen shifted. The letters turned red. “Crap.” She bobbed her head, hair swaying. She opened a nested file and scanned it. Clicked. A series of images popped up on the screen. At first, four, then six. Nine. “Bingo!” With a flurry of keystrokes, she attacked the laptop. “Tag,” she murmured, then began a series of steps that closed out the multiple screens. “You’re it.” She straightened. Let out a breath.
“What?” Leif asked, checking her laptop, seemingly innocuous and innocent now. No nefarious coding. Yet still running.
“I planted a back door into the facility’s video feeds. We can access them at will and see what’s in there.”
Leif smiled. “So we don’t go in blind.”
“Or end up dead.”
He pivoted, stared at the screen into CIA HQ. At the flushed faces. The scowls. “And why couldn’t your team do that?”
“We could,” Masters growled. “But . . .”
“You had red tape,” Leif said. “Had to get authorizations.”
Culver added, “Which would’ve cost time.”
“Time nobody had,” Saito finished.
“But see? We”—Leif thumbed around—“don’t exist. So accessing that from an island in the Bahamas buys us cover.”
“If she used CIA servers—”
Mercy snorted.
Leif stood straighter. “Point is, ma’am, we can now surveil the facility and find what we’re looking for.”
Braun huffed.
“Leif,” Iliescu said, “you and the team get airborne. Mercy—that back door—”
“Not really a back door,” she said with a shrug.
“Is that something we can access?” Iliescu asked.
Mercy considered them for a moment. “No, but I could probably change that. If you ask really nice.”
“You do realize I’m your boss, right?”
“Mm.”
Iliescu smirked. “Get it done, Mercy.” He raised his eyebrows. “Please.”
SEVEN
APERIÓRISTOS LABS, PORT OF IGOUMENITSA, GREECE
The chopper flew low over the dark waters, stirring up an angry wake. The bird veered around and hovered above the landing pad of the super yacht. To save time instead of landing, Marines secured the team’s rucks to a line and lowered them, while Leif, Culver, and Saito fast-roped onto the deck.
Crouched against the downwash of the rotors, two men greeted them. Leif pressed into his fear and followed the guys off the deck. Boots on the rails of the steps, he slid to the lower deck. A buzz against his wrist made him angle his arm as they rounded and descended another flight. “Maps are in,” he noted to Culver and Saito.
The dark-haired guy—no names would be used or given to protect both sides—stalked down a narrow passage. “We’ve picked up a lot of radio traffic in the area. Foreign.”
“That unusual?” Culver asked.
“Not on these channels.” He pushed through a door into the launch bay of the super yacht. Three diver propulsion vehicles—or DPVs—bobbed on the water like long black torpedoes with encased fans at the stern. There was a cutout for the diver to sit in and grips to control gear shifting. They quietly lapped water as if anticipating the new adventure. “I’d recommend you stay eyes out. Might have some company there.”
Culver shared a long look with Leif as they geared up. He stepped into a dry suit. Strapped on the tank. KA-BAR around his thigh. Weapons in the ruck secured to the prop.
With comms pieces, they were able to connect with Cell and Mercy, who were holed up in a CIA safe house five klicks south of the facility.
“Moby Bravo is a klick out,” Cell reported.
