Thirst of Steel

by Ronie Kendig

  “Right. Of course.”

  She gave him a good-bye hug.

  A gasp sounded behind them.

  Haven looked over her shoulder to where a dark-haired woman stood with two bags of Chinese takeout from Levi’s favorite dive, Kwon’s. Hurt massaged her pretty features as she stared at them.

  “Maggie,” Levi said, moving toward the newcomer.

  Well, that’s interesting.

  “I . . .” Maggie hoisted the bags, her gaze bouncing nervously around the hall, over the offices, deftly avoiding eye contact. “I brought photos from the crime scenes. Like you asked.” Her face went crimson. “And takeout. You said you like Chinese, but I didn’t—” She looked at Haven finally. “I didn’t realize you were . . .”

  “Haven was just leaving.”

  Wow. Cue taken. “Yep, I was. And for the record, I’m happily marr—engaged,” Haven said, wagging her ring as she scooted past the woman and prayed nobody caught that slip. “Levi and I worked together for a couple of years. He’s a friend, like a brother.” She winked at Levi, then hurried out of the building, aching more than ever to hear from Cole.

  She wasn’t sure why, but by the time she and Chiji reached her SUV—a trade-up Cole had insisted upon for her safety—tears blurred her vision. Leaning into the headrest, she closed her eyes.

  “Seeing Wallace makes you miss him,” Chiji said calmly.

  “Very much,” Haven admitted. “I just need to hear his voice.”

  “It pains you to have me here,” he said. “It, too, reminds you he is not.”

  The tears rushed down her cheeks, but she took a measuring breath. “I’m so grateful for you, Chiji.”

  “He will contact you soon.”

  It had been longer than normal. Of course, every day felt longer than the normal twenty-fours hours when he was gone. She nodded, drying the tears with her sleeve as she eased into traffic.

  She took the Beltway, heading toward the Russell estate. Driving through the countryside, she came to a small town with a lone stoplight. There were a lot of one-light towns on this route.

  Her phone pinged, signaling an email. She grunted, not really wanting to read the message. Not caring if someone wanted her attention. Life was too hard right now, being away from Cole. Pretending on so many levels that she was okay.

  She lifted her phone from the console and glanced at it. Her heart climbed into her throat at the dialogue box that floated on the lock screen. Then, frantically, she swiped and accessed her email.

  Regarding Order LUMU1983757—Delivery beginner professional club water.

  The words were intentionally random and meant nothing. It was the letters. The first four of the order number that meant: love you, miss you. The clue was basic and the information nonexistent, save that he was alive and he missed her. It was all he could risk.

  “It’s him.” She began crying again. Told herself to stop. But that made her cry more.

  Why was she so doggone emotional?

  — NSA, MARYLAND —

  Why didn’t you tell me you had a thing with Ram?

  Mercy rolled her eyes and set aside her phone. But seriously? What was Barc doing, being so needy and girly, pouting that she’d dated Ram?

  She grabbed her phone and texted back.

  Jealous much?

  The guy wears a beanie. What’s there to be jealous about?

  He had me, remember?

  What do you mean HAD?

  Get your mind out of the gutter, Barc. Gotta go.

  Be nice. I meant—is it past tense? Didn’t seem like you were over him the other day.

  Not your biz. GTG.

  She stuffed away her phone and situated herself at the monitor, her mind playing the very question Barc had asked—was it over? Would Ram ever . . . ? The sting of how easily he’d walked away would never end. He was a master at executing missions—and his feelings. Right on the chopping block of civility and so-called common sense.

  She groaned. Falling in love defied common sense. But he’d never understood that. The only thing that spoke to Ram Khalon was the protection and defense of Israel.

  She got it—she really did. The Bible even said to pray for the peace of Jerusalem. It was an obligation, she was convinced, to look out for God’s people. But . . . to the brutal excise of anyone else?

  She chewed her lower lip, lost in those green eyes once more. In the huskiness of his words after his kisses. Which were amazing. Tender. Urgent. Passionate.

  Giddiness swirled through her stomach at the memory. Ram might seem like the most dispassionate man in the universe . . . until his lips caught hers. Then—Armageddon.

  “What’s his name?”

  Mercy jumped. Turned to find Ms. Takeri standing behind her with a latte in one hand and her purse in the other. “Sorry?” The heat climbing into her cheeks warned she couldn’t lie her way out of this one.

  “His name,” her boss insisted, arching an eyebrow. “I’ve never seen you mooning.”

  “I wasn’t mooning. Besides—he dumped me.”

  “Ha. So I was right. And yet you still daydream about him?” Ms. Takeri snorted and spun on her heels before stomping to her office. “I’ll get you hooked up, if you’re so desperate you reach into the past for a date.” A hand lifted in the air. “Come along. We have the benefit tonight. Need to plan.”

  Cursing herself for losing her thoughts and edge because of Ram Khalon, Mercy snatched up her legal pad and hurried after her employer. Then scrambled back to grab her phone and tablet. She scurried into the office. Normally the bumbling ditziness was a role she played. Today it felt too real.

  Settled in a chair across the desk from Ms. Takeri, Mercy organized her notes and her mind. “Okay, Major Ibarra called and said he—”

  “No, no.” Ms. Takeri lowered herself onto the throne of her office chair and bestowed a condescending look on Mercy. “Name.” She lifted a glass of water and took a drink.

  Mercy frowned. Checked her notes. “Major Ibarra—”

  “No.” The word was spoken with razor-sharp severity, silencing Mercy. “I want the name of the man who has your head in the clouds.”

  “Why, so you can have him killed?”

  Laughing, Takeri arched an eyebrow. “If only that’s what our department did, life would be so much easier.” She adjusted in her chair. “So. This guy. Does he need killing?”

  “On most days.”

  The gleam of gossip widened Ms. Takeri’s eyes as she peered over the water glass again. “Did he love you, then leave you?”

  “You could put it that way,” Mercy conceded, though the truth was far more complicated.

  “Pfft.” Ms. Takeri took another sip of water then set aside the glass. “Then he’s not worth your time or thoughts. Move on, girl. I need your mind here.”

  Though the words stung, they delivered her from the bloodbath of trying to lie her way around naming Ram. “Speaking of here—Major Ibarra wants to meet with you tonight. He swears it’ll only be a few minutes.”

  “All that man does is swear,” Ms. Takeri said, but she sighed and nodded. “Make sure it happens.”

  Mercy jotted a note in her tablet, then glanced back at the messages she’d taken. For the next hour, they went over plans for the evening’s event—which Mercy would attend as well—then reviewed reports for the Pentagon and FBI regarding recent cyber attacks.

  By four o’clock, Ms. Takeri left for her private apartment—a thousand-square-foot space in the office building with shower, closet, kitchenette, and bed—to freshen up for the event to be held at a hotel down the street. Mercy packed up her attaché case with reports, aggregated dates, notes, and files from Ms. Takeri’s desk, then reached for the dirty glass. As she did, the files in her arms slid free. Thudded onto the desk, nailing the keyboard.

  The inadvertent attack woke the computer and opened a document.

  Mercy growled at the files and scooped them back up, then grabbed the mouse, eyeing the X to close out the program,
but four letters at the top of the document snagged her attention.

  “What’re you doing?”

  Mercy twitched. “Sorry. The files slipped. Hit your keyboard.” She righted the glass. “You’re back. Did you need something?”

  “My keys.” Ms. Takeri stomped around the desk as Mercy closed the file.

  “The water didn’t spill—I saved it just in time,” Mercy said. “Phew.”

  Suspicion crowded her boss’s face as she plucked her keys from the desk. “What opened?”

  “Some document,” Mercy admitted. “I didn’t look—it’s none of my business, so I X’ed out.” She started for the door, glancing at the clock. “Oh. Dinner starts in thirty.” Over her shoulder, she surveyed her boss’s attire. “I see you’re ready. I’ll get this packed up and meet you downstairs in fifteen.”

  Walking out exerted her authority, her naturalness that nothing untoward had happened. That she hadn’t seen the file on Takeri’s computer labeled TAFF.

  Her heart thudded, then slowed. Had her years at the NSA finally paid off? Would she find out who’d been the leak, who’d fed their secrets internationally? Iliescu had been convinced it was high-tier. The nauseating thought struck Mercy that she might just be working for the traitor. More determined than ever, she knew she had to survive the hours-long dinner and avoid her boss’s probing gaze. Then . . . hack Takeri’s files.

  24

  — NEAR MASADA, ISRAEL —

  “Intel states Tzaddik was holed up, his books and scrolls secured offsite. AFO showed up, and when he wouldn’t tell them where his library was, they hauled him out here for some desert torture.” Ram turned to the team and the map pinned to the wall. “Mossad doesn’t know we’re here. And if they find out—” He grunted, then refocused on the paperwork. “We just have to make sure that doesn’t happen. We get in, grab Tzaddik, and get out.”

  “What about his stuff?” Cell asked. “I mean, is he any good without those scrolls and books?”

  “First, the Keeper,” Dr. Cathey suggested. “There is no finding that collection without him anyway, so we start by securing him.”

  “Professor, you’ll wait here at the base.” Ram gave a curt nod. “Wraith will chopper in, then we’ll fast-rope down and make it to the southern base of the fortress. Split into two teams. Cell and Maangi take the eastern side—that’ll bring you to the back of the reconstructed area. Stay there until we have Tzaddik. Runt and I will take western. Thor, I want you on this hill for overwatch.”

  Bobbing his head in agreement, Thor shifted around to stare at the map, then pulled out his phone, checking wind and temperature variables.

  “Stay off the main trails, but wait for line of sight once topside before approaching.” Ram again tapped the paper laid out on the beat-up table. “Source onsite reports Tzaddik’s being held underground.”

  “Fish in a barrel,” Runt said, tracing a finger along the rendering of Masada, the ancient fortress in the Judean desert. “These openings lead to passages—tunnels. One way in. One way out.”

  “Unfortunately.” Ram slid black-and-white satellite photos onto the table. “Aerial shots of the last three nights.” He stabbed one with his fingertip. “Eight sentries each night. Same position. They’re not expecting trouble—lazy, chatting, sleeping. Shift change at twenty-three hundred. That’s when we hit. Infil here,” he said, pointing to the nearest entry point. “Two lefts, stairs, a right, and a left.” He flicked another image out for them to see—a far wall with four doors. “Second from the right is where they have him.”

  — NORTHERN VIRGINIA —

  She awoke to a buzzing. Three buzzes, then a pause. Three buzzes.

  Haven pried herself off the bed and squinted around the room. Phone! She grabbed it from the nightstand and growled at a missed call from a number she didn’t recognize. It had to be Cole. She wouldn’t miss the next one. They’d agreed that if a call went unanswered, he’d try again seven minutes later.

  She laid out a pair of jeans and a black shirt to wear after her shower, which she’d take once she’d talked to Cole, then plucked her electric toothbrush from the charger. The whole time, the box under the cabinet nagged at her awareness. Her good senses.

  She rinsed her mouth and stared at herself in the mirror, as if that would give her courage, then—with a huff—retrieved the box. Held it for several long seconds that pounded through her veins.

  Truth or dare, Haven. She had to face the music eventually, right? People would think the worst of them, if this was true, because they didn’t know what had happened in Israel. Didn’t know the promises they’d made. The vows . . .

  Chewing her lip, she pushed to her feet. Shoved back her hair and ripped open the box. She withdrew the wand, then sat on the toilet and relieved herself. This is stupid. This is stupid. It couldn’t be. She refused to believe it. Didn’t want it to be—well, she did, but not without Cole here.

  Nerves thrummed as she washed her hands. A buzzing summoned from the bedroom again. She abandoned the stick and lunged out of the bathroom. She snatched up her phone and answered. “Hello.”

  “I thought you weren’t going to answer again.”

  His voice warmed her. Threw her mentally back to Israel. To their time alone. She wanted to breathe his name, but that wasn’t allowed. “Hey,” she said, melting onto the bed. “Sorry about missing your first call.”

  “Wish you were here.”

  She closed her eyes, aching. “Me too.”

  “No. I wish I were there. That this was over.”

  Something . . . something sounded off. “Is there a problem—with the order?”

  “No.”

  That was quick. Defensive.

  “Yes. I . . . I just need—”

  She pushed off the bed and paced, distressed at what she heard in his voice. “Should I be concerned—”

  “No.” He cleared his throat. “Not at all.”

  She heard the lie. But also the firmness that told her not to push. “I don’t like this . . .”

  “Neither do I. None of it.”

  Arm wrapped around her stomach, Haven leaned against her bedroom door, dropping her head back and closing her eyes. Talking proved difficult, because the likelihood of it being traced or monitored was enormous.

  “Listen. Money’s tight. I might not place an order for a while.”

  She straightened, frowning, and caught her reflection in the mirror. The messy bun atop her head. The circles under her eyes from worrying over him. And now he was saying he might not call for a while. “We had an arrangement.” She moved to the bathroom and propped her hip against the counter, fear tearing the giddiness that had moments earlier soaked her at the sound of his voice. “Please—”

  “I should go.”

  Her gaze hit the wand. Two blue lines. Two! Her pulse sped up. Skipped a beat. Tripped and fell over the realization of those precious two lines.

  “Pleasure doing business with you.”

  In disbelief, she snatched up the wand from the counter as his words registered. “No, wait!”

  The tone buzzed in her ear. Tears spilling down her cheeks, she stared at the wand, trembling, wrecked.

  — NEAR MASADA, ISRAEL —

  “Eyes out.” It felt good to don a brain bowl instead of a beanie. To hold an M4 instead of a mouse. To stare at a blanket of stars rather than moldy ceilings in a rented flat. Ram had missed the action and cadence of being downrange with the guys.

  Being away from Tox posed a risk, but sitting in that flat for one more day was a greater one to Ram’s sanity. Besides, Omar was there. In control. Monitoring.

  “This dude’s like a hermit or something,” Cell said through the comms as they hiked, scattered along the ridge at the base of the ancient fortress. They had fast-roped in, dropping every five seconds and scurrying for cover, the chopper on silent to cover their insertion.

  “Seriously?” Runt asked.

  “Every time we need him, we have to go to a new place. First Al
eppo, then the Old City, now”—Cell nodded toward the looming plateau—“Masada.”

  “Whatever he is, I need to thank him,” Runt said. “I love this place.”

  “Been here before?” Ram eyed him, still unsure what to make of the kid they’d first met on a mission in Egypt.

  Runt grinned, pale eyes glowing in the moonlight. “Only as a tourist with a church group ten years ago. My parents were into that kind of thing. Wanted to be sure I didn’t turn out like my brother.”

  Annoyance crept along the edges of Ram’s nerves like thousands of tiny fire ants, biting him, stinging him. Leaving welts desperate to be scratched. He curled his fingers into a fist and closed his eyes. Worked his jaw muscle. Told himself it was in his head. There was no curse. At least not a supernatural one.

  “Heads up,” Thor said through the comms. “Tangos are switching early.”

  Ram nearly cursed. With a nod to Runt, he jogged up the fortress’s eastern side.

  “Three in position,” Cell announced.

  “Four in position,” Maangi reported. “No joy on objective or Alpha.”

  “One and Five fifty meters and closing,” Ram subvocalized as he bounded from shrub to shrub, monitoring the landscape and the guards.

  “Down down down,” Thor growled through the comms. “Five, sentinels grouping up on your three, eyes on you.”

  Ram threw himself behind a boulder and pressed his shoulder to the still-warm rock of the Judean desert. Peering down the length of his body, he stared across the incline to the road below, then again up to the fortress, easing out to get a better line of sight. He whipped back to the road. A speck of light snagged his attention. He keyed his comms. “Two. The road.”

  “Copy that,” Thor said. “Incoming vehicle, two klicks and closing fast.”

  This time, Ram did curse. He shifted. Looked up. “Four and Three—can you get in?”

  “Maybe,” Cell reported. “Guards are distracted by the car, moving away from checkpoint.”

  “Means whoever’s coming is expected, important,” Runt said.

  “And the reason they’re coming this late?” Ram struggled not to curse again. “They’re here for one person.”