by Ronie Kendig
He glanced at Barry. Then at Cortes. “Those are my terms—my men, my team.”
11
— Day 7 —
En Route to New York
“It is a nice car.”
They’d accomplished a lot in twenty-four hours, including delivering Chijioke Okorie to the bunker as the first of Tox’s team. Now, as he and Tox headed northeast on I-95, they’d hit enough construction to get under Tox’s skin. “They made me take it.” He’d have chosen an SUV or truck, but DoD saddled him with a sedate sedan.
“To track you.”
Actually, he half-expected the car to shut off if he took an extended detour. He held up a cell phone. “Don’t forget this.”
Chiji’s deep, resonating laugh was another thing that had a way of getting under Tox’s skin. “How did you get them to let me come?”
“Wasn’t up for debate.” He kept his gaze on the road. “Had to have someone on hand to keep me out of trouble.”
“Even I am not that good, Ndidi.” Chiji’s voice bore humor, as it often did.
Cole laughed and shook his head. “That’s cold.”
There wasn’t much that annoyed the Nigerian, who had a Bible verse for every situation. That was one reason Tox kept his thoughts to himself. Spending three years with Chiji’s family had injected him with a hefty dose of respect for Christianity—real Christianity. Where people lived and breathed what they believed rather than putting it on for Sunday service. Quiet settled between them as the potholes and numbing vibrations of the drive needled Tox’s nerves. He hated the city.
“Ndidi, they do not trust you.”
“Smartest choice they’ll ever make.” Because he could easily pawn off the vehicle on someone else and leave the phone in the car. But he wouldn’t. Not because he wanted the pardon—he didn’t believe that was going to happen.
“This mission,” Chiji said, lifting a bottle of water from the cup holder in the console. “What do they hope you will do?”
“Stop an assassin.”
“Why are you doing this thing?”
“Someone’s killing Americans.”
“No.” Chiji waved his ebony hand at nothing in particular. “Why did you come back? You walk on burning embers.”
The truth of that statement couldn’t be ignored, but it didn’t have to be answered. Because there wasn’t an answer. Except that Tox had been drawn back. And . . . was it wrong that “home” still called to him? His mind pinged farther northeast, where his parents were probably working from home.
The tough-as-nails Barbie had a point. His inner warrior demanded he answer the call. Hiding in the savannah alone with his thoughts and the burning heat had melted what little confidence he had in his own system of justice.
Kasey Cortes. Knuckling his grip on the steering wheel, Tox strained his mind. Who was she? She seemed familiar. Or maybe he just wanted her to be familiar to explain how she so easily read his mail. She’d taken a backhoe to his one soft spot—honor—and turned it on him. She had it right: he was a soldier who’d vowed to do everything his nation required of him.
But chasing a nameless assassin? He didn’t need that. Didn’t want to put his men on the line again. Besides, they probably hated him for Kafr al-Ayn.
“You think too much,” Chiji muttered as the sedan blurred past endless fields and trees.
“I’ll have to convince them to join me.” He wouldn’t face this with strangers.
“They are your men. They will follow.”
“They’re not like you.” Tox glanced at the man he’d come to think of as a brother. More than Galen. Way more. “I put them in some serious . . .” He gulped the swell of emotion. “They lost their careers because of me.”
“No.”
“You don’t understand.”
Chiji laughed. “This, I understand. Your men, they follow because they believe in you, Ndidi. Not because you order them to go.” He shook a long finger at him. “Men are strong. American soldiers are stronger. They know who to follow. They know why they follow—not just because the leader says go.” He flung a hand toward the right, smacking the window. “These men—they are your men. They go because it is you, Ndidi. And this thing, this is what I tell you: God wants you here.”
If only that were true.
Three years in Nigeria had not given him peace but had allowed him the space and time to figure out how to live with himself. Tox wasn’t really into the whole God scene before Kafr al-Ayn, but what happened there had a way of messing with a guy’s head. He wasn’t sure if he was crazy or what. That man in the flames had seemed so real.
Chiji had thoughts on it all. Thoughts that involved the supernatural and a God who orchestrates things. Maybe God had allowed Tox to return to redeem a terrible, haunting mistake he’d made to buy his way out of guilt and clear his team of his wrongdoing.
Chiji’s finger stabbed forward.
Tox caught the sign for the Holland Tunnel and aimed that way. Buildings closed in on them, tightening the perimeter and making it hard to see the sky. Back in daylight after leaving the tunnel, he breathed a little easier, far too many thriller movies playing in his mind.
Driving down Wooster Street, Tox let out a low whistle as he read the signs over the shops. “Chanel, Ralph Lauren . . . How does Ram afford a shop in a place like this?” He turned left onto Spring Street. “Should be here somewhere.” He slowed, coasting, as they scanned the buildings.
“There.” Chiji tapped the window. A multistory structure with two blacked-out windows sat as nondescript as possible, with a low-key sign advertising RK GALLERY.
It took them a few minutes to find a place to park, but eventually they were on foot headed back to the gallery. Eyes sweeping the area, Tox struggled to understand why Ram would want a shop here. Too many people. Too many eyes. Too many scenarios for trouble. Quickening his pace did little to ease his tension, but he let out a breath as he reached for the door handle. Gave it a tug. It didn’t budge.
“By invitation only.” In his thick accent, Chiji read the sign to the right of the door. The one next to the bell. The one Tox ignored as he punched the button. A drill-like noise grated through the walls of the building. He waited a few seconds, then hit it again.
“Maybe we should give him a chance to answer.”
“Maybe he should—”
The door opened. An impressive figure blocked the entrance. Jeans slouched around his waist, and a gray t-shirt hung over his frame. Curly, light-brown hair hauled back in a ponytail, Ram Khalon stood with an impassive expression. He looked at Tox, then at Chiji.
“Can we come in?” Tox pushed inside, anxious to be clear of prying eyes.
Ram stepped back. “Sure. Why not?” His sarcasm echoed to the high, bare ceiling.
Five paces carried Tox into an open area broken up by occasional dividers boasting artwork. Spotlights perched on top glared down at the paintings. Steel and iron sculptures hung on brick walls. Stain splotched the cement floor. Little decoration besides a wood-paneled divider at the very back that served as a desk on one side and a barrier on the other. For an office?
Ram stood with his hands tucked in his jean pockets, the outline of a phone at the end of his right hand. His expression hadn’t changed. Neither had his demeanor. And he wasn’t asking questions.
“This one,” Chiji said, hands behind his back as he leaned into the light beneath a painting of an orange flower, examining it in careful detail. “It has great . . . heart.”
Ignoring the Nigerian, Tox nodded and remained focused on the man who’d once been his right-hand man. “You knew I was coming.”
Ram held his gaze.
“How?” Tox swallowed the question. “Never mind.” Ram had more connections than a tech company. “It’s bad.”
“You wouldn’t be here if it was good.” Ram walked to the back and tossed his phone on the desk. “Where?”
“Jordan.”
“At least it’s not Syria.” Leaning back against the wo
od paneling, Ram adjusted the beanie on his head. It sagged like a pregnant dog. “What are we chasing?”
“An assassin.”
He gave a slight twitch. “When do we leave?”
Tox considered the man who’d been through more battles with him than anyone else. “Too easy.”
Ram eyeballed him.
“We have to round up the others.”
“Maangi and Thor might be easy to rope in, though I imagine Maangi might want to kill you, but Cell . . .” Ram shook his head, then thrust his chin toward Chiji. “Who’s he?”
“My conscience.” Tox glanced back to his friend, who moved from one painting to another, leaning close and studying them as if they might contain answers to the mysteries of life. “Chijioke Okorie. He saved my life.” That was all he needed to say.
“Never mentioned him before.”
“Didn’t know him before.”
Ram nodded. Lifted his phone and glanced at the screen, his thumb swiping over it. “Let me grab my things.”
“Pack light.”
Snick.
The subtle noise made Tox hesitate. He glanced at the phone. Realized Ram had it aimed at Chiji. Taking his photo? To check him out. “He’s safe.”
Ram met his gaze for a brief second, then vanished through a door.
What was that? Ram had always been rough around the edges and solitary, but he’d worked well with Tox. Then again . . . Kafr al-Ayn changed them. Apparently, it had changed their relationship, too. They’d followed him before—but out of military obligation. He had no right to ask them to do this. No right to ask them to put up their safety. For what? A pardon. For him.
Thud.
Tox spun, reaching for the Glock holstered at the small of his back. Ram stood with a full ruck at his feet. He’d been in that back room less than two minutes. “You were already packed?”
“Cell lives an hour from here.”
Tox frowned. “I had him at—”
“Info’s wrong. On purpose.” Ram nodded to the door. “Maangi and Thor are en route. They’ll meet us at Cell’s.”
****
“Why does Maangi want to kill me?”
Ram stayed eyes front in the sedan. “His fiancée left him after Kafr al-Ayn.”
“I thought she was good for him.”
“Being shredded by the press isn’t good for anyone.”
Ah. The story of the burned village and death of the president had hit national news. The US needed a scapegoat, someone to blame for the president’s death. His team was it. Media ate the story and the men alive. Until Tox made it go away. “Think he’ll work with us?”
Ram adjusted his slouchy hat. “He’s coming to the meet.”
Which meant nothing. Maangi could be coming to tear Tox’s heart out. Not that he could blame him.
Chiji rode in the back seat, and Ram served as co-pilot, but it wasn’t the same. Strange how Ram had been his right-hand man once, and now things were . . . jacked. “So. A gallery . . . that’s what you’ve been doing?”
Ram eyed him.
“Making good money, apparently,” Tox said. “A shop in SoHo. That’s not cheap.”
Stony silence met the unwritten invitation to dialogue.
“You got a girl?” It was stupid to ask, but their dynamic had changed and put Tox off-kilter. “You haven’t settled down? What about your sister?”
“What is this? An interrogation?” There was almost a laugh in the clipped words.
Tox shrugged. “It’s been a while.”
“Yes.” Ram angled toward him with a spark of anger. “It has. Doesn’t mean you can demand information about my life.”
The reprimand stung. Showed Tox he had a lot more than lost time to earn back. “No demand. Trying to reconnect.”
“Why the sudden concern?”
“Not sudden.”
“You never asked before.”
“Didn’t ask because I paid attention. Knew what was happening. And I left you guys to your lives. Didn’t mean I didn’t care.” He tried to slow his rapid pulse. “I trusted you all to take care of your business. As long as it didn’t interfere with the mission, I didn’t intrude.”
“Exactly,” Ram said. “So let’s do this job, and don’t intrude.”
“Point taken.” Tox tucked his chin. Drove. In silence. Icy silence.
Twenty minutes later, they pulled up in front of a three-story condominium. Tox slid the gear into Park. He glanced up the fifteen steps to the stone porch, white pillars flanking a blue door. It wasn’t a brownstone but was more than he’d expected from Cell. “What’s he doing now?”
“Working for a large cyber-security firm.” Ram exited the vehicle.
When Tox stepped out, so did Chiji. His friend stood over him, watching as Ram climbed the front stairs. “I would prefer trust over idle words,” Chiji said.
Tox glanced at Ram as he knocked on the door. “They hate me, but he’s willing to do this.”
“They do not have to like everything about a leader to follow him.”
“Maybe, but they’d be more inclined to talk to him,” Tox said as a white Suburban slid down the street and eased to the curb.
Doors opened. Two men emerged—Tane Maangi and Victor “Thor” Thorsen. The latter hadn’t done Syria with them because of a previous injury that sidelined him for a while, but it was good to see him. At least one member wouldn’t have a grudge.
“Time to face the music.” Tox moved around Chiji.
With a wary smile, Thor nodded and extended his hand. “Sarge.”
Tox took it—and got pulled forward. A firm slap against his back knocked the wind from his lungs. Probably on purpose. “Thor.”
“What’re you? A cat with nine lives?” Thor grinned. “Glad you’re not six feet under like they said.”
“Me too.” He shifted and angled toward the man of Maori descent. “Tane.”
“I want to run a spear through your heart.”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t.”
“He’s not here,” Ram called as he hustled down the steps of the condo. When he greeted Thor and Maangi, Tox noticed the gold band on Thor’s left ring finger.
“You’re married?”
Thor grinned. “Six months. My physical therapist. Had to wait until I was done with therapy to ask her out.”
“I tried to stop him. Dropped the ring and everything,” Maangi said.
Thor laughed. “Tane was my best man.”
A numbness spreading through his body, Tox could only bob his head. You’re an outsider. Don’t belong. The men had gone on with their lives. Lives that included each other and now a wife. A strange twist, being an outsider with men he’d once led. Men who had depended on him. Operated fluidly with him. Could he do it now? Would they even listen to him?
“Hey.” Thor extended a hand to Chiji. “Victor Thorsen.”
Tox snapped out of his fog. “This is Chijioke Okorie.” When they stared at him, Tox stiffened. “He saved my life—he’s like a brother.”
After the introduction, he stood back, listening as the men got acquainted, and tried to tell himself they could still handle this mission.
Barclay “Cell” Purcell . . . was he in his condo, hiding out? Tox checked the windows, looking for a blind or curtain shifting. No sign of the squirrelly guy.
“Should we wait or head somewhere to talk, then come back?” Maangi asked.
Talk. They wanted to talk. He’d never been good at that, but this also sounded more like a Come to Jesus meeting than a mission brief.
When he refocused, Tox saw a man round the corner, gray plastic shopping bags dangling from his right hand. The awkward gait. “There he is.”
Ram and Maangi turned.
Cell waved. “Hey—”
Tox broke through the group.
Cell’s eyes widened. He stopped. Dropped the bags. “No.” He backed up. “No no no.” He threw himself around and darted back the direction he’d come.
“Cell
!” Tox sprinted after him for a full thirty seconds before Cell veered across an open park, heading for a wooded area. If he made it there, Tox might lose him. “Stop!”
Cell slowed, his feet thumping hard against the grass and shoulders drooping. He turned and met Tox with a weary gaze. “Dead. You’re supposed to be dead.” Wagged his arms. “Why are you back? What, ripping our careers apart wasn’t enough? Here to finish the job?”
Cell’s animosity and defeat struck Tox center mass. “We have a mission. I need your skills.” He glanced back to where the others had grouped up. “The team needs you.”
“No!” Cell jabbed a finger at Tox, his voice raw. “No, you don’t get to do this again.”
Tox held his peace.
“You destroyed my life,” Cell growled, spittle forming in the corners of his mouth as he bit back tears. “I had to start over because of you.”
He knew. In fact, Tox knew more than they did. He’d bought their lives, their freedom, at a price he never thought possible, doing something he never thought he’d do. Violating his own moral code to make sure Kafr al-Ayn didn’t destroy them as it had him. He’d expected a lot of things out of that, but not their mistrust. The accusations. The hatred.
“All that media coverage, all the things they said about me, about the others.” He waved at the team. “Do you have any idea what we went through? How our lives were shredded?”
Tox swallowed, hated himself, hated what’d happened. “An idea.”
“And was it not enough?” Cell held out his arms like he was being crucified. “Are you here to finish it?”
Tox felt the urge to turn around, walk back to the rental, and never return. But he deserved this. And they had the right to take it out on him. So he listened. Let Cell unload the poison in his veins.
“We were hounded night and day by those vultures. ‘Where is Cole Russell?’ they demanded. ‘Why’d he kill the president? Let those villagers die?’” His eyes went wide. “Or the best ones, ‘Why didn’t you stop him?’ ‘Aren’t you his teammate?’ ‘Does that mean you’re guilty, too?’”
Misery cradled Tox in its venomous arms. “I didn’t—”
“Of course you didn’t! Because you died!” Cell’s voice pitched. “You died, and they buried you. I saw it on the news.”
