Soul Raging

by Ronie Kendig

  “Does Leif know?”

  Relief washed over her again, because with that question came the same hope she held—that if Leif knew, he would be here. “I tried to call him.” Why were her fears so loud and her confidence silent? “I did not want to come back without either of them, but I had no answers and no help.”

  “You do now,” Canyon reassured her. “Think this is ArC-related?”

  “It would not surprise me.” She hated to think about the possibilities. What that meant for Taissia.

  He hugged her, and it broke loose her tears. “We’ll find her—and Leif. Both of them.” He released her and stepped back.

  “What’s going on?” Culver asked as he came over.

  “Someone took her daughter.”

  “Whatever you need,” Culver asserted with the same ferocity.

  “Thank you,” Iskra said.

  Canyon nodded toward Braun’s office. “Any news?”

  “Nesto is stepping in as consultant,” Culver said as the team grouped around them.

  “Which has Braun and Iliescu livid,” Saito chimed in.

  “Correction.” Mercy eyed the officers. “Braun isn’t upset. At all.”

  “You saying she’s in on it?” Cell approached with a female guest Iskra didn’t know.

  Mercy stiffened, turning away from them. “I’m saying, Braun isn’t upset.” She gestured toward Cell’s guest. “And she shouldn’t be here.”

  “She,” the newcomer said, “has a name and was invited here by Director Iliescu.”

  “Allowed,” Cell corrected. “He allowed you to come.” His guilt hung heavily on his young face.

  Iskra didn’t know her but already didn’t like her, especially with the stiff tension roiling between her and Iskra’s friend. “Who are you?”

  “This is Alisz,” Mercy said, with a ticked cock of her head.

  Alisz. The one who had been trained and reared by the same toxic influence who raised Mercy. The same woman Mercy had tried to get Cell not to communicate with.

  “Alisz Vogt.” For a newcomer in a place where many already appeared not to like her, she had a lot of dark satisfaction in her face. “And you are?”

  Iskra definitely did not like her. “Not interested.” She started away from the central hub, determined to find a place to stash the book and panels until Alisz and the new invaders were gone. Why had she thought this was a good idea, to return and talk to the director? Had she just jeopardized everything, especially her daughter and Leif?

  * * *

  STERLING, VIRGINIA

  The home was a mix of colonial and Southern plantation styles, with its white façade and navy blue shutters. Situated pleasantly on an acre atop a knoll, it had a nice view of the Northern Virginia horizon—and in the distance, between branches shedding their leaves, a glittering hint of the Potomac. The rising sun seemed symbolic in many ways. The sun had set on his hope for a quiet, peaceful life. Now it rose on a new direction, an outlet.

  Leif returned the framed print to the mantel, noting there was not a mote of dust in this place. Glancing around, he took in the oil paintings, the furnishings, the tasteful decoration, but his gaze swung back to the picture. He traced its edge. He’d never been much for sentimentality—his younger sister and mom had controlling shares in that—but the picture recalled days when he still believed that those who said they’d take care of things actually would. Trusting a man who invited him out on a boat for a lazy, relaxing weekend had built some of that belief. The same friend who hand-fed him delicacies and lies as the yacht ambled down the river, flanked by majestic hills littered with the splendor of fall. In a few more months, the leaves would be turning again soon, years later.

  Rutger Hermanns had named Dru with his dying breath and previously told Leif that a friend had the other panel. A “mutual friend.” Then there was the painting itself, and its symbolic depiction of the betrayal by a friend.

  Hands on his belt, Leif turned and considered the ambiance of the home that so clearly reflected the man he’d trusted.

  How much had Dru known?

  All of it.

  There was no way he couldn’t have. And for that, he had to answer.

  But first . . . Leif searched the rooms, closets, drawers. It had to be here. Hermanns named him as his murderer.

  Dru had set him up. Lied to him. Tried to get him killed. What else?

  There was a kind of rage that made Leif break things and limbs. Another rage, a quieter, more dangerous one that forced him to conserve energy, to think, plan, and retaliate.

  He stalked into the bedroom. Crisp and clean. Nothing out of place. Except the pants and shirt laid out on the bed. The sound of water running in the shower. Sliding his Ruger from its holster, Leif waited in the bedroom that had a pristine view of the backyard with no neighbors to obstruct the view. Quiet, undisturbed. That was how Dru liked life, no matter how false that solitude.

  Well, Leif was here to disrupt the status quo.

  He peered at the shirt and tie on the bed. Touched them with the muzzle of the gun. Shifted them slightly. The same way he’d mess with Dru’s life—altering things just enough to get the desired result. He had to, since nobody else would. But . . . doing this, being this person—it wasn’t what Leif wanted. He’d expected to have the wife, one-point-two-five kids, nice car, home, family pet, and maddening normalcy.

  But others had chosen for him, altered that course. Altered his head, his life.

  He strode toward the bathroom.

  It was time to return the favor.

  * * *

  Dru dried off, wrapped the towel around his waist, and stepped out of the shower. Yesterday’s bombshell invasion of the joint chiefs and SECDEF, who decided Reaper needed overwatch in the form of Colonel Nesto, had been enough to make Dru leave the bunker before he resigned in anger and frustration. Alene had known they were coming, and that was the bugger of it all. He’d been betrayed by his own. Back home, he’d had too much bourbon as he sat, thinking. Trying to figure out how to get Leif back and not get anyone killed.

  He shook his head as he stepped into a pair of boxers and strode into the bedroom. His phone lit with a new call. He glanced at the screen, shock trickling through his system at the notification.

  VOICEMAIL FROM RH.

  The sense of being haunted rushed through him. “How . . . ?” Rutger Hermanns had died two days ago! He coded in and retrieved the message.

  “I must warn you, old friend,” came Hermanns’ heavy, weighted voice. “I trusted the intel you provided for the facility in South Africa. I trusted that you wanted answers as much as we did and to make those responsible pay, so I gave it to them. I sent them down there. We trusted you, and you ambushed them. Perhaps I should not be surprised—it was a long game, and these days, can we truly know friend from foe?”

  Dru lowered his head and covered his eyes. He had received and passed on bad intel. Intel that cost lives. He balled his fist. Hermanns was right—who was friend and who was foe? Apparently Wheeler wasn’t the friend he’d thought.

  “But that is neither here nor there. I call because my time is up. I will soon be dead. Veratti is aware of my betrayal, just as Leif is now aware of yours. He knows, Dru. He knows the intel came from you.”

  Dru stared up at the ceiling, as if he could escape.

  “I should not tell you this, but in the chance that the intel was a mistake, that you yourself were fooled, I warn you. He will come for you, my friend. They will come, demanding answers and much more. Though I have sent him a video detailing everything I know and encouraging him to look past his own wounds, I cannot stop what he intends, and I am not sure that I would want to.” A pause gaped through the line, then the sound of sniffling. “We trusted you. And that was met with betrayal.”

  Dru expelled what felt like a toxic breath as the call ended. “It wasn’t me,” he muttered. But it was. Just not on purpose. Running a hand down the back of his neck, he reached for his slacks—and froze.

>   His gut cinched. He shot a glance around the room.

  You’re overreacting.

  But he wasn’t. He’d laid the tie straight. Now its end was flipped up, pointing toward the door. Swallowing the acrid taste in his mouth, he checked his phone. No notices from his security alarm.

  Rutger’s warning screamed in his head, and Dru reached behind the nightstand for his gun. And cursed—it wasn’t there. Dread coiled in the pit of his stomach. He pivoted toward the closet and snagged the 1911 from the top shelf. Verified a round in the chamber as he coded in on his phone.

  “Good morning, Deputy Director,” said the officer on watch.

  “Have there been any interruptions?” He grabbed his slacks and stuffed them on.

  “Uh . . . no, sir.” The tech sounded confused, concerned. “Is there a problem, sir?”

  Dru turned toward the bedroom door.

  “Sir? Do you need me to send a QRF?”

  “No. Patch me through to Braun.” Dru peered down the hall to the living room. He hurried forward, clearing rooms as he advanced to the kitchen.

  Light erupted.

  Weapon up, Dru jerked, searching for a target. Then he remembered the motion sensor lights. The open-concept floor plan had been intentional and served him well, giving him a clear line of sight on the dining room, the kitchen with its large marble island, and the living room with its fire—

  He stilled, his gaze on the mantel.

  Pulse rattling like a Gatling gun, Dru took a step back and cursed. Darted a look around his home again. Checked windows, the yard, and the street. Nothing. He didn’t have an expansive view, but it was enough to know if there was trouble. Of course, a sniper was unlikely to be seen from here, and if there was one out there, it would be too late.

  Again his gaze trailed the wall to the fireplace that bisected the bookshelves. To the mantel and the lone picture sitting atop it. It showed the yacht the day he’d made a commitment to himself and to Leif. Beside that picture lay the Glock removed from the bedroom. It faced the picture that now had a target drawn over Dru’s face.

  “Dru,” a voice said through the phone, “what—”

  “Lock down the bunker.” He rushed back to the bedroom.

  “Why?”

  “Do it! Lock it down!”

  TWENTY

  TYSON’S CORNER, VIRGINIA

  Killing Dru in cold blood in his own home wouldn’t help. Wouldn’t make the point that needed to be made. Leif hoped to find the third panel, his coup d’état against this insidious game that had devoured his life. He’d been struck by a bad case of a good conscience. Yet he didn’t have the panel.

  It didn’t make sense. None of it—why would Dru kill Hermanns? Was he a witness to the Durban facility? Was that it?

  Nah, too simple. Then again . . . maybe not. Another reason that drove Leif from the director’s home. If Leif connected Dru to what ArC was doing and Dru was responsible for Hermanns’ death, he had to answer for it.

  Now, perched on the sofa in Iskra’s apartment, Leif held the picture Taissia had drawn of them and recalled the night in his condo when he’d been standing on the balcony and Taissia had asked for a sibling.

  He pitched the drawing onto the table and rubbed his knuckles. Dreams long gone.

  Rotating his head, he wondered when Iskra had last been here. By the dust and stale smell, the apartment hadn’t been lived in for a while, yet there were fresh vegetables in the fridge. So she was back, but maybe not long enough to clean. Then where was she? What had she done with the book and panels?

  Unlike the last time he’d left, this time he sought her out as soon as he’d returned. But not to talk. Just to see her. No, more than that. He wanted her in his arms. Wanted the reassurance she somehow always gave. He missed the sound of her voice. He itched to talk to her, but he’d destroyed his personal phone before Durban and hadn’t accessed his messages online. No way he’d give them a bead on his location.

  The sat phone he’d used with the Neiothen vibrated. He tugged it out and frowned at the message. From Rutger? Not possible. He was dead. Was the number and name ghosted? But nobody had this number. . . .

  Going against his better judgment, he accessed the message. A video of Rutger.

  “Ah, Leif. You have been betrayed and the truth hidden. If you are getting this video, I am gone, but the truth is not. Recall what I said of Cyrus . . .”

  Leif pinched the bridge of his nose as he listened to the message. Man, he did not need these thoughts in his head right now. He wanted to see Iskra. Make sure she was okay after the encounter in the square. Find out what she’d done with the book and panels. His gaze hit the hall, and for a split-second, he saw Taissia racing down the foyer and leaping into his arms. Strange how much he wanted that.

  He’d come here, not to his brother, because he didn’t need complications. He needed answers. And for those responsible to pay.

  Voices in the hall pushed him off the couch, and he tucked the small comms piece into his ear and tapped it. “Six en route.”

  He climbed out the window and used his parkour skills to scale the building to the roof. From there, he made his way across the rooftops to the parking structure. He strode down the ramps until he found the black SUV idling just as planned. He climbed in and shut the door.

  Andreas considered him. “Is he dead?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You lose your nerve?”

  “No, I figured out how to make the payout bigger.”

  “And her—was she there?”

  Leif stared out the window as they waited for the others to show. “No.”

  “It is better.” Andreas considered a small gray sedan gliding past. “We do this—you do not want her there.”

  Was that the assassin in Andreas talking or the big brother? Iskra was his sister, and he rarely mentioned that, yet there always seemed to be a deferential tone when he talked about her. Was the “can’t feel” thing real? Or was it an angle Andreas worked so he didn’t have to explain himself? None of the other Neiothen had that issue, though with their effectiveness, many wondered.

  “Three and Four on approach,” the comm crackled as headlamps popped around a corner. The second black SUV backed in next to theirs. There were no cameras in here, and with the concrete walls, it was almost as impenetrable as a belowground bunker as far as radio interception was concerned. Two minutes later, the third SUV appeared.

  Andreas glanced at him. “You sure you can do this?”

  “It was my idea.”

  “They’re your friends.”

  “Were my friends.” He gritted his teeth against the simmering rage. “Dru set us up. Killed Hermanns. He’s been lying to me for years. He knows more than he’s letting on, and I’m going to find out what he’s hiding.”

  “That sounds like you trying to convince yourself.”

  Leif tugged the balaclava over his face. “Let’s do this.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  REAPER HEADQUARTERS, MARYLAND

  “Look, I get it—you don’t trust her. I’m not sure I do either, but she’s been cleared by Iliescu. Let’s get over this, Mercy,” Cell said, pushing as much annoyance into his words as he could.

  Mercy lifted her eyebrows. “Oh, you are definitely Barc’ing up the wrong tree.”

  Despite his own waffling doubts, he had gone through protocols. Her presence here was legit. “Alisz is cleared by—”

  “Actually,” a deep, gravelly voice intruded, yanking his attention to the new colonel who threw his rank around, “effective immediately, that access is rescinded.” He nodded to the Marines with him. “Take her into custody.”

  Cell came to his feet. “Sir, that is completely—”

  “Within my right. Sit down, Purcell.”

  “Wait a minute!” He tensed as the Marines pressed in behind Alisz, but Canyon put a hand on his shoulder, staying him. “That’s not necessary,” he called out, lacking conviction.

  “You’re convinced she’s innoc
ent?” Canyon asked, weight in his tone, which made Cell hesitate—and angry.

  He should have a more definitive gauge on her, since he’d gotten her into the bunker. He was more sure than not that she was a friendly.

  “I know you’ll get me out,” Alisz said to Cell. “Or . . . I will have to rely on my own ingenuity.”

  “Meaning she’ll bust herself out,” Mercy warned.

  “Not going to happen,” Nesto bit out. “She will not have access to any computer systems. We are well aware of Miss Vogt’s specialties.”

  That drew Cell around. “What does that mean?”

  With a curl of his lip, Nesto ignored the question and moved to the conference table in the main hub. “Okay, people, gather up. We’re going to establish some ground rules.”

  “This is bunk.” Cell watched as Alisz was led through the doors to the holding tank.

  Culver, Saito, Baddar, and Mercy shared looks as Canyon and Iskra stood from desks at the rear of the hub.

  “You’re Viorica.” Nesto sneered at her.

  Iskra said nothing. Most in this hub knew she hated that name now that she was on this side of the assassin life.

  Nesto’s gaze hit Leif’s brother. “Who are you?”

  Canyon folded his arms. “I thought you knew everything.”

  “You will answer—”

  “No,” Canyon stated flatly. “I won’t. I’m not tasked to you, nor do I answer to you.”

  “Then I’ll have the Marines escort you out.”

  “Do that, and you’ll answer to my boss.”

  “And who is that?”

  Canyon lifted a phone and dialed, then held it out with the speaker on.

  “Office of the chairman of the joint chiefs,” came a polite but clipped voice.

  Nesto glowered. “You’ve made your point.” He frowned as Canyon hung up. “So who are you?”

  “The guy you don’t know.”

  And they thought Leif was alpha? But there had to be a reason he was refusing to give his name to this colonel.

  “You son of—”