by Ronie Kendig
Cole grunted and shook his head. “Surprised he didn’t take you swimming.”
What was that? Sarcasm? Annoyance? “We did that on our third”—she shook her head—“fourth date.”
Cole’s blue eyes settled on her, his expression stony, which felt almost as frustrating and punishing as every other conversation with him. On the surface his gaze seemed as deceiving as a riptide—little warning what lurked beneath the surface. But get caught in it, and she’d drown. That danger with Cole rose every time she looked in his direction.
“So.” Ram glanced at Cole. “You dated her sister.” His words came out like a slow leak, weighted with thought. “Isn’t . . .” He pointed to Kasey, then wagged his finger. “Wasn’t she . . . ? Her sister—”
“My brother’s wife.” Cole’s answer was monotone and devoid of the animosity that Kasey knew roiled through him.
Ram’s eyes narrowed for a second, then he nodded. “Yeah.”
“Wow!” Tzivia laughed at Cole. “How crazy—your brother stole your girlfriend then became president. How do you compete with that?”
“Tzi,” Ram hissed.
Gaze down, Cole snorted. “I couldn’t. She dumped me while I was in Basic.”
“Ouch,” Cell chuckled.
Now they were all staring at Kasey, and she felt the need to explain about her sister. “With Brooke and Cole, it was always about the tension. My sister was addicted to it.”
“Tss.” Cole rolled his eyes. “Among other things.”
“Like?” Tzivia asked.
“Power,” Cole said.
“Money. Anything that put her on a higher rung.” Kasey felt bad for talking poorly about her sister, who could no longer defend herself, but it was true. “Brooke really cared about little else, except Evie.”
The pain of that truth lingered in Cole’s baby blues. That Brooke had married his brother. Bore his brother’s child.
“Who’s Evie?” Tzivia asked.
“Her daughter.” Cole stared at the table. The chasm that stretched between them seemed like a mile and yet not long enough to bridge the years or her sister’s actions.
It would always be like this, wouldn’t it? Cole brooding over Brooke. People finding out about it, which only reminded him of it, keeping the distance stretched wide. Kasey forever Brooke’s little sister.
“What is this food anyway?” Maangi said, frowning down at his plate.
“Shakshuka,” Tzivia said. “A Bedouin dish of eggs poached in a sauce of tomatoes, chili peppers, onions, and spiced with cumin.”
“The spicier the better,” Ram muttered, lifting his fork.
“No, no,” Dr. Cathey said as he delivered a new tray of French toast to the table. “This option was hidden and might have more appeal.”
Half the team abandoned the spicy food for the drizzly goodness of French toast. Thick slices of bread piled nearly three inches high and soaking in a generous pool of syrup.
“Now this is a breakfast.” She smiled.
“Bah,” Ram said, digging into his shakshuka. “This is a meal for a man.” His boast was a challenge. “A real man.”
Snorting, Cole shook his head as he cut into his syrup-drizzled toast.
“He wouldn’t eat that anyway,” Kasey said. “He doesn’t like spicy food.”
“What? How can you call yourself a man and not like spicy food?” Ram demanded.
“Quite easily.” Cole folded a piece of toast into his mouth, his cheek chipmunked, and grinned at his friend in foolish pleasure. After he swallowed and started cutting more, he added, “I don’t need spices to tell me I’m a man.”
Ram froze. “Did you—”
“I did.” Cole still hadn’t looked up, but there was a smile as he lifted the next bite to his mouth.
Ram’s hand flicked toward Cole. But with a lightning-fast move, Cole blocked.
“Just wait till you’re in a dark alley.”
“Chiji will protect me.” Cole mopped the syrup off his plate with a chunk of toast. “He’s always around.”
“But if the trouble is of his own doing” came the clipped, accented voice of his tall shadow, “I will let him learn.”
“Ha!” Ram finished his shakshuka. “Hear that? You’re mine, Tox.”
“Bring it.”
Metal grated against cement. Dr. Cathey was on his feet, his expression stricken.
“Oh, this is not good,” Cell said.
Cole shoved upward and pulled the doctor aside. “What’s wrong?”
“India.” Phone in hand, Dr. Cathey covered his mouth, eyes wide. “Two more have died and even more are turning up with the plague. It’s spreading.” He tugged off his rimless glasses and set them atop his head as he tapped the screen. “I . . .” He tapped some more. “Yes, I should.”
“You should what?” Tzivia was at his side, her tone placating and concerned.
He blinked. “Weren’t you listening?”
“You didn’t finish your sentence.”
Again he blinked then grunted. “I need to go to university. Find my old friend. Yes, yes. He will know what to do.” He turned in a circle, searching for something. “Ah. There. I must go.”
“Whoa, wait.” Cole gripped the fabric of his shirt at the shoulder and stopped him. “Hold up. Nobody leaves alone.” He turned to his friend. “Chiji.”
The Nigerian gave a slow nod as he rose, apparently not needing Cole to say any more. He strode out of the warehouse with the professor, and Kasey couldn’t help but watch as Cole monitored their progress.
“Now who’s going to watch your back?” Ram taunted.
True enough. Without the tall Nigerian around, Cole almost acted as if he’d taken off his tactical vest in the middle of a firefight.
****
“My contact wants to meet with Tzivia, too.”
Tox met Ram’s hazel stare. “Now?” They’d barely finished breakfast when Ram’s phone had buzzed.
“Yes.” Ram checked his watch. “We should hurry. And split up. They won’t like so many people.”
“They?”
Ram gave him a look.
“Okay,” Tox said with a sigh. “Cell, Maangi, and Thor—stay here with Wallace. Be alert and watch your phones.”
“Wait,” Wallace said, “what about Kasey?”
“She’s coming with me.”
Wallace’s jaw muscle popped but he was smart enough not to argue.
They headed out, and Ram led them to a tangled mess of a market, where Haven hesitated with a groan.
Tox grinned. “Still hate the city?”
Her left eyebrow winged up. Was she surprised he remembered that? “Hate’s a strong word.”
Wares hung at every possible height—above the head, shoulder height, and even at hand level. Shops were no more than partitioned sections. Bronze vases and lamps stacked so high, they leaned. One wrong bump . . .
Ram trekked up a slight incline, then cut through another cluttered market.
Feeling more suffocated than when he’d been imprisoned, Tox worked harder to monitor individuals. Watch for threats. This place had his nerves vibrating, like a live wire crackling against a steel pipe. He stepped to the side. Haven kept stride but then spotted his move and slowed.
Tox touched her back. “Keep moving.” He wanted her and Tzivia in the middle. She didn’t have the training that he, Ram, and even Tzivia had. He half cursed himself for letting her come, and then did curse himself for keeping her lackey boyfriend with Team Two. Not that he wanted Wallace around, but he wanted eyes on her at all times.
Haven only glanced back once as they pushed through the crowds. Why had Ram chosen this route? Surely there was a less populated one. Less to worry about. Less to monitor.
Then again, they’d be alone. Easier to ambush. Easier to attack.
Which was the better of the two evils? Tox didn’t know, but right now he was in complete agreement with Haven about hating cities. Give him a mountain or country farm—minus the zero-dark-t
hirty chores and barn mucking—any day.
Through the bright fabrics waving and snapping came a cool breeze. A spiced breeze. As they navigated the market, Tox appreciated the effort Haven gave at keeping up. Not complaining. Then again, she never had been the type to complain or whine, unlike Brooke, who’d had a complaint about everything. At the time, he’d thought it simply because she was a girl who needed protecting. Turned out, she was just high maintenance.
For the most part, Haven had been a quiet kid who watched him and Brooke but said little. Now she had a degree in criminal justice, had married a Navy SEAL, survived the loss of said hero, and trekked through a massive disaster of a mission that included plagues, missing artifacts, and glowing arrows.
How on earth did she remember he didn’t like spicy food?
The air cleared, slowly growing fresher, less inundated with body odor, colognes, and spices, not to mention incense. A dull ache pulsed at the edges of his temples. They emerged from the market, a little sweaty and a lot agitated.
“We’re too slow,” Ram threw over his shoulder. “We have to hurry.”
The next ten minutes were spent weaving around cars, shops, and homes. They rushed down a narrow alley, Tox’s shoulders brushing the walls. A cat darted across their path with a hiss and shriek, to which Tzivia added her own.
“I hate cats,” she bit out.
“They’ve never liked you either,” Ram teased.
Soon they broke into an opening. There loomed the Wailing Wall. Cole felt the need to slow. To study. But there were too many people. Too many things that could go wrong in this crowd. And Haven was already starting to slow. Her shoulders sagged. They were falling behind, so he kept moving.
Ram led them up an ugly walkway and straight into the Old City. “We might make it,” he tossed back as he banked around a multi-storied building. Wedged between the plaster façade and the fence, they hurried, though it felt like the walls closed in.
The scritch of shoes hit his ears seconds before Tox bumped into Haven.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “I’m not used to this.”
“You’re doing fine,” Tox said.
“Liar. But sweet.” She trudged on, her feet dragging, yet somehow managed to stay tight with Tzivia, who stuck close to Ram.
Thud!
Tox spun toward the sound, snatching his weapon out and bringing it up.
Two men stood in the alley, wrapped in shadows and ferocity. Black eyes, black beards, black clothes. Mysterious. Intense. No hesitation in their fierce expressions.
Tox shouted, “Back off!”
A yelp from Haven forced him to look over his shoulder.
Four men crowded the other end of the alley, blocking Ram, who lifted palms in surrender.
Tox whipped around to the men and backed up until he felt Haven’s hand on his shoulder, surprised at how that reassured him.
A string of Hebrew flew off Ram’s tongue. His tone was confident, authoritative—harsh—as he conversed with the shadows.
The closest black shadow shouted at Tox.
He firmed his grip.
“Tox, no!”
But he took aim.
Dead weight slammed into his shoulder. He went down hard. Head bounced off the plaster wall. His vision blurred. He bit his tongue. Felt the crushing weight of a body pressing him to the ground. He managed to flip himself, struggling not to end up with a broken nose or concussion. As he fought the man, in his periphery, he noted Haven looking up.
That was how they’d gotten the drop on him—they had literally dropped on him. From trees or a balcony, he wasn’t sure. But they’d had high-ground advantage.
Hands pawed at him. A boot pinned his hand to the ground. “Augh!” Tox ground out. His grip broke. His weapon clattered across the road. With everything he had, Tox scissored his legs, catching his attacker off guard. The man flipped back.
Tox hopped to his feet in a ready stance. Ready to fight. To keep his people safe. Two men moved in at once, both athletic and quick, their punches coming fast and furious. He deflected, but they struck him. He used their momentum to throw them off. It didn’t work. They kept coming. He could not let these men get to Haven or Tzivia.
One grabbed at him. Tox caught his arm, hooked his over, and secured it beneath his armpit. He drove a palm-heel strike into the man’s face.
A side blow surprised Tox, but it shouldn’t have. They were both skilled fighters, and so was he.
“Tox, don’t. Stop!”
But his fist was already airborne. It never made contact. A rifle butt nailed him in the temple. The world tilted. Thrown off balance, he twisted. Went down on a knee. Caught himself, plaster scoring his palm. Tried to come up, clenching against the pain.
A firm touch came to his shoulder. “Cole, wait . . .” Haven’s voice felt like silk against his buzzing brain. “Ram.”
Her words turned his attention to his friend, who stood as a barrier. A fire dug into Ram’s expression as he flashed his arms out to each side, staying the shadowy executioners. But he remained locked onto Tox, his pale eyes blazing until Tox offered an almost imperceptible signal that he’d yield. Lowering his hands, Ram focused on someone behind Tox and muttered in Hebrew.
Tox followed his gaze, surprised to find a haredi, complete with black garb from head to toe and a wide-brimmed hat. The man’s dark eyebrows were a sure indication that the silver beard had been near-black in his youth.
The haredi stood in icy silence as he studied them. Hebrew sailed through the air and somehow felt like daggers.
Ram spat back in Hebrew, his tone harsher than normal. “We’re to go with them,” he said, the planes of his face hardening.
Tzivia started, then tucked her chin in deference.
Unease slithered through Tox. He could fight. Would fight. But while he saw the tension and anger in Ram’s face, he also noted that his incredibly skilled friend wasn’t fighting.
Body aching, Tox looked to Ram. “What’s going on?”
“Don’t freak—they have a lot to protect.”
It wasn’t just a statement. It was an explanation—for the thick, wool hoods the shadows produced.
Tox stiffened. He could still feel Haven’s touch against his shoulder, so he reached back and caught her hand. He’d play this game. For now. But if they crossed a line . . . if Haven got hurt . . .
All bets were off.
And Cursed Be He Who Pawns It
Pain. So much pain. In his blood. In his heart.
Benyamin writhed, drawing his shoulders up to his ears. Had he not endured enough punishment? Enough heartache? Despair wrapped him in a thick cloak, fiery and restrictive. The agony in his bones went beyond old age. Life without Gratzia. . . . cutting his heart out would have hurt less!
Miriam had her faith and family—but far away in London. His sons had moved away as well. Were it not for Alison, he would be alone. “Thank you,” he whispered, teeth gritted against the fire consuming his body. She had earned a full scholarship to a school in New York and spent her free time with this old fool.
“Sabba?”
Ah, the voice of the angel soothed the ache enough for him to force a smile.
“He’s so bad,” she whispered.
She had that friend with her again. There was something about the man he didn’t like. However, there was something compelling about him, too. How he towered over her, protecting. At the same time, he seemed indifferent.
“Do you love her?” Benyamin asked.
“Who, Sabba?”
He fastened his eyes on the man, growing agitated when he did not answer. “Do you love her? Do you think because I am old, I cannot call the power of heaven?”
“Sabba!” Sitting on the hospital bed they’d brought in for him, Alison leaned on the edge of the mattress and cut off his view. “You must rest. You’re not well.”
“I am well enough,” he said, trying to look around her.
“I think he needs to go to the hospital,” Alison mutte
red, turning toward the man. She hesitated, then they went into the kitchen. There, Alison sat at the table with a pad of paper and pen. She tapped something into her cell phone.
The man turned his eyes to Benyamin.
And he remembered. His heart jolted at the realization. “You!”
Ruddy-faced Ephraim came into the world kicking and screaming. Benyamin had been at work when news came. He rushed home, worrying for his wife. For their unborn child. Once through the front door, he heard the triumphant howl of their child thrust into the world. The screams were raw and demanding.
Staring at their bedroom door, he listened, exultant in the cries that marked his fifth child’s arrival. The door opened. Devra whirled through, a bundle of white in her arms. She closed the door. Her gaze struck his, horror etched into her face.
His breath vaulted into his throat.
The baby’s howl startled them. She looked down, then back to him, wetting her lips. “A son again, Benyamin.” She hurried the angry, crimson-faced baby into his arms.
Benyamin took him, marveling over his son’s outrage at this cold, cruel world. A fist punched into the air, plucking a laugh from Ben. “You are a strong one, Ephraim.”
It was then he heard the cries. Not of his healthy, newborn son, but of the women. Ben stilled, his gaze flicking to the door. To the light seeping across the threshold. Shadows skittered. A sob reached from within and clutched him by the throat.
“Gratzia!” He rushed forward and threw open the door.
Women hovering over the bed gasped as they spun to him. They smoothed the blanket, lifted a bundle of soiled, bloody sheets, and hurried out.
Face as white as the clean bedding she lay upon, Gratzia dragged weary eyes to him. A smile shone in her eyes but never made it to her lips. “Ben . . .”
He went to her. “A son,” he said, angling Ephraim to her. “Strong, ruddy.”
Her eyelids drifted closed.
He held his breath, watching. When she didn’t move, he could stand it no longer. “Gratzia.”
She breathed heavier. “Forgive me,” she wheezed.
