by Ronie Kendig
He scowled, his beard rippling as his lips moved. “No. No! It’s not. You trick me again. Play with my mind. Tzivia thinks I’m dead!” He waved her away. “Leave me. Do not torment an old man any more.”
“No, Abba.” She caught his hand and pressed it to her cheek. “See? Real.”
His eyes brightened, widened. “Is it . . . really . . .” He lifted his head. “My Tzivia?”
“Yes! Yes, Abba. It’s me.”
He pushed up from the floor. “Oh, Tzi—God hears the prayers of His—” A coughing fit seized him, and he grabbed his chest.
Tzivia curled closer, bracing him as he struggled to remain upright. Nur would pay. They would all pay for this cruelty. This inhumanity. But for now, she’d roll that anger aside. “I . . . I have water. To”—how did one tell their abba they would give them a sponge bath?—“help you.”
Grief weighted his features. “Bathe me,” he grunted with a shake of his head. “Is there no shame they cannot imagine?” His growl bounced off the stone ceilings.
“Shh,” Tzivia said, turning a glower to her jailer. “At least we are together. And you will be cleaner.” She splashed water onto the towel and wiped it along his face. “I swear to you—”
“Tzivia,” he said, voice filled with chastisement for her swearing.
“I care not, Abba. I swear on my life they will pay.”
No one ever told me grief felt so like fear.
Kazimir Rybakov was sure the British author C. S. Lewis was referencing the physical response of the body to fear—flutterings, imaginings. While Kazimir was not fluttering, he did have a gnawing in his gut, because the Tzivia Khalon who’d first clung to the bars was not the same woman who walked out thirty minutes later, spine straight, chin up.
Seated in the darkness of the strange flat, he bent forward and roughed his palms together, mind snagged on the expression that had been on her face. He knew it. Knew what it meant. Knew there would be a lot of trouble if something—someone—didn’t intervene.
But he couldn’t. Nur had her neck in a noose. Kazimir should tell the billionaire, warn him that Khalon had left in a different state of mind. To which the AFO leader would laugh, say it was good she had changed.
Kazimir could simply sit on his thoughts. Monitor her closer than before. Pace her. Track her. He grunted, glancing around the darkened flat, the sun having long ago set. Tracking didn’t guarantee anything, but he’d done that regardless. It wasn’t really something that could protect her. At least not to the level she’d need in the days ahead with that dangerous glint in her eyes. No, Tzivia Khalon needed armor-plated protection.
Which was how Kazimir found himself in this flat, waiting in the dark hours past sunset. Alone. Cold. Afraid. It was the right thing, to come. To reveal what he knew. But doing so could wreck . . . everything.
He threaded his fingers and pressed his knuckles to his forehead, appreciating the counterpressure to the dull throb that had grown with each passing tick of the clock.
A noise in the alley drew his attention. He checked it, seeing nothing of interest.
He’d been integral in creating this mess, on the heels of another made by the one and only Tzivia Khalon. Middle name: Trouble.
And yet doing anything about Tzivia could compromise her, him, and the mission. He couldn’t risk that. Couldn’t let it happen. Not yet. Too many pieces were still in play. A dozen others hinging on the continuation. Pawns to maneuver. Traps to align.
Finding her had been a mission objective. But if Mossad learned he’d located her . . . she might not live to see the sunrise. They’d made it clear she was a national threat.
She had no idea the mess she’d stepped into. No, that wasn’t true. She did know. And worse—she didn’t care. She had a singular focus. Unfortunately, she didn’t know the entirety of it. When a person grasped too tightly to only one idea, one way of doing things, they missed the ability to see alternatives. Smarter, stronger alternatives. She’d rushed headlong into his nightmare, convinced she knew right from wrong. And not caring if anyone agreed.
How did he make her care? How could he get Tzivia to pay attention to what was going on?
There was only one option. And it put him in the crosshairs.
Metal scraped metal, the grind of a lock being freed.
Kazimir lowered his hands, gaze sliding to the door at the far end of the darkened hall. From here, he was but one of many shadows in the unlit flat. The security panel blinked frantically as the door swung open. No beeping. No alarm. Silence. A shape filled the entry, backlit by the corridor of the residential building. Ram Khalon glanced around the darkened flat—waiting, listening—as he reached for the keypad, entered a code, and kicked the door shut. He’d done it many times. Rehearsed and regardless of visitors or trouble.
Tonight, the Mossad asset had both.
Curling his fingers into fists, Kazimir watched Khalon stroll down the hall, toss his keys on the kitchen counter, and lift a pile of envelopes. Mail. Bills. Normalcy.
Tensed, Kazimir thought of the weapon at the small of his back. Wondered if Khalon had one, too. Probably did. If not at his back, then around the apartment. Kazimir had to make sure he didn’t reach one before they could have a talk.
Ram kept moving, rifling through the stack. He was within a half dozen paces.
Heart thudding, Kazimir readied himself. He’d only have one chance before Ram reacted. Activated an alarm.
Four paces.
Kazimir punched upward. His right leg shot out simultaneously with his right arm, effectively scissoring Khalon’s body.
But Ram ducked and slid sideways.
Kazimir closed the gap.
Khalon was a blur of movement, plowing into Kazimir. Registering the move a second too late resulted in an agonizing blow to his gut. Thrust him backward. His legs clipped a small table. He hooked an arm around the back of Khalon’s neck, bringing him down in a crescendo of shattering glass and cracking wood. Fire lanced his side, but he ignored the signal.
Pain exploded through his other side—a blow to the kidney. Agony nearly crippled him, but he knew Khalon was a master at Krav Maga and could deliver.
Still holding Khalon’s head, Kazimir swung his legs and torso away, rolling and pulling Khalon with him. But Ram was faster. Stronger. More experienced. He shoved upward, slamming his head into Kaz’s nose. Kazimir’s vision blurred. Somehow disentangled, he hopped to his feet. Held his hands near his face, feeling the warmth sliding over his lip and mouth.
“Did I break it?” Khalon bounced a foot back. Waiting.
Kaz readied himself, mentally probing the injury to his nose. “No.”
Khalon nodded. “You have two minutes.”
Oh crap. “You hit a panic code.”
“I could feel someone inside. You shouldn’t be here.” He stomped into the kitchen, grabbed a towel and some ice from the freezer, and tossed the makeshift ice pack to Kaz. “What’re you doing here? You know the—”
“They have her.”
Though Khalon was an expert at covert ops, at blending seamlessly into a situation, he could not hide the reaction that created a three-second hesitation. He nodded, but this time there was less confidence. Less authority. “You said you had eyes on her.”
“And your father.”
Ram jerked, eyes widening for a second before he steeled it. “So he’s not dead.”
“No, but if they keep him much longer . . . They’re using him against her. They—”
“This!” Spinning away, Ram shook his head. Sighed and made a circuit around the flat. He paused at a bookcase. Faced Kaz. “This was stupid.” His expression shifted from washed-out adrenaline slump to annoyance. Then anger. He shook his head again. “You’ve blown me. Blown yourself.”
Kaz fisted a hand. “I know what coming here means. Don’t think I didn’t put a lot of thought into it. After what I went through, the months I spent preparing, leaving the woman I love . . .”
Ram’s gaze hit the f
loor.
“It was a risk, I know, but we can make this look like I tracked down the devoted brother searching for his sister.”
“The best lie is baked in truth.”
“I confronted the famed Mossad asset, and we fought. I held my own.”
“Not by my account.”
“I’m still alive.” Kaz smirked. “And though you tried, you didn’t break my nose.”
“Uncle Sam will thank me for not ruining that million-dollar job.”
“Doubtful,” Kaz said. “Then you gave me a message for Nur.”
Ram sighed. “Might work.” He snatched off his beanie and scratched the back of his head. “Why’d you come? Surely not just about Tzi.” He eyed Kaz. “If Mossad loses confidence in me, they will deactivate me.”
Which was code for kill him.
Kaz checked his watch, realizing he’d lost more than half his time already. “This whole thing with her is about a sword broken into three pieces. The adam-something or other.” He noted Ram stiffen. “She already delivered the first piece.”
Ram swore. Turned another circle. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”
That was a lot more reaction than he’d expected. “They’re watching me—close. I might be his personal guard, but I won’t mistake that for trust. I had to do a lot of switchbacks to make it here undetected.” He frowned. “What do you know about this sword?”
“Later. We don’t have—”
“No.” He wasn’t walking out of here empty-handed. “Give me something. I’m flying blind. What do I need to know?”
“Too much. We’ll meet again, talk more.”
“The sword?” Kaz reiterated.
“The Adama Herev—the sword of the mercenary Goliath.”
Kazimir thought of the paintings in the penthouse. “He’s jumping through a lot of hoops—using your sister, holding your father. Why is this sword so important?”
“It breaks a curse.”
After his career in relic hunting, Kaz shouldn’t be surprised, but the idea struck him wrong. “A curse?”
Resignation sagged against Ram’s shoulders. “So they believe.” He nodded to the door. “You have to go.”
They didn’t have any more time. “Eyes out, Ram. Something is off about this. Tzivia is killing to get this done. It worries me what she’ll sacrifice to save your father—”
“Has she figured you out?”
Kaz shook his head. “I can see hesitation and curiosity when she looks at me, but she’s too focused on the sword and your father.” He extended a hand. “Stay strong.”
Ram pulled him into a shoulder-patting hug. “And alive.”
Though Kaz knew he shouldn’t ask, though his training and wisdom told him to walk out the door, he glanced back. Their eyes locked. Meaning swirled. His thoughts on one person . . .
“She’s fine,” Ram said.
A thousand-pound weight lifted from his chest. But it didn’t leave him. Wouldn’t until he was back home with her. For now, that cinder block sat on his shoulders, a burden and responsibility, an obligation to keep the vow he’d made by the Sea of Galilee six months ago. “Thanks.” Relieved, he started for the door.
“Wait.” Ram was watching a security feed on his phone, face awash in the glow of the screen. “They’re coming up the stairs,” he finally said, then met Kaz’s gaze. “The roof. There’s another building to the north. Easy jump.”
With a nod, Kaz twisted the knob.
“Hey.”
He glanced back.
“Be careful. Nur isn’t known to be forgiving.”
“No kidding.”
“Watch yourself, Tox.”
“Will do.”
10
— REPUBLIC OF THE CONGO —
A shout went up—Riordan—commanding the attention of everyone in the hut at the exact same time Cell’s hand latched onto Thinner’s wrist.
Leif pivoted as screams rent the air. Shouts. Wails and cries. Where’s Knot Head? The sea of bodies rose into churning chaos. He glanced toward the rear opening of the hut.
Streaks of tan shot through the dense jungle foliage beyond the hut. Leif surged, convinced it was Knot Head. When he reached the hut’s first step, he spotted the lanky form bounding up the hillside, his tan shirt glaring against the green foliage and deep brown dirt.
Over his shoulder, Leif checked the team. “Cell! Maangi! On me!” He burst after the escapee. The guy looked like Makanda, but they hadn’t been close enough to verify. But why would he need to set up a diversion and escape? Why had he been so nervous during the meeting?
Leif threw himself up the hillside, using a side-to-side motion to gain momentum. Leaves thwapped his face, but he locked onto the frantic pace of Knot Head.
“Runt! What?” Cell shouted, his voice growing closer.
They gained a road, and the terrain leveled out enough that Leif’s speed was no longer impeded. And that gave him the advantage. “Stop!” he shouted as he lifted his Sig and aimed. “Stop or I will shoot!”
The guy either wasn’t listening, didn’t speak English, or didn’t care. But the sound of a gunshot was a language everyone understood. Leif aimed carefully at a tree just over the guy’s shoulder and fired. Bark erupted. Just as fast, the guy banked right—as anticipated. Leif fired again.
Ricochet effect. Like a ping-pong ball, the guy went left.
Leif aimed at Knot Head’s feet and fired a round into the ground. Rock and dirt exploded, forcing the guy to skid to a stop. He lifted his hands.
Sig trained on him, Leif closed the gap. “Do you speak English?”
The man’s eyes rammed into his. His lips tightened.
“Makanda.” When he still didn’t respond, Leif tested a theory. “Speak, or I shoot.”
Eyes widened. Hands shifted. “Little.”
“Are you Didier Makanda?” Leif asked, reaching for his printed copy of the photo—he never trusted technology to work in the field. “Didier Makanda.” He held up the photo. Matched the eyes. “Why aren’t you talking?” They needed him to verify his identity.
“Scared.”
“Of what?”
A moment later, somone emerged from the jungle with long, purposeful strides. Brow creased, lips tight, Trigger stalked toward them, followed by Riordan. “Guys, what’s going on?” he demanded. “The uncle is—”
“What’s your name?” Leif demanded again.
The man’s eyes widened as the team closed in, weapons up, tensions high. “Mani—Mani Ilunga.”
Like a bolt of lightning, Trigger blurred into action. A strike to the back of the man’s legs delivered a resounding thwack that brought Mani to his knees. Another to the back of his head pitched him forward. The hits were hard enough to nearly face-plant him but not enough to knock him out.
Leif started. “What the—”
“Stop!”
“Hey!”
Leif lunged between them, holding Trigger off. “Stop, stop!” He looked between Trigger and the man he’d literally just brought to his knees.
“Dude. What the crack?” Cell asked, his voice a mixture of fright and disbelief.
Trigger lifted hooded, annoyed eyes to them. “This is not Mani Ilunga.” He pointed to the hut. “Mani is the one who tried to steal the gun.”
“You sure?” Leif asked, wary.
“I wouldn’t have humbled him if I wasn’t,” Trigger said. “Uncle called Mani by name inside.”
Weapon down but still ready, Leif edged closer to the villager. “What is your name?”
The man slumped lower but didn’t answer.
“Name. Now.”
Unyielding.
Trigger crouched and slid a hand toward the man’s throat, a move that worried the man into lifting his head and leaning away. A stream of French flew from Trigger’s lips with no effect.
“Just kill him and move on?” Cell said, in threat only, to get the man to talk. It had worked before.
“His eyes are empty of hope,” Tri
gger said as he straightened.
“What if he’s not Makanda?” Maangi walked a perimeter around them. “We’re wasting time.”
“But if he is, then we’re right where we need to be,” Riordan said as he gave Runt a nod. “I’m with you on this one.”
“Are you Didier Makanda?” Leif repeated.
The guy didn’t budge.
Leaves rustled, and movement came from Leif’s three. In his periphery, he caught sight of Grease hurrying toward them. The SEAL closed the space between them and pressed his chest to Riordan’s shoulder, whispering, before heading back toward the village.
“Might have trouble.” Riordan shifted. “Jekyll sighted two SUVs entering the village, hot and fast.”
Their attempted escapee shot upward, which made gazes and weapons snap at him.
“Stop!” Leif stared down the muzzle of his Sig with fierce warning.
The man lifted his hands. “You come with me.” He slapped a palm against his chest. “Hurry. Hurry.”
When he started backing up, Leif tensed his arms. “Stay there! Stay!”
Shifting, still inching backward, the man rattled in French, his expression packed with panic. But there was one word—a name—that came out clear.
“Wait. Dude—did he just say Makanda?”
Trigger twitched. “He says that Labaka is coming. That he doesn’t talk with words but bullets. If we go with him, he will take us to Makanda.”
Leif’s hesitation vanished, then was replaced by a completely new one. “A bit handy that he’s suddenly cooperative.”
“Or that he suddenly knows the guy we’re after,” said Riordan, touching his comms piece and glancing back. “Copy that,” he said into his mic. “Negative. Clear out and head north two klicks.” He met Leif’s gaze. “Newcomers are paying a lot of attention to our vehicles. Whether or not this guy knows Makanda, it won’t hurt to put some ground between us and the newcomers.”
“Agreed.”
Crack! Pop!
A chorus of shouts and cries went up from the hut. Villagers spilled onto the hillside, screaming and crying. Mayhem ensued.
“Move, move!” Leif ordered.
Knot Head flung himself into the foliage, hands slicing the air as he sped around fronds and trees like nobody’s business. Was the guy trying to lose them?
