by Ronie Kendig
The team sprinted after him. Hopping over logs and avoiding the sting of swaying fronds, Leif hustled. He considered himself in pretty good shape, but moving ninety to nothing uphill through jungle cover slowed him enough that the newcomers could catch up.
They rounded a tall tree, and realization hit Leif with a baseball bat—Knot Head was gone. He slowed to a stop, weapon up as he turned a circle but only saw foliage—fronds, plants, flowers, trees.
“Where’d he go?” Riordan growled, doing the same, as the rest of the guys caught up.
Panting, Cell brought up the rear and muttered an oath. “You have got to be kidding!”
“Think he wanted to lose us?”
Leif nodded. “Probably his one goal. I knew he was moving too fast.”
Cell growled. “Going to hurt this guy when—”
“Here. Here.” Unbelievably, not three yards to their twelve, a massive frond shifted aside and revealed the bright, amused expression of their runner. “Come. Come. Good hide, yes?”
Leif eyed the team, then caught a glower from Riordan. Knot Head had played them. Deliberately used the distance he’d gained to hide himself. With caution, they realized he was in a type of hideout. Walled in with bamboo that left gaps to watch through, the space was contained. Hidden. In plain sight.
They entered, and the guy secured a makeshift door. “We can stay here until they leave. It is safe.”
Leif snapped up his weapon and noticed Riordan and Cell had done the same, forcing the guy to take a step back and lift his hands again. “Where is Makanda?”
“Worry about the men who came. They are sent by Herve Labaka.”
Riordan snorted. “Herve Labaka is the prime minister. He’s revered for the change and stability he’s brought to the region.”
“Only to his own pocketbook.” Lips tight, the man scowled. “Labaka is not good man. He has an angel face but heart of a devil.”
“Why would Labaka care about a village like this?” Leif asked.
The guy lifted his chin, but there was something broken, something grieved in his expression. “He does not care about village. Or my people—my friends or family. Or my uncle.”
“Dude. Your uncle?” Cell sniggered.
“Fan out. Take cover,” Riordan ordered. They took up positions to watch for trouble.
“Out here, the eldest uncle is the tribal leader,” Trigger explained. “Essentially, their chief.”
Family. Friends. People. The wording bounced back to Leif, snagged on one thing he hadn’t said. “What about you?”
“Me?” Black eyes challenged—no, dared Leif to make the connection.
“You said Labaka didn’t care about this village, your people, your friends, or your family. You never said he cared about ‘our’ village, ‘our families.’” Was he out of his gourd to think this? “This isn’t your village, is it?”
The guy swallowed.
“So Labaka is here because of you.” Leif nodded. “You’re Didier Makanda.”
The man sighed. “I am.”
“What does he want with you?”
Makanda tapped his temple. “I know something he not want anyone to know. The code to Blood Genesis.”
Maangi barked a laugh. “To what?”
“It is a game,” Makanda explained. “I was attending university—”
“Never mind,” Leif said, feeling too closed in, too trapped. Too far from safe ground. “You’re Makanda?” he asked, merely to reaffirm.
“I am.”
“Then let’s go.” Leif pointed toward the makeshift door. “We clear out before—”
“No, no. We stay until they leave. A friend tell us when it safe.”
“It’s safe—”
Boom! Boom-boom! Boom!
Vibrations wormed through his boots as Leif’s gaze lifted to the canopy. Heard the rustling of limbs shaken by a concussion. What had just been blown?
“What was that?” Cell muttered, then whistled.
“Big explosions,” Trigger noted.
“Huts wouldn’t blow like that, not on their own,” Leif said.
“That was mechanical,” Riordan suggested.
“And you know that how?” Maangi groused.
“Bamboo doesn’t have an ignition source that would create a secondary explosion.”
“Maybe they have fertilizer.” Cell clicked his tongue. “We need—”
Riordan yanked his gaze away, angled his head as he pressed his comms piece. “Go ahead, Jekyll.” He listened, then shifted back to them, locked on Leif. “Copy that. Hold position.” He released the mic, his beard and the muscle below his left eye twitching. “Those were our vehicles they just blew.”
Understanding dawned on Leif. “Making sure we can’t get away easily.”
“Or alive,” Riordan said. “Jekyll says they blew two, left one—but they messed with it. He couldn’t see for sure, but he thinks they planted pressure plates.”
Leif ran a hand down his face.
“We stay until dark,” Makanda said, “then I take you back.”
Leif didn’t like the idea, but they had little choice. “A’right. While we wait—tell us about this Blood Genesis.”
Till Conq’ring David O’er the Giant Strode
For years he had fought with him. For years he had warred at his side, their long blades clashing time and again with the Saracens. Defending our Lord Jesus Christ. Defending the faith. The Church. Christians.
But this day, this battle, the impact of a sword unseated him. Knocked Giraude Roussel to the ground. Pain sluiced through his side as disbelief colored his world. Shame wrapped him in its heavy cloak and he cradled his wound, struggling to his feet on the rain-drenched hillside. He felt the way his leathered gloves stuck to the blood pulsing from him. Stumbled to a knee. Took a measuring breath.
This battle Giraude was not sure he would survive. The heady thought held him to the ground, his gaze tracking the brutality with which his brother-knights fought. The fury leaching blood from their enemies.
With a roar, Thefarie dug his heels into his destrier. The beast reared before pitching itself down the body-strewn field.
All this for a sword.
Bereft of willpower to climb to his feet, Giraude braced himself there. His destrier stomped closer with a nervous nicker, and though he caught the reins, the strength he would need to pull into the saddle spilled from his side onto the bloody field.
An arm came around his. Tight yet frail. It hauled him upright. He met a pair of brown eyes with surprise. Flicked a frown. “Get to safety.”
But the diminutive man nodded to the horse, indicating Giraude should mount up. His gaze shot to Thefarie, as relentless as the dawn. Had he the same mettle, Giraude would be there, protecting his brother-knight’s back rather than being coddled by a servant.
The thought pushed him to his feet. Giraude reached for the reins and accidentally knocked the man in the head. Something fell loose, and he frowned as he caught sight of a length of hair hanging over the man’s shoulder.
Not a man.
Her eyes widened. She tucked the long queue beneath her mantle.
“Why are you here, girl?” he growled, casting a glance about, fearing she might be seen and taken, then ravaged by the Saracens.
“Your injury,” she said nodding to his side. “When the battle is ended, Yitshak the healer will tend you. Find the three oaks on the hillside. He’s there.” She shot away, her movements agile and quick.
Swords sang through the air, yanking him back to the battle. Steel clanged against steel as a Saracen met him on the ground, shrieking as he threw his full weight at Giraude. Though injured, Giraude still had his wits. Using the Saracen’s momentum against him, he swung around. Swept a foot out and caught his leg.
The Saracen’s face plowed the muddy and blood-drenched ground. He flopped like a fish out of water, struggling for solid footing.
Giraude would give him no time to find it. With his solemn oath thudding again
st his heart, he hefted his sword and drove it into him, simultaneously stepping in and removing the Saracen’s long blade before it could be turned against him.
The Saracen stiffened as Giraude twisted the sword, being sure to inflict the most damage for a swift, clean death. After extracting it and watching the Saracen fall to his death, he considered the battle. His vision blurred, the loss of blood evident. A great shape beat a hard path to him.
“Brother!” Thefarie.
Giraude felt a smile crease his lips. “It is done?”
“The sword is not found, but the battle is over.” With a flourish, Thefarie dismounted and stormed to his side. “You need a healer.”
Shifting on the mud-slicked ground, Giraude looked to the hillside where the girl had run. “There. A healer is there.”
Thefarie assisted him back to his destrier. Regrouping with their sergeants and the other brother-knights, they rode through the rain to the cluster of oak and fig trees. Relief warmed him when the three oaks finally took shape.
Giraude dismounted, his legs going limp beneath him. Thefarie was at his side before he even realized what had happened.
“You’ll soil your mantle, brother,” Thefarie warned, his tone light, deflecting any humiliation as he drew Giraude to his feet. “Here, boy!”
No. Not a boy. It was her. She glanced over her shoulder, a worried expression stealing into her face. “In here,” she said.
“You’re a girl.”
She skewered both of them with a glare, then vanished beneath the flap of the tent. Thefarie chuckled as he helped Giraude through the entrance.
Giraude smelled it. Metallic. Foul. Blood. His eyes hit the body laid out in the tent. He brandished his sword, an angry growl climbing his throat at the sight of the Saracen.
“No!” she shouted, hands out in a placating manner. “He is not an enemy.”
“He is a Saracen,” Giraude barked.
“He is wounded, and my abba is a healer. Please,” she implored. “No violence.” Her eyes. Those eyes. They pierced the veil around his heart. “He says he knows what you want. That he can take you to it, if you will let him be healed.”
11
— MOSCOW, RUSSIA —
“Ram, you live?”
“Roger,” Ram said, adjusting his laptop in front of him. He angled into the feed, gazing behind Almstedt and the team to the dark-skinned youth handcuffed at the far end of the table. Beside him sat the lanky form of Chijioke Okorie, and near him, Haven. The former was there for translating language, the latter would translate body language, if needed. Two Marines were within reach of the boy, their hands clasped, gazes zeroing in on nothing yet everything.
Wraith had made quick work of locating and extracting the Congolese boy. Didier Makanda had the wide-eyed stare of a kid caught in the middle of an adult argument.
“Okay, Mr. Makanda,” Robbie said, turning her chair to face the boy. “I know you explained some things to the soldiers here, but this meeting is to be thorough and explore all possible questions. Understood?”
Makanda eyed Chiji but nodded before the Igbo native responded.
“Okay, good.” Robbie smiled. “Why don’t we start at the top? When the men arrived on site, you fled. Tell us why.”
Threading his fingers, the boy leaned closer to the table, skating a quick look at Chiji again. “I thought Labaka’s men had found me.”
“You refer to Herve Labaka?”
“Yes. He is a bad man.” He sliced his hands over the table. “People think he is this great leader, but he makes us do things.”
Nodding, Almstedt jotted notes, and Ram noted Rodriguez squaring into the feed on the lower half.
“Why would Mr. Labaka come after you?” the general asked.
“It started as a game,” Makanda said. “Something I do in my time when not studying at university. My friends and I work hard on this game.”
“Wait,” Ram said, his brain catching up. “You mean a real game?”
Makanda looked to Chiji, who spoke quickly and quietly to the boy in French.
“Yes,” Makanda said. “A game on the computer. I have brain for that thing. How I get to university. But Blood Genesis—my game—”
“Dude.” Cell leaned forward, his eyebrows raised. “Blood Genesis is yours?”
Makanda nodded.
“Blood Genesis?” Thor asked.
“Just one of biggest viral hit games of the year.”
“What’s it do?”
“It’s a game. It entertains,” Cell snarked.
“The game is based on interacting with a procedurally generated world with procedurally generated creatures,” Makanda said.
“Yeah, but it’s legit. Not boring the way he makes it sound.” Cell shook his head.
“How did that draw Labaka’s attention?” Ram asked.
“I do not know. We make the talisman program, and the game does really well. Then they come to me and say they hire me. Give me a million dollars if I change the program to help him. So I did. One week after I turn it over to them, they try to kill me. So I hide.”
After an hour of similar questions and more frustration, Thor tossed a pen on the table. “What am I missing? Why is Labaka interested in this? Why did we pull this kid—for a freakin’ game?”
Ram ran his knuckles over his mouth, studying the boy. “Cell, talk to him and see if you can find a connection.”
“Whoa, dude. This is like apples and oranges. The kid’s a genius with coding, but I’m not. That’s like asking Maangi to do neurosurgery.”
“A body is made of hands and feet, Mr. Purcell,” Almstedt said, her voice thick with frustration. “Each one has its purpose, which in turn cooperates with other parts to serve the whole.”
Cell glanced at her. “That was a bad analogy, ma’am. Especially if you’re saying we’re the feet.”
“Or armpits,” Thor muttered, eliciting snickers from Maangi and Runt.
She turned back to Makanda. “Thank you. The Marines will take you back now.” Once he was gone, she said to the others, “A ten-minute break. Dr. Cathey’s on his way up.”
Haven stood. “Sorry, I would love to stay and help, but I have an appointment, so I need to go as well.”
“What did you think about the boy?” Robbie asked.
“Scared but honest,” Haven said. “I could watch the video, but this time I think what we see is real.”
“Thank you.”
Haven glanced at the camera, at Ram, telegraphing her ache for Cole. “If you see him . . .”
“Will do,” Ram said, not wanting more to be said or to be dragged into a conversation that couldn’t be finished for security reasons.
— WASHINGTON, DC —
Haven waited in the secure passage as Chiji whispered with the young Congolese man, who looked concerned.
Ram had deflected her question, which she’d expected, but she didn’t like what she saw in his eyes. Where was Cole? Was he okay? Why wouldn’t Ram give her some reassurance? Did he know their secret? Was he annoyed?
“No,” she whispered to herself as voices swirled through the cold, cement bunker. She smiled, her spirit lightening at the arrival of three men who had impacted her life in one way or another. “Levi.”
“Kasey.” He nodded. “I didn’t realize you were still consulting.”
“Mostly not, but I came with Chiji, whose language skills were handy.” She embraced Dr. Cathey with a laugh. “Very good to see you again, professor. How are you?”
“Never better, and I see”—he clasped her shoulders and peered over his readers at her—“the same is true for you. My dear, you look radiant!”
Haven laughed. “I’m sure that’s exaggeration, but I won’t correct you.” She took a breath to bolster her courage and meet the last set of eyes. “Mr. Tzaddik.” She never could bring herself to call him by the other name, which was probably his true name.
The Timeless One drifted closer and pressed a kiss to both of her cheeks. “
Have you found anything yet?”
“No—”
“But Sunday was days ago.” His brow knotted.
“It was.” Haven hated herself for cringing. “But Charlotte returned ill and postponed the dinner. I’m on my way there now.”
The dark clouds parted, and he eased back. “Good.” He touched her shoulder. “Forgive my urgency, but it is . . . I cannot express the importance.”
She arched an eyebrow. “I think you’ve done that quite well.”
After a nod to him, then Dr. Cathey, she started for the stairs, hoping Chiji would follow soon. It simply took too much out of her to remain with Tzaddik. He both emboldened and sapped her. By the time she reached the top step, Haven heard the approach of Chiji and the whoosh of the security hub below that swallowed the three men.
The trip out to the Russell estate took twenty-five minutes, a short commute by DC metro standards. The last ten unwound the tension knots that seemed to leach the strength from her limbs.
They approached the front door, which swung open.
“Ah, Haven, darling. Come in. I’m terribly sorry I had to cancel on you last week.” Charlotte led them into the family room. “Haven’s here, Eric.”
Mr. Russell came up out of his recliner and muted the news glowering from the large entertainment wall. “Haven. Good to see you.”
She returned the greeting, unable to miss how much Eric’s sons resembled him—Galen in the swagger and debonair looks, and Cole in the powerful presence and natural authority.
“What do you think of that one?” he grunted, waving at the screen, where journalists were interviewing a woman. “Charlie and I don’t agree.”
“Not true,” Charlotte countered. “You said she’s too young to know anything, and I said you can’t discount her on age alone.”
“Well, it’s hard to tell with no sound,” Haven said, “but her posture seems defensive or concealing.”
“Ha!” Mr. Russell said, pointing at his wife. “See? What’d I tell you, Charlie? That woman’s hiding something!” He pounced in his recliner and jammed the remote. Dialogue blew through the room, both on the television and with Chiji, who positioned himself on the loveseat near their host.
