by Ronie Kendig
Hand on the large, heavy door, she hesitated, afraid of what she’d find on the other side. Courage mustered, she shoved open the door and sucked in a hard breath. “No.”
Where she expected confrontation, attackers, she found none. Where she expected walls lined with books and musty old furniture, she found none. Where she expected Bogdashka or her bodyguard, she found none. No one. Not a single soul.
“Taissia!” Iskra bolted out of the empty room, grabbed the handrail, and threw herself up the stairs three at a time. “Taissia!” Though she scoured the bedrooms, she found only desolation. Up the next flight to the attic, her pulse exploding adrenaline and panic through her.
“Taissia! Taissia, please!” Tears choked her as she scaled the last steps. Pitched herself toward the room tucked in the corner under the eaves. Momentum carried her into the wall, the paneling cracking as she rebounded. She vaulted at the door, which surrendered to her force.
Empty.
“No!” Iskra turned a circle, not wanting to believe it. “No, please!” She would not accept this. Grasping, straining, she begged for this not to be happening. Maybe she was in the wrong house. Wrong day. Wrong life. Anything!
She snatched her phone and dialed Bogdashka. An automated message played, informing her the number was no longer in service. “Augh!” She gripped her hair. “Think!”
Options running low, she tried a few contacts, digging way back into her past, but it was as if Bogdashka, the entire school, and her daughter had vanished into thin air.
Like a ghost, her daughter’s scream howled through her mind, begging not to be left here. Wailing that she didn’t like it. And even Iskra’s own better judgment warned her. Yet she ignored them all. Now her daughter would pay.
Iskra skipped a step and threw a punch into the wall. The plaster chomped into her knuckles. Pain told her this wasn’t a nightmare. It was real. Very real. She pivoted and this time kicked the wall with a feral scream. She punched it again. And again. Emptying her rage at her own stupidity, at the woman she trusted against her own intuition. Her fury that Taissia was no doubt experiencing the horrific brainwashing Iskra had endured. That so many had endured at the tutelage of a woman who was no woman.
Hair in her face, damp from her raging and tears, Iskra dropped back against the wall, pounding the support it provided. Her breaths came in heaving gulps as she slid to the floor, furious—at herself, at Bogdashka. But mostly at herself for handing over her daughter. It was her fault Taissia would be broken.
Sobbing, she grieved that she had lost the one part of her life that was innocent, perfect, beautiful. The one tether she might have had to Leif—
Leif.
Hope struggled past her grief. Shattered, she called his number. Knew he wouldn’t answer. But she must try. “They took her,” she sniffled. “Leif, they took Taissia. Please . . . I need you.”
The shards of her life shredded her—she had never needed anyone. To be in this place, to want the help of one person and not have it . . .
* * *
STUTTGART, GERMANY
Death had an odor and visage that looked and smelled a lot like Rutger Hermanns’ home, where Leif had been crashing since leaving Reaper. It seemed smart at the time—away from the city and prying eyes. But now . . .
As he approached the door, Leif felt his hackles rise—it wasn’t closed or locked. A shoe just in view—Arno. Flanking the entry with Andreas, who entered first, Leif snaked in behind him, scanning for intruders.
“He’s dead,” Andreas said of the security guard, who lay in a bloody halo. “Rutger.” He looked at Leif. “I’ll check the office—you, the library.”
Where were the guards? Why was the place abandoned?
With his Ruger at the ready, Leif traced every door as he made his way to the library, anticipating contact. More of those Gen2s that made him think of razor blades, the way they sliced through lives. He advanced toward the library, nerves buzzing.
Hermanns was sitting in his favorite leather chair, head lolled to one side, mouth agape. His hand rested over his bloodied chest.
Leif darted to him and shoved a palm against the wound.
The pressure—and no doubt pain—made Hermanns’ eyes snap open. He drew in a wet, ragged breath. Stared at Leif, eyes unfocused yet searching for understanding.
Cursing, Andreas joined them. Dropped to a knee to assist, a phone in hand, likely to contact emergency services. “Rutger, who did this?”
“We need to lay him down,” Leif said. “Staunch the bleeding.”
“Do it!” Andreas said, leaning in and lifting his mentor.
Hermanns gurgled as they situated him on the floor. He coughed. His head shifted as if he were trying to shake it. “Too late. Go. Hurry.”
“Who did this?” Leif repeated. “Why?”
Eyes drifting closed, Hermanns parted his lips, then seemed to breathe his last with his entire body.
“Rutger!” Andreas shouted.
Hermanns startled again, twisting in pain. “Leif,” he croaked.
“I’m here.” Leif hovered over him. “Tell us who shot you. We’ll take care of it.”
“N . . .” Rutger wheezed. His fingers moved to Leif’s, his gaze distant and yet fighting for control. “Dr . . . Dru . . .”
Leif choked, disbelieving what that name on Hermanns’ lips meant. “Dru did this to—”
Hermanns angled aside. His face screwed tight. His chest lifted, then wheezed out in one final exhalation of life. Only as he lay dead did the value, the immense character of the man too readily believed a villain make itself known to Leif. And with it—the daunting last word—a name.
Dru. Why? Why would Dru do this?
“Polizei,” Andreas muttered as the sirens screamed distantly. “We must go.”
As he stood, Leif glanced at Hermanns, wishing they could’ve saved him. With that sucking chest wound and their limited supplies, there was nothing they could do. Forlorn, Leif moved to the library door, snagging a tea towel to wipe his hands. As he did, he glanced back into the darkened interior. Not long ago, this was where his life had taken a new course.
Andreas clapped his shoulder. “Come on.”
They sprinted out of the house and climbed into the car. In the passenger seat, Leif sagged, trying to think. To figure out why Dru had Hermanns killed.
“It was ArC,” Andreas said.
Leif looked at Andreas, who held a gold coin. “What’s that?”
“The coin of the founders—there were five of them in the beginning.” Andreas rotated the piece of gold between his fingers. “They each had to pay a gold coin to Veratti, vowing their wealth, their loyalty, and their lives.”
“Why would they take him out? He was helping them!”
“No,” Andreas hissed as they passed the first emergency vehicle. “He was not. Only ever did he stand against them. Rutger was an expert at making sure they did not know what his other hand was doing while he served their whims. But since his sister died, he has worked to destroy what Veratti built. It was slow, and it angered me to see the snail’s pace, but he never wavered at making Veratti pay for what they did to Katrin.”
“But the facility—they knew we were coming.”
“They did,” Andreas agreed, “but why would they kill him if he told them where we were?”
Leif had to nod. It made sense. He’d let his anger and thirst for vengeance blind him to the common-sense truth. “He said Dru did this.” Buoyed with a new determination, he straightened in his seat. “I need to get back to the States.”
“Think they can help?”
“I’m not going back for help. I’m going to repay a favor.”
NINETEEN
REAPER HEADQUARTERS, MARYLAND
It had been a week since Leif and the Neiothen hit the facility in South Africa and the SECDEF had all but threatened his career. Since then, Dru had activated assets on the ground in Durban and tapped analysts stateside to pore over the cybertrail of that facility
. He couldn’t explain how intel had gotten some wires crossed. And now Hermanns wasn’t responding. Then there was the whole nightmare called Leif Metcalfe.
Everything was falling off the rails.
“Please,” Dru begged, knuckling his desk as he considered the latest report from the asset. “Just give me something to work with.” He wasn’t sure who he was talking to—he hadn’t prayed in years. It didn’t seem to do much good these days, especially in this political climate.
That his asset hadn’t been able to gain access to the facility gave him not only pause for concern, but also another layer of conviction that the building wasn’t just a center for the deaf and blind. It had to be a cover.
Dru grabbed his phone and dialed his assistant. “Hey, do we have the intel from the attack—pictures or the report—”
“Not yet, sir. I followed up this morning, and they said it’s almost ready.”
Slamming down the phone did nothing for his frustration. He planted both palms on the desk, unable to sit. Unable to figure anything out.
A soft rap on the door drew his gaze up as Alene entered.
He wanted to groan. “How will you betray me today?”
Her expression was grieved. “We just got word that Rutger Hermanns was found dead in his home—shot in the chest.”
Unbelievable. Dru dropped into his chair and huffed out a breath. “When?”
“Yesterday morning. Security footage caught the killers leaving the premises.”
He had a really bad feeling about where this was going.
“It was Leif.”
Dru cursed. He leaned forward and rubbed his hands over his face, then looked at her. “I want that footage. We need to have our analysts go over it.”
“They’re already on it,” Alene said.
Unexpectedly fast. “How’d that happen?”
“When Vanhorn notified me, I asked for a copy, and it was in my inbox by the time we hung up. Before coming over, I sent it to our analysts.”
With Vanhorn already believing Leif’s involvement, there’d be more pressure to move against him. And by the look on Alene’s face, that had already happened. Dru was starting to feel like he wasn’t the deputy director of operations anymore—she was.
Was that in the works? Were they looking to replace him? He honestly didn’t care—as long as he got Leif back alive.
“They aren’t happy,” Alene said.
“Who is?” Dru bit out, then snorted. “Maybe Veratti.” He gave a cockeyed nod. “I imagine he’s probably hosting a rave about now.”
“We need to do something,” Alene implored. “Send the team—”
“Where?” Dru jerked forward in his chair and narrowed his eyes. “Tell me, Alene. Tell me where to send them. Because you seem to have intel I don’t. And you’re real buddy-buddy with Vanhorn and his minions.”
“I am a joint chief and must conduct myself—”
“Of course.” He flopped back against his chair and lifted his arms. “We’re just your team, part of your infrastructure.”
“Don’t get petty. This is a serious problem.”
“What was your first clue?” he snapped. “You may have forgotten, but I’m not one of your lackeys. I’m under CIA purview, and our rectangles on the org chart? They’re on the same line—equal!”
She shook her head. “I’d like to see you funnel that anger into stopping Leif, not dividing your team.”
“Divi—” Dru bit his tongue on an epithet. “Tell me how I’m doing that. Am I the one going to the SECDEF and the secretary of state with—”
“Enough!” Alene stood and walked out of his office.
Dru had an urge to throw something at her retreating form. But as she rounded the corner, another person appeared. He jerked straight at the sight of the attractive brunette, stunned to see her back in the bunker. “Iskra.” He’d all but given up on her returning without Leif. In fact, hadn’t she told Mercy she wouldn’t?
“Problems?” she asked with a rueful arch of her brows.
“Too many. How can I help you?”
She slipped in and closed the door. Locked it.
Hesitation trickled through him. “Do I need a tactical vest?”
Demure and tentative, she held a leather satchel and considered him for a moment. Her expression was taut and inscrutable. Then her eyes glossed.
Concern tugged at Dru. “What happened?”
She swallowed and crossed to his desk, where she set down the satchel. Resting her hand on the bag, she stared at it. As if she wanted to say something. She wet her lips and stepped back. Lifted her dark eyes to him, a tear slipping free. “They have my daughter.”
Dru jolted. “Who? How?”
“That satchel”—she nodded to the bag on his desk—“may be the only way I can get Leif to help me find her. Please—”
He flagged under the hope in her expression. “Iskra. I . . .” He sighed and tapped his desk. “Leif is on the verge of being declared an enemy combatant, maybe a traitor. He allegedly killed Rutger Hermanns and attacked a facility full of disabled persons.”
“He would never do that!” Iskra’s gaze was hard, decisive.
He stared at her, a painful cocktail of frustration and failure writhing through his chest.
“You know he wouldn’t.”
“Leif might not, but I’m not so sure he’s . . . Leif anymore.” Curiosity got the better of him, and he peeked into the satchel. “Holy—” Awe struck him as he pulled out the Book of the Wars. He gaped at her. “How’d you get this?”
“I encountered Leif in Germany and thought he was trying to attack me, so I stole it from him during a fight.” Another hard swallow. “Afterward, I realized he had not been shooting at me, but protecting me from two men pursuing him.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Perhaps what you think he did to Rutger . . . maybe that is not as it seems either.”
“I want to believe that—I really do—but we have him leaving the scene—”
In the bag, his hand hit something else, and he drew it out. He schooled his features and slowed his heart. Prayed she hadn’t noticed.
* * *
There was something inscrutable about Iliescu and . . . startled when he drew out the plastic bag containing the velvet pouch, which concealed the bi-paneled painting. Worried. But when his expression went hard, Iskra knew he was going to lie. “That was in the bag when I took it,” she said, hating that she felt the need to test him. “Any idea what it is?”
“I . . .” He seemed to wrestle with his conscience as he drew out the panels. “A painting of some kind, obviously.” He shrugged. Tucked it back in as if to hide it. “We can give it to Artifacts and have them—”
“No.” Iskra retrieved the palm-sized paintings and turned the hinged set over in her hand. This was important enough for Leif to be carting around and important enough for the director to lie. Which meant she had to be careful. “The book—we should keep it close until we can study it and learn all we can. Do you not agree?”
The words were her thrown gauntlet. A challenge to see where Iliescu stood. She hated the uncertainty whispering through her, echoing the betrayal Leif felt over the deputy director’s inaction. But she had to know the meaning of the look that had rippled across him regarding the strange bifold paintings, which did mean something. Yet he’d lied. Here was his chance to fix that. Convince her he wasn’t betraying them.
His gaze ricocheted from hers to the satchel. His hesitation had her reaching for the bag again. She’d been so convinced she should return—now she knew why.
“I need you to realize something,” Iskra said, her voice leaden. “I came here with this, believing in you. Believing in the relationship you had with Leif, Dru.” She had never used his first name before. “They have taken my daughter. Because I thought Leif trusted you and Reaper, and that his anger was more about his fears than betrayal, I decided to trust you as well, so I returned.” She held his gaze without faltering. “Now I see in your eyes so
mething that concerns me. Makes me wonder if Leif was not wrong after all.”
He seemed to search for answers around his desk, his attention landing on a framed print—a photo of him and Leif on a boat. Did Dru see Leif as more than an asset? Maybe as a protégé? Friend?
Anger wrestled past her composure, her usual ability to keep her focus sans emotion. But then, she’d done that most of her life. “I am not liking your hesitation.”
Dru let out a long exhale. “Iskra—” He saw something over her shoulder and visibly flinched, uttering an oath. Swiftly, he swept around her, motioning her back. “Hide that,” he ordered.
Confused, she looked into the hub foyer, saw two men in uniform, and jerked back to the desk. She snatched up the satchel and slipped the strap over her shoulder—who noticed a woman carrying her purse?—and emerged from his office. In the hub, she skirted the newcomers and the growing argument.
Watching the uniforms head into Braun’s office with the director, she joined Canyon. “What’s going on?”
“That’s the SECDEF. So we either just got shut down or taken over.” Canyon pivoted to her, then narrowed his gaze. Those blue eyes came into sharp focus. “What’s wrong?”
Iskra drew up, surprised at the definitive way he asked and that he knew something was amiss. “What do you mean?”
“What’s wrong?” he repeated with an edge.
It unnerved her how much he was like Leif. “Noth—”
“That doesn’t work with me,” he said, his tone firm but not gruff. “Iskra, with the way things are going, let’s skip protective measures. I see the grief in your eyes. And you’re not at the top of your game.”
She understood Leif came by his intensity honestly. Trust in Dru broken, she needed a new ally. “Bogdashka vanished with my daughter.”
Canyon came alive, reflecting a fierce protector. “Taissia?”
The way he said that brought her anger bubbling back to the surface. “I went to pick her up, and they had cleared out. She is gone, and I have no idea where to start looking.” She shoved her hair aside. “I checked with some contacts in the area, but nobody has seen them.”
