Thirst of Steel

by Ronie Kendig

  “No,” he said, snapping fisted hands toward the ground. “I am on the precise track I need to be on—to stop you.”

  “Please.” She rubbed the middle of her forehead. “A name or the picture,” she repeated, aching. Hating herself for putting a demand to the man who’d become like a father.

  Steam spiraled from the mugs in which he’d poured the tea. “No matter how much you ask, I will not.”

  In that split second, she noted several things at once: a shadow peeling from the dark hall, a shout from Kazimir, and a dark arm sliding around Dr. Cathey.

  Crack!

  “No!” She lurched forward.

  The arm hooked Dr. Cathey’s neck. Pulled him back, up off his feet, toes scratching for purchase.

  Mentally negotiating her options, she went with the most obvious—make the attacker talk as a distraction. “Let him go! What do you want?”

  “Tell your goon to stand down,” the man warned, weapon pressed to Dr. Cathey’s temple, “or this will end in bloodshed.”

  Tzivia snapped her gaze to Kazimir, hunched by the wall, taking shots at another intruder. But something else triggered in her. “You don’t want us dead, or you would’ve come in shooting. So what do you want?”

  A warm presence pushed into her awareness, and Tzivia knew Kazimir had joined them. Somehow, she felt more confident with him there. Someone to convince her that holding her ground was the right thing to do. And yet the frantic eyes of Dr. Cathey and his arched back worried her.

  “Smart man,” the gunman said. “Now. The sword.”

  Tzivia blinked, stunned for a moment that they knew why she was here. Her mouth went dry. Nobody should know that. She and Kazimir had hopped on a plane within a day of her remembering the photo. No way would she cave to blackmail tactics, especially about that. “I have no sword.”

  His lip curled. “The piece of the sword, then. Hand it over.” He tilted his head to the professor. “Or I end him.”

  She displayed her palms. Twitched when she noted Kazimir sliding to the left. “I don’t have it.”

  “The sword!” the man bellowed, his face reddening even as his partner slid into view.

  “You will never have it.” Dr. Cathey struggled beneath the arm constricting his air, hard defiance making him tremble. “The Adama Herev belongs to history.”

  “Yeah?” the man challenged, his expression taut. “How about I make you history, old man?” He pushed the muzzle harder against Dr. Cathey’s temple, forcing the professor sideways.

  Tzivia fisted her hands. An island stood between her and them. She could pitch herself across it and maybe nail him with a round kick to the head. But would it be in time? He’d probably react before she was halfway there. So she needed to talk them to death, or at least to distraction, giving Kazimir time to get closer.

  She wasn’t going to fail now, not when she was so close to freeing her father. “The man I answer to would kill me if I gave it to you, so”—she shrugged—“I’ll take my chances here.”

  “Nur Abidaoud is weak and faltering. Not worth his weight.” The man glanced between her and Kazimir, who had reached the dining table. “Another step, Cowboy, and this one eats it.”

  Tzivia tensed.

  The man met her gaze, and she knew she’d made a mistake. “A lesson, then.”

  As he stepped back and took aim at Dr. Cathey, Tzivia lunged. “No!”

  The gun fired.

  31

  — LONDON, ENGLAND —

  Face contorted, Dr. Cathey howled in agony, buckling as he grabbed his leg. His cry of pain punched the air from Tzivia’s lungs.

  She cursed. Then started forward.

  Kazimir stopped her with a hand. She flung off his touch, turning to the thug who once more had his gun pointed at Dr. Cathey’s temple.

  A vicious gleam in his eye, the man raised his eyebrows. “Maybe I’ll take all four limbs before you cave.”

  “Release him,” she spat. “He’s nothing but an old man peddling religion.”

  “Oh, he’s more than that—you have a soft spot for him, and he knows what’s in the secret room.” Another sickening grin as he flicked his gaze to Kazimir. “I heard that right, didn’t I?”

  “I will not give up my secrets,” Dr. Cathey proclaimed defiantly. “You may not realize what I protect, but I do, and I never—”

  “Quiet,” Tzivia hissed. Though she tried to get a read on Kazimir’s progress, she was distracted by the professor’s bloodied fingers clamped over his wound.

  “My life is not worth it,” he gritted out.

  It was the same thing her father had said. And if their lives weren’t worth this, then whose was? As she stared at Dr. Cathey, an ache bloomed in her chest. She didn’t want to fail him any more than she already had. On so many occasions. She needed this time to be different. She needed him to know—

  Her gaze drifted to his, and her heart stuttered beneath another twinge of guilt.

  “Look,” she bit out, “I don’t have it, so holding him does you no good. All I’ve been doing for months is chasing leads, one after another. I’ve only found one part of the sword, and Nur has it.”

  “But you are here for the second piece.”

  “I’m here for information about it,” she corrected. “Big difference.”

  He considered her, then his expression cleared. “Another leg? Or an arm this time?”

  Tzivia tensed.

  “Call off your dog,” he demanded.

  So strange that his gaze never left hers, but he’d noted—had he known all along?—Kazimir’s attempt to get close.

  Frustration tightened her muscles. “Rybakov,” Tzivia said, also not breaking the man’s gaze. “How long do we play this game?”

  “I don’t care, as long as I get the sword.”

  Maybe their best chance was to cooperate. If he managed to get out of here alive, then she’d hunt him down. If he got away alive. Those were odds she liked. “Dr. Cathey,” she said softly, noticing the captor gloating, “please tell us how to—”

  “No!” the professor roared. He threw his head back, nailing the man in the nose.

  A resounding crack sounded through the kitchen. The two men stumbled backward, colliding with the shelf of books. The second intruder scrambled away as books crashed to the floor and thumped heavily against Dr. Cathey and the attacker.

  Kazimir slid in effortlessly, weapon raised, and fired twice at the guy sprinting for the hall. The first bullet chewed the wall. The next, muscle. An anguished grunt was all the guy gave as he vanished out of the flat.

  Shoving Kazimir after the escapee, Tzivia dove forward. Reached for the two men wrangling on the ground. The attacker rose.

  Tzivia leapt and palmed the small island, throwing herself around to drive a flying side kick into his back. The man whiplashed and slammed into the wall. He came up clumsily. She drove a knife-hand strike into his neck and sent him reeling. He pulled himself up against the wall and made for the door.

  Tzivia sidestepped in the narrow passage and used a hook kick to nail him in the gut. Landing, she swung a left uppercut.

  Floundering, he still had the gall to fight back. He rounded with a punch. She spun it, using his momentum against him to throw him into the plaster. His face hit hard. A picture dislodged, dropping and shattering glass all over the floor.

  He drove his elbow into her side. Tzivia doubled, vision blurred from the pain of that perfectly placed strike. By the time her sight cleared, he had rounded the door. Vanished.

  Crack! Crack!

  The thud of a body hitting the floor reassured her.

  A second later, Kazimir returned. “Let’s go. More company coming. Get the professor.”

  She spun back. “Dr. Cathey!” She banked left into the kitchen and stopped short. Her breath seized. “No,” she breathed.

  She dropped to her knees where he lay on the floor, clutching his chest. A dark stain widened beneath his hands with each second.

  “No,” s
he said, more forcefully this time. “No, stay still.” She whipped to Kazimir, feeling the drum of panic in her heart. “He took a bullet to the chest—it’s bad!”

  Kazimir flicked off the shrieking kettle, snatched a hand towel from the counter, and knelt by the professor. “Easy,” he said quietly and stuffed the towel against the wound.

  “Did it good . . . this time . . .” Dr. Cathey sucked in a hollow breath that sounded sticky.

  Kazimir winced.

  “Give . . . up,” Dr. Cathey breathed, those gray eyes of his holding fast to hers.

  “Yes, they gave up,” she agreed.

  His head shook. That smile wavered. “You,” he gurgled. “Give up . . . sword.”

  Tears burned. “I can’t. They have my father.”

  Another shake, this one half-broken. “Not . . . who . . .”

  “The room,” Kazimir said, trying to stem the flow of blood. “How do we get in?”

  A distant look took possession of Dr. Cathey, sliding a peaceful smile onto lips that were pink against his gray beard. “Not . . . right . . . time.”

  He was bleeding. Too much. Stricken, she leaned forward. Closer. “Please,” she cried, agony ripping the heat from her chest. “No!” She clapped her hands over Kazimir’s. “Harder! You’re not pressing hard enough.”

  “Tzi—”

  “No!” she growled. “He’ll make it. He’s tough. Always has been.” Both palms to the chest wound, she stared down at Dr. Cathey. “Dr. C, don’t give up.”

  His eyelids shuttered closed.

  “No!” Tzivia shouted. “No, you can’t!”

  Gray eyes came to hers in a flutter of surrealness. “So . . .” He smiled. His shaky fingers traced her cheek. “So . . . proud . . . love . . .”

  Tears stung. Her throat felt thick, raw. “It’s okay—we’ll get you help.”

  “I go . . . the Father . . . waits . . .”

  “Augh!” Tzivia screamed. “No no no. Please.” She pushed hard, trying to stop the never-ending loss of blood.

  His chest compressed, a wheeze rattling, then somehow gurgling back. Limp, he left his gray eyes locked on her.

  “Dr. Cathey!” She froze, staring. Disbelieving.

  “Tzivia.” Kazimir touched her shoulder.

  “No!” She slapped away his hand, pinning him with a glower. “He’s going to live. He will.”

  “He won’t. The bullet tore—”

  “He will!” she screamed. Shoved him off her. Planted her hands on Dr. Cathey’s chest again. Frantic. He couldn’t leave her. Couldn’t abandon her. Not like her father. “You have to stay!” she begged. “You promised!”

  Hands clamped her shoulders. Hauled her backward.

  A primal howl rent the apartment’s stale air, and only as she was lifted off her feet did Tzivia realize the sound came from her, from the fissure within her that opened over a broken heart.

  She glanced back at Dr. Cathey, where he lay. His gnarled but neat beard splotched with blood. Mouth open, eyes looking at the ceiling. Disbelief choked her.

  Then she saw it. A glint of gold between two books.

  “Wait!”

  — LANGLEY, VIRGINIA —

  “You have a massive problem.”

  Mercy followed Deputy Director Iliescu into his office, where he tossed his pen on his desk, then skirted it to the high-backed leather chair. “I have more than one.” The recessed lights and ambient glow from the blinded windows grabbed the silver strands in his dark hair.

  “No, seriously. This is like Hulk smash.”

  “Mercy,” he said with a sigh, “just the facts, not drama.”

  “Mr. Spy Boss,” she said with a smirk, “these facts are drama. Nothing I’m adding or subtracting can change that.”

  “Is this about TAFFIP?”

  She wrinkled her nose, confused. “No, I left that with you, as you instructed after my night of thrilling heroics.” She waved dismissively. “Anyway, you’ll never guess who I saw last night in the back alley of a club with Takeri.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Out with it.”

  She plopped into the guest chair and sat forward. “The White House chief of staff.”

  Lowering his hand, Dru abandoned his ambivalence. Consternation filled his olive complexion and dark jawline. Warning nudged aside his anxiety. “Think carefully before you lob that accusation.” He shifted, forearms on his desk. “That’s the White House you’re implicating.”

  “No accusation, Boss-man,” she said without blinking. “I know what I saw, and”—she held up her phone, swiped it on, keyed in her code, then opened the photos—“boom! Proof. He was there with Takeri. And if they’re up to something legit, why are they meeting in a club alley, out of sight, and late at night?”

  Iliescu leaned across his desk to see the screen better. He took the phone and dropped back against his chair. Cursed. Rubbed his temple, then cursed again. “Did they see you?”

  “Not to my knowledge.” She bounced her shoulders. “But it doesn’t matter—I’m out of there. She got suspicious because I accidentally saw that file on her computer.”

  His eyebrow arched. “Accidentally.”

  “This time, total legit accident.” Mercy flashed her palms. “A folder tumbled from my arms, hit her keyboard. Opened a file.” She nodded to his computer. “It’s in the email I sent you before.”

  “Haven’t had time to read it all.”

  “Well, you should. Because I’m out with Takeri. We need to make Mercy have some horrible accident and die or something.” She lifted a finger. “Maybe Clark can put in a call.”

  “Clark?” He scowled. “Your ferret?”

  “Levi Wallace.”

  He grunted. “You are an expensive asset.”

  “All my dates say that. But you all know I’m worth it. Now. Back to Clar—Wallace. Maybe he could call the NSA and tell them I died some horrible de—no, that’s a bad idea, since someone found the two of us messing with TAFFIP. And if Takeri is behind that, they’ll put it together.” She blinked. Looked at Dru. “So maybe someone else can tell them I’m dead.” She pouted at the thought. “Sad. I really liked that name.”

  Her mind whirled through the implications that the president’s right-hand man was connected to Takeri, who was connected to TAFFIP, which was connected—probably—to the slayings. “You think he’s involved in the Soup Maker killings?”

  Rubbing his jaw, Iliescu heaved a sigh. “Let’s hold off on the leaping from tall buildings.”

  “But he was there—with Takeri.”

  “And you’re blown as far as the NSA is concerned?”

  He would come back to that. “I’m roughly 70 percent sure. Since I accidentally got into that file, she started locking her office. Lowered my IT privileges. Which tells me she probably has someone combing through my system as we speak.”

  “But they won’t find anything,” he said, more warning than question. “Right, Mercy? You know—”

  The most reassurance she could give him was this: “They won’t find anything conclusive.”

  “Conclusive.”

  “Boss-man, relax. You know me. I cover my trails. Hopefully my mouse-in-a-maze redirection virus, which will launch as soon as they breach the second wall of security—their security, not mine—can distract them. I wouldn’t want to alert them by having personal software in there. Anyway, it’ll send them on a wild geese chase.”

  “Goose chase.”

  She grinned. “Geese,” she repeated with a giddy swell of pride. “More than one. In fact, dozens. They feed off each other. At least, a girl can hope.”

  “Hope?” he muttered. “That doesn’t do us much good. It’s the NSA, for cryin’ out loud.”

  She poked a finger in the air. “Exactly.” She scrunched her nose and shoulders. “Now, if we were talking about the NGA, then I’d be worried.” The National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency scared her. Their ability to gather data, analyze it, and wreak havoc made the NSA look like kindergarten.
They were the ones who found bin Laden. They were the ones who used drones to collect data, which they analyzed. Big Brother piggybacking cell phone calls? NGA. Agency able to determine, from a safe distance, the structure of buildings and objects? NGA. Agency with the most sophisticated facial-recognition software? Able to see through thick clouds—not even kidding—and leap to critical analysis? NGA. She shuddered.

  “I have a lot of friends at the NSA who’d be offended by that.”

  “Probably.” She couldn’t help that they weren’t smart enough to get where the goings were good. “What about TAFFIP? And Wallace?”

  “Fine. Refused a leave of absence for psychological trauma.”

  Mercy nodded. “Tougher than I expected of the pretty boy.”

  Iliescu sent her a withering glare as he rifled through a stack of papers. He offered a folder to her. “What we have so far on TAFFIP.”

  Anticipation tingled as she opened it. Glanced at the heavily redacted file. “Cheaters,” she mumbled, then turned a page. It was a diagram of a square—the glass plate—then a cross section of it. “I was right,” she breathed.

  “There are a dozen near-microscopic needles in the glass that pierce the skin and draw blood samples.”

  “So they are collecting DNA.” Excitement rippled through her as she remembered all too well the night at the Manassas office, disassembling the system. “That’s why they needed Makanda’s program—to run analysis on the blood samples using that genetic algorithm.” The next section of the file contained her official write-up about the coding, then a subsequent analysis. No doubt the CIA had taken her thoughts, run them against their own, then tested them before writing this up.

  She skipped to the conclusion at the bottom of the second page. “‘. . . seems apparent that despite claims to the contrary, Russia is complicit.’” She bounced a look at Dru, who watched her, thumb to his lips, then continued reading. “‘. . . program is pervasively contaminated and therefore deemed a threat in light of the widespread implementation across government agencies.’”