by Seeley James
After a while, Roman blew out an exhausted breath. He pulled up his shirt and peeled off a layer of tape. From within the winds of the bandage, he pulled a Bluetooth microphone. He handed it to Yuri.
Yuri snapped the blade back in the stiletto. “Did you volunteer?”
“Not exactly.” Roman slid the remaining vodka down his throat. “They wanted insurance.”
“Put it back.” Yuri rounded the bar, found the vodka, and poured another round. “Do you want to hear my offer?”
“Why offer me anything when you don’t trust me?”
Yuri let out a laugh and handed Roman his drink.
“Over the last few months, I’ve learned one thing: trust no one.” Yuri took a sip. “You are the best lieutenant I’ve ever had. If you don’t take the job, I will settle for someone else. I won’t trust him more than I don’t trust you. He won’t be as good, but I’ll make it work. You owe me nothing.”
“You’re honest. I’ll give you that.” Roman picked up his glass. “You’re offering me an opportunity with RULE?”
“Not exactly.”
“They are dangerous people, Yuri.” Roman’s posture sank. “They found us twice. We cannot betray them.”
Yuri motioned for Roman to follow him and crossed the room to the balcony. They stood side-by-side to admire the view.
“Rich men make everyone dance for them,” Yuri said. “Soldiers, hackers, women, politicians—everyone dances when oligarchs snap their fingers. We have danced for them. You danced for them when you betrayed me on Saint Bart’s. You danced for them in Liberia. I danced for them at a big dinner a few days ago.” Yuri took another sip. “Yeschenko snapped his fingers and, very nicely, told me we would be his techno-slaves. To be fair, he promised we would be rich slaves, but we would not be Stateless Hactivists working for ourselves. We will dance for him.”
“They gave us our families back.”
“Yes,” Yuri said through clenched teeth. “Some walking, others in urns.”
Roman’s gaze fell to his glass. Tears filled his eyes. Yuri waited for the moment of mourning to pass.
“We will make them pay for that treachery.” Yuri let the hatred inside him seep into his hissed words. “We owe them nothing.”
“They forced me—”
“Don’t feel shame.” Yuri grabbed him. “You did what was necessary. You are standing here because I know your weaknesses. I don’t trust you. That is something I can deal with. To me, it is far more honest than the lies Yeschenko and Roche tell me.”
“What is your plan?”
“For SHaRC to succeed, we will need to dance for them a little longer.” Yuri leaned his forearms on the railing and let the breeze stroke his face. “We will lure them into a state of wonder at our accomplishments. All the while we will stockpile our malware on their devices. When we own their communications, we can move on them. Exactly as we did to Popov.”
“Bold.” Roman watched him as the waves rolled in and the beachgoers splashed near the shore. “There are many risks.”
“They gave me a mercenary to do whatever needs to be done.” Yuri paused for effect. “Brad.”
“You’re going to test him?”
Yuri nodded. “Sabel and Stearne are the immediate enemy of everyone combined: RULE, Roche, Hunter, us. No one will mind if we take them out.”
“That’s what Strangelove wanted.”
“He was right. They are the only ones who can tie us to #HuntersFail. Roche will catch some terrorists in a few days, but the router logs in Sabel’s possession could still upset that plan. Brad will rid us of Sabel.”
“What if that doesn’t work?”
“I also have a backup plan.” Yuri grinned and took another sip.
“You plan to blame Roche?” Roman allowed himself a smile.
“If we need to, why not?” Yuri patted his friend’s shoulder. “If not Roche, many members of RULE are not as sophisticated as they believe. We can pin it on anyone who pisses us off.”
“What is our goal?”
“As it was in the beginning: to build a stateless world for virtuous hackers. To take all Yeschenko’s money and Roche’s money and make it our money. Why should we work for them when we can be oligarchs? You could buy Chelsea, I’ll buy the LA Rams, Petr can buy the Yankees. We are not destined to be servants, Roman. We have the tools. We know how to control the minds of people from the USA to the People’s Republic of China. Then we will build our own mercenary army. We will rule anywhere we wish.” Yuri paused. “Are you in?”
Roman nodded then held up a finger. “They told me to record—”
“We will pick this up as if we are in the middle of the conversation they planned for you. The one they made you rehearse to test my loyalty. We will dance for them, Roman.” Yuri squeezed his lieutenant’s shoulder. “Are you ready?”
Roman nodded.
Yuri unplugged the jammer.
CHAPTER 72
Pia knocked on Stefan’s door and waited. She knew how calculated her appearance looked. He had told her on the phone that the kids were away on a play date for the afternoon. He had failed to invite her over. She didn’t care.
A light snow drifted down from dark skies. She knocked again, folded her arms and checked the flowerbed strewn with straw for the winter. Her blood pressure had skyrocketed after Dad’s death and hadn’t come down since. She needed something tangible to make her feel real. She longed for the soothing warmth of love to quell the burning rage in her heart.
Brutal memories exploded in her mind. Her failed attempt to pull Kaspar from the flames. Shooting Popov without an ounce of remorse. Daydreaming about Watson’s head exploding from three hollow-points fired at point-blank range. Why did the first image make her feel like crying when the second two made her feel like pumping her fists in the air? Rage and hate seared her insides. She felt herself breathing hard, angry, and tense. She needed the calmness Stefan had subsumed into his being.
Stefan opened the door. Water dripped from his hair, a towel covered his lower half. “Pia? I wasn’t expecting—”
She pushed him back inside, kicked the door closed, and smashed her lips against his. In that instant, she wanted every emotion of love to burst forth at once. The safety of a trusted lover, the vulnerability of hot sex, the meaningful tenderness of a soft kiss, the cocoon of two lovers in temporary isolation, the suspension of all worldly problems for an afternoon of commingled spirits—even if it was fleeting. It would be worth the risk to her emotional state on the chance that he might love her as much as she needed to love him.
His towel fell to the floor, and she wanted to step back to apologize for her forwardness. Yet, nothing seemed more meaningless. She pressed into the kiss even harder, hoping to find salvation in his arms. Hoping to find the same kind of quiet he had found.
His arms encircled her. He pressed her against him. The pain in her soul melted. She felt the inner glow of love. Then, as if a veil had been lifted, she understood life’s goal: peace. Couch potatoes sought peace through inaction. Champions sought peace through triumph. Alan Sabel sought peace in wealth. She sought peace through revenge. Was any of it worth as much as Stefan’s embrace?
She pushed him to the edge of the bed, held up her hand to make him wait, and did her best impression of a stripper. Without his towel, she discovered her dance had the desired effect. When he couldn’t take it anymore, he pulled her into his arms. She rode him for what felt like hours. He was a consummate gentleman and a knowledgeable lover. When neither could manage another round, they fell back exhausted, a slick sheen of sweat covering their jellied muscles. They stared at the ceiling.
Darkness dimmed the gray afternoon. Stefan reached for his watch on the nightstand and checked the time. He announced thirty minutes of quiet remained for them. Then the children would return.
She lay her head on his chest and drew lazy circles on his skin.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
; “Don’t lie.” He ran his finger down the tip of her nose and over her lips. “Blurt it out.”
“How did you do it?” She rolled on her back and stared up. “How did you find peace after you killed your father?”
“Have you killed someone?” He inhaled sharply and pressed a finger to her lips. “Don’t answer that.”
They lay still for a long time, each sorting through the next few words.
“I went to churches of all kinds,” he said. “For days on end, I met with imams and rabbis and ministers and gurus. I took big checks with me and lavished money on their congregations in exchange for spiritual advice.”
“Why not therapists?”
“I’d learned something from Alcoholics Anonymous: therapists will tell you why you’re a drunk. AA will teach you how to stop drinking. I already knew why I was troubled. I turned to religion to find peace.”
“Did you find it?”
“It’s a work in progress.” He sighed. “They all have similar advice. They asked me to shed everything I did for myself and start doing everything for someone else.”
“That’s when you gave away your fortune and adopted the kids?”
“No.” He turned to face her, half of their faces buried in pillows. “Good advice never makes sense at first, it takes time to seep in. At least, that’s how it’s been for me. I was deep in lawsuits and criminal investigations and lawyers and … endless problems. Then one day, I stopped for coffee and just sat there staring out the window trying not to read a thousand emails from my attorneys. An older woman wearing a clerical collar smacked my table with a stick. At first, I thought it was a cane or a walking stick, but as we talked, I realized it was just a stick.”
“Who was she?”
“I never found out. She sat down, quite uninvited, and told me we are most violent when we’re afraid. Violence is the result of fear. She went on to explain that hate begets hate. That fighting with others, verbally, emotionally, legally or literally, gives hate room to flourish. The proper response to hate is not love, it’s resistance. Turning the other cheek is not an act of submission or cowardice, it’s an act of defiance. Then she left.”
“How did that bring about Ethan and Emma?”
“She was right.” Stefan rolled onto his back and stared up. “I was afraid. I lived in fear that the survivors of my father’s evil enterprises would sue me. I feared the investigation might not clear me. I worried that I would never see you again. It made me violent with terror.”
He smiled. “But, that’s because it was all about me. What the spiritual leaders told me was true; the woman gave me the key to making it work. She empowered me to defy the things that made me afraid. Defying my attorneys, I paid the victims handsomely. I defied my estate planners and common sense and gave my fortune to charity. I threw myself on the mercy of the court. All my problems evaporated. I dedicated my life to doing something for two survivors who didn’t have a lawyer to ask me for compensation: the orphans. From now on, everything I do is for them.”
“A noble goal. You’re a good parent.” Pia heard words coming out of her mouth that she hadn’t planned. “I want to be part of that. I want to help.”
“That is a problem.” Stefan sat up on an elbow and brushed a wisp of her hair back. “I must protect them from violence. You have not renounced it. I asked you to. Yet you have a loaded gun in your purse.”
Pia rocked back. She felt as if she’d been punched. She thought through his ideas. They were vastly different from hers. Why did she find it so hard to put down her weapons? Did that make her a bad person? She had saved lives and governments. She had stopped terrorists and murderers. And yet, Stefan’s life had turned from horrible to blissful. He lived with the inner peace she sought.
There had to be a way to compromise. She said, “I’m not sure I could—”
He asked, “If you walked into an apartment with a loaded gun in your purse and found a man seconds away from firing a missile at an elementary school, what would you do?”
“I would shoot him.”
“Thus the Middle East has burned for centuries. The citizens kill the terrorists and the terrorists’ friends rise up and kill the citizens’ children, and the parents kill the new terrorists, and more terrorists kill more children. Who is brave enough to stop?”
“I make it stop.” She pushed him. “What would you do?”
“I would stand in front of his missile. Defiance.” He sounded angry. “Ten thousand years of recorded history and people like you have never prevailed. I’m asking you to renounce violence. Counter hate with defiance.”
“That’s what I do.” Pia felt her head twisting in confused curiosity. “We defy the powerful people who prey on others.”
He shook his head. “I’m talking about a higher level of defiance. That’s what leads to inner peace. Be willing to die for the meek—not kill for them.”
Someone pounded on the door—rapid, insistent and demanding beats.
They looked at each other for a second. Stefan kissed her and got up, put on a robe, and went to the door. Pia slipped on his shirt and followed. He pulled open the door.
Tania burst in, clenching body armor in both hands. She tackled Pia as a bullet tore through Stefan’s door.
He slammed it closed. Another bullet ripped through the center. It pierced Tania’s leg.
“Damn it.” Tania rolled off Pia, clutching her wound. “Do NOT put your phone on total privacy mode, girlfriend! Saw snipers setting up. One out front, another in the back, and a third on the side street.”
Stefan called 911.
Pia grabbed his phone and disconnected the call. “They’ll kill the first responders.”
She ran to the bedroom, grabbed her things, dressed in a flash, donned her armor, and came back.
Tania had made a bandage from Stefan’s shirt. She stood and wobbled.
“What’s the plan?” Pia asked.
Tania limped to the living room curtain and snuck a peek. “Attack at full speed and hope Miguel got on the other side of him.”
A bullet shattered the window.
Pia checked her texts and saw Jacob’s urgent warning.
Pia checked her magazines and felt Stefan staring at her. She hugged him with a pistol in each hand. “I can’t renounce this. They follow me everywhere I go. I won’t see you again until I end this thing.” Tears filled her eyes. “It might be a few weeks, it might be the rest of my life, but I’m not going to endanger you or the kids again. I love you.”
CHAPTER 73
I was sitting at the bottom of the grand staircase in front of Sabel Gardens, whittling a stick for Anoshni to fetch on a beautiful, sunny day. Mercury sprawled out next to me, worshipping Sol Invictus (the sun god, faithless ones). Anoshni trotted back to me with the last stick I threw. He didn’t quite get the concept of fetching. Which was why I was trimming the leaves and sharp edges off the new stick in my hand. He dropped to the ground just beyond my reach and proceeded to shred the old stick into toothpicks.
A limo pulled up. The driver got out, opened the rear door and stood by. A few seconds later, Sylvia emerged from the mansion. Sex over the last thirty-six hours had been frequent and heavenly. Unfortunately, the discussions about alternatives to violence between those sessions moved from bad to worse. Our last spoken words were not the words either of us wanted. Seeing her tore my heart in half. But we couldn’t stay away from each other.
She stopped at the top of the stairs. The limo driver ran up and took her bag. She met me halfway down.
I opened my arms for a hug.
She hesitated, then closed her eyes and embraced me, squeezing tight. She said, “Thank you for saving my life.”
There wasn’t any reply to that. I kissed her cheek and ear. I wanted her to stay. I wanted her to quit her minor role in the French soap opera and move to Bethesda. But a warrior and a pacifist have issues to work out before they make lifetime commitments. I said, “When will you be back?”
“It�
�s your turn to visit me.” She pulled back to shine her pale-blues at me. “Maybe we could spend a weekend on Santorini.”
Mercury squeezed into our cramped space. You don’t go anywhere near Greece. You hear me, dawg? She’ll take you straight to Aeaea and that’ll be the last anyone hears of you.
I said, Take me where?
Mercury said, Aeaea, Circe’s island. Remember? Ulysses told Penelope the reason he couldn’t get back to Ithaca for twenty years was because Circe drugged him and forced him to have sex with her.
I said, What’s so bad about drugs and sex?
Mercury smacked me and said, Dude. Do not go to Greece with Sylvia—or we’re done.
“I’d love to watch you work.” I kissed her lips. “Could I visit the set?”
“After I refused to give the producer a…” She huffed. “I’m pretty sure my character’s going to get hit by a car.”
“I don’t care if it’s dinner theater, I’d love to see you act.”
The limo driver coughed politely. Sylvia reached in her purse and pulled out a book and handed it to me. The Book of Forgiving by Desmond Tutu, the wisdom of a man who healed his nation after generations of apartheid. “Read this before we meet again. Please.”
I stepped away and grabbed my gift for her off the step. The Forever War by Dexter Filkins, a decade-old book about civilian and military service and sacrifice in Afghanistan and Iraq. “If you read this.”
She gave me a long kiss, then broke it off and ran to the limo. She stopped before getting in. With tears in her eyes, she blew me a kiss. Then she got in, and the limo pulled away.
My sister once told me that all a woman wants is a man she can change from whoever he is into whoever she wants him to be. When I asked why women didn’t look for men who didn’t need to be changed, she said, “They all need to change.” And walked away.
Would I change for Sylvia? Would I read the book? Would I make the trip to Monaco and Santorini? All that depended on how much I wanted a certain god hanging around.
