by Ronie Kendig
“But that’s not all I found.” Mercy shuddered a breath. “Remember that guy in Cuba, Andrew? Who popped up in the facility where the book was stolen?” Her gaze hit Iskra, but she said nothing to her. “He was at the village.”
Leif scowled. “You kidding me?”
“Wish I was.”
“Who is he?”
“Wish I knew.” Mercy huffed. “I tried to find him, but he vanished”—she snapped her fingers—“like that.”
“I’d like to know why you’re the only one who keeps seeing him,” Lawe said.
Devine slapped his arm.
“What?”
“Are you insinuating that she’s unstable?” Devine’s expression was malicious.
“What? No!” Lawe’s eyes widened, then looked stricken. “I swear on my mom’s grave. I never intended that.”
“He makes a good point,” Leif agreed. “Nobody has seen this guy except Mercy, so that could be intentional on his part or not. Either way, we need to get facial rec. Ask Iliescu, since he was aiming sats at that village while we were onsite.”
“That might also tell us who to pay back for the chunk they took out of your shoulder,” Lawe said, pointing his fork.
“Hey.” Cell jogged into the cabin and hit a switch on the wall. A white screen scrolled down from the ceiling. “Director’s on the line.”
Leif scowled. “Where’d you come from?”
“Communications center.” Cell shrugged as if this were common knowledge. “The—at the front of the plane. A communications hub.” He tapped into a panel on the wall. The screen went black, then cycled through a “waiting” icon. He glanced at the mostly uneaten trays of food. “I’d finish eating, then rest up. You’re going to be busy.” With that, he left.
Gaping at the now-empty doorway, Leif grunted. “That guy is getting weirder every day.”
“Barc has always been weird,” Mercy said, her tone lazy and happy. “That’s what makes him so great.”
“Gentlemen—and ladies,” the director’s voice boomed from a speaker. “Mr. Metcalfe, how’re you?”
“Hungry but good, sir.” Leif snagged a slice of bread from his tray.
“Doc says you’re healing.”
“Healing?” Saito blinked. “He just got shot and stitched in the last two hours.”
“We’ve got some new intel I need you to follow up on,” Iliescu continued.
“Storms?” Leif asked, his instincts buzzing.
“It’s crazy how you know these things. Someday you’ll be after my job.”
“Can’t sit behind a desk. Too boring.”
“I think you mean too safe,” Iliescu said. “Anyway, you’re now en route to the African continent.”
The last two words snagged Leif’s attention. “Africa.” He hadn’t been back there since he’d first met Tox Russell’s team and helped them navigate the locals. Even then, it had taken an act of God to get him to lead Wraith out there. When a guy lost nine men in a desert, he wasn’t real anxious to go back. And he could tell by the look on Iliescu’s face which country they were headed into. “Egypt.”
“You’ll land at El Gorah before heading out.” The director telegraphed Leif an apology that didn’t make it into his words. “There’s been some serious abnormal weather activity. Word’s been filtering back about an unusual acrid odor making people sick.”
“Storm smell,” Iskra said. “I noticed it at the village, too.”
Iliescu nodded. “When we ran imaging, we were surprised at what we found.” He looked to the side and told someone to put the image on the screen. A swath of brown stretched wide, as far as the eye could see.
“Where is this?” Leif asked, frowning.
“Just north of Aswan,” Iliescu said.
“Aswan?” Leif barked a laugh. “I think you need new analysts. Aswan is an hour from the Nile. That area is—”
“There’s a drought. Nobody thought anything of it until we put two and two together.” Somber-faced, Iliescu hesitated. “I’m not sure what you’ll find in the villages, but I can’t stress enough after the fiasco in Burma how much we can’t let whoever’s behind this succeed again.”
“Director,” Leif said, “Mercy has seen this Andrew person in multiple places where the team has been. I think we need to follow up on that—she saw him in the village right before the landslide. You were sat-watching us. Can you run that back and do facial recs on him?”
Iliescu pointed to someone offscreen and nodded. “We’ll get on it.”
Leif swiveled his chair. “Any progress identifying the guys with Andrew at the facility or which route they took?”
“No luck at all—we have a clear shot on one, but it’s like he doesn’t exist.”
“Which means someone doesn’t want him found.”
“Exactly,” Iliescu said. “We’re also trying to reverse-track using Peychinovich, check who he’s been with, who visited him, who he visited.”
Iskra sat forward, arms resting around her plate. “Pay particular attention to his German and Chinese contacts.”
“You know something, Miss Todorova?”
She didn’t shift or retreat. “Hristoff has spent a lot of time with both in the last year, and considering I encountered Rutger Hermanns in the salt mines and his lackey in Greece, I would say it’s a safe bet.”
Iliescu considered her for a moment, then bobbed his head. “Thanks for the tip. If you think of anything else, we’d appreciate the help. You saw what they’re doing. They nearly took your life.”
The words had an impact. She shrank against her seat.
“Metcalfe, once you’re there, you’ll have a SEAL team at your disposal, should you need it, as well as weapons and supplies necessary to find this Meteoroi and destroy it.” Iliescu’s tone was hard. “Understood?”
“Hooah,” Lawe said.
“That’s all for now.” He met Leif’s gaze. “Metcalfe, in private in five.”
Nodding, Leif came out of his chair. He skirted the table and exited the conference room to find Cell coming toward him with a phone. “You missed a killer mud bath.”
“That isn’t as enticing as you’d think.”
“Seriously? You like being the director’s lapdog?”
“I am not a lapdog, but yes, I like what I do.” Cell pivoted and started back to the comms center. He turned. “Private room is second on the left.”
Leif headed that way, let himself in, and closed the door. The phone rang. “I’m here.”
“We’ll need to be careful with your rapid healing.”
“Agreed.” Leif touched his shoulder and detected no pain, just a dull ache. No loss in range of motion. He couldn’t explain it, but it had been proven time and again that his body had a phenomenal healing rate. Even as a kid he’d healed fast, but since the Sahara Nine, the speed had been insane.
“How’s Viorica? She do okay out there earlier?”
“She did.” Leif sat in a chair in the corner, facing the door.
“Learning anything new about her?”
Besides that she was a good kisser? “Sibling—a brother. She last saw him a decade ago. Peychinovich bought V from her father when she was young. Kept her for himself, rapes her often. Then had a Kremlin agent train and torture her.”
“She loyal to them? Should we question it?”
“Question it, yes. But because of him? Negative.” Leif scratched his jaw. “I’m not sure what keeps her going back—she deftly avoided telling me why, but it’s not him. She can’t stand Peych. She’s afraid to leave. Never succeeded before. Said that yacht incident with Vasily Kuznetsov was personal. That he betrayed Hristoff, too.”
“With her?”
Leif hesitated. Why hadn’t he thought of that? “I . . . I don’t think so.”
“Well, I’ve got a team investigating her history, digging deeper than before. Keeping her on the move is a good thing, I think. But if Peychinovich learns her whereabouts, things will get complicated.”
“Agreed.”
>
“You sure learned a lot in a short time.”
“It’s why you hired me, sir.”
Iliescu grunted. “Just keep it clean, Metcalfe. If we can turn her, she’ll be the most valuable asset we have.”
“I think I’m offended, sir.”
“Look.” Iliescu’s quieter tone made Leif’s defenses slam up. “You okay going back to El Gorah?”
At least it’s not Hurghada. “It makes sense—I know the people. They trust me. We might gather more intel there than in Burma for that reason.”
“That’s why I want you there.” Iliescu huffed. “Look, I know it’s not ideal, with the way Egypt affects you.”
“I’m good.”
Iliescu hesitated. “Okay. I trust you to keep it together, Leif. The team and I are depending on you to get ahead of this so we can stop chasing our butts and get the book back.”
“Understood.”
“Stay in touch.”
“Roger that.”
He ended the call and sat in the darkened room, alone with his thoughts. His misgivings. Not about the mission but . . . himself. In Egypt.
The mountain. The heat. The royal snafu in heading west instead of east. They’d had no idea of their location. Nobody could remember how they’d gotten there. Or what had caused the chopper to crash.
He roughed a hand over his face and sat back with a sigh. Leaned his head against the wall. Stared at the hull.
“. . . Egypt affects you.”
It did. Because he’d searched for answers and found none. Ten of them had fought their way out of the Shaiyb al-Banat mountains, fleeing into the Sahara Desert. He’d nearly died. Had it not been for the pararescue team doing training ops, he would’ve been buried in the sand with the great pharaohs. Nine of his team were.
Surviving that tortured him. Drove him nearly into the ground. Suicide had seemed a good option. But Canyon had convinced him that God wasn’t through with him yet. Got him reinstated and assigned to El Gorah for cultural support. It was the first sign that maybe he should keep his feet this side of the grave. So he’d accepted the assignment. Kept his head down, despite the nightmares and paranoia. During his off hours, he trekked out to the desert. Searched for answers, for any sign of the missing pieces.
Because that was the bugger of it all. He never forgot anything. Except six months of his life.
TWENTY-SEVEN
NORTH BASE CAMP, EL GORAH, EGYPT
The wind was different here. Iskra followed the team off the jet, also noticing that more than the weather was different—so was Leif. They’d had an hour of downtime while the base arranged a van for their use. Quieter and withdrawn, Leif radiated an intensity she hadn’t expected, even considering he was already one of the most intense men she’d met. One might not think so, when introduced to the gregarious, joke-telling sailor. But beneath his calm surface lurked a rip current. The team must have noticed, too, because nobody talked as they piled into a white unmarked van.
Leif climbed behind the wheel and adjusted the mirrors. No smile. No lighthearted banter. “We’ll check the village, then RTB.”
The van shot across the base, Leif negotiating the buildings and vehicles with the precision and skill of someone familiar with the area. The director had implied that in the briefing. Was that what all this anxiety was about?
Leif’s credentials cleared them through the security checkpoint.
“How long were you out here?” Lawe asked from the front passenger seat.
“This was my duty station till two years ago. Spent the better part of three years out here.”
“Why would anyone want to be here that long? It’s too hot,” Saito complained from the seat next to her as the topography shifted from a busy, thriving city to an angry desert.
“It’s quiet,” Leif said, his attention never leaving the road. “Gives you time to think.”
Iskra eyed the brown-on-brown terrain that waited beyond the clutter of buildings and multistoried hotels. She thought of where she lived now, the estate that overlooked the river. Posh by most standards. Lush grounds. Looking at the desert, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d grown soft, spoiled, living in luxury.
It was a hard thought, considering why she lived there. And lived was a loose term. More like survived. Existed.
Regardless, the desert terrified her. The emptiness and heat. The lack of water, vegetation. Granted, the phenomenal history left her agape. Years ago, she’d visited the Valley of the Kings. Luxor. But . . . the barrenness was forbidding and cruel.
“So, I’m trying to understand.” Culver squinted out the window. “We’re worrying about a drought. In a desert.”
“Most of Egypt is consumed by the Sahara Desert.” Leif picked their way down a road that had more holes than concrete. “But there are cities and villages along the Nile that are lush and extremely profitable. It’s really amazing what they produce here—you’d be surprised. And the seasons dictate what’s produced.
“Main export is natural gas,” he continued, hitting the wipers to wash a yellow film—pollen?—from the windshield. “But nonpetroleum products like clothes, cotton textiles, and medical are also big. Then there’s citrus fruits, rice . . .”
So was this home to Leif? “Sounds like you are fond of the area,” Iskra said.
“I get stoked when people overcome adversity and thrive.” And for the first time in the hour since they left the security of the base, his gaze drifted to the rearview mirror and met hers. She had adversity. Now if she could just conquer the “thrive” part.
They lumbered up over a rise, and what spread before them seemed like more of what they’d seen. But apparently not to Leif. The van coasted down a slight incline. Though the team chatted and laughed, Leif’s silence felt deafening.
He veered to the side of the road and set the brake. Killed the engine. Climbed out, his mood weighted.
“We’re here.” Lawe shot them all a warning look. “Nice and easy.”
Iskra left the safety and coolness of the van to join Leif.
He walked to a depression in the earth fifty feet to their left and squatted, scooping up the dirt. He smelled it. Dusted it off his hands. Elbows on his knees, he stared vacantly at the cracked earth. It spread outward in a streak of tan, reaching toward the shrubs and trees as if to siphon away whatever drop of water remained. Some of the greenery was wilting, smothered by the heat and lack of rain. An endless sea of sand and dirt. Tan everywhere.
Rubbing his fingers over his palm, Leif squinted across the open plain. This felt very private, his assessment of the land, so Iskra waited at the ridge and shielded her eyes from the sun.
“Talk to us, Chief.” Lawe’s voice was deep and concerned as he trudged over, the others circling up around him. Strange—they looked like a ragtag bunch until you considered the weapons and readiness in their stances. Their training didn’t let them relax.
“This”—Leif pushed upright and raised his arm over the parched depression—“was a lake fed from a natural spring. It supplied the villages with potable water and irrigation for crops.”
Shocked, Iskra scanned the area again, distressed for the people who had lost their water source. What had become of them?
“Doesn’t bode well,” Saito said quietly.
“No.” Leif’s jaw muscle jounced. “It doesn’t.” He focused on a spot in the distance.
“I get how they cloud seed to start rain, like in Burma,” Peyton said, “but how do you stop rain?”
“Cloud seed in a nearby location to draw away the moisture,” Mercy said. “That film on the windshield—”
“Silver iodide,” Saito said. “China and Russia have been experimenting with it for years.”
A plume of dust churned toward them. Sun glinted on something—metal. Maybe a windshield.
“Weapons,” Leif instructed, his expression flipping from grieved to concerned. “Keep them close but out of sight.” Next, he turned to Iskra, and a storm had taken up residence wher
e she’d normally found confidence and lightheartedness. “Stay close.”
She nodded, because this time his words felt more protective than controlling. “Trouble?”
The truck raced closer. Who was coming?
“Never can tell,” he murmured.
“Army?” Lawe asked under his breath.
Shouts assailed the late afternoon, showering the team with uncertainty and tension, especially hearing the Arabic language.
“This doesn’t look good,” Saito said.
“It isn’t,” Leif replied. “Stay calm. Be ready. But let me handle this.”
The truck vaulted over a slight incline. It landed violently, but the men poised in the back with AK-47s weren’t fazed. When the old vehicle swept up to them, it spewed dust and dirt. Tiny grains of sand prickled Iskra’s eyes and cheeks. She protected her face but heard the telltale thud of feet as the men bailed out of the back. Angry shouts drew closer.
Hands up as he moved in front of the team, Leif joined the din, repeating some phrase to the . . . soldiers? Rebels? They wore dingy clothes. No uniforms. But that didn’t matter out here.
Two lanky shapes stormed toward Iskra.
“No,” Leif barked, stepping between them and her, rattling off something in their tongue.
The darker of the men attempted to shove Leif aside. A bad move.
Leif was a flurry of motion. He caught the man’s wrist, twisted it up and behind his arm, forcing the taller man to his knees with a shout. And in that split second, Leif had also disarmed him. He held up his weapon, his knee at the back of the man’s neck. He shouted to the others, his expression implacable.
After a nod, he pushed up, freeing the man. Stepped back. Disassembled the weapon, dropping the pieces on the ground. He held up his palms again, talking much quieter but no less firmly.
He’d made a point. That he could defend his own, but he had no intention to cause harm. But he would if provoked. If his people were threatened. Leif knew the power he possessed. The abilities he had honed. Knew what he could successfully oppose. And he showed them, too.
Rifles snapped in Leif’s direction, but he stared hard at a man who didn’t even reach Iskra’s five-nine height.
