by Ronie Kendig
“He didn’t mention a son.”
“I am not surprised,” Dru said wearily. “It is not a pleasant story. His unit tired out and ultimately lost their lives in an incident. Katrin vowed to make sure soldiers could hold out, those who had the will to do so.” He sniffed. “She had an amazing mind and a naïve heart. Her work was stolen from her. When she tried to stop those with malicious intent, they killed her.”
“I know all this,” Leif growled, patience thin.
“Right.” Dru looked chagrined. “The point is Rutger. He buried himself in ArC’s network, pretended to be an obedient lackey to Veratti. All in an effort to use back channels to find the Neiothen Katrin had been working with—they’d been stolen from her as well—and fulfill his last promise to her. To save them.
“When you came back from the Sahara, I knew something wasn’t right. The story coming down the pike about what happened to you was too perfect, too familiar. I started asking questions, inquiring about certain elements. Every story I heard, even yours, was the same. The exact same story.” Dru dumped the whiskey down his throat and winced as he swallowed, then poured another glass. “Rutger picked up on my inquiries and contacted me privately. We met, agreed to stay in touch. It wasn’t right away, but once I gained his trust, he gave me that panel for safekeeping.”
Iskra shifted on the couch. “But you sent us after Rutger. How could you do that when—”
“Rutger and I understood each other, but we also understood the entity we were fighting. If we ever seemed to be pulling punches, it’d be a red flag to ArC. Neither of us could afford that. We had too much to lose.”
“You’re saying that by sending Reaper after him, you were protecting him?” Leif said with a snort.
“In a convoluted way, yes. It kept him alive.”
“Until now,” Leif bit out. “All this time, and you knew—knew what really happened to me.” He banged the hull. “You kept it to yourself, hid it. Lied to me.”
“I knew what had happened, but I didn’t know who did it!” Dru barked. “Though we could point to Veratti as the head of the serpent, we could not identify links in the chain. And they were there, because your records were too tight. Those missing months accounted for too well. And every blasted time I pushed, assets got killed.”
Leif stilled, surprised.
“That’s right,” Dru snapped. “It wasn’t just about you. I wasn’t just protecting you, but every person I knew, even my own life. This thing was an incessant ticking bomb with trip wires, motion sensors, and multiple redundancies. I’ve had counterparts around the world secretly, silently digging. I had to be surreptitious, especially when I realized how close the traitors were—right in my own bunker!”
It was a real tale of woe. And granted, much bigger than Leif had realized. His gaze hit the portrait panel. Something nagged at his brain about it. Like a tapping on the shoulder that wouldn’t stop saying, “Pay attention to me. I’m important.”
But why was it important? That was why he’d come. He’d found the third panel and couldn’t interpret its meaning. People dancing around a leaf—a victory around a leaf. Around Leif. “I don’t get why he hid this. Why didn’t you tell me? It’s obvious that it’s connected to me, considering the leaf. And the Book of the Wars page that mentions Al-el, a leaf. But it shows victory—what’s so bad about that?”
Something passed through Dru’s eyes, some grief, some . . . anchor that pulled the rest of his confidence and courage into the depths below them.
“What’re you holding back? Did you know about the Book of the Wars? Was sending us after that—”
“That was a private war between me and Rutger,” Dru admitted. “I realized he knew too much, and he confessed he had it. I insisted he turn it over so I could help you and figure out what to do about the Neiothen. He refused.”
There was still something . . . “You’re leaving something out. Tell me,” Leif insisted, pleading more than he’d intended. Which churned the demon within. “Answer me!”
Dru lifted his snifter like he was going to take a sip—then pitched the entire contents of it on the panel. Amber liquor rushed over the scene, covering the celebration, blurring the celebration.
“What’re you doing?” Leif roared, snatching the painting away. But it was slick—thicker than alcohol. He glanced at his hand. Saw a smudge of color. “You ruined it!”
Unrepentant, Dru set down the glass.
Leif swiped at the painting, watching the depiction blur away. “What’d you do?”
“Look at it, Leif.”
“I am. It’s ruined!”
“Rutger had the real painting covered up.”
Leif shook his head. “What?” He glanced at the panel again, saw tinges of another color peeking out. “Why?”
“Because . . . he was afraid you would lose heart.”
Somehow, he felt the truth was finally glowering back at him. He used his sleeve to dry the painting . . . and saw a new one revealed beneath the running colors. On a grassy field, a giant leaf had been painted—brittle, cracking, and yet somehow . . . bleeding, its blood flowing and mingling with the life force of a dozen other mutilated bodies.
Swallowing the bile rising in his throat, Leif couldn’t move or process. “What . . . what does this mean?” Cold dread choked him.
“Rutger and I . . . we believed . . .” Dru heaved a sigh. “He had an analyst look at it. The symbolism is clear—the lives of the Neiothen are dependent on you. Life for a life.”
“You mean, I’ll die.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
YOUR DESTINY, CHESAPEAKE BAY
“No!” Iskra refused to believe it. Refused to listen, thinking about how much had come true with the Book of the Wars. “Maybe . . . our lives are what we make them.” The words sounded hollow in her own ears.
“Every depiction has a leaf or a man—me,” Leif muttered.
“Rutger believed in the prophetic nature of these artifacts without reservation,” Dru said somberly. “I never understood how he could then have it painted over. He did not tell me he covered it, but I was determined to find out if the painting was really as old as he believed, so I had it tested. When I did, that’s when I found out about the painting beneath it. The analyst suggested the recurring man is integral to the overall success of the paintings, the effort—as we know—against ArC.”
Leif looked forlorn. “My mom always said no man knew the hour or day of his death,” he said quietly. “But I guess now I know the manner. What am I supposed to do?”
“No!” Iskra gripped his arm, barely realizing what she was doing—clinging to him, not wanting to lose him. “I will not accept that.”
He glanced at her, a turbulence in his pale irises, a desperation. Like he was searching for something. “The Book of the Wars is God-ordained, Iskra. His prophets recorded wars in it all through the ages. I can’t discard it simply because I don’t like a passage.”
“Leif.” She pressed her face to his shoulder. “I will not accept that you are going to die.”
“We all die sometime,” he said.
“We will find a way to stop this.”
“Stop it?” Leif snorted. “Haven’t you read the third war? I don’t stop it—I start it. Have started it—what do you think the bunker was?” He touched his ear, and only then did she see the comms piece. On his feet, attention clearly diverted, he rushed to the bow. “Where?”
“What’s wrong?” Dru asked.
“Two high-powered speedboats coming.”
“Yours?”
“No.”
“How’d they find us out here?” Dru asked, powering up Your Destiny. “We can’t outrun speedboats, but we can make hitting us a little harder.”
“Andreas is coming up. We need to ditch this boat.”
“Do you have any idea how much this cost me?”
* * *
“A lot of good sense, apparently.” Leif smirked, but he wasn’t going to leave Dru behind. Not an option. “Eit
her the boat dies, or you do.”
Dru turned back and brought a screen to life. “I’ll be a distraction.”
“No way. Come with us. Forget the yacht!”
“Get off my boat!”
Leif hesitated, knowing time and options were limited. “Forget the boat!” But he saw the resolve in the director’s face. He pivoted to Iskra. “Go!”
After a brief hesitation, she finally rushed toward the stern, then hustled down to the lower deck.
On the port side, Andreas brought the powerboat up. But Your Destiny pulled ahead, the speed increasing with each second. While Andreas worked to stay with the yacht, the challenge and danger would only grow with the speed.
“Come on!” Vega reached out to help them get aboard.
Leif snatched a life jacket from the rail and thrust it at Iskra. “Put it on!” When she obeyed, he threaded his arms through one as well.
Dru watched from the wheel, trying to keep aligned with the powerboat.
“Easy!” Leif shouted, then nodded to Iskra. “Now!”
She clambered onto the flattened couch, arms stretched out for balance. He caught one hand to steady her as she shifted into position.
Your Destiny veered to port, pitching Iskra forward. She stumbled, nearly vaulting overboard. He caught her by the waist. She straightened, hand on his, and glanced at him, face white.
He remembered her nearly drowning near the facility in Cuba. Was she remembering that, too? He helped her gain her feet. “You got this.”
She nodded. This time, she moved faster and with more determination. With a lunge, she vaulted across the water.
His heart went with her as she flew at Vega, who stumbled but caught her. He shifted her to the deck, then gave Leif a thumbs-up.
Your Destiny went hard to starboard. And kept turning, exerting tremendous force against Leif and the powerboat, which veered off to avoid a collision. The yacht jounced over the waves, salty spray soaking his clothes as he struggled to stay on his feet. Dru was glancing to his three as he drove.
Sparks flew off the instrumentation.
“They’re shooting!” came Dru’s distant shout.
Weapon drawn, Leif took aim at the nearest attacking boat. A few well-placed shots forced it to pull away.
Dru glanced back, nodded. “Go, get off!”
He couldn’t leave Dru to fight this out on his own. Tapping his comms, Leif said, “Take out the speedboats!”
“Negative,” Andreas shouted back. “We need to bail.”
“Attack the boat!” Leif sighted down his barrel and squeezed off more rounds as another boat came up from his seven.
Pillows on the stern exploded with fluff, indications of the return fire aiming at Leif. To make himself a harder target, he went to a knee and fired again. But even as he eased back the trigger, Leif saw something from the other boat that froze the blood in his veins.
Smoke and fire puffed. A gray plume streaked toward them.
“RPG!” he roared as he pivoted, dug his foot in, and shoved off the deck, his legs feeling every bit of weight and resistance the water exerted against the yacht. Like one of those dreams where he couldn’t run faster than slo-mo. His limbs seemed heavier than a tank. Planting one leg. Pushing forward. Landing. Pushing another. It took forever.
Strangely, through the chaos—the howl of the wind in his ears, the growl of the yacht’s engines, the shouts of the Neiothen, Iskra’s screams, Dru’s muffled words—he heard the shriek of the rocket-propelled grenade.
With a clap, the high-adrenaline moment punctured.
Fire exploded.
Leif was lifted from his feet. Suspended in the air. Catapulted off the yacht.
TWENTY-EIGHT
SOMEWHERE IN THE CHESAPEAKE BAY
A fireball erupted, the glow so achingly bright that it blinded Iskra. In a blink, the thump of a heartbeat, came the gust of air that punched her backward. Rammed her into something. She struck her head, breath knocked from her lungs. Vision robbed.
Iskra dropped into cold, wet blackness.
Warbling came painfully to her ears. Something pressed her shoulder.
She blinked and turned—groaned when pain exploded through her head and shoulder. Wincing, she looked up at . . . “Mitre.” Her heart stuttered at the concern in her brother’s eyes. But that wasn’t possible for him anymore.
“Easy. You took a hard blow.” Behind him, flames danced. The yacht was on fire!
“Leif!” She leapt up.
“No.” Mitre pushed her back. “Stay. He’s in the water. I saw him jump.”
“We have to help him,” she argued, staring dumbly at the flames eating through the yacht. It was so surreal. So . . . distant. Too distant! She could not stop remembering the way Leif had been there one second, gone the next. Ripped away by some vengeful sea god.
“We’re looking,” Mitre said as the boat turned a slow circle, the engine low.
“The propellers could kill him!” She clambered to the side, searching for Leif and the director. Where were they?
A spark caught her attention—made Mitre jerk. A shot? He whipped around, barking commands, and tucked his weapon against his shoulder. Another spark hit something and splintered the fiberglass. A small fire erupted and sizzled out just as quick.
Shots streaked across the boat. Chewed wood and carbon fiber. Immersed in panic, she traced the choppy, churning waters for Leif. Her mind ricocheted. The boat that had attacked Your Destiny was now focused on this one.
Across the darkened waters, the other speedboat jounced along, racing them. Fire seared her thigh—a bullet had sliced across her leg. She cried out, but it was lost to the elements as Mitre veered away from the burning yacht.
Holding her leg, she scooted to the side, searching. “Leif,” she shouted over the turbulent ocean.
Their wake bubbled, foaming and thrashing the water. A shape bobbed in the waves.
“Leif!” Without warning, she was thrust against the side as the boat jerked to her right and lurched away from the attackers at high speed. Away from Your Destiny. “No!” she screamed. “No! Go back!”
The powerboat tore away.
Throat raw, she watched, powerless, as the distance between her and Leif grew. “Go back!”
The shorter Neiothen who’d held her was braced against the hull, returning fire.
Tears streaming down her face, Iskra stared helplessly across the gnawing distance. She sank onto the deck and clung to a cleat, sick at the motion, sick that they had left Leif. What about Dru? She had seen a body in the water—but was he alive?
Without warning, Mitre brought the boat around and headed straight for the enemy boat. Breath trapped in her throat, she glanced between the grim determination in her brother’s eyes and the black waters bisected by the lone light of the oncoming boat.
Was he going to ram them? A head-on collision? Mitre said he did not have compassion. Did he have common sense? Their speed erased the distance too fast. As she glanced at the other boat, it registered that one of the Neiothen was crouched on the bow, holding the rail that ran its length.
By the saints. Were they all mad? She moved back, panicked. They were going to collide, be killed. There was no way she would survive. Iskra only then noted the two Neiothen staring at the other boat as warriors on a battlefield. Poised to embrace the inevitable.
Stomach churning, adrenaline spiraling, she held on. Swallowed the dread that filled her mouth with an acrid taste.
The remaining distance vanished. The boat was on them.
Iskra tensed, waiting for the crack, the explosion. To be catapulted from the deck.
Instead, she felt the slightest change of direction. The man on the bow launched into the air. Sailed out and onto the other boat. He landed in a roll and snapped up his weapon at several dark shapes there waiting. They descended on him.
Even as that registered, their boat chugged to a stop. She glanced at Mitre as he leapt onto the other boat, too. Shouts and shots straf
ed the air. Light exploded across the waters, shattering the darkness and blinding her.
Iskra jerked away, wincing at the stress on the back of her cornea. Was it an explosion? She peered around, and realized it was a beam of light. Stadium bright. She traced it back to its source—a large white boat that looked padded all around its hull. A small slash of orange, white, and blue painted its side. Friend or foe? She reached for her dagger.
A horn squawked, and a voice ejected itself into the air. “U.S. Coast Guard. Stand down. Stay where you are.”
Unsure whether to be relieved or more stressed, Iskra rose to her feet. The search beam stayed on the other boat as the Coast Guard cutter closed in. A smaller beam probed the powerboat Iskra was on.
“Set down your weapons and put your hands in the air. Prepare to be boarded,” the Coast Guard ordered.
She lifted her hands, but her gaze slid over the waters, trying to find Your Destiny. In the far distance, fire danced and rippled across the waves.
A sideboard craft swung up alongside. “We’re looking for Dru Iliescu.”
Iskra started, giving them a quick once-over before being convinced they were legitimate. “He isn’t here. He was on the yacht,” she said, pointing toward the burning wreckage. “He and my friend were there when they”—she indicated the other boats—“hit them with an RPG.”
A Coast Guard officer came aboard, ball cap tugged low on his brow. “What’s your friend’s name?”
“Leif,” she answered, her heart aching. “Leif Metcalfe. Please hurry. He was blown into the water. We have to find him.”
The officer considered her, then angled his head. “Come with me, ma’am.”
“I need to find my friends.”
He motioned her forward. “Yes, ma’am. That’s what we intend.”
She climbed onto the smaller craft. Once she was seated, they pulled away, and the officer’s gaze strayed to something behind her. As the craft bounced over the choppy waters, she saw two other officers forcing Mitre to his knees. The Neiothen who’d been at the rail lay unmoving on the deck. Another was on his knees, hands on his head and surrounded by armed patrolmen.
