by Ronie Kendig
“Nightmares, daymares. The oddest things trigger them, too. The rattle of keys. A Hispanic person shouting …”
“Are you afraid of going back?”
Roark stopped and stared out over the water. “Terrified.”
“But what if …?” He picked up a twig and snapped it in half, then in fourths. “What if you get a good spec-ops team to go down there with you?”
Derision filled her voice. “Who do you think was with me and my team in the first place?”
“Maybe this new team will be better.” He couldn’t tell her about Nightshade. Not yet. Not unless his follow-up with the Old Man tomorrow night went well.
A disbelieving laugh trickled through the salty air. “Okay. You think that, if it makes you feel better.” They walked for a while along the beach, dodging occasional sunbathers, boards planted in the sand, and kids building a sand castle.
“So, are you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“Come on. You aren’t that dense.”
“I don’t know,” he said with a chuckle. “Maybe I am.”
“The way you treated my dad.”
Singular focus. She’d come back to his reaction already. Canyon flung the stick pieces to the side. “It’s not something I talk about.”
“I see.”
The hurt in those two little words felt like a meaty wave knocking him from the board. “Sorry, it’s not personal.”
“Wow, that was lame. My father can do better than that.”
Ka-pow, right in the gut. “Excuse me?”
She stopped and turned to him. The sun sparkled against her eyes, making them appear as pools of melted caramel, like his mom used to make for harvest festivals. “Look, I’ve poured my heart out to you, you’ve seen me cut my wrist, and you came to my house convinced you’d have to rescue me again.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Turnabout’s fair play.”
“I never asked you to pour your heart out to me.” Wow, that was juvenile, even for him.
“I told you all that because …” Her head angled to the side, her gaze dropping to the sand, and she went quiet.
“Because what?”
When she didn’t answer, Canyon grew concerned. Had he missed something? He shuffled closer, touched her arm. “Roark?”
“Never mind.” She folded her arms over her chest. “Besides, I saw the way you reacted when I accused you of being as bad as a politician. Then the way you behaved toward my father—which was quite rude, considering how courteous he was.”
“Politicians always have an ulterior motive for what they say and do. I don’t.”
“So, you’re just out here on a Saturday morning, walking the beach with me because you’re a medic and you want to make sure my arm is okay?”
He couldn’t help but smirk at her.
“No ulterior motive, huh? Okay, fine.” She tugged up her sleeve. “There. It’s stitched. And itchy.” She pulled the sleeve back down. “I’ll be going now.”
Busted. “All right.” Canyon slumped down on a clump of boulders and propped one foot up. This was a really bad idea. He should probably return her to the house, grab his board, and catch some waves. Work off some of the tension bunching the muscles in his back.
“A congressional oversight committee put pressure on a particular general in the Vietnam War to pull the plug on a top-secret op, right in the middle of the mission when the armchairs thought it was going bad.” He shrugged. “The team got captured—save one man. My father. He tried to get backup, but the Brass abandoned him and his team. So he went in alone to find them. Two years later, my father’s headless body came home.”
She gasped.
“Nobody talked about it. The government even tried to deny my mom benefits.”
Eyes wide, she covered her mouth.
“When my mother and Stone tried to get answers, they were essentially told to sit down and shut up. The congressman responsible denied everything. I’ve seen it happen enough times to know politicians are corrupt. End of story.”
“How do you know it was his fault? Maybe he didn’t really do anything.”
He leapt to his feet, letting all the heat of his loathing erupt in his words. “And maybe you’re really guilty of treason.”
DAY ONE
Near Mindanao, Philippines
14:45:02
But the story does continue, yes?
For many days and nights, Bayani and the outsiders trained our warriors—and the people as well. He taught the women how to do many things to save time, to preserve food. Bayani great in our people’s eyes. All would give him their daughters, but he would not have them. He had his Chesa and would not look at another girl.
Soon, word come from other villages—the Higanti had attacked. I would never, ever forget what happened in the days after. My husband said to us, “The Higanti are fighting everywhere and everyone. They wish to wipe out all that is not Tagalog to keep our island pure. Great fights between the Muslim people who would push their religion on us, and the Higanti, who would push their beliefs on us as well.”
It is very messy, yes?
“Bayani, Bayani,” Awa said and ran toward the warrior training area. “The Higanti are coming to our village. Our elders fear they will attack because outsiders live among us.” Then Awa said, “Bayani—you must leave or my people will be killed.”
“No,” Bayani said, angry. “We will not go. We are here to train your men to fight, to defend your territory. Let us show you.”
“You are outsiders! We cannot win against the Higanti. They are fierce warriors—the most fierce of our people.”
“Please, Bayani,” Chesa said, tears in her eyes. “They will kill you.”
Eyes on fire with anger, Bayani said, “If I leave, they will kill you, and I will not let that happen. It is my duty to stay here, to teach you to fight and survive. I will not leave.”
One by one, the outsiders circled around Bayani. Fists in the air, they shouted and agreed with their leader.
I lay in my hut that night, still as a panther by my husband’s side, listening to the music of the jungle, the laughter of Bayani and Chesa in a hut close by. As I stared into the blackness, something made my heart tremble. A smell so familiar yet so … wrong.
Smoke. I rose from my bed and stumbled toward the door, half-weary, half-scared. As I reached the opening—
Chesa banged into me with a yelp. “Mama, back!” Bayani rushed in behind her. He pointed to Awa, who was stirring. “They’re here. The Higanti are here.”
CHAPTER 8
Sayan Mountains, Siberia
One Week Later
Who turned off the heat?
Pine branches laden with icicles drooped toward the blanket of snow. Unforgiving brutal beauty. Pristine whiteness glared back at Canyon as he crouched with his back against a rocky edifice. He peeked up at the overhang, praying those foot-long icicles didn’t break free. What a way to die.
His breath puffed out through the extreme-weather mask covering his face. No matter how still, how stealthy he remained, seeing his own breath couldn’t be helped at forty below. If he weren’t frozen like a dummy on a Popsicle stick, he might be impressed with the beauty of the Sayan Mountains. But breathing hurt too much to enjoy anything right now.
A scritch of boots drew Canyon’s gaze to the other side of the gorge—the Kid squatted, his attention on their planned route.
Canyon turned toward the rock wall towering over them. Where it smeared down and collided with the path, Frogman huddled. To the left, a gaping hole in the mountain beckoned. Through the cave, into the heart of the mountain, they’d locate the facility. Rescue Sokoleski and catch the next wave back to the States. To sunshine. Warmth.
Bring it!
Even with the swirling wind, the howling within the cave sent chills racing down Canyon’s spine. Chills that had nothing to do with the forty-below temperature. His numb toes warned him if they huddled much longer, the team would go home with f
ewer digits.
Frogman pointed toward Canyon and Aladdin, motioning them into the mouth.
Peering down the stock of his M4, Canyon eased himself around the rocky wall. Stepping deeper into the cave, he let his gaze track over every crevice, shadow, and jutting space, searching for motion sensors, trip wires, anything that would alert the facility five meters below that they were about to be invaded.
Subtle crunching, not detectable by most, came from behind. Aladdin had his back, tight and clean. Darkness bit down on them. Canyon popped down his night-vision goggles that ghosted the room in a spray of green. In the corner, a pair of eyes glowed back. The small animal had probably come in for warmth. Couldn’t blame it.
Too quiet. He slid along the wall, anticipating an ambush.
A strange scratching noise drifted to him on the wind searing through the wool mask. He fisted a gloved hand and held it up, giving the all-stop. Adrenaline spiking, he peeked around the bend in the cave. Two more eyes peered toward him. Then looked away, burying its muzzle into something. His stomach clenched as he realized the animal was eating a large creature. Probably found out in the frozen wilderness and dragged in.
Crack.
Slowly the carcass came into view. Pretty big. Oh man … Not something, someone. Canyon rushed forward. The body must still have warmth to draw the hungry fox. He swiped the animal away from the fallen man, but the thing snarled and lunged.
Thump.
The fox fell like a limp rag, snapping Canyon’s attention to his partner.
Aladdin nodded over his silenced Glock and continued monitoring.
Kneeling beside the body, Canyon plucked off his gloves. Iciness prickled his warm hand as he pressed two fingers to the throat. Dead. But not frozen solid, which meant the kill had been recent. His gaze swept the body looking for the cause of death. A dark stain gaped from the partially open jacket. The fox had eaten some of the man’s fingers. Sick.
White lab coat. Normal shoes. The guy had been in a rush to get out, but why? Who was chasing—and shot him?
“What’s the word?” Legend whispered.
Canyon shook his head and stood, coming in line with the others as they continued forward. Tension ratcheted with each crunch. Echoes shouted their approach.
As the tunnel burrowed into the mountain, a strange sick-sweet smell permeated the air. Being a medic, he knew that scent. Teeth clamped, he prepped himself for the worst. That they’d get in here and find everyone dead, including their objective, Viktor Sokoleski, a physicist who’d promised some juicy intel in exchange for safe passage to America. The important parts were to get in, get the objective, and get out—alive.
His NVGs hit another body. Canyon darted to the prostrate form, but even before he reached the person, he knew it was too late. A half dozen spots mottled the jacket. Irritation coiled around his gut and clenched. What was going on? Who had silenced these scientists? And why? Did someone beat them to Sokoleski?
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Ahead, Frogman dropped to a knee, firing his M4 into the darkness. Shouts reverberated through the cave. The team pressed against the wall, each man taking a different position to optimize coverage.
A lone figure rushed toward them, hands up. “No shoot! No shoot.” He patted his chest, yellowish green eyes peering back at them. “I Sokoleski. Help! He kill all. Still here.” He waved behind him, breathing frantically.
“Get down! Get down! On your knees!” Frogman shouted as he hustled forward, pointing toward the slick ground.
Sokoleski dropped to his knees, arms still raised.
Swiftly Legend patted him down. “Clean.” He jerked the guy up and tossed him toward Canyon, who pinned the guy against the frozen cave wall, let his M4 drop against his chest in the sling, then unholstered his Glock.
“Let’s get—” Frogman snapped his M4 back toward the tunnel. “Stop!”
Another form appeared. Hands raised.
“Don’t shoot me,” the man said, in a weakened but adamant voice. “He’s not the right man. I am Viktor Sokoleski.”
“No, no. I Viktor.”
Weapon raised and pointed at the newcomer, Frogman sidestepped between the two men. “Legend, check him out.”
After a quick look to the first man, Legend patted down the second, then moved to the side where he kept a gun trained on him.
Was Canyon’s mind playing tricks on him? In the green hues, the two men looked exactly alike. Twins? With his forearm against the first man’s throat, he aimed a Glock at his head.
The Kid groaned. “This is messed up.”
“No trust him,” the first man rasped from beneath Canyon’s hold. “My brother kill all.”
“Dmitri, quiet!” The second surged forward but Legend’s muzzle urged him back.
Frogman shifted, glancing between the two. “Gimme light.”
Canyon flipped up his NVGs as shafts of illumination burst out, pouring brightness on the man under his restraint. Legend’s shoulder lamp cast strange shadows over Viktor as Frogman assessed his face. The Kid moved closer, flashing his torch at Dmitri.
A curse sailed through the frigid air. “They’re identical.”
“No,” the first argued as he pushed against Canyon’s grip. “He killer. I escape. He know I tell you everything, so he kill me. Pow!”
Canyon would bet his life the good guy was in his grip. Something about the too-perfect English and ultracalm demeanor of the second Siberian unsettled his gut. But there was no way to sort this out here.
“Watch him.” Canyon handed off his prisoner to the Kid, who grabbed the man’s jacket—
Thwat!
Canyon spun at the sound of the silenced gunfire just in time to see the man’s stunned expression frozen in place. Sokoleski One gasped. Gurgled.
“He’s shot!”
Canyon pushed the Kid aside.
Blood streamed out of Sokoleski’s mouth.
Shouts and fights jerked Canyon’s gaze around. Legend and Frogman had the second guy face-planted into the icy terrain. Sokoleski Two peered up, past Canyon, saw something, and smiled.
“Down, fool!” Legend slammed the guy’s head into the ground.
Canyon caught Sokoleski One as the guy slid down, his breath wheezing out of him. He eased the man down and pressed a hand to his chest where a red stain blossomed.
The man groaned. His eyes focused. He gripped Canyon’s hand. “I good guy.”
Canyon nodded. “Just hang in there.”
A gasp. Another gurgle. “Mir … ann … da.”
“Just be quiet.” He shrugged off his medic pack and dug in it. But even as he did, he knew it was useless. With the way the guy was drowning in his own blood, he had massive internal bleeding.
Canyon stepped back and reached into his medical pouch, riffled through the first layer, and finally curled his fingers around a dart. On his feet, he walked over to the tangling trio of Frogman, Legend, and Sokoleski Two, and fired a dart into the guy’s neck.
As the fight leeched out of the man, Frogman and Legend released him. Secured his hands.
“Good work,” Frogman said. “He had a hidden weapon.”
“He wanted to silence his brother.”
“Yeah, but why?” Legend asked.
“Someone named Miranda.”
First Street Jetty, Virginia Beach, Virginia 13 April
“Not bad, not bad.” Canyon grinned at Azzan as he sloshed out of the water, board tucked under his arm. “Dude, you ready to paddle?”
Azzan smoothed a hand over his short-cropped black hair and smiled. “More than.”
“Then let’s hit it.”
But his friend hesitated, glancing over Canyon’s shoulder. “You know her?”
Canyon looked back—and stilled. After the way he stormed off the last time he saw her, he’d bet she wouldn’t speak to him again. Apparently she liked defying odds.
“Roark.” The sun glistened against her loose hair as she hung back. “I see you got the Rash Guard.�
� He couldn’t help but notice the way the black and silver nylon-spandex material hugged her upper torso, streamlined her curves.
“It seemed like a hint that I should come out.” She closed the distance.
He shrugged. “You said you wanted to learn.” Though he wanted to smile, he wouldn’t. Not in front of Azzan. He tossed his head in the former assassin’s direction. “He just started an hour ago. Think you can outlearn him?”
“Willow said you just got back in town, so I wasn’t … if it’s a bad time … I don’t want to interrupt.” Roark flicked her gaze to Azzan but quickly brought it back.
When she took a step away, Canyon moved into her path, planting the BZ beginner board in front of her. “Giving up already?”
Her chin drew up and with it a defiant gleam trickled through her brown eyes.
“I got back last night. Ten days spent like an ice cube makes a man enjoy warm water and smiles.” He liked the way that made her high cheekbones fill with color. “So, you ready?”
She nodded.
“Good. Let’s run through some basics.” He smoothed a hand along the board. “This is called a surfboard.”
“Gee. Really? I wouldn’t have guessed.”
Azzan slapped him. “I’ve got her beat.” With a wicked grin, Azzan dragged his board back to the salty water.
What Canyon didn’t miss was the streak of indignation that darted through Roark’s expression. “Come on. We’ll run through it.”
He led her to a clear stretch of beach where he laid out the board, careful to bury the fins in the sand. “Okay, first things first. This is the nose.” He toed the front portion of the board. “It’s a beginner board, so it’s not narrow like mine. Then you have the tail and rails.” He pointed to the sides. “Of course, on the bottom, fins.” He patted the center. “The deck.”
Canyon stood and walked around the board, which brought him behind Roark. He gave her a slight shove between her shoulder blades.
She pitched forward but caught herself. “Hey!”
“Relax, I was checking your footing. You’re a right footer.”
“Excuse me?”
