Thirst of Steel

by Ronie Kendig

  “Whoa, no. Hold up.” Cell didn’t look away from his wall of monitors, the various glows highlighting his face and stubble. “Three months, maybe.”

  “Back up,” Leif said.

  “Dude,” Cell scoffed. “Give it up. He was in training in Israel. Part of a joint terrorism task force effort. Remember?”

  “That’s what we were told, but none of us were involved.” Leif lifted his eyebrows in emphasis. “Right?” He turned to Maangi, who’d said nothing but also wasn’t arguing. “None of us were there.”

  Thor considered him for a long moment, and Leif hoped he was truly listening, but then the big guy started clapping. “Look here, boys. The SEAL has a brain of his own and tried to put it to work.”

  “Seems he got hurt in the process, too,” Cell muttered, cradling his arm, which was in a sling from the France mission.

  Frustration choked Leif. “What is it with you people?” he demanded. “Our team leader is MIA—”

  “No.” Thor dropped forward in the chair with a thud. Came to his feet. “I’m putting a stop to this right here. Right now. Tox is not MIA. He’s on mission. And if it bothers you that you can’t know what he’s doing, then”—he pointed to the main bunker exit—“there’s the door. Don’t let it hit ya where the good Lord split ya.”

  “What if something’s going on?” Leif challenged, his chest tightening at the possibility. He didn’t want to sound like a freak, but—

  “Yeah, Tox is doing his job, and we’re”—Thor glanced around the team—“not. So let’s remedy that.”

  A presence shifted beside them. Leif glanced at Maangi, who jutted his jaw toward the offices of Iliescu and Almstedt. “Look.”

  Stiff sounds buffered by bulletproof glass pulled their attention to where SAARC’s supervisor argued with the CIA deputy director. Iliescu barked, hands a flurry of rage. He leaned toward Robbie, which revealed another woman standing behind him.

  “What’s Mercy doing here?” Cell mumbled.

  “Rodriguez is teleconferencing,” Thor said.

  The comment pushed Leif’s gaze to the wall monitor. Sure enough, the general was there, animated and shouting. What on earth . . . ?

  The elevator dinged seconds before the doors slid open. An armed soldier entered with a large box.

  Iliescu stomped out of the office. “Put it on the table there in the middle,” he instructed the guard. Then he noticed the team. “Gather up!”

  Almstedt and Mercy joined them at the command hub, the large wall-mounted monitor springing to life with Rodriguez’s mug.

  “Good news, bad news,” the deputy director announced, glancing at Almstedt.

  She accepted the silent baton and smoothed her suit jacket, looking a little worse for the wear, bags under eyes and strain in her lips. “I was informed a short while ago that Dr. Cathey has been killed—”

  “Dude!” Cell growled. “We were just with him!” He spun away, motioning for everyone to leave him alone. He planted a hand on his head and walked the command module.

  Leif stepped back, a hand over his mouth. Though Cathey wasn’t one of their own, he was. He’d led them, educated them, journeyed with them. Leif hadn’t known him as long as the others, but it was obvious the professor was a good man, albeit annoying sometimes. But his faith had been genuine. His wisdom profound. There was a gaping hole in the Wraith team now.

  “What about Tzaddik?” Maangi asked. “Does he know about Cathey?” When Almstedt and Iliescu frowned, he went on. “They were friends. He should be told.”

  “We should tell him,” Thor said. “Don’t leave that to them. He’s down in the bunker.”

  “Agreed,” Cell said, snapping back. “We’ll do it.”

  Almstedt nodded solemnly.

  “How’d it happen?” Cell asked, his tone almost accusing. “How’d Cathey die?”

  “It appears he was killed shortly after returning to London,” Almstedt explained. “According to the intel we’ve pieced together, he could not have been in his flat more than a half hour before he was killed.”

  “Do we know who did this?” Thor asked

  “AFO,” Leif said with a shrug. It was really the only option.

  “We don’t know. Not at this time,” Almstedt admitted, “but this is very fresh, and you can be assured that though Dr. Cathey was not officially a member of this team, he is considered a part. As such, we will deal swiftly with those responsible.”

  “What about the diplomat we extracted?” Leif asked.

  “She’s not talking just yet.” Almstedt sighed. “We have people working her, but it’s slowgoing.”

  Iliescu nodded. “When we have answers, you’ll have them.”

  “And a mission to settle the score, right?” For Cell, it wasn’t a question. If there was one thing Cell was serious about, it was team loyalty.

  “It’s murder,” Robbie said plainly. “The perpetrator will be caught and brought to justice.”

  “I have a Glock named Justice I can introduce the perp to,” Thor bit out.

  “This is bunk,” Cell objected, his face twisted with grief. “Who kills an old guy who needs a cane to get around and can’t find the glasses on his head?”

  The team had taken a lot of hits lately. Ram and Tox were busy elsewhere, and Cell got shot up in France. Then there were the ancillaries—Dr. Cathey and Tzaddik.

  “What about the good news?” Leif asked.

  Iliescu pointed to the box. “A few nights ago, Miss Maddox and Agent Wallace were attacked while they were looking into the TAFFIP lead.”

  Cell’s head swiveled to Maddox. “You okay?”

  She answered with a nod.

  “The good news is in this box,” the deputy director said. He touched Maddox’s shoulder. “Why don’t you take over from here? Then, you know where to go.”

  With another nod, this one to the deputy director, Maddox turned to the team and squared her shoulders. “Barc’s gut instinct was right.”

  “Hooah!” Cell said loudly, arm in the air for victory.

  “The TAFFIP system is not only sending data to the Russians, essentially handing over the identities of millions of Americans, but DNA samples are being collected.”

  “How?” Leif asked, jutting his jaw toward the box. “I mean, isn’t the system just taking digital prints?”

  “It’s taking more than that.” Mercy lifted something from the box and turned it. “This is the fingerprint plate.” She passed it to Cell. “Touch only the sides of the glass.”

  “Now you tell me,” he muttered, realigning his fingers to the sides.

  “It looks simple.” She shrugged. “A piece of glass.”

  “It’s a bit dull,” Leif said as he turned it, trying to catch the light to see abnormalities, but was surprised when it didn’t reflect like normal. “Something’s not . . . quite . . .”

  “What you’re noticing,” Mercy said, extracting a page from a file, “is that the glass actually has near-microscopic needles embedded in its surface. They take blood samples and store them in a centrifuge to be collected later.”

  “Wait. What?” Cell frowned. “I mean, yeah—blame the Russians, but these are in our country. The code, the program I asked you to check out, is designed by them, but this—this machine is from our side. Who in our country is collecting samples for the Russians?”

  Mercy nodded, her expression grave. “Exactly.”

  Someone cursed.

  “No,” Cell said. “This can’t—” He huffed. “Are you telling me Americans are working with the Russians on this? We—we’re killing our own?”

  — MOSCOW, RUSSIA —

  Darkness settled heavily over Moscow, so much that even the lights seemed dull and mocking as the jet screeched down the tarmac. Tox glanced at Tzivia, hating that he couldn’t reveal his identity, tell her she wasn’t alone. They’d get through this. They’d get out of this. Of course, she would reply that she wasn’t going anywhere until her father was free. But he’d make sure that happe
ned. For Ram as much for her. They deserved to have their father back.

  As the jet slowed and she had yet to stir from staring out the window, he leaned forward. “Tzivia.”

  She tore her gaze away.

  “I’m with you.”

  She considered him, confused, then snapped her attention to the front of the plane.

  The attendant strode toward them, her steps quick and clipped. “Miss Khalon?”

  Tox rose to his feet.

  “No,” the attendant said. “Only her.”

  His gut twisted and knotted. Why only her? “She’s my assignment. I have to guarantee her safe arrival back—”

  “And you’ve done that. Mr. Abidaoud gave orders that Miss Khalon comes out alone.” She motioned to Tzivia. “Ms. Khalon?”

  “Not happening,” Tox said, sliding between them.

  A touch, light and gentle, on his side surprised him. He looked over his shoulder and found Tzivia scooting around him. “It’s okay.” She patted his arm. “I appreciate . . . everything.”

  Frustration balled his fists as she walked off the jet. When he started toward the door, a shape moved from behind a dividing wall. An armed guard. He gave Tox a slow warning shake of the head, palming the bulge of his weapon.

  Tox sighed. Planted a hand on his belt. Eyed the open door that only gave a glimpse of the tarmac. Lights from a vehicle. Engine noise swallowed any conversation.

  “Would you like a drink while you wait, Mr. Rybakov?” the attendant asked in a buttery-sweet voice.

  He slid her a glower, then checked the door. Took another step forward. So did the guard. This was stupid! No, it was worse—Nur was separating them. Which meant he either knew Tzivia had found something, or he knew Kazimir Rybakov wasn’t the same man he was six months ago.

  No way he could know that.

  The crack of gunfire outside jacked his pulse.

  Tzivia! He surged forward. The guard came at him. Tox swung hard—and met air. The thug punched him in the stomach. Then the side. Rammed a hard left hook that spun Tox around. Right into the dividing wall. His vision blurred. An explosion of pain at the back of his head pitched him headlong into a chasm of darkness.

  Vision blurry, Tox waded out of the fog of confusion. Then his brain caught up. He whipped his head up—and growled at the hammering gong in his skull. He squinted around.

  Alone.

  He jerked his attention to the still-open door of the plane and the tarmac. A lone black sedan idled ten yards from the metal steps. Peeling himself off the floor, Tox groaned. He exited the jet and struggled to make sense of the stairs with his double vision. Approaching the sedan, he reached for his weapon, but the driver met his gaze and smiled. Kazimir’s colleague Yefim. What was he doing as a driver?

  Tox climbed into the passenger seat. “What—”

  “Don’t ask.” Yefim huffed. “I should be at my daughter’s recital, not driving your sorry carcass around.”

  Tox eyed him as they pulled away from the airstrip. “The woman—where’d they take her?”

  “How should I know? I was just told to take a car and bring you back.” Yefim eyed him warily. “Heard things went south in London.”

  Tox touched the back of his head again, and this time found the knot.

  “It’s on the news,” Yefim said quietly.

  That yanked Tox around. “What?”

  “The doctor murdered in his apartment.”

  Heaving a sigh, Tox sloughed a hand over his face.

  “Did you do it? Kill that old man?”

  “Nyet.” He shook his head, trying to avoid the memory of Dr. Cathey’s awful, vacant stare.

  Yefim seemed to relax, a small breathy laugh sifting the air. “Good.”

  Only then did Tox realize Yefim was nervous. “I had a job, and I tried to do it. That’s all.” The strain of speaking in Russian was almost more than he could tolerate after the last thirty hours.

  “Tell that to him in the morning.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Abidaoud. He wants you in his office first thing.”

  They glided along ulitka Volkshana, and the bright lights of the great white cathedral a few streets over caught his attention. “Here.” He rapped the window. “Let me out.”

  Yefim gripped the wheel tighter. “I cannot. He said to bring you straight back.”

  As Tox watched the church slide away into the darkness, he marveled at how it felt like his soul did the same. Something had changed. He was worried.

  They arrived at the tower, and Tox rode the elevator to the penthouse. He accessed the residence wing, not surprised to find it darkened and the staff bedded down for the night. He made his way to his room.

  Voices carried from the den. A warm glow seeped from the room and danced down the marble floors, surging, retreating. Daring him to peek in at the secrets within. Who was he to argue? After a glance in both directions, Tox crept closer.

  “What use was it? She returned empty-handed!”

  Tox slowed. Stopped.

  “He said she had it,” Nur replied.

  “Then one of them is lying. Use her, then get rid of her. She’s too unpredictable!”

  Anger spilled through Tox’s carefully crafted identity. Who was so willing to throw away Tzivia’s life?

  “What of him?” Nur asked.

  “Just a weakling thinking with his pants, not his head. Once she’s gone, he’ll probably be useful again. Keep him. But you need something over him. Does he have family?”

  “Died in an accident that nearly took his life.”

  “Lover?”

  Tox’s heart spasmed.

  “I doubt he has thought to entertain it.”

  “Get him entertained. You need something to hold over him. All men can be broken if you know their secrets, their longings.”

  Who the heck was talking to Nur like he was a dog to be commanded?

  A phone rang, and Nur’s voice changed. “I will be there.” A second later, “Is Rybakov back?”

  “Yes, sir,” the guard said.

  Startled at being named, Tox shifted to the center of the hall and stalked purposefully toward the kitchen.

  “Rybakov!” Nur snapped.

  Nerves jangling, Tox one-eightied and found the boss in the den’s doorway. “Sir?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Kitchen for ice.” He pointed to the knot on his head.

  “You were told to wait in the plane.”

  Tox nodded. “But then I heard a shot. And since I was responsible for Ms. Khalon’s safety, I grew alarmed.”

  “There was no need for alarm. The scene was secure. It is always secure when I go somewhere.” Nur threw his chin at Tox. “You are attracted to her.”

  “Too young and too mean,” he countered.

  The other man emerged, swinging in the opposite direction, a maneuver that kept his back to Tox as he exited the private residence. There was something oddly familiar to that walk. To the shape of the head.

  “Come,” Nur commanded as he spun and started down the hall.

  “Sir?”

  “We have a traitor to deal with, Mr. Rybakov.”

  34

  — MOSCOW, RUSSIA —

  “Tzivia, you work too hard to convince yourself God doesn’t exist.”

  He stood before her, smiling. His eyes full of life, laughter, depths, and mysteries. As she’d always known him.

  “Joe?” she breathed, daring to use his first name.

  “You’ve always protected those you love. Don’t stop now.” His eyes, corners weathered by years and age, held hers. Then, a flood rushed from him. A bloody, violent river. Washing over her. Sticky, Warm. Pulsating with his life and vitality.

  Tzivia screamed. Threw herself backward.

  Her strangled cry pierced the darkness, snapping her awake. Panting, she propped herself up. Caught her breath. Told herself it wasn’t real. It wasn’t real.

  But it was.

  He was dead.


  Because of her.

  If she weren’t in a strange place, she would collapse against the cold stone and sob. Instead, she grabbed the edges of her grief and folded them beneath her anger.

  She squinted around the darkened room. Where am I? She’d been on the plane with Nur’s man. Then she’d walked down the steps. Men appeared at both sides. Her neck pinched. Her hand went to the spot where a tiny swollen knot lingered. After that, she didn’t remember anything.

  No . . . she had a vague, nuanced memory of . . . hands. Being touched.

  They searched me.

  She laughed, the sound cracking against her skull. She dropped back against the floor and groaned. She’d taken a chance on the plane, consumed by a keen sense when the attendant said she and Kazimir had to leave separately that Nur would take the photograph.

  She couldn’t let that happen. Not yet. It was the only clue she had to the next piece, and she wasn’t going to lose the lone bargaining chip for her father’s life. She’d outsmarted them. But the real question was—had he found it?

  Blinding light stabbed through the room.

  Sucking in a hard breath, Tzivia clamped her eyes shut, the negative image of what her eyes had captured in that instant burned into her corneas.

  Bars. Separating her from another space. A rock—no! A body.

  Tzivia squinted, surprised that the light wasn’t as bright as she’d imagined. Slowly, her mind caught up with what she saw. What singed her conscience.

  “No!” She scrabbled to the bars. “Abba! Abba!” Slammed herself against them. Shoved her arms through. Reached. Fingers grasping.

  But he wasn’t moving.

  Was he breathing? She blinked back the blurry, aggravating tears as she strained to see. To watch his chest. Was it lifting? Rising? Falling? “Please, Abba!”

  “You were told to find the sword, Tzivia,” came a mechanical voice. “You failed.”

  Anger churned and writhed through her. “It’s not my fault!” She would not tell the truth. She would not yield. Not after Dr. Cathey. But . . . but her father. “Abba!”

  “He’s dying. Just like the professor. How many more will die because of you?”

  “It’s been lost for centuries,” she growled at the air, not sure where the camera hung. “How am I supposed to find the pieces, alone and without assistance?”