Storm Rising

by Ronie Kendig

  Leif advanced, but when he did, the orb reacted. He leapt away as it spat a bolt of lightning at him. The spot where he had stood was now a sizzling scorch.

  “Can’t shoot it,” Rubber Jacket called. “I can’t get any closer either. It reacts to electrical charges.”

  Which human bodies had. So obviously he couldn’t touch it. The charge could kill him.

  “. . . ctual. Come in.” At the crackle in his comms, Leif stilled. Glanced back at Culver’s unmoving form and subvocalized, hoping the other guys wouldn’t see him talk. “Go ahead.”

  “Blow it,” Aznar’s voice sailed through, surprisingly clear. “Destroy the device. The evacuation in the cities was a ruse to get as many people in one location as possible. ArC is using the device to kill millions.”

  Stunned, Leif trained back on the orb. Shrugged out of his ruck, eye on Rubber Jacket, who watched warily.

  Leif drew out a brick of C-4. “You might want to back up.”

  Rubber Jacket took several steps away. When he halted, Leif set the timer—but a spark shot from the orb. The electrical current neutralized the timer—and amazingly didn’t ignite the C-4. What on earth . . . ?

  Hissing at the sizzle in his hand, Leif saw the surviving loner had lifted a weapon. The survivor shot toward Rubber Jacket, who pivoted to Leif.

  “The brick. Throw it—now!”

  Hadn’t this guy seen what happened to Culver? The orb reac—

  Yes. He had seen. Brilliant.

  In a split second, Leif realized several things. Survivor was trying to stop Rubber Jacket, who wanted the C-4 thrown. Throwing the brick—they hoped—would draw instincts from Survivor, who’d fire at it. They could all die, but so would the Meteoroi.

  He fastballed the brick at the device.

  Spider-like branches of electricity converged over the orb. They grabbed the brick, wrapped around it. Suspended it.

  Even as he rotated and threw himself away, Leif heard the report of a weapon.

  His legs felt like they weighed a thousand pounds as he shoved himself away. His right foot dug in. Pushed. Left foot. He aimed toward Culver’s prone form. His pulse whooshed in his ears with each step.

  One . . .

  It was like running in water.

  Two . . .

  His movements were sluggish. The ground unforgiving.

  Crack! Boom!

  A shriek pierced his ears.

  The air punched him. Lifted him. Vaulted him out of the bubble.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  ANGOLAN COAST

  Warbling thrummed, beckoned him to answer its call.

  Leif groaned—and even that hurt his eardrums. He shifted, his back sticky.

  “You . . . me?”

  Pushing onto all fours, Leif registered the wet earth. The acrid smell of burnt flesh. The colossal pounding in his head, as if he had the hangover of a lifetime.

  “You good?” warbled Culver’s voice.

  Leif moved onto his haunches and squinted at the man before him. Not Culver. It was Rubber Jacket. He had a marred mess across his cheek now. Sandy brown hair.

  “Nice throw. He shot the C-4. Blew him and the device to smithereens.”

  Leif looked past him to the partially melted body of Survivor and winced.

  “You did good,” Rubber Jacket said, patting his shoulder.

  Leif put a palm over his aching ear. “Who are you? The device—the jacket. How’d you know? Who—” Man, it hurt to hear himself talking.

  The man extended his hand. “Call me Andrew.”

  Jolting at the name, Leif gawked. The same guy Mercy had seen at the facility? In Burma? “Where’s the book?”

  With a smirk, Andrew offered his hand again, angling away even as he did.

  Leif glanced down. Andrew’s sleeve had tugged back, revealing his wrist and a small tattoo inked there. The sight of it shot barbs through Leif’s mind.

  The hand stretched past Leif and pointed. “Your buddy is there. Alive, but needs medical. Might look to that.”

  Culver. Leif struggled to his feet, feeling top-heavy because of his plugged ears and pounding headache. His back stung. He staggered a step, his mind catching up with his circumstances. The rain had stopped. The clouds were receding. But he had no evac. No Zodiac to clear out. Did he even have a team anymore?

  “Culver!” He trudged to his buddy and dropped to his knees.

  His red beard was coated with ash and mud, but Culver’s chest rose and fell steadily. His shoulder bore a scorch mark. He moaned.

  “Yeah, me too.” Leif watched Andrew walk across the field in his rubber jacket. A little less confident. A little slower. Like Leif. He did not know what to make of the guy. The tat—it hurt to think about it.

  His mind careened back to Iskra. He sagged. Turned to where she’d been taken. Spotted Saito moving on the ground.

  “Augh!” Culver jolted forward, blinking. Gasping.

  “Easy,” Leif said, letting out a weighted sigh. “It’s over. It’s over.”

  “Holy batch of cookies, my shoulder hurts.” Culver groaned as he cupped the injured joint. “What . . . ?”

  “Second, maybe third-degree burns from the lightning.” Leif touched his comms. It crackled, sounding in his ear worse than someone firing a weapon. “Augh!”

  “Beta Actual, we are en route,” Lawe’s voice boomed. “Good work.”

  No. Good work would mean they were all going home. Leif paused. Looked back at where he’d last seen Iskra. “I keep my promises.”

  * * *

  USS MOUNT WHITNEY, SOUTH ATLANTIC OCEAN

  Fifty lives lost in Burma.

  Three hundred thirty-two in Botswana.

  Fifteen in Angola.

  One device retrieved. Two destroyed.

  Culver was down in the med bay, getting treatment for the second-degree burns on his back and shoulder. Lawe, Devine, and Baddar had listened with rapt attention as Saito recounted their harrowing ordeal.

  “Stacking up the losses,” Leif said as he sat in the briefing room. “Mercy, the guy at the middle of it was your guy, Andrew.”

  “Wait. What?” Her expression brightened. “Seriously?”

  “He helped me blow the device.”

  She frowned. Everyone frowned. “I don’t—” She shook her head. “Why would he do that?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Braun cut in, giving them status updates on Burma, Botswana, and Angola—all tentatively destabilized. Efforts were underway to undo the work, but the admiral said it’d be a long road. She dismissed them, and Leif headed out, ready for some downtime. He wanted to figure out the quickest strategy for going after Iskra.

  Mercy came around the table. “I think you’ll want to see what I found.”

  He had to admit she had a way of baiting a guy. “Andrew?”

  She deflated. “No.” She shrugged. “Remember you asked why Viorica kept going back to Peychinovich?”

  Just had to bring that up, didn’t she? Now that Iskra was gone, back in the hands of that man, Leif wanted to strangle someone. He might as well start with Mercy. “Her daughter,” he said, annoyed. “You took pleasure in bringing that to my attention.”

  Mercy faltered. “You’re right. I did.”

  “Go away, Mercy. It’s a bad day—”

  “I was wrong.”

  Leif eyed her, gauging her words.

  “Well, I wasn’t wrong that the child is her daughter.”

  “I really don’t have the time or energy for this.” He wanted to take a long soak . . . in the Atlantic. Never come back. But first, he needed an aggressive strategy for finding Iskra and getting her daughter to safety. If they were still alive.

  “Did she tell you who fathered Bisera?”

  “Peychinovich.”

  “She said that?” Mercy asked, her tone urgent. Surprised. “That the girl was his?”

  “Yeah,” Leif grunted. Then realized . . . scanned back through their conversations.

  “Hristoff prot
ects what he sees as his.”

  “Not directly,” he conceded. “It was understood. All those years of him raping her eventually got her pregnant.”

  Nodding, Mercy opened a file on her laptop. “Look. It’s a paternity test.” She scrolled to the bottom and tapped the screen.

  Leif read the results. Two pieces of info melted his brain:

  MATCH PROBABILITY: 98%

  FATHER: KUZNETSOV, VALERY

  “I . . . no.” That couldn’t be right. The brother of the guy on the boat Iskra went to after Greece. The guy she sought help from. “Peych isn’t the father.”

  “Valery Kuznetsov was murdered,” Mercy said, “and everyone thought it was a rival of Viorica Steel. But what if it was Peychinovich himself? What if he killed Valery because he found out about him and Viorica?”

  Leif smoothed back his hair, feeling the brittle ends of the singed strands. “He killed Vasily because he helped Iskra in Greece. Probably fell in love with her, too.” He roughed a hand over his mouth. “I’m going to guess Peych was so angry in Turkey because he’d found out about the child.”

  “It would explain a lot,” Mercy murmured.

  “Too much.”

  “Why he beat the girl.”

  “Hristoff protects what he sees as his.”

  If Peych had figured out Bisera wasn’t his, that was why he wasn’t afraid to hurt her. But would he do more than that? What if that was why he demanded V come back? He wasn’t even worried about the book.

  No. No no no.

  Leif came up out of his chair. “I have to go to Russia.” He bolted for the door. “He’ll kill them. He’ll kill them both.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  VOLGA DISTRICT, RUSSIA

  There had been a time Iskra savored the view from the room he’d given her. Relished the way the sun glistened like diamonds on the water. It spoke to her. Told her there was an entire world beyond.

  I am winter.

  For a brief moment, she had dared to believe that the winter of her life had ended. That its claim on her, the one that sealed her dreams, hopes, and heart, had finally surrendered to the warmth of spring.

  In the salt mines, she’d made a vow to bury any who opposed her or the goals she set within—what she then believed to be—winter’s last embrace. But now? Now she merely wished to lay herself within its folds.

  It was over. She was done fighting. If only Leif had let her drown. Let her find peace.

  Footsteps in the hall.

  Lesya, Iskra’s assistant and closest friend, rose from the sofa where she’d silently sat. She’d been Iskra’s only company since Hristoff had dragged her back to his estate. Locked her in her suite. Threatened not her but Bisera if she attempted another escape.

  Lesya’s worried face, marred with an ugly green bruise from being thrown into the marble column, considered her.

  “Do not be afraid,” Iskra said. “I will do whatever he wants.”

  Tears pooled in her friend’s eyes. “I know. You always do.” She squeezed back a sob. “I hoped it would be different. I’m so sorry. I don’t know how—”

  The door cracked open.

  Instead of the forbidding form of Hristoff, a flutter of fabric and dark hair whirled into the room. Beautiful innocence. Bruised face. A scabbed cut. But alive and fiery as ever.

  Bisera flew at her. “Mama!”

  “You don’t call her your daughter.” Leif’s words chastised her. Again.

  Iskra knelt, heart melting at the exuberance of the child she’d made with Valery. “Darling.” She gathered the small frame close. Tears pricked her heart.

  Leif had been right. She had held Bisera at arm’s length, afraid to be attached. Afraid to let her seize a piece of the organ Iskra had long thought dead—her heart.

  Because she’d known Hristoff would harm Bisera if he discovered the truth. He’d killed Valery to smother her so-called infidelity.

  “My sweet,” Iskra muttered into the thick hair so like her own.

  Arms hooked around her neck, Bisera held tight. “I’m glad you’re back. It’s always better when you’re here.”

  She closed her eyes, hating the truth. Hating that her daughter knew the difference.

  “Ah, isn’t this grand?” Hristoff’s gravelly taunt cut through the tender moment. “A reunion of mother and daughter.”

  Iskra swallowed. Mustered what remained of her strength and faced him, glad Bisera could not see the lasers of his eyes cutting them apart. He knew. She did not know how, but he knew.

  “I visited Vasily Kuznetsov.” Hristoff slid his hands into the pockets of his expensive slacks. “Did I tell you?”

  Iskra tried to calm the unsteady cadence of her heart. She passed Bisera to Lesya. “Go with her, my sweet. I’ll be along soon.” She tensed when Hristoff did not argue.

  Carrying Bisera, Lesya hurried in a wide arc around Hristoff and slipped out.

  Iskra freed a captive breath and clasped her hands. “I cannot pretend to understand why you would kill Vasily. He was a good man. He did nothing to harm you.”

  Hristoff squinted as he lifted a small crystal elephant from a stand and considered it. “Didn’t he?”

  Iskra was never comfortable when he held sharp or fragile objects. She braced herself. And anticipated when he pitched the figurine at her. She caught it—mistakenly focused on the elephant and not the monster in the room, who flew at her.

  Hristoff cuffed her throat. Slammed her backward. Her head cracked against the window.

  She cried out.

  “Didn’t he?” he growled against her face. “I went to him, confused as to why you would be there. Alone on his yacht, the Taissia,” he hissed.

  He wasn’t choking her. Hurting, yes. Which meant she still had a chance—

  “We took his files to be sure nobody could trace it back.” His nose pressed to her cheek. “Do you know what I learned, Iskra? The Taissia was named after your daughter! I wondered how that could be, when your daughter—our daughter—is named Bisera.”

  She flinched—he was toying with her. He knew. Taissia was the name she and Valery had chosen for their daughter, but “Bisera” was Hristoff’s preference.

  She gripped the hands clamped around her throat, her toes barely touching the marble floor. Thought to fight him. To hurt him as she had dreamed. Over and over. But Bisera . . .

  “Then do you know what I found on his computer?” His grip tightened, strangling.

  The test. Vasily had sworn he’d deleted it. Destroyed it.

  “Yes.” He smirked. “I see you do.”

  Struggling, she tried to wrest free, but he was strong. “Please—”

  Bisera screamed in the hall, drawing his attention to the door.

  Iskra flailed. “Hristoff, no. Please. You can’t—”

  “Can’t I?”

  Crack!

  Something hit the glass. Hristoff started, gaze focusing behind her. She could see his expression from the corner of her eye. And it frightened her.

  He jerked away, staring in disbelief at the white crater and spiderweb crack in the bulletproof glass. In his shock, he lessened his grip.

  Iskra responded. Lifted her left arm up and over his. Drove her elbow down against his forearm. Snaked her arm around his and gripped the back of his neck. Drove her other elbow into his face. It happened in a split second.

  He howled.

  Still holding his neck, she rammed her knee into his nose.

  Hristoff staggered, hands covering his bloodied face.

  The door bucked open. Shoving free of Hristoff, Iskra assumed a fighting stance.

  Ruslan stopped short. Gaped at Hristoff, bloody and stumbling. Enraged.

  “A sniper just took a shot at me!” Hristoff growled nasally, pointing at the window.

  “And we have trouble at the front gate,” Ruslan said.

  They rushed out of the room. Locked the door from the outside.

  Seriously? Did he think that would stop her?

  She w
aited until she was sure he had cleared the hall, then drove her heel at the door. It bucked, but she repeated the kick. Wood splintered. One more time.

  It popped open. Banged against the wall. She sprinted toward the cries of her daughter down the hall. Toward the shouts of Lesya.

  Shots peppered the air. Plaster splintered, someone pursuing her. She ducked and used the wall to push off to her left.

  Ahead, a door slammed. Bisera’s room.

  A masked figure rounded the corner. Iskra slid to a stop, hands up—not for defense. For offense. No longer would she wait for the attack.

  Until—the eyes. Familiar. Weapon tucked against his shoulder, pale blue eyes blazing with rage, Leif hurried toward her. “We have to go.”

  “My daughter!” She ran at the door to Bisera’s room. Sailed sideways into the air, drew her knee to her stomach, and shoved it out. Her heel connected with the jamb. The door cracked open.

  Iskra landed and scanned the room.

  Maksim stood in the corner with a wailing Bisera crushed to his chest. Lesya lay in a pool of blood at his feet.

  Fury drew Iskra up straight. “Release her,” she growled.

  “Not a chance,” he growled back.

  A side door flung open. Hristoff, eyes swollen nearly shut from her strikes, stalked in. “Kill the child.”

  “No!” Iskra rushed between the men and held out her arms, pleased when Leif and his team filtered into the room. “Nobody hurts her.” She dared them to try. “These men are prepared to”—she didn’t want her daughter to see or hear any more than necessary—“do whatever it takes to make sure Bisera and I leave alive.”

  Rage boiled through Hristoff’s gaze. “You dare—”

  “I do,” she said around a tremulous breath. “That’s all I want. To leave. Alive with Bisera.”

  His lip curled. “You belong to me.”

  Iskra lifted her chin, then turned to Maksim. Gave him a look that warned he knew her abilities. “Give me my daughter before you have a very unfortunate accident.”

  “I’d think twice about causing that little girl any harm,” Leif warned.

  Maksim faltered.

  Iskra seized his hesitation. Took Bisera, who shuddered as she wrapped her legs and arms around Iskra. Buried her little nose against Iskra’s neck. “It’s okay, baby.” She walked toward the door but sensed movement. She broke into a run.