by Jenny Goebel
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For Mallory Kass, with overflowing gratitude and admiration
—J.G.
Contents
Lightning Page
Save the World!
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Sneak Peek
Evidence
Copyright
Depths of the North Sea, Undisclosed Coordinates
The dry suit, the neoprene, the diving helmet—none of it was enough to stave off the icy chill of the North Sea. Alek Spasky didn’t mind the frigid water, though. It reminded him of Mother Russia and of his own bitter-cold heart.
On the other hand, the gaseous chemical elements and compounds regulated by the umbilical cable that connected his helmet to the salvage ship bobbing on the surface were really annoying. Let alone the buzz and whir in Alek’s ears as the helmet valves let the gases in and then expelled his breath.
He reminded himself that the dive helmet wasn’t the real problem. The real problem was the missing nuclear sub.
Cutting the darkness with his headlamp, Alek saw nothing but bubbles, sediment, and one lonely, pathetic-looking fish drifting in the shadowy water. Hundreds of feet below the surface, the sea was nearly devoid of life, and everything appeared drab and ashen in the shreds of sunlight struggling to reach the sea floor.
His lamp landed on a cluster of mineral deposits rising like knobby fingers from the sandy bottom of the sea. But the rock formation seemed to be the only distinguishable form in the desolate void surrounding him. That is, if he wasn’t counting the other diver.
Alek turned his gaze on the salvage crew captain and he caught the man’s attention.
The captain was wiry and weather-worn. He had a hearty laugh and a genuine smile. Alek had disliked him from the very beginning. He liked the captain even less now that he seemed unfazed by the dark expanse of nothingness stretching out before them.
They were not comrades. The captain and his crew of seamen who salvaged sunken vessels for a living, salvors for short, were hired hands. Nothing more.
As they’d ridden together out to the open sea and waves had splashed over the sides of the salvage ship, the captain had begun to reminisce about his days working as an underwater welder on oil rigs off the coast of Texas. “Those currents could rip you right off—”
“Get this straight,” Alek had interrupted. “You are not to make small talk. You are not to tell stories. Your job is to deliver me to the Kraken, no questions asked.”
Alek narrowed his eyes at the captain as they stood side by side in the depths of the barren sea. “Where is it?” Alek asked with a knife-sharp edge to his voice. “Where is the wreckage?”
After a slight pause the captain’s voice crackled inside Alek’s helmet. “Don’t you worry. I’m sure we’re just a hop, skip, and a jump away.” The feed broke and then started again with another crackle. “It appears we landed slightly off course. We might have some exploring to do, but I promise we’ll find your sunken vessel.” At this, the captain chortled softy.
Alek detested people who had the tiresome habit of laughing when nothing was funny.
Imbeciles, the entire crew—they couldn’t salvage a sunken vessel if the fate of their country depended on it. Which, in a way, it does … The thought made Alek’s lips curl slightly at the corners.
The captain no doubt mistook Alek’s smirk as a sign of shared lightheartedness. He gave the hand signal that meant everything was okay before turning to trudge along the sandy sea bottom.
Sure. Okay. Tread on like everything is fantastichesky, you careless excuse for a captain. I will take solace in knowing that your mixed-gas breaths are numbered. And there it finally was. With one single murderous thought, Alek at last felt calm wash over him.
The gases hissed and droned inside his helmet as he regulated his breathing once again and picked up his heavily weighted boots to follow in the captain’s footsteps.
Soon after passing the oddly shaped rock formation, a dark, jagged outline emerged in the murky water a short distance away. Alek’s pulse quickened. Was this it? Was this the Kraken?
Dozens of nuclear bombs went missing during the Cold War, but most people live blissfully unaware of all the sunken subs and crashed airplanes that disappeared along with the bombs they carried. Known as broken arrows, the lost nukes were untapped opportunities for terror and catastrophe. If only they could be recovered.
Alek’s neoprene-clad skin tingled with anticipation as he took another step toward the shadowy object.
When a fire had broken out in the aft compartment of the Kraken decades before and it plunged to the bottom of the North Sea, Alek had been charged with covering up the calamity. As one of the Soviet Union’s top KGB operatives, he’d pored over the images and sonar readings and had fabricated stories in order to maintain foreign relations.
Unable to share what he knew with anyone—Cold War secrets were well guarded—he had silently mourned the Kraken’s brokenness. What a waste that the sub had fallen. What a waste that the Kraken had never had the chance to demonstrate its awesome power.
Everything in life deserves a second chance. I deserve a second chance.
At long last Alek would emerge from the shadows.
He quickened his slog through the sea. Yet as he drew closer to the looming form, it proved not to be the sub, but instead a towering deep-sea reef. When the captain merely glanced back and shrugged before turning the corner of the closest ridge, Alek’s anger flared.
As Alek rounded the corner to follow the captain, the current pushed back. It unbalanced him. It teased beneath his arms, streamed between his legs, and tugged on his helmet and boots. Tucking his head slightly, he leaned into it.
Like walking uphill in a windstorm.
Slanting forward as he went, he maneuvered around the first rocky bend only to be swept off his feet and bashed back against the reef by the flow of the sea.
The captain’s voice resounded inside his helmet. “Be careful back there.” Crackle. “The current really picks up alongside the reef. It might just pick you up and toss you around if you don’t plant your boots in the sand.”
Even though Alek couldn’t see the captain’s face, he could hear the smile in his voice. Oh, how he hated that man.
Leaning against the jagged reef for stability, Alek pulled a steel rod from a pouch on his dry suit. With the current, he couldn’t spin it across his fingers the way he so enjoyed. Yet just the weight of it in his gloved hand made him feel centered again. Deadly centered.
When Alek finally worked his way around the last sharp bend, to a flat area where the current waned, the sea rewarded him by coughing up its long-forgotten treasure. Nestled behind the reef, the Kraken slept, covered by a blanket of barnacles and silt.
The captain stood
directly in front of Alek, staring up in awe at the giant arc of the Kraken’s rear propeller. Even half buried, the blades reached high above his head.
Alek ran his headlamp down the bridge of the sub and across the blanket of sludge and sediment cloaking it. There was something eerie about the wreckage and the way the sea had claimed it—rusting the steel and draping the railings with red kelp.
Over the whir and hiss of his own breathing, Alek could hear creaks and moans as the current whistled through the metal vessel. Or perhaps what he really heard were the groans and cries of a ghostly crew forever trapped inside.
Beyond the captain, the enormous missile-shaped submarine faded in the darkness. It was impossible to see from one end of the sub to the other, but Alek could tell the hull was still intact. More importantly, the nukes inside were still intact.
A broad smile cracked Alek’s face.
He had everything he needed: the warheads, the cables, the equipment necessary to salvage the wreck. He also had one thing he didn’t need. While the captain stood with his back to Alek, still appraising the behemoth sub, Alek raised the steel rod. He used it to slice the captain’s umbilical.
Lake Como, Italy
Trust no one. Not even Grace? The thought caused Amy Cahill’s lungs to constrict. Heated pangs coursed through her body. Ever since she’d learned of her grandmother’s betrayal, Amy had alternated between anguish and fury. This new wave was laced with anger.
How could she?
Amy inhaled deeply and willed the boiling emotions to settle. As she stared out the window of Jonah Wizard’s European base of operations, her rage dulled.
Perhaps if she never moved again—just let her muscles atrophy and her mind weaken—she could forget Grace’s dark secret. Amy focused her mind on the tranquil waters of Lake Como glistening in the moonlight. She took in the snow-capped Alps behind the smattering of Old World villas hugging the curve of the lake.
Jonah’s villa stood out among the others. With its considerably large, angular frame, walls made of glass, and state-of-the-art infinity pool, it was uniquely modern. It was striking.
Grace had been one-of-a-kind, too. Brave and just … or so Amy had thought. Amy clenched her jaw. Apparently no view, no matter how spectacular, no amount of stillness or show of willpower could wipe away the stain that now tainted every memory Amy held of her grandmother.
Grace had been everything to Amy. Everything Amy wanted to be. But Amy had learned that Grace had ordered the assassination of her own husband, Amy’s grandfather, Nathaniel Hartford. The burn started again in Amy’s stomach, slower this time. A deep, smoldering ache. Her childhood was a lie.
Not only that, Amy now believed that Nathaniel was back, gunning for revenge. Grace had turned her husband into a monster, the Outcast, a man who had vowed to re-create some of history’s deadliest catastrophes if Amy and her friends couldn’t stop him. Grace had created a violent and vicious circle, a hurricane of evil. And Amy and her brother, Dan, were caught in the middle of it.
The noise of someone stirring downstairs broke Amy’s concentration. Amy’s brother and cousins had crashed the moment they’d stepped through the door of Jonah’s villa. Maybe Ian was pacing again. He’d been devastated by their inability to stop the Outcast’s most recent disaster. Ian Kabra was now the head of the Cahill family, and the failure weighed heaviest on him. And the Outcast wasn’t through with Ian yet—wasn’t through with any of them.
Amy winced. She and Dan never should’ve saddled Ian with the responsibility of leading the Cahills. Grace had been their grandmother, not his. She and Dan should’ve been the ones shouldering the fallout from her mistakes.
Even if Nathaniel isn’t the Outcast, Ian isn’t up to the task of leading the family. The disloyalty of the thought made her want to choke. But the truth clawed at her. He’s starting to crack.
Another noise echoed from the lower level of the villa, but it was too high-pitched to be a person pacing this time. It sounded like the squeak of the sliding glass door.
Amy looked out the window again. Steam rose from the surface of the heated pool, creating a mist between the villa and the wishbone-shaped Lake Como. She expected to see Ian wandering outdoors, lost in his thoughts and the haze. Instead, a black-clad figure skirted through the manicured bushes hedging the pool.
“Hey! Stop!” she shouted, and pounded the glass with the palm of her hand. The figure glanced back only long enough for Amy to discern that the intruder was a woman.
The rush of adrenaline centered Amy’s thoughts and deadened the ache in her stomach. It wasn’t stillness that she required to distract herself from her worries. It was action. Amy spun on her heel, then barreled down the stairs.
Hamilton Holt—asleep like a boulder in the armchair—was directly in line with her path out the door. The rest of the crew—Dan, Ian, Cara, and Jonah—were lumps in the dark, spread out on all the sofas. Amy smacked Hamilton on the shoulder as she blew past. “Come on!”
“That you, Mom?” Hamilton grumbled. “Is there bacon for breakfast?”
“I’ll fry enough bacon to feed a Tomas army if you catch me a burglar!” Amy yelled as she raced on, never once glancing back to see if he was moving.
The woman had left the sliding door slightly ajar. Amy tore through it and felt the crisp night air like a slap in the face.
By the time she reached the edge of the pool, Hamilton was on her heels. “Which way?” he asked without so much as a trace of grogginess left in his voice.
Amy pointed to a gap in the towering hedges. Without another word, they sprinted straight for it. Pitch-blackness engulfed them as they moved beyond the glow of the lighted pool. Amy sucked the cool air into her burning lungs. Typically, Hamilton could outrun her. But not tonight. She charged through the thicket, steps ahead of him.
When she heard the snap of a twig, Amy halted, darted to the left, and drove her arm through the brambles. Thorns clawed at the skin on her exposed wrist, but her fingers connected with something soft. She closed her fist and tugged, pulling the woman toward her by the hem of her black hooded sweatshirt. As the woman twisted and strained to pull free, the phone in Amy’s pocket vibrated.
The noise and sensation divided Amy’s attention for a mere fraction of a second. But it was enough for the woman to clear the bushes, swing, and strike. The blow knocked Amy back and loosened her grip on the woman’s sweatshirt.
Amy felt Hamilton’s arms swoop around her waist, catching her as she stumbled. Once she found her balance, she and Hamilton scanned the darkness. The woman was gone.
Amy’s phone stopped ringing. Her collarbone throbbed. All she could hear was the sound of her own breathing. Then a sudden flash of light sliced the darkness, the illumination breaking through another gap in the bushes.
She and Hamilton made eye contact. “Let’s go!” Amy cried. Neck and neck this time, they wove through the trees and shrubbery, then vaulted over a thick, knee-high hedge.
As soon as her feet connected with gravel, Amy picked them up again, racing for the end of the drive. When she and Hamilton reached it, a second light flashed. This time, the light went off directly in their eyes—striking them both blind.
Mount Fuji, Japan
Nellie Gomez, Amy and Dan’s legal guardian, angled the phone away from her chin. “Amy’s not picking up,” she told her boyfriend, Sammy Mourad. With her free hand, she slid a lock of hair away from her face, then tucked the shock of color behind her right ear.
Outside the window of the little Japanese restaurant, Mount Fuji was a nearly perfect, snow-tipped cone. The smell of ika yakisoba, fried noodles with squid, made Nellie’s stomach growl. It sounded as delicious to her as it smelled, but they’d placed an order for grilled cheese sandwiches to go.
And go we must. Nellie only hoped her gut instinct was right. Summiting Mount Fuji this time of year was beyond risky, but that was exactly what they aimed to do.
The Cahill kids had stopped the Outcast’s first disaster, but the
y hadn’t been successful twice. The Outcast had crashed an airship, and thirty-six people had gone down with it. When images of the victims had flashed on every single media outlet, Nellie had recognized some of their faces. Many of those who’d perished had been influential leaders of the Lucian branch of the Cahill family. The first disaster had been an embarrassment for the Janus branch. It wasn’t hard to connect the dots. The Outcast was targeting the four Cahill family branches, and that meant the next attack would most likely be on the Tomas or the Ekaterinas.
She needed to be at the place he didn’t want them looking. If Nellie was right, that place was deep inside the heart of Mount Fuji, at the Tomas branch stronghold.
“It’s about four and half degrees Celsius outside,” Sammy said, interrupting her thoughts. He was gazing out the window at a round, clock-shaped thermometer with a single black hand. “That’s forty degrees Fahrenheit for us—a near record high for Mount Fuji this time of year.”
“Well, that at least is good news,” Nellie said, clicking off her phone and slipping it back into her pack. The warmer temps didn’t guarantee ideal conditions for their hike, but they did mean that she and Sammy would stand a better chance of not freezing to death. She hadn’t anticipated how much of the mountain and even the area around the base would be closed.
Thankfully, this quaint café was open year-round. Now they just needed their sandwiches, so they could get on their way. As if on cue, the restaurant owner popped out of the kitchen. “Owner” might have been a little limiting in scope. The restaurateur seemed to be the owner, cook, and service staff all in one. Smiling broadly, he set down a greasy paper sack in the center of their table.
“Should have come two weeks ago,” the man said. “See cherry blossoms.”
Nellie returned his smile. “Thank you for the sandwiches.” Even to a picky palate such as hers, warm, melted cheddar cheese and toasted white bread always tasted good. Too bad the sandwiches would be cold by the time they ate them.
“Now blossoms gone. Business slow. Won’t pick up till snow melts from peak. Then hikers come back.”
