Thirst of Steel

by Ronie Kendig

  Lukas continued. “‘Jesus answered and said unto her, Every one that drinketh of this water shall thirst again: but whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall become in him a well of water springing up unto eternal life.’”

  “Lukas, this makes—”

  “No sense?” He laughed. “Good. It should not—until the time is right. What many see as a curse is merely the drive for survival. I have suffered it for decades. So did your father, as you well know.”

  Lukas was talking in circles.

  “The rage you feel is righteous. It is not a curse, but a force. A fire to rise against the tide of evil. Its time has come. Fear not the thirst of steel, Ram.”

  The admonishment cut the breath from him. As if Lukas had ripped open Ram’s heart and read his soul between the blood and guts. The rage. The anger. “It’s not a curse.” He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince—himself or Lukas.

  “Only if you let it be.”

  “The sword—”

  The line went dead.

  Options had run out.

  Tox held the photo, wishing he had a choice. Another choice. Any choice other than this one. God, help me. He needed Chiji’s wisdom. Haven’s reassurance. He’d never felt so despicable as right now. But he’d also never felt so depleted of options and hope.

  Nur was growing suspicious. And though Tox had figured out that Nur wasn’t the top dog—or that he perhaps shared the position with that other man—he’d been able to do nothing with that information since they’d sequestered him. A smart move for a man with enemies and great power, but a disaster for a covert operative needing to communicate with his handler.

  If he did this, the hint he’d given Tzivia about his identity could be his end, especially if she’d put it together. Because if she believed it, Tzivia would use it as leverage with Nur. With the recent security breaches, Nur would give no berth to possible leaks or moles. He’d act swiftly and violently.

  Which meant Tox would never again see Haven.

  Yet he wasn’t ready for the AFO to find another piece of the sword.

  He bent forward, elbows on his knees, head cradled in his hands. Eyes closed, he prayed God would give him wisdom. Show him what to do. How to handle this. How to get back home.

  An idea struck him. He tugged out the photo and scratched his thumb over the face of Dr. Cathey’s friend.

  Someone knocked on his door. Maybe Nur would hear him now.

  Tox straightened, wincing at his bruised ribs as he scrolled the picture back up and returned it to the pen. Simmering in disbelief that he’d ever violate Tzivia’s trust, he reminded himself that he was here to help her. Help the cause against the sword. But the pen felt like the dagger with which Brutus had betrayed Caesar.

  He opened the door.

  Yefim stood there with an expression that said Tox had taken too long to answer. “Nur wants you.”

  With a nod, Tox grabbed his keys and phone from the counter. A few deft swipes of the screen, and he joined Yefim, who led him out of the residence wing and through the foyer.

  Realizing they were heading not to the office but to the conference room, Tox palmed his phone. Manipulated the buttons as Ram had taught him so it would start recording. Because he was really losing hope of getting out alive. Entering the conference room solidified that belief.

  Around the black, glossy table were ten individuals, all of whom had mastered the glare of dominance and disgust. These were the people whose names he needed for his mission to end.

  Nur watched Tox, his expression one of practiced disinterest, but behind those brown eyes lingered the anger of a man betrayed. “Kazimir, an accusation has been brought against you.”

  “Again?” Tox didn’t mean to be belligerent, but it seemed the best defense for now. Where he expected chuckles or bemusement, he only found more disinterest.

  Nur flicked his fingers, which sent Yefim to a small forechamber. When he reappeared, he wrangled someone before the great table.

  Tzivia. She looked . . . crazed. The woman Tox had dated a couple of times was gone. In her place, this wild, frantic being. Hair normally in a ponytail or curled around her neck lay frizzy and unkempt. She glowered at him.

  “What we have here, ladies and gentlemen,” Nur said morosely, “are two failures. You recognize Tzivia Khalon, the one who feigned great love for her father.” He scoffed. “It was a game. She has toyed with us—”

  “Not true,” she growled. “I have done everyth—”

  “And this man I trusted as my personal guard, yet who was caught meeting with her privately.” With a dramatic sigh and hum, Nur reclined in his chair. “What am I to believe but that they are conspiring against me?”

  “Lovers?” a man suggested.

  “How droll,” a woman replied.

  Tox said nothing. Seeing Tzivia broke his inclination to follow through with his plan. She was desperate to save her father. He’d do the same if they had Haven.

  “I have something to say that will convince you I am determined to save my father’s life,” Tzivia said.

  “Really?” Nur’s thick eyebrow arched. “Go ahead—amuse us.”

  “This man is not who he says he is,” Tzivia said, her words fast, frantic.

  Though alarm and panic warred within, Tox forced himself to remain calm. To not give in to his thundering heart. His mind screamed to get out before they killed him.

  Nur considered Tox before turning to Tzivia again. “Then who is he? A spy? A rogue operative?”

  She licked her lips, deftly avoiding Tox’s gaze. “He’s a man I’ve worked with before, an American.”

  This time both of Nur’s eyebrows rose. He frowned. Scowled at Tox.

  Tox remained calm, realizing Tzivia had chosen the wrong tactic. What she failed to understand was that Nur had met and dined with Kazimir Rybakov before Tox assumed his identity and appearance.

  “American.” Nur’s gaze proved penetrating, and Tox struggled not to shift beneath it. “What do you say about this, Mr. Rybakov?”

  “I must apologize to the young woman,” Tox said softly.

  “Apologize?” a rotund woman barked. “What for?”

  “She approached me in the alley a few nights ago, desperate for help. She said she’d planted a photograph on me.”

  Tzivia gasped.

  “I didn’t believe her.” He shrugged. “I had no photograph—had last seen it when she was in London, as I told you, sir. Besides, it angered me that she followed me through the city and cornered me. Though I am now a widower, I still love my wife very much. It was inappropriate for her to approach me.”

  Nur was on his feet. Face dark and eyes narrowed, he strode to Tox. “This photograph—you found it?”

  “I did.” Tox lifted his phone from his pocket, then the pen. He looked at it hesitantly.

  “You protect her?” the rotund woman scoffed.

  Tox looked at her, playing his part. “Having lost my wife, I understand the rage that drives her to protect family.” Rotating his phone, he sighed, then placed it in his pocket. Twisted open the cavity of the pen. Withdrew the photograph.

  “No!” Tzivia screamed, lunging.

  Taking the picture, Nur’s eyes widened—barely. But then his left one twitched. “Why did you not give this to me immediately upon discovering it?”

  Tox lowered his gaze, but only a little. “It was a mistake. I . . .” He huffed. “I worried for her, so I thought to help her.”

  “You were drawn in by her? Perhaps thought to—”

  “Stop the needless suffering of an old man.”

  “Her father.”

  “Again”—he lifted his shoulder in a shrug—“a mistake.”

  “What about her accusation that you’re an American operative?”

  Tox stifled a smile and a laugh. “She wants her father. She herself has said she will do whatever it takes to free him. To her, I am a stranger—so there is no
loss to her if I am killed.”

  “Mmm,” Nur said with a nod.

  “He’s American,” she growled. “His name is Tox Russell.”

  Nur’s gaze snapped to Tox. Studied him with a keen understanding, a knowing. Brown eyes assessing, measuring. Concern laced the irises and creased his brow. His lips thinned, slightly narrowing his left eye again.

  Tox grew worried Nur would see past the reconstructed nose, the widened jaw and darkened pigment. What would he do if the bluff was called? If anyone thought to run DNA on him?

  “No defense?” Nur asked him.

  Tox managed to look surprised. “I didn’t think that accusation needed one,” he said more calmly than he felt.

  “What you fail to understand, Ms. Khalon,” Nur said, “is that I am well aware of Mr. Russell. I know him—the blow he dealt my organization eighteen months ago when he killed my colleague and friend will never be forgotten.” He tapped Tox’s chest with the pen. “This man is all wrong. Face is wrong. Eyes are wrong. Height is wrong.”

  “He had surgery.”

  Someone belted out a laugh.

  “To be fair,” Tox said, touching the scars on his face, “I have had surgery, but . . . well, they did the best they could after the accident.”

  “He is right,” Nur said to Tzivia with a laugh. “You will do anything to save your father.” But his gaze drifted back to Tox, assessing once more. Wondering. And that—that was more dangerous than knowing. “The picture is scratched, making it impossible to tell who this is.”

  Tox’s only chance of salvaging his betrayal. “Perhaps someone could reconstruct it,” he suggested, knowing that would take time.

  “Perhaps.” As Nur rounded the table, he handed the photograph to Igor. “Have that looked into.”

  “I will kill you,” Tzivia hissed between gritted teeth, straining against Yefim’s hold. “If my father dies—”

  “It is your own doing!” Nur injected. “Had you delivered the photograph when you arrived, we could have already determined who is in the picture and be well near the end, if not finished. But here we are—because of you.”

  “Tell him,” Tox said, watching her. Challenging her. Game time was over. “About the picture. What you said to me.”

  Tzivia paled visibly. Her confidence and anger faltered. She shook her head at him.

  “Tell me what?” Nur circled the black table with casual confidence. Fingertips on its surface, he waited to assume his chair.

  Tzivia wrestled Yefim’s grip, kicking. “How could you—”

  The split second between her words and her fluid motion that leveled Yefim and had her throwing herself at Tox registered just in time for him to block the punch she threw. Catch the right hook. Which he shoved down and twisted behind her back as he simultaneously palmed her nape and forcefully pinned her to the ground.

  Knee planted between her shoulder blades, Tox cursed himself. He’d pushed her. Though he’d had no choice, he wasn’t proud. Having to defend himself, doing what it took to stay alive, had come at her expense. But this was a dangerous game. She’d been willing to expose him, which in turn would expose Haven. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow that. Ever.

  “I thought you wanted your father safe,” Tox hissed.

  “Again you withhold things from me?” Nur said. “And you want me to believe Kazimir is the enemy?”

  “You have no ide—”

  “Tell me now, or your father breathes no more!”

  Tzivia sucked in a breath. Flared her nostrils. Swallowed. “It’s not the man,” she muttered, her face pressed against the industrial gray carpet. “The scrollwork of the sword is in that picture.”

  41

  — MOSCOW, RUSSIA —

  He’d changed. Not simply in the way most people changed between years, but in a massive King Kong leap from one point to another. Especially since that call last night from his sister.

  Mercy’s heart squeezed tight as Ram grabbed his keys and phone. “You waited four hours for him yesterday,” she said quietly.

  Hazel-green irises hit her. “We had an arrangement—days missed equals another opportunity. I will wait again today. And tomorrow. However long it takes.” He started for the door.

  “He’s in trouble,” she said with a growl. “Why are you not doing more?”

  “This isn’t about you or what happened in Greece,” he snapped, his face crimson, eyes ablaze. “This is about Tox. This mission is like walking a live wire! Espionage is not a hurried profession. You wait. And while you wait, you plan. I’ve never known a more capable operator than Tox. He will come when he can. And I will be there.”

  “What if he’s being held or tortured? If it were me—”

  “Augh!” Ram slammed both hands on the table. “This isn’t about you!”

  This moment, his anger, his railing, put her in mind of Bruce when he hulked out, channeling pure rage. And unlike the last time, unlike when she’d let Ram send her away, unlike her former simpering self, she would be there for him. She would be his Betty.

  “Ram,” she said even more quietly and stepped closer. When he swung around, she smiled. “He’s lucky to have a friend like you.”

  His gaze met hers warily.

  She focused on the golden glint that reminded her of honey. “He trusts you. Or he wouldn’t have done this.” She drew in a breath. “I should know that. I’ll help. However I can. Do whatever I can.”

  “Just—” He clamped down on the rest of those words, then slumped marginally. “We have to watch for him in the feeds.”

  She nodded, surprised he’d leave her with his computers but relieved at the apparent trust he offered. “I can do that.”

  For several long seconds, he stayed there. “He didn’t want to do this,” he muttered. “He’d finally found a girl who loved him. They started a life together—she’s pregnant now. He doesn’t know. And if he doesn’t come home . . .”

  A new ache blossomed in her chest. She’d wanted that dream with Ram. Thought they’d have it. But she had to go slow, or he’d shut her out. Ship her off. Again.

  Mercy framed his face with her hands. “He will. Because you’ll bring him home.” She knew that firsthand. “You always do.” Brushing aside the dark, curly hair that fell across his brow, she couldn’t help notice his reaction.

  He came closer. His breathing went a little shallow. “Mercy . . .”

  She stilled, lowering her hand as their eyes locked.

  “You remember, don’t you—”

  “Yes.”

  “That Betty was poisoned by Banner’s enemy. She died.”

  Confusion pulverized her hope. “Technically, she was cryogeni—”

  He pressed a kiss to her lips. A fast one. Not for romance, for silence. “I’m not going to let you die because of me.”

  With that, he strode from the warehouse.

  Curse that man!

  He knew better—knew she wasn’t the type to sit and be submissive and compliant. She had too many skills, too much fire in her blood. Okay, so she wasn’t exactly Tzivia with her mad Krav Maga skills, or Black Widow with her complicated Russian background and training. But she was HackerGirl, and there weren’t many places she couldn’t go, thanks to the massively invasive World Wide Web and governments using naïve citizens’ addiction to social media to spy. It gave her a peek into practically every kitchen, corporation, and restaurant across the globe.

  She slid a sly glance at Ram’s bank of computers. He really shouldn’t have left her alone. Naïve citizen, indeed.

  With a decent amount of glee, she tucked herself at his station. The screen twitched. Blanked out. It flickered once more, then a video played. Ram, shaking a finger. “Sorry, HackerGirl. Not this time.”

  Annoyance flared. “Challenge on.” She bristled, eyes on the screen, fingers flying over the keys. First she disabled the internal camera, which she figured was tied to a program that threw up that video. In three . . . two . . . one, she bypassed it.

&nbs
p; Mercy clicked her tongue. “Silly Mossad agent.” Thinking he could outwit her.

  Her phone rang. Absently, she glanced at the screen, thinking to ignore it. But she froze at the caller ID: Answer Me.

  “Wha . . . ?” She reached for her phone, confused. Concerned. A little scared.

  Then a bigger part of her rebelled at the command. With a sniff, she went back to work on his system. She planted a backdoor access program to save time on her next venture. With his tight-lipped way of working this mission, she was going to need that.

  A few more minutes and she’d wormed into his surveillance package. Breath stolen at all the feeds, she sat back, staring, sorting. A cathedral. Outside the Kremlin. An office—she leaned in and snorted—Mattin Worldwide’s lobby. How had he hidden that? And where? Several more cameras monitored the plaza where Tox had left the death mark, as she’d always called it, because to her it meant if she didn’t get help, she’d be dead.

  It must be killing Ram not to go in after Tox with guns blazing. There was too much at risk, she realized. His sister. His father. The AFO. Tox. “The fate of the world,” she mused. “Just another day in the life of gorgeous Ram Khalon.”

  The screen to her left blipped. She ignored it, pulling up the plaza feeds and watching, waiting for Ram to show.

  Scrolling text on the lefthand screen caught her attention. Another message: No Mercy.

  “Pfft.” She powered it off. “That’s what you get for forgetting the comma, genius.” The other monitor caught her attention.

  Under the watchful eye of the camera, Ram strode past the fountain and into the small coffee shop. As always. Predictable—him with the coffee and that shop. She hoped his time wasn’t wasted, that Tox would show and prove he was okay. Having his friend MIA bothered Ram a lot.

  Sitting there, she noticed his inbox. Curiosity had always been a curse. Her middle name might as well have been Alice. But she shouldn’t explore.

  Respect Ram, she told herself. But her fingers had a mind of their own.

  “No,” she breathed. Show him some respect.

  The left monitor blipped again. More words. This time, haunting ones.