by Ronie Kendig
Tires squalled behind her.
She whirled, her hair whipping into her face. Blurring her vision. Not for long. But enough to cost precious time.
A black vehicle lurched toward her. Rubber screeched against cement. Doors clunked open.
She sprinted to the left, willing back tears.
Feet thumped behind her. Several.
Weight rammed into her back with a meaty grunt. Pitched her forward. Cement rushed up at her. Fire lit through her palms as she slammed into the street.
Almost as quickly, she was hauled to her feet. Two men held her, their grips on her arms brutal.
More men stalked toward her. The first sneered, his nostrils flared. He eyed her from top to bottom—a look that made her feel undressed and undone. He smirked. Muttered something in a language she didn’t know but guessed to be Russian. That was where she was, right? He bobbed his head toward the warehouse.
Aspen wrestled against them, knowing if she went back in there, in that building, she may never be seen again. She let her legs go limp, but they merely hoisted her up. She screamed. Thrashed.
Almost without warning, she flew through the air. Onto the ground.
The girl who’d been on the flight with her stood there, her face hard as marble. She stared at the man who’d raped Aspen with those stormy eyes. She said something to the man, her expression impassive. Unreadable.
The man matched her stonelike mask. He muttered something to her, and his lip curled.
The girl’s chin lifted ever so slightly—just like Timbrel when someone said something that challenged her. Her eyes glinted. She replied to the man.
What Aspen wouldn’t do for a personal translator.
The man’s voice rose, and his words flew as he whirled around and stalked off. The second man with him shot Aspen a sidelong glance that almost seemed to carry an apology.
Her heart skipped a beat. She pulled her gaze from the man who wielded power without a lot of brute force, unlike the brute squad behind him.
The girl—who couldn’t be any more than twenty-one or -two—merely uttered two words, her gaze still on the men who left. “Do it.”
Aspen’s gut churned. “Do what?” Kill me?
The grunts who’d held Aspen moved toward her. She withdrew, but one held her. The other pinned her leg to the ground. Drove his large fist straight into her calf. Pain blinded her.
Thirty-Nine
Safe House, Djibouti
Lid down and door locked, the bathroom became a haven. When he thought of what took place—or rather, what got deposited—in this room, the irony couldn’t be any greater that he found it to be a place of quiet, a place to think.
Austin cranked the knob on the shower then sat on the lid of the toilet, waiting as the pipes filtered the junk and turned the water clear.
From his pocket, he retrieved the phone. Ran his thumb over the screen, swiping away the sweat that mottled the display.
Calling her could unleash trouble.
Not calling her…well, he’d never know.
Everything in him wanted to believe he hadn’t been played.
You’re grasping.
Yeah, he knew he was. But still…he had to know. He’d never felt this way about anyone, till Lina showed up. Finding her, connecting with her, sharing the journey—
That’s what he thought he’d been doing.
Was it all an act? A way for her to bleed him of information?
Austin stepped from the still-functional bathroom after a quick shower. He grabbed his gear and stuffed it in a duffel Rocket loaned him. Back in his old duds, Austin realized the clothes were rank. But at least he’d scrubbed down.
He crossed the open bay and spotted the others loading gear. They were trying to load up the steel crate. He smirked. Knowing Talon was in good hands with Scrip, Austin headed over to help. He tossed in his bag then waved the guys off. With a few deft moves, he collapsed the crate.
“Thanks,” Rocket said.
“No worries.” He motioned to the SUV. “Is this everything? We ready to go?”
“Just about. Waiting on the general. He’s on the line with HQ.” Rocket closed the rear hatch. As they headed back toward the main room, he glanced toward him. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Why’d you do it? Ya know—the spook thing? Digging deep and leaving your family?” The guy shrugged, his lanky build and squared shoulders a dichotomy. “Not sure I could do that.”
“It wasn’t easy, but I believed I could help my country. Help others.” Austin shook his head. “I just felt it was right.” Memories slipped and slid through his mind. “I went back to Austin twice. To check on Aspen.” A raw burning began at the back of his throat. “The last time, I just…I saw her and Talon…and I knew I couldn’t visit them again. It haunted me. But I felt I was doing the right thing.”
“Do you regret it?”
“Sure.” Austin hated admitting it. “Yeah. I do—hate what it did to Aspen, to Talon. But would I do it again?” He shrugged and pursed his lips. “I probably would. What I did, leaving, working for the country, it was important. I was one of the few willing to do it.”
They stepped into the mini operations room.
Awareness lit through his mind. Energy—bad energy. Not that he was into all that mysticism. But whatever happened—
And Timbrel. She was as angry as a wet cat as she railed at Burnett, who held a hand over his forehead. “Where’s Courtland?” she demanded.
“Right here.” Austin moved forward. “What’s going on?”
“Where is he? What’d you do with him?”
“Do with whom? What are you talking about?”
“Talon’s missing!”
Forty
Weakness.
Power.
Disgraced.
Honored.
Shoved down.
Raised up.
Bent forward, elbows on his knees, Cardinal rubbed the knuckles of his fist. Polar opposites had served to define his existence, growing up under the authoritarian rule of the colonel. Terror had shaped Cardinal’s performance. Terror that should he fail, no matter how large or how much, he would pay. And severely. Beatings were as commonplace as the smiles and love other children received.
“You never smile.”
Cardinal sat back with a thump against the pew. Aspen’s soft words played over in his mind, tormenting him. If he could get her back—alive—he’d smile for her every day of the year. She’d be the reason for those smiles.
Which was why he had to do this. Why he had to accept that the fisher/beggar man, whoever—or whatever—he was, had delivered a message.
Much like the one who had lured him into his current profession.
Sitting in this very cathedral, agony the only warmth in life during the hard, bitter winter that defined his life. It’d been ten winters since his mother’s burial. And that’s all—a burial. Outside a small church. No service. The colonel had refused. To do anything, including acknowledge that she had been his mistress. That she had given birth to his son.
Thanks to the man on the beach, Cardinal realized his inaction regarding Aspen mirrored that of his father’s. Refusing to dip his baton into the cauldron he’d stirred. Refusing to accept responsibility for the mistress he’d used and the son he’d fathered.
The only reason Aspen got snatched was because of Cardinal.
No.
Not Cardinal. That moniker belonged to the man sitting here now. A man who’d built his life with strategic moves, building block upon block. Creating a fortress between himself and the past. The pain. The shame. The very name…Nikol.
Just hearing the name internally whipped him. Made him feel like he lay on the stripped mattress in the dark, icy room. Punishment came in forms of deprivation. No heat in his room. No bedding. No dinner. Things mattered little to him when he could conjure up images of his mom. Or Kalyna.
His father could rape his mind, but he would never
touch Kalyna. That thought seed had dug deep roots, enabled him to endure just about everything. Especially after their mother died. But then, he’d had to stop visiting Kalyna. Things got dangerous. For her. For him. It was the greatest coup he pulled on the colonel, hiding her existence. A great victory his mother took to her grave.
He’d lost her…lost Kalyna in the years, in the distance that grew between them. Both physical and emotional.
He peeked up through his brows at the colorful glass sparkling in the high walls and the brilliant frescoes stretching across the domes…straight to the one that held his heart. The angel.
Then the angel flew.
Angel…his mom…Aspen…
Cardinal blew out a breath and closed his eyes. “I’m here…” Was he really talking to God? He’d never cemented his stance on that existence of the deity. Sitting in cathedral after cathedral soothed his soul. Used the time to think. To sort out whatever problem or situation he’d found himself in. But he’d stopped, every time, short of acknowledging God.
“But You didn’t do that to me, did You?”
Thoughts flitted from the moment Burnett put Aspen in his path, knowing full well that had Cardinal known she was a woman, the mission would’ve ended before it started. Then seeing Aspen for the first time. Sunlight filtering through her halolike curls. Then he’d crumbled beneath the fear, the frantic possibility of losing control and hurting Aspen. Her finding him at St. Mary’s in Austin. Then Burnett “marrying” them. Then Aspen’s declaration of love. Something Cardinal didn’t deserve. And at the time shunned her and the thought, though everything in him wanted to seize it. Then to the beggar. Who fed him. Not just fish but courage. Purpose. Fuel to the fire that simmered in his gut.
Acknowledge God.
He avoided that—out of fear. Afraid of being vulnerable. Afraid of letting go…Because then, what did he have to fuel him? Drive him? Keep him focused?
He wasn’t sitting here because he was trying to talk himself out of this. He knew what he had to do. That was just it. Confronting the colonel—general now…
He sloughed his palms together, wishing he could slough off the past. Wished the lethal and cunning precision he’d exerted in his profession could bleed into this situation. But the terror that suffocated his character as a teen surged to the front of his mind. That man…nobody held power over him the way the colonel did.
The kid inside him, the one who never had a childhood but a strict, militaristic, authoritarian upbringing, screamed to run. Flee Mother Russia before the general could do something.
“God…he…I can’t…” Cardinal pushed back and pressed his spine against the wood of the pew. Weak. Weak. Weak. Thirty-three years old and still as petrified as at ten.
Pathetic.
Weak.
“You sit in cathedrals longing for something you think you can never have because you’re too afraid to reach for it.”
He hung his head. Aspen was right. But there’d been no condemnation in her voice. Only hurt—for him. She believes in me.
Like my mother.
His eyes traced the stained glass, the relics that held symbolic power. “Like You.” Something inside him heated. “You believed in me, didn’t You? Drew me here, to Yourself?”
The thought solidified. Gave him purpose. “God, I’m not going to let Aspen down.” He swallowed the swell of panic. Felt the acid roiling through his gut. “I ask nothing for myself—save this one guilty pleasure: Help me save her.”
Knowing he could save her, knowing he could thwart the colonel one last time…Facing Vasily Tselekova. Confronting him. Bringing all Cardinal was and knew to bear on this man…He nodded. Yes, he would die in peace.
Resolve hardened in his chest. He glanced to the cross over the altar. “Help me do this. Please. If she lives, I can die in peace. I am willing to do that. For her.” Conviction, a familiar yet entirely new agony boomed through him with adrenaline. “Please.”
And that’s exactly what would happen.
Cardinal pushed up from the pew and strode out the side door. Greedy sunlight rushed into him, momentarily blinded him. A soft, wet nose nudged his hand. A smile threatened his stiff composure. He paused and knelt.
Talon stepped in closer and sat.
Arms wrapped around the Lab’s chest, Cardinal ran a hand across the broad skull. “Thank you, boy. For your trust. For your cooperation.” Incredible that he didn’t feel odd talking to a dog. “She loves you, and I know you love her. We’ll find her soon. Just…” His gaze drifted over the stone sentries peppering the grounds. “Give me a minute.” He patted Talon then stood.
Squinting against the sun, he strode down the bricked main path. Turned right then strolled down the square stone path. Trees loomed overhead, wooden guardians of the granite coffins, sarcophagi, grave sites fenced in wrought iron…
Cardinal walked on, feeling the chill of that day. The terrible time of aloneness that engulfed him. Mother was in a better place, where she would be loved and treasured as she should have been on this earth. His father was a different, crueler man from that day forward.
Could it be possible…had the colonel loved her?
Or was he simply furious that he’d been pushed beyond the bounds of his self-control?
Cardinal turned down a narrow alley, noting the vines snaking around the iron and soapstone crosses, angels, and plain headstones. At the pauper’s section, he wove a few more rows down then slowed.
Warmth flooded him as the past assaulted his mind.
Beneath his boots snow crunched loud and obnoxious. As if heralding his presence.
Nikol pressed himself against the bare-limbed tree, holding the bark as if it could save him from this nightmare. As if it gave him hope.
The earth, not too hard for burial, mounded to the left. Concealing the hole. Two men dressed in old trousers, jackets, and hats wielded shovels with such skill, Nikol knew they’d performed the soulless tasks of burial many times.
But he hadn’t. And the thought of trespassing over the bodies of those who’d walked these places before him poked at his courage.
He should be ashamed! To stand here when she…
Something tickled his cheek. He scratched it, his fingers cold and hurting. Wet. Tears? The colonel will kill me! He scrubbed his face—
Thunk! Thunk-thunk.
Nikol stilled. Stepped out from behind the tree.
Laughter carried on the icy wind as more thunks and thuds joined the voices. Taunting.
He punched his way across the snow. No, they couldn’t bury her yet! He hadn’t said good-bye. “Podozhdite.” Oh, please wait. “Stop!”
One glanced over his shoulder, surprise etched in his face when his gaze hit Nikol. The man straightened.
“Podozhdite. Pozhaluǐsta.” Please, he begged again. By the time he reached the mound, the sight on the other side of the large rectangle they’d dug, Nikol couldn’t move. The box…so thin. So little to protect her. Heat and water ran down his cheeks. “Mama…” Seeing that coffin, that box…things became real. Hellish. He was alone. No strength, no hope to light his day, anxious to see her once more when his father felt “weak.”
She was gone. Gone! No no no no! He launched over the mound, sliding over the dirt. He dropped to his knees next to the flimsy coffin. He threw himself over the top. Sobbing. “Nyet, ne ostavlyaǐ menya.” No, please, please don’t leave me.
But, of course, she had. Not of her own choice. She died in her attempt to free him. Irony at its best—worst?—she ultimately freed herself. Completely.
“You are predictable.”
The soft, feminine voice drew Cardinal up. Around. He stumbled back. Blinked. Heart careening at the image before him. Waves of amber hair. Wide mahogany eyes. Mama? No, no it was impossible.
She smirked as two men joined her. “Predictable,” she said, her words thickened by her Russian accent. “Just as he predicted.”
Cardinal glanced back to the headstone. To the name engraved: Эли�
�на Маркоски. The Cyrllic lettering that spelled ELIANA MARKOSKI. Checked the dates. Yes, she died. Shake it off. This girl, this young girl, whoever she was…
Her gaze skidded from his to the headstone. Blue eyes seemed to absorb the information on the plain stone. Something blinked in her eyes. Flashed through her expression as she slowly dragged her attention back to him. Her mouth parted.
He flashed back more than nearly two decades. To the young girl in the woods, watching him. Calling after him. Cardinal hauled in a breath and let it out with her name. “Kalyna?”
Forty-One
33,000 Feet Over the Middle East
Where do we stand?” Lance closed the shade to the portal of the great blue beyond and turned his focus to the huddle around his leather chair.
Thank God, Payne’s lackeys had splurged on the Lear to get down to Djibouti lickety-split, or Lance would be hoofing it for twenty-four hours to St. Petersburg on a commercial liner.
“Not much. We know Tselekova fell out of grace with his superiors about two years ago.” Lieutenant Hastings set a picture on the low table between the four chairs.
Members of ODA452 and Timbrel leaned in to get a glimpse of the man.
“What happened?” Watters asked.
“His ideas were—”
“Radical?” Austin offered.
“No.” Brie locked gazes with the man. “Familiar. He wants to help return Russia to its former glory, and he believes it’s acceptable to do it on the backs and lives of anyone. Since he was merely a general and not a politician or cabinet member or president…” She shrugged. “They sent him away to work some obscure job on a frozen base.”
Ah, a lead? “Where?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Smith said. “He never showed up. Went completely off-grid.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Smith said, laying out more photos, “while politicians and superiors didn’t like him, he had a fist hold over the throats and hearts of many under him. Promises of wealth and power were served up at every meeting. He’s formed a quiet little insurrection.”
