Storm Rising

by Ronie Kendig

  Peering into those hazel-gold wells, he warned himself to tread softly, carefully. “For every negative I encounter about you, I see two positives.” Was she leaning closer or was he?

  The line of her brows, relaxed and dark. Her gaze danced around his face.

  “We’re the . . . same.” A tightening in his chest sent charges through his neck and gut.

  Her lips, a deep pink, parted in expectation. And . . . permission. Or an invitation. He wasn’t sure which. Maybe both.

  He angled in slowly, not wanting to scare her off or alert her defenses that they were down. He didn’t break eye contact until their lips touched. Softly, tentatively. He repeated it, lingering a fraction longer. Her fingers gently scraped his side. Leif caught her mouth more firmly, noticing the distinct smell of earth, mud.

  He cupped her face, feeling himself sinking further. His shirt tugged against his abs, her long fingers curling into the fabric. He guessed she wasn’t going to object.

  It was like an adrenaline high from combat. A dangerous situation, but the addiction made him repeat it. And again. Kissing more. Deeper.

  He pays her.

  The thought struck him, unbidden. He slowed, needing to know the details of that relationship. Needing to understand. She was, after all, kissing a man who had been her enemy two weeks ago.

  He eased off, liking that her eyes were heavy-lidded. Despite his own intention, he stole another kiss. Smirked at her. “Wow.”

  She snorted and lowered her forehead to his shoulder. But the tension of her hands balled in his shirt didn’t release.

  “After a kiss—”

  “One?”

  “Okay, after a moment like that,” he corrected, laughing, “why do you go back to him?”

  Her sultriness slipped away. She freed his shirt and straightened. “You think I want to?”

  He was convinced she wanted to be here with him, but he also had no doubt that she’d leave. For . . . what? “I don’t know. My guess is you have a reason. You’re . . . tethered to something.”

  She seemed to want him to know the truth, because she wasn’t moving away. Wasn’t turning vicious. Iskra curled against him. Threaded her fingers with his. “Why do you think I’m tethered?” She adjusted to face him, her knee pressing into his thigh.

  “Besides that you haven’t killed him yet?” When she nearly smiled, he barged ahead. “When you talk about him, your tone and expression change.” He stared out the opening of the hut, watching rain dump on the green vegetation, blurring the world into a wall of gray. “But you keep returning. You’re out here”—he motioned to the hills—“free.”

  “Free is relative.”

  “But he has no way to find you now that the tracker has been neutralized. And I see how much you want to be here—with me.”

  She studied her tactical pants. Rubbed the mud off, as if she could clean the soaked fabric.

  Something in Russia kept Iskra from securing her own freedom. It was driving him crazy that she wouldn’t tell him, because he wanted her to say it wasn’t Hristoff. That there was something else, someone else. Well, no. He didn’t want it to be a someone. He stood, walked to the edge of the hut, and felt the needling of the deluge. “If we gave you the USB, you’d return. Right?”

  She lifted her chin. Came unsteadily to her feet. “Yes, I’ll return. But not to him.”

  He fisted his hand. “Then to what? You’re not afraid of anything but Peychinovich.” He shrugged. “Or maybe kissing me.”

  “What?”

  “You had my shirt in a fisthold, and as much as I’d like to believe it was passion, I think something more primal drove that—fear.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “What are you afraid of, Iskra? What are you afraid I’ll find out or say or do?”

  She scoffed. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “Then what? You want freedom?” He flicked his hands at the hills. “It’s there, waiting for you to seize it. I’ll help—do whatever you need me to do.”

  “No,” she growled, stalking to the other end of the shelter. “Don’t do that.”

  “What?”

  “Hand me hope on a silver platter.” Her voice had a new edge to it. “It’s not that easy.”

  “Easy?” He shook his head. “Nothing worth having is easy or free.” His words seemed to hit home. “Let me help you. Take the USB home and trade it—whatever that means. I’ll help. Make sure you come back out.”

  “Don’t make promises like that.”

  “On my life, I will.”

  Her brows rose in disbelief as she searched his face. “Why? Why would you do that?” She flapped a hand in the air. “Never mind.” A breath struggled through her. “It doesn’t matter why. You have no stake in this, and Hristoff kills those who help me. I will not let that happen to you. And now that I’ve upset Veratti—the price is too high. And you don’t know—” Her face paled, and she turned away.

  Leif stepped closer. Leaned in. “What? What don’t I know? End the games. No more. What don’t I know?”

  She hugged herself, as if that would keep her secrets captive.

  “For the love of—” Groaning, Leif spun in a circle. Lifted his hands. “Why won’t you let me in? We just kissed—and it was pretty darn good. Was that fake? Trying to burn off some energy—”

  Tears glossed her eyes as she growled a no.

  “Then stop shutting me out. Why won’t you—”

  “Because it doesn’t work! And when you know—” She staggered around a breath. “When you know . . .” She gave a sorrowful swing of her head. “I can’t salvage this, Leif. It’s beyond repair. I’m . . .”

  Something in that anguish hauled him to her side. “What?” He softened his tone. “Tell me.”

  She pushed him away and wandered to the middle of the hut again. “I love that you think telling you will solve everything, but it won’t. I will not put anyone else in danger.” Her mind seemed to catch on something, a memory or a face, because she wilted.

  “How has he so convinced you that things are that hopeless?” Leif grunted, disbelieving. No—furious.

  “Do not pity me. I dug this grave.”

  “How?”

  “I—” She strangled the words. Turned, shaking her head. Crying.

  “Iskra, this is killing me. You have the skills. The strength and wit. You have what you need to beat him, but you won’t even try!”

  She glowered. “You have no idea what I’ve done.”

  “You’re right! I don’t. Because you won’t let me in. I give up.” He turned to the storm. “I can’t con—”

  She caught his hand.

  It silenced him. He wouldn’t look, just clenched his jaw. Because the curse of this was that he’d cave. He’d do anything for her. Why? He had no freakin’ idea. She’d sunk her hooks into him the first time they’d encountered each other in Greece. He’d been outdone by her. That was amazing and beautiful, especially how she’d done it. And it had knocked every lick of good sense from his skull.

  Why hadn’t he figured that out sooner? She must have. She’d been working him.

  “Please.” She kissed his hand.

  “You do not play fair.”

  Her breaths fell across his knuckles as she stared up at him with wide, glossy eyes.

  “No tears.” He peered back out again. “No waterworks. Cut it straight. Don’t work me.”

  Holding his wrist, she stared at him. So much danced through her features. Ache. Desperation. Longing. Her mouth parted again.

  But then she sagged against him. Into him. She wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t open up, but falling on his chest, clinging to it . . . that said a lot. Told him she wanted to. But she wouldn’t tell him.

  He released a breath. Scanned the hills again. “The rain has slowed.” He shifted away from her. Took a couple of steps, feeling . . . empty. “We should go. While we—”

  “Hristoff bought me—literally bought me in a business transaction.” Her words were fast. Sharp. “From my father.
”

  Leif pivoted. Gaped in shock.

  “He took me back to his estate in Russia, where I didn’t speak the language or know anyone. For most of my teen years, he raped me whenever he wanted—sometimes as punishment, other times just because.” Anticipation crouched in her expression, waiting for his rejection. “Over and over.”

  Leif steeled himself. Refused to flinch. He couldn’t react and show her the disgust she expected. But the fury at what she’d endured—he couldn’t fathom it—balled his fists.

  “I ran. And he caught me. I ran again and again. More than once, I escaped his security detail. Escaped the estate.” Her voice cracked. “And every single time, he found me. Dragged me back. Raped me again, mostly to remind me that I belonged to him. I was—am—nothing but property.”

  “Iskra, you don’t have—”

  “I do!” She studied his feet. “You think you’re different, you’re enough to help me? Then let’s see how big of a man you are when you hear the whole story.” A tear slid down her cheek. “Because I haven’t met anyone in a very”—that word was breathed and weighted with grief—“long time who could get past who I am to want to hear what happened to me. What I’ve become in order to survive.”

  He stood there, fists coiled, heart pounding. Anger churning as he fought not to imagine the terror of her life. Fought not to want to rip Peychinovich limb from limb.

  She stepped forward and threaded her fingers with his, as if she was afraid he’d leave. “Before my seventeenth birthday, I attempted another escape. I’d gotten word my brother was in the city, so I slipped out to see him. It was then,” she said around a ragged breath, “after raping me again, that Hristoff realized that because I was so good at escaping, maybe he could use me in a more profitable way.”

  She went quiet, worrying her fingers over his hand. “He sent me to someone who owed him a favor—a man from the Kremlin. He trained me, using torture to correct every little thing I did wrong until I stopped making mistakes. All of them.” She lifted her chin. “It was this man who gave me the name Viorica—to him, I was Hristoff’s Wild Rose.” She sniffed, her nostrils flaring. “The generals loved the nickname. So did he. It was a joke. I was a joke. But I let it fuel my anger, my determination to someday find a way to get out—permanently. Hristoff sent me on missions, and I celebrated every one of them because I was away from him. I was free. Until I realized I wasn’t.”

  It was a lot to take in. A lot to believe. But it still didn’t explain what she was trading. And that meant she was distracting him again. “It’s a good story.” He nodded. Ran a hand over his hair. “Sob story, really.”

  “It’s real,” she bit out.

  “But it’s not what I asked you.”

  “To understand one, you have to know the other. I knew you would—”

  “Quiet.” Movement to his left froze Leif. A heartbeat later, his right arm swept Iskra away from the entry. “Back. Silent.” He brought his weapon up, stepping back. He’d been stupid. Careless. He keyed his comms. “Six to—”

  His gaze hit the cable on the floor again. He narrowed his eyes, realizing it snaked under the hut. Oh no . . .

  Crack! Crack!

  * * *

  Shadows peeled from the left of the hut. But Leif was looking in the other direction.

  “Eleven,” Iskra hissed, wondering who was here. Who was firing at them.

  Seamlessly, he swiveled to the left. Fired several short bursts as he backstepped to her. When the gap closed, she touched his side to let him know.

  “Gear,” he grunted. “Get the ruck.”

  She dove for the pack. Ripped it open and pulled out the two vests. She zipped it back up and threaded her arms through one of them. Dragging the ruck and clutching the other vest, she skidded back up to Leif, who had taken a knee, defending their position. “Here.”

  He spared a passing glance. Reached for the vest.

  She slid it over one of his arms, then the other, with him only removing his focus for a split second. Once it was on, he pushed to his feet. Backed up more, pressing them into the wall. Wood splintered, chewed up by bullets.

  Iskra peered through one of the new holes and spied a guy advancing up that side. With a hop, she sprinted at the wall. Gripped the edge and flung her legs out and around. Her feet pounded into the man’s chest. He flew sideways, his weapon sliding off.

  She leapt to avoid landing on him and spun. He shook his head as he came up, stunned. Disoriented. That gave her the opportunity to deliver a round kick to his head. He flipped backward, and she softened her landing, slipping in the muck a little. But not enough to put her out of reach of his weapon. She snatched it up and fired at him. He didn’t get up again.

  Wood splintered. A trail of fire seared her arm. She snapped to the left and sighted the next attacker. She released a short burst as she hustled sideways, stealing a glimpse at Leif, who’d leapt out of the hut and run to her.

  “To the trees!”

  She started running. Slipping. Scrabbling. Down the next knoll.

  A weight plowed into her back. Smacked her into the mud on all fours. Smothered by the mud, she struggled against Leif’s weight. Heard his weapon’s fire mingling with the crack of thunder.

  “Go! Go!” he grunted, continuously engaging the advancing men.

  She pushed up, gasping. Stumbled on. Ran, looking back to see Leif on a knee, still covering their flank. She slowed, checking him, and tripped. Flopped into the muck. She shoved up—and froze.

  A man towered over her.

  Her split-second assessment of his gear provided her with three options. She snapped her foot up between his legs. When he doubled, she snatched his knife. Hamstrung him. Stabbed the blade into his gut.

  His howling preceded the smack of his body into the mud.

  She flipped onto all fours, seeing Leif advancing down the line. How many were there?

  “You okay?” When he saw her nod, he sidestepped. “Keep moving.”

  Iskra pushed up, but her boot slipped behind her. She face-planted, her heart rate jackhammering against the thunder of the skies and the guns of those attacking them. But she fought. Thought of his words—that she was tough and intelligent. Thought of his kisses. The promise to be there for her. Was it real? It was too good to be true. He was too good. For her.

  She scrambled up the hillside, not really worrying about having her head shot off because she couldn’t get enough traction to stand. On hands and knees, she crawled—trying in vain to grab earth that slushed through her hands. Sinking with each move, but still moving. It was enough. It had to be.

  Her hand scraped something hard. She swatted away the mud and saw black and silver. Her heart thudded as recognition hit. “Leif.” It looked like a charge. “Leif!”

  He glanced back at the hut. “They wired it to blow.” He stilled, but an urgency snapped into him. “Go.” He waved her on. “Move.”

  She obeyed. Putting distance between them and the explosives. Slowly, the ground firmed. Shots pursued them, but she reached the trees. Iskra pushed and shoved. A branch poked her knee, letting her know the soggy terrain wasn’t going to win. Gripping a tree, she wrenched free of the mud and wrapped her arms around the trunk, amazed that Leif’s back had never left hers. She pulled him closer and led him to safety.

  “Have to go deeper,” she called back to him.

  “Go,” he huffed against her cheek as she rounded and used the tree for cover. “I’m right behind you.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” she muttered.

  “I’m the muddy Bigfoot following you.”

  “It was all that camouflage.”

  He chuckled.

  Using a side-to-side gait, she clambered down the spine, catching low branches to avoid slipping and sliding down the hill. It would be faster but more painful. Probably even deadly.

  An eruption of gunshots slowed her. She turned, caught sight of Leif’s frame coated in mud and dirt but upright. Fighting. Protecting. How had they gott
en separated? And so far apart?

  She pivoted—and found herself facing the business end of a weapon. The attacker, face covered in a mask, brought his Kalashnikov to bear. Without a thought, she gripped the end of the weapon. Yanked it toward herself as she sidestepped and drove a fist into his face.

  He stumbled but came back up—with a Ruger.

  Iskra clapped a knife-hand on either side of him—one on his wrist, forcing it to bend, and the other on the weapon.

  Boom! Crack!

  She froze. Convinced she’d been shot. Her mind registered the warmth. The blood.

  The man collapsed, his weapon in her hands.

  Riddled with shock and his gray matter, Iskra couldn’t move. She stared at his lifeless form. The part of his skull that was missing. That wasn’t the work of Leif’s M4 or a Kalashnikov. Who had shot him?

  Leif pounded toward her. Shoved into her. They both barreled away, putting as much distance between them and the attackers as possible. They ran. Slipped. Slid. Terror gripped Iskra as she canted backward. She could not go down. It could kill her.

  Leif caught a tree—and she caught him with a relieved huff. He pressed his spine to the trunk as he held her.

  “Who are they?” she asked between gulping breaths.

  He shrugged. “No clue.”

  She looked back toward the fallen attacker. “Who shot him?”

  “Us, I hope.”

  “Us?”

  “Devine—sniper.”

  That would explain why half his skull was missing.

  Leif eyed the way they’d just come. Then went still. Glanced in the direction of the bikes. Back up the hill. He cursed.

  She didn’t like the way it stole what little courage she had. “What?”

  His keen, perceptive gaze traced their surroundings again. “What do you see right below us?”

  Trees. A deforested section. More trees. Beyond that . . . “The village. I-I don’t understand.”

  Leif pivoted and peered up the slope. “They cleared the woods, set charges to the hut—that was the cable I noticed—and you found another charge down the hill. Then they added the storm.”