by Ronie Kendig
“I want to know what’s going on, too,” Cell insisted. “Mercy went missing, but now she’s here, and you’re all acting like high schoolers with some secret.”
“She didn’t go missing,” Iliescu said. “She was right where we put her.”
Brows rising, Cell repeated, “Where you put her?”
“Come on, Barc,” Mercy said, splashing that million-dollar charm at him. “You have a brain in there somewhere.”
Mouth agape, Cell blinked. Looked at her. Iliescu. Ram. Then back to Mercy. “You . . . you’re a freakin’ spy?”
She shrugged, her auburn hair bouncing. “I prefer the term agent provocateur”—she wrinkled her nose—“though you can call me an ‘operative’ for short.”
“What needs to be said”—Iliescu took control, his tone grating against his need to preserve a delicate situation—“is that Miss Maddox is a contract analyst for the Central Intelligence Agency. And Mr. Purcell violated mission parameters when he read her in on a situation outside her clearance level.” The deputy director glared at Cell, who was anything but repentant. “Fortunately, his egregious breach of protocol worked in our favor.”
“Dude. What?” Cell squared his shoulders. His gaze hit Mercy. “You found something? Why didn’t you call me?”
“You said I could name my price, Barc.” Annoyance played along her very full lips. “You never said he”—she thumbed toward Iliescu—“was your boss.”
“He’s not,” Cell said. “I report to the DOD.”
“Yeah, well, then you owe me a penthouse overlooking Central Park, Dog.”
“Sheepdog. I live to protect the flock and confront the wolf.”
“Dogs are dogs, no matter the breed. They’re smelly and flea-bitten.” She had the guys sniggering now. That was her way. She won hearts and minds without even trying, including Ram’s.
Once. A long time ago.
His gut tightened as he watched the flirting between “Mercy” and Cell. What did she see in him? He wasn’t her type. Ram was. He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding so hard that an ache pulsed through his neck.
“Okay, let’s dig into this.” Iliescu pointed to the conference table.
Ram turned and pulled out a chair.
“Not even a hello, Ram?” Her voice was as smooth as a silk cord forming a noose around his mind.
He allowed his gaze to meet hers for a heartbeat. “That would open the door I shut years ago.”
“Then used a rivet gun to make airtight?” she taunted.
He planted himself on the chair and adjusted his beanie. But he nearly cursed when she sat next to him. He slid her a look.
“You can hide, but you can’t run.”
“I think you have that backward,” Maangi said quietly.
“Do I?” Smiling, Mercy shrugged.
She didn’t have it backward. She’d said that to him when he’d broken things off with her. She’d said he could hide from her, but couldn’t run from himself. Somehow, back then, she’d known. Known there was more to his decision than being compromised.
Once Almstedt joined them, Iliescu lifted a small remote to activate the wall screen. “Mr. Purcell asked Miss Maddox to dig into the FBI-sponsored, interagency TAFFIP program.” He nodded to Mercy.
She leaned forward in her seat, elbows on the table. “As we all know, the Twice As Fast Fingerprint Identification Protocol was championed through Congress and put into operation a little over a year ago. It’s designed to compile data across agencies. From the Department of Motor Vehicles, collecting prints from those applying for driver’s licenses or state-issued identification cards, the Department of Defense—our soldiers and their families—and other entities like banks, corporations who use fingerprints to secure entry and data access, et cetera.”
“I think we’ve all heard about this monster,” Thor said. “Some people decried it as a violation of privacy. Conspiracy nuts said they were scanning us and getting biometric data.”
Mercy nodded. “Well, I can’t speak to whether or not that’s happening, but I did find some interesting trails.”
“Define interesting,” Cell said.
“This program wasn’t built in or designed by the U.S.” Mercy’s face flushed, the excitement of the cyberchase always her thing. “Being immersed in that world once, I recognized the coding and pursued the microscopic trail.”
Quiet blanketed the room.
“It took some digging, narrowly avoiding some vicious counterattacks, but I identified its origin. The foundation of the program was built by the Russians.” She didn’t blink when curses seared the air. “And I’m not sure what’s worse—that it was built by the Russians or that our government knew and ignored that juicy nugget.”
“Russia? Are you freakin’ kidding me?” Cell sat forward. “The Russians have our data. And we knew?”
Russians. Phosphorous arrows. Goliath’s sword. Mattin Worldwide. AFO. It was connected. Had to be. Ram shot a look at Iliescu and found the deputy director eyeballing him. So he’d been thinking the same thing.
Almstedt lifted a placating hand. “The FBI insists the Russians have no access to the program now that we’ve implemented it across the country.”
“True,” Mercy said, her hands doing as much talking as she did. “To protect the program, our coders heavily padded and stripped it of some obvious back doors.”
“But you got in,” Ram ventured.
She hunched against the table, folded her arms, and propped her chin on her shoulder as she coyly met his gaze. “I did.”
“Through their back door.”
Pride rippled through her ivory features. She was good at that, even with people. Finding a way into their lives and embedding herself.
“So the Russians are spying on us,” Cell said.
“Russia is always spying on us,” Runt grumbled.
“It’s worse than that,” Ram cut in.
Mercy touched his arm, excitement thrumming through her contact. “Yes, far worse.” She looked at the team. “Not only did the Russians hand us this program, but we’ve used it, expanded on it to include all agencies—which, by nature, weakens it—and in doing so, we’ve essentially been delivering the identities of every American entered into the system to the Russians on a silver platter.”
As she talked, Ram eyed her, traced the coils of her auburn hair, the curve of her cheek and neck. He remembered . . . too much.
“That is some seriously messed-up stuff,” Cell said as he moved to the edge of his seat. “But how does this play into the Soup Maker? Wait.” He tensed. “Isn’t the AFO HQ at Mattin Worldwide in Russia?” He huffed in disbelief. “I was right. This is how they’re picking their targets!”
“We don’t know that,” Mercy argued. “But I can say that the TAFFIP artificial intelligence is super complex, and”—she bobbed her head—“it seems to make decisions similar to the way Makanda’s Blood Genesis program does. It isn’t immediately crazy for the two to be similar, but the AI for TAFFIP seems to be based off genetic algorithms, which is very similar. But are they the same? I’d need more time and better access. Hacking gives you a limited view.”
“You think a closer look is warranted?” Iliescu asked.
“Definitely,” Mercy said, nodding.
A closer look meant Mattin Worldwide. Which meant Russia—Moscow. Which meant Tox and Tzivia could be compromised. Ram needed to tell them. Come clean with what was going on. But doing that could get Tox and Tzivia killed. He wouldn’t go there.
“Is it really possible this is tied to the AFO killings?” Maangi asked.
Mercy shifted in her seat. Her tell that she hadn’t sorted that yet. If Ram read this right, she had an inkling that, given time, would be proven correct. She was an artist with coding. She could tell something wasn’t right with code the way writers knew something was wrong with a scene but hadn’t yet figured out exactly what. Or the way a painter knew something wasn’t right, that it would take more experimenting with pigmentation
to find that revelation.
Poising her hands as if holding apples, Mercy looked at her palms. “We have the data coming from TAFFIP. It’s aggregated and organized, but I haven’t yet determined its sort command or what the sorted piles are. Right now, they’re just gobbledygook.”
“So, Russia,” Runt offered. “Doesn’t that sort of reel in every line we’ve got out there? Wallace’s cases are all phophorous arrows—that’s AFO. Mercy finds this code, created in Russia. The AFO is headquartered there at Mattin Worldwide. So what I’m seeing,” he said, glancing around the room and getting only stares, “is that they’re all connected.”
“Possibly,” Robbie said. “But we need a lot more than speculation to go up the chain with our efforts against the AFO.”
“Exactly,” Iliescu agreed. “We walk very lightly over this minefield so it doesn’t blow up in our faces. I’ve tasked Mercy with digging further. She has some leads, which she’ll work on and we’ll monitor.”
“Have you shared the intel beyond this room?” Robbie asked the deputy director. “We need to pull in—”
“Negative,” Iliescu said. “This stays here. We go live with this, the vault opens, and we won’t get squat.” His tight lips and furrowed brow warned there’d be no negotiating. “Mercy will keep hunting. Ram will stay on mission, and the rest of you keep training. Be ready. We’re closing in on another name.” The meaning he sent through those words was received loud and clear.
“So is Mercy working with us now?” Cell asked.
“Don’t get excited, Mr. Purcell.”
“Wrong angle, dude,” Cell said, straight-faced. “But seriously, we need to talk. She doesn’t want pay, she wants a penthouse overlooking Central Park. And I don’t want her trying to take that out of my retirement fund—which she could do in a blink, in case you were wondering.”
“Why, Dog, are you worried about me again?”
Cell scowled. “I’m not kidding, Mercy. Stay out of my wallet.”
The flirting grated on Ram. He nodded at Iliescu and pushed back his chair. “Keep us posted on what she finds.”
“She?” Mercy lifted her eyebrows. “I do have a name, you know.”
“You have many.” Ram stood. “I need to check on my asset.”
“Yo,” Cell called. “When will we see him again?”
“When he’s done.” Ram started out of the hub.
“Done with what, exactly?” Runt called.
Ram aimed for his assigned ten-by-twenty quarters that felt more like a prison cell. He stood just outside the door and ran a hand over his head, dragging off the beanie. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I see you still have it.”
His hand curled reflexively around the beanie, a gift from her. She’d made it.
“I didn’t know you worked with Barc.” Her soft words held an apology.
He opened his eyes and slid a gaze to the left, where he found the toe of her shoe. Sneaker-like flats with polka dots. “We had a deal.”
She came around in front of him, tipping her head to look up at him. “No probing,” she said with a nod.
“No probing,” he affirmed.
They’d crossed some lines on a mission that started in Kirkuk and ended in Greece, but there’d been one guiding rule: They didn’t probe into why the other was in-country. They were both operatives. Both had a mission. They’d teamed up for efficiency . . . and other things. But he’d fallen down a chasm of bad judgment and almost couldn’t claw his way back up. Breaking things off hadn’t been personal. It had been desperation.
Eyes still locked with his, she touched his forearm. Tendrils of electricity leapt from her fingertips, crackling and popping up his elbow, over his bicep, and into his shoulders to create a trill at the back of his head. “You’re bruising,” she whispered.
His heart crashed against the secret. He glanced at his arm, surprised to find a bruise. He had no idea where it had come from or when, but the medication should’ve stopped such easy bruising. Imprisoned behind his unwillingness to betray himself, Ram said nothing.
“Taking too long with your medication again?”
He shifted around her. “No probing.”
“So that’s it. No, ‘It’s been a while. Great to see you. Sorry for shattering your heart in a million pieces’?”
Clenching his teeth, he skated her a glance. “You don’t seem shattered.”
“That’s because I’ve had a few years to superglue the pieces back together. Ya know, I kintsugi’d myself. Reassembled the broken pieces with gold—better, stronger, more value now.”
“Then it paid off.” He pivoted to her. “I told you—”
“Yeah, you did. With your mouth,” Mercy said, “but your eyes told a very different story, Ram. You wanted to stay as much I wanted you to.”
“Yes.” He stomped a step forward. “I told you it had to be done. Leaving wasn’t something I wanted. It was necessary.” What would it take for her to get it, to understand? “To protect you, to protect me—the missions.” He moved another step closer. “I’m not going to let you screw things up here. What we did, what we had? It’s not happening again, Lara.” He flinched, cursing himself for using that name. “Whoever you are.”
Hurt flickered through her face, brightened by a flush in her cheeks. His fingers itched to touch the lazy curls around her temples and neck.
“Names are just masks, Ram, the same way you wear that beanie or take the medication.” There was a childlike innocence wreathing her eyes, which had seen more than most people did in a lifetime. “At the core, it doesn’t change who you are. I’m still me, the girl you talked to, shared your secrets with. Secrets I still haven’t told anyone else.” Her gaze drifted to his arm.
Despite his determination to be unmoved by her, Ram glanced at the spot. The yellow-green bruise had faded some. Fist balled, he lifted his gaze—and fell right into hers.
There. A weight tugged at him, pulling him from his resolve. Flashes of the past shuddered through his mind like pieces of broken glass. He saw their first kiss. Her laughter as they rode a water taxi. The two of them holed up in a dusty shelter, sweaty and exhausted but . . . happy. The moment he’d been paying more attention to her and missed the shooter stalking them. Nearly ended her life. Left her with a permanent reminder. His thumb traced the scar across her cheek. She’d been lucky, the medic said, and warned her to be more careful next time.
Mercy’s lips parted. Her eyes fluttered as she drew in a breath.
They had been good together. No, great.
But they were better apart. He was better apart.
Ram lowered his hand. Backed to the door and caught the knob. “Good-bye, Mercy.”
She sauntered toward him, and in that maddening, adorable way of hers, she smirked. “You can hide, but you can’t run, Ram. The truth will always find you and knock you upside that gorgeous, thick skull of yours.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
“Ram!”
He glanced down the grate-floor hall to where Thor stood.
“We got news—Tzaddik’s in trouble. We’re heading out to extract him.”
23
— FBI RESIDENCE AGENCY, MANASSAS, VIRGINIA —
“So . . . nothing?” Levi straddled a chair and faced her.
“Sorry,” Haven said around a yawn. “I’d say this one is legit as well.”
Discouragement weighted his shoulders as he folded his arms and sighed. His expression betrayed his desperate hope that this witness would break open the case. “This investigation is killing me.” He glanced at his desk, piled with files, organizers full of papers, and more files. “I’m convinced the killer is in there somewhere. I’m just missing it.”
Haven touched his arm. “You’ll find it. You always do.”
Weariness scratched lines around his eyes. “When you were working here, we made a great team.”
She smiled. “We did. Well”—she shrugged—“except when D’Angelo
tied up my time vetting girlfriends.”
Levi laughed. It was good to see the darkness chased from his countenance. “Speaking of significant others,” he said, nodding to her left hand, which sported the engagement ring. “How’s that going?”
She couldn’t help the grin that stole across her face. “If by that you mean our engagement, it’s wonderful. Never been happier.” Except when I was in his arms. Or when she actually heard from him. It had been a couple weeks again.
“Have you set a date yet?”
“March. Maybe.” At least, that was the plan for the formal celebration.
Levi nodded but said nothing. Then his gaze hit hers. “He’d better take care of you.”
“As you can see”—she nodded to Chiji, who sat in a nearby conference room—“he takes care of me just fine.”
“By giving you a babysitter?”
“You know Chiji and Cole better than that. Don’t you dare make this into something negative.” She shifted to the edge of her chair. “I’d better get going. Charlotte wants me over for some charity work.” She stood, yawning again.
“You okay?”
She scrunched her nose, noting Chiji quietly joining them. “Long nights working on the big celebration for Evie’s Sour Fifteen.”
“Her what?”
Haven laughed. “Since next year is her Sweet Sixteen, we’re calling this one her Sour Fifteen.” She bounced her shoulders. “Fitting, with the attitude she’s grown this last year.” She shrugged. “Teens.”
“Have pity on her—her dad’s the president.”
“She’s spent nearly half her life in the limelight.” And had been shot with an arrow, which put her out of school for part of her freshman year in London. “But you’re right—it’s a lot to deal with, especially when you’re still figuring out who you are as a person.”
He escorted her to the hall. “Take care, Kase.”
“Do me a favor?” She squinted up at him. “Call me Haven. Please.” Once she’d committed her heart to Cole last year, she’d abandoned the “Kasey” nickname that had been bestowed by her late husband, Duarte.
