Soul Raging

by Ronie Kendig

  Alisz shrugged and rolled her eyes. “Yeah?”

  Mercy studied her, the girl who had not gotten away from Mina and the school. What was going on? “With what’s happening out there, revealing my . . . past”—she tried to breathe normally—“doesn’t help anyone.”

  “Are you insane? Of course it does! Why are you hiding what you can do, anyway?”

  “I’ve never hidden what I can do,” Mercy snapped. “I just don’t flaunt it. And if you had kept quiet, I would’ve been working on it without unnecessarily complicating things.”

  “Complicating?” Alisz frowned. “Unnecessarily?”

  “Please, Alisz,” Mercy hissed. “Just back off. In fact—when are you leaving?”

  Alisz’s freckled face darkened. “I have no plans to leave any time soon,” she said defiantly. “Why do you think this is just about you? I’ve made a connection with Barclay.”

  “No no no.” Mercy swung around the desk and moved toward her. “You are not—just stay away from him! Barc’s a good man, and I will not stand around while you mess with his head, then rip out his heart.”

  “Wait, you mean the way you did?” She cocked her head. “He told me at the hospital. Do you have any idea how much you hurt him?”

  “You don’t know anything about my relationship with him. I’ve known him a lot longer and—”

  “What? Are you angry because he likes me now?”

  Mercy was going to stab her. With a pen. In the carotid. “You are sick,” she snarled. “That was your problem—you always managed to reduce things to teenage drama. Who liked whom. Who hated whom. There’s a massive war brewing, and men are being killed, including someone I call a friend.” She sniffed. “So stay out of my business. And if you ever mention my past again—”

  “What will you tell them?” Alisz challenged. “I mean, you have to explain this, right? Or are you going to lie to them more?”

  “I’ve never lied to them,” Mercy countered.

  “So they know your name is Ariadne Wolff? They know that?”

  “Many people use a pseudonym to protect their identity.”

  “Does that work for you, Ari? Did it work when you were with Ram?”

  Mercy threw a punch. “Do not ever speak his name again.”

  Hand over the cheek that was swelling, Alisz didn’t yell or grow angry. Instead, there were tears. Drawing up a breath seemed to bolster her. “You can’t keep it, Mercy.”

  At the door, Mercy hesitated, confused.

  “You can’t keep this life. Mina won’t let you.”

  “So you are spying for her.” Mercy turned, ready to confront that challenge. “That was your first and last mistake. Because I promise—”

  “You’re right.” Alisz’s expression went strange, vulnerable—and she swallowed. “You’re right. Mina told me to contact Cell. Ingratiate myself. Find you. And I jumped at the chance,” she gritted out. “I hated you for leaving us. I wanted to make you hurt the way we—” She hung her head, sagging. “But as I headed over, I thought . . . maybe I could get away, too. Like you—start a new life.” Her chin dimpled with choked-back tears. “I haven’t tried in a very long time. I’m tired of it. I want a life, I want what you have.” Her eyes glossed. “That is why I came here.”

  Overwhelmed by dueling emotions—angry that Alisz was here at Mina’s behest, but also moved that she seemed so sincere, so desperate, and she could so perfectly recall her own desperation to flee—Mercy struggled for a clean breath. Yet . . . at the school, Alisz had been magnificent at turning the training scenarios in her favor. Was this another of her quick-witted twists?

  “I have traced you for a long time, and when I saw that you were safe here, that they protected you—”

  “No.” Mercy stabbed a finger at her. “No, you’re not doing that. I kept myself safe by being smart, by not playing the cards you’re playing. This is not a game, Alisz. ArC nearly killed the very man who bought your pile of crap and brought you—”

  “Into the sanctum?” Her tone went petulant, hurt. “That’s what this place is to you—something you value, a safe place.”

  Mercy drew back, realizing exactly what she’d done—revealed the value she placed on Reaper, on Cell—and cursed herself.

  “You better hide that Arab, Ari, because if Mina finds out you’re in love—”

  “I am not in love!” Her heart thundered.

  “—you know what they will do. She has never forgotten you. Every other girl at the school endured her rage when you escaped. We got punished because of you. If you thought she was cruel before—”

  “So what? You want to punish me?”

  “Yes!” Alisz snapped, the first hint of real anger since she had entered the bunker. She drew back with a sardonic smile. “Very good.” She lifted her chin. “I haven’t been drawn out like that in . . . well, since you left.” She smirked. “Very good, Ariadne.”

  In the school, there had been countless exercises in which they had to extract information, lure a person into a compromising situation that could be exploited. Her more advanced studies were then active scenarios where Mercy—who failed at the social-skill set—had to hack systems.

  Part of her said the desperation roiling off Alisz was too genuine to be faked. But was it? Did Alisz truly plan to escape from Mina and the school? Mercy had been through the fire and came out on the other side. What if she could help someone else do the same?

  “Why do you want to leave?”

  Alisz snorted. “You have to ask?”

  “I mean after all this time. Why now?”

  She blinked rapidly, as if fighting off tears.

  “You do recall I taught you that,” Mercy said.

  The tears fell away, replaced by a smile. “So you did.”

  “Just more of the game, I see.”

  “No!” Alisz lurched forward. “No, it’s not a game.”

  “I’m losing patience, Alisz. Tell me why now. Why here? What did Mina want you to accomplish?” Mercy scowled. “I will make sure Dru buries you if you don’t come clean.”

  Alisz looked down. “To get in here, make contact with you.” Her eyes met Mercy’s and shifted quickly. “Because I’d been there so long, because I’d kept to myself and obeyed like a good girl, she got careless about talking near me. I overheard things. Learned things.” She nodded to the door. “Do you remember Nonna Kat?”

  Something detonated in Mercy at the mention of that name, the woman who had cared for her, loved her. She recalled hours with Dietrich and programming races. At the tender age of five, she could do more with a computer than most adults. He’d taught her to disassemble one, build one. Then Nonna Kat died and left Mercy to the cruelty and brutality of Mina.

  “I learned Nonna Kat didn’t die of cancer. Mina killed her.”

  Mercy started. Tears and anger sprang through her system. “No, that—”

  “She found out what Nonna Kat was doing, how she planned to escape, how she’d been training you on the side. Mina made a decision that cemented her relationship with Ciro Veratti. She had Nonna Kat killed and took you under her wing. To reprogram you.”

  Reprogram. Mercy felt a hot, leaden weight in her chest. Long ago she had shut out the cruelty of Mina’s ministrations. Her endless hours of drills. The horrible things she’d made her do. Mercy had failed in acting, making her a wash as a spy, but her other skills . . . “I am not a computer to be—”

  “No, but you do have what it takes to alter this final war, Ariadne.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  Alisz snorted. Then frowned. “You really don’t know?”

  Mercy’s stomach squeezed.

  “To prove my sincerity, I’ll tell you the truth, all of it, and I will not use any of my skills against you. You were pro—trained . . .” Alisz paused and seemed to consider her words. “Mina said Nonna Kat trained you to destroy the Neiothen if she could not undo the training. That’s why Mina wanted me to come.” She nodded. “To force you
to find and stop them. They want those men dead and you can do it by tracking them through the RFID. Now, the real question is, what will you do?”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

  Head in his hands, Leif crouched on the edge of a parking structure overlooking the Potomac. To the southeast lay the small inlet where he and the others had exfil’d from the bunker. Through the haze of the stun grenade, he’d seen Iskra standing on the other side of the hatch. Saw the hurt in her eyes, but also . . . understanding.

  He didn’t know if that made it worse or better. He certainly didn’t feel better. This wasn’t a course he should be on. It angered him that he’d been pushed to this point. Forced to take the situation into his own hands.

  Don’t blame anyone but yourself.

  It was true. No matter what he faced, the choice was always in his hands. He chose this path. He hurt Iskra. He balled his fists, thinking how close the others had come to plugging Dru for good. How close control had been to escaping his grasp. Andreas had surprised him in the bunker. Had seemed so resolved to do violence. Then again, Andreas was like Carsen—both had suffered badly from what happened under Netherwood’s scalpel.

  But it wasn’t just Netherwood—Ciro and the scientists—that was responsible. Dru . . .

  Leif gritted his teeth and slumped onto the ledge, dangling his feet over the sixty-foot drop, cool air swirling around his legs.

  “. . . I don’t have definitive proof. You know me. I’ve put my own assets on the line for you.” Had he? Had Dru really put assets on the line to help Leif? Or was it just a lot of talk?

  “If you do this, if you succeed, I vow to help you get those answers . . . I’m not hiding anything about that black hole. About what happened to the Sahara Nine . . .when I have something I can bring into the open, I will.”

  Leif tugged the framed photo from his vest. Glanced at the image, then out at the darkening skyline. He didn’t want to prove himself right, but . . . it was right here. Wasn’t it?

  He slammed the picture against the concrete, taking perverse pleasure in the sound of shattering glass. Holding the frame, he couldn’t bring himself to remove the photo. But he had to. The resistance was just him not wanting to face a friend’s betrayal.

  Jaw clenched, he recalled Hermanns talking about the painting. The betrayal of a friend. Anna Gottlieb, the art expert, had mentioned the lake scene was symbolic of betrayal. Of a friend.

  But maybe he was overthinking this. After all these years . . . the way Dru had gotten Leif back on track with a career and being productive . . . didn’t Dru Iliescu deserve the benefit of the doubt?

  Leif glanced down, grateful the irritating glow of a nearby billboard kept him from cutting his hand on the shards. He plucked the picture from the wooden frame and stared at it. It was a copy of the one he’d marked on the mantel in Dru’s home. That was what had keyed Leif onto it. Why Dru had the photo in both places. It was too symbolic. The picture of him and the director aboard Dru’s yacht. The boat Dru had named in the bunker. Your Destiny.

  He wanted me to find this. Maybe not today, but the setup was clear. But why would he do that if he’d been hiding the truth from Leif? Hiding it in plain sight, which meant he wasn’t really trying to hide it.

  Still . . . he’d hidden it.

  Was Dru on the up-and-up? There was no way to know right now. Leif folded the picture and tucked it into the pocket of his tac pants. Angling the frame down, he traced the side of the wood. Fingered the edge. Glanced at the back.

  Was he wrong? The width seemed too thick. Or was it? Maybe it was just a solid frame. Leif dug his thumbnail along the corner but found nothing out of the ordinary. It had to be . . .

  He huffed, lowering the frame. He was too desperate to prove Dru wasn’t the betrayer in the painting. That, despite his gut instincts, the painting wasn’t prophetic. That it wasn’t tied to the Book of the Wars.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket, unsettling him because only the Neiothen had this number, and they weren’t supposed to make contact. Just rendezvous at the appointed time.

  He tugged it out, recognized Andreas’s code, and answered. “What’s wrong?”

  “That’s what I want to know.”

  Leif frowned into the night.

  “What happened at the facility?”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “I expected you to neutralize Iliescu. He killed Rutger. Betrayed you—us.”

  “If I killed everyone who betrayed me . . .” Leif shook his head and sighed. “I need Dru alive.” He turned the picture frame over. “I need to talk to him about the painting.”

  “What’s he got to do with that?”

  “Something Rutger said,” Leif admitted, hoping that divulging this now would be enough to fend off more questions over why he hadn’t killed Dru. He rested the frame on his leg and pushed his gaze across the city again. “I’m not real excited about becoming what they programmed me to be—a sleeper assassin, a killer.”

  “It would be justified.”

  “See, that’s the problem,” Leif muttered. “Justified comes from the Latin justificare, which means to do justice to.” He grunted. “I can’t say killing a man is doing justice.”

  “They do not hesitate when it is us,” Andreas said.

  Leif grunted, rubbing his thumb along the corner of the frame as he thought about that. “We’ve already lost some, and if we stay on this path”—his thumb hooked a small ridge, and he worked at it—“more of us will die.”

  “ArC is not going to do justice, they are going to do violence. In the bunker,” Andreas said, “you said you heard whistling.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you notice the woman bump the colonel?”

  Leif thought back to that curious incident. “Yeah.”

  “I think he had an activation wand.”

  That made him hesitate. “So I was right. He’s ArC.”

  “Our chips have unique RFIDs. You’re the only one who heard the sound.”

  Gut twisting, Leif swallowed. Stared at the groove he’d worked his thumbnail into. “He was targeting me.”

  “That, or it was a good way to figure out which of us was you.”

  “To kill me.”

  “As I said, they are not seeking justice. They are seeking success.”

  Leif propped the picture against his leg and dug his thumbnail downward.

  “I’ll meet you at the rendezvous.”

  “Yep.”

  The frame backing split apart. Fell. He jerked to catch it. Felt himself swaying out into open air. He cursed and yanked back, his hand snatching a piece of the backing. He fell backward off the ledge. Landed hard on the garage rooftop and uttered an oath. Then laughed off the adrenaline buzzing his brain, glad he was alive. He’d nearly taken a leap of faith that would have proven deadly.

  Leif lifted the piece he’d caught. His heart spasmed. It wasn’t a photo—it was a painting. Half thrilled, he stared at it, realizing the horrible truth: it was the third panel.

  He recalled Hermanns’ words about the betrayal. And it had been Dru. His friend had betrayed him—this was the fullest betrayal. He’d had this panel the whole time, which meant Dru knew what the prophecy said. He’d known about Al’el—leaf. Leif.

  Me.

  * * *

  REAPER HEADQUARTERS, MARYLAND

  There were times Iskra did not know what to think or feel. Like when Mercy stormed out of Admiral Braun’s office looking completely wrecked. She strode through the hub, straight past Saito and Cell, and rounded the corner leading to the medbay and bathrooms.

  Baddar went after her.

  Canyon turned to Iskra. “Any idea what that’s about?”

  “No.” They all knew Mercy’s past had caught up with her, but nobody wanted to believe she could be anything other than their ally. Yet questions remained. Mercy was the closest thing to a friend that Iskra had, but somehow Alisz—still in the office with Braun—unleashed doubt on that relati
onship. And she did not like to suspect her friends, so maybe she should talk to her. Iskra walked slowly after Mercy, not wanting her perception of the determined young woman to be altered.

  In the hall outside the restrooms, Baddar stood in the corner, holding a crying Mercy.

  Feeling like an intruder, Iskra backed off. Her friend would talk when she was ready, and whatever was going on with this Alisz had apparently rocked Mercy’s world.

  Iskra’s entire life was trembling. Taissia was missing, her friend hurting, and Leif . . . She had no idea where Leif was.

  When she returned to the hub, she spotted Director Iliescu heading out of the bunker in a hurry. When he gave a quick glance back, their gazes connected, and she not only saw his hesitation but felt it. He was leaving? After what just happened? With Cell trying to find the Neiothen?

  Something told Iskra to follow him. Which made no sense. Who was she to follow up on the deputy director of the CIA?

  Yet instinct forced her to obey. Problem number one was that the director exited via private access. She had no idea where that fed out to.

  “Cell?”

  “Yeah,” he said, looking up—then grabbing his side with a grunt. He gave her a half smile. “What’s up?”

  Iskra leaned in conspiratorially. “Could you do something that may or may not be . . . approved?”

  “You mean legal.”

  “If you want to be technical.”

  He considered her for several long seconds. “What?”

  Her conscience pricked that she was more concerned about Iliescu than Taissia. “Two things. Can you look for my daughter? She was taken in Germany.” She wrote down the address. “Maybe you can find something that will help me rescue her faster.”

  “I’m on it.” He glanced at the scrawled address. “And the other thing?”

  She tucked her hair back. “Follow the director.”

  His eyebrows flung upward, and he skated a glance around. “Whaddya mean, follow?”

  “Can you get me a track on his phone so I can follow him?”