Soul Raging

by Ronie Kendig

  “Director Iliescu sent out a distress signal,” he shouted over the twang of the engine and wind in her ears. “Said to find you and Metcalfe.”

  She checked on her brother again, aching to see him being handcuffed.

  “That one took at least three bullets, killed at least two, and lost one of his men,” one of the other officers shouted to another.

  Iskra stared at the fading form of her brother, saddened by what he had become—a trained killer. They had both dealt in the business of death. She had gotten free. Would he?

  * * *

  MILAN, ITALY

  Watching the children laughing on the lawn of his home gave Ciro immense pleasure. His son had invited his entire class to his party, and Ciro approved. What better way to show they were normal and like every other family than to celebrate his son’s birthday?

  “You should come down,” Benedetta said from the door of his library.

  “I told you,” he said, tucking away his irritation.

  “Yes, yes, but you always have appointments and meetings.” Only his wife would speak to him so boldly.

  “I am prime minister, my dear. Would you have me tell all of Italia to wait?”

  “For one hour? For Jacopo? Yes.”

  Perhaps he should. It would be a good reminder to those under him that they should be dependable enough that he could extricate himself long enough to enjoy cake and presents.

  His phone vibrated on the table. He turned from the windows and retrieved the buzzing device.

  Benedetta huffed and crossed her arms, daring him to answer it.

  But one look at the screen told him he had no choice.

  “You need to be there for him.”

  “And you need to learn your place, Benedetta.” He turned his back and accepted the call as his wife left the room. “Colonel.”

  “The men are dead,” he said.

  Irritation scraped Ciro. He stretched his neck. “Unfortunate. I thought you had that secured.”

  “The Neiothen may not have technology as advanced as the Gen2s, but they’ve had it longer and have adapted. They’re . . . swift. Strategic. The only comfort is that they also suffered high casualties.”

  “I hear excuses, Colonel.” But that they had eliminated some of those accursed Neiothen . . . good.

  “The Coast Guard intervened when the Gen2s tried to go after Leif and the director, taking the matter out of my hands.”

  “No, Colonel. You surrendered control.”

  “He’s in the prophecy, the Book of the Wars. We can’t expect to undo that.”

  “Why?” Ciro shouted. “Why can we not? Those are made-up fables, you fool! We prove that with our efforts. Risen will go online, and we will have control of the world’s economy. Armageddon is a fiction—a myth! Why can we not disprove some brittle old book? It was lost to humanity once, and it will be so again.” Anger surged through his chest and drew him straight. “You have surrendered your life. Good-bye, Colonel.”

  “Sir, give me another chance. You don’t have anyone else—”

  “Wrong, Colonel. There is always someone else.”

  Amid the colonel’s objections, he ended the call and made another.

  “I’m afraid the colonel has outlived his usefulness.”

  “Understood.”

  “Do you?” He wandered to the windows. “Because I have had to remove several who did not, and Risen is far too close to going online to let anyone with anything less than resolute determination stay with me. We cleared your path to that bunker for a reason. Do not fail me.”

  “Of course not. I’ve been working on an idea.”

  “If Mr. Metcalfe and Miss Todorova are still alive by the end of the week, you will not be.”

  He ended the call, hating that he had resorted to threats—no, these were not threats. Threats by their very nature were violence unfulfilled. His were warnings of what was to come unless their obedience could dissuade him. Gen2s would enforce it. Enforce his will across the globe.

  He rubbed his chin, shifting his focus to Jacopo, who stood at the head of the picnic table with his friends gathered around him. As it should be.

  He made another call. “I want Risen to be ready to launch Friday.”

  “Not a problem. We’re conducting test runs right now. Things are smooth.”

  Pride swelled. “I knew I could count on you.” It had been such a massive risk. “Do they suspect your protégé?”

  “They suspect everyone, but no—they’re not really looking at her right now. There was some initial concern, but no longer.”

  “It amazes me,” Ciro said, leaning against the glass, “how readily they step into our traps.”

  “You read them well, and it paid off.”

  “And had it not been for your foresight from the beginning, had you not realized what Katrin developed . . .”

  “Then you would have nothing.”

  He resented the truth of that, but he could not argue it. “And you are certain they do not suspect her . . . or you?”

  “Me?” She laughed. “Iskra already knows I am the devil personified for taking her daughter, but I do not believe she understands, not fully. But she will. And I cannot wait to see the terror in her eyes when she realizes it. I owe her this.”

  * * *

  SOMEWHERE IN THE CHESAPEAKE BAY

  Limbs aching from the cold, choppy waters, Leif kept his distance from the yacht, waiting for it to blow any second. Expecting to tread water for a long time, he’d ditched his shoes and pants, the heaviest of his clothing. The average water temperature of the Atlantic in July hung in the sixties, but it seemed especially cold tonight. That might not sound too bad until it was all that stood between you and living.

  He still hadn’t found Dru. Though he swam around the yacht, the only thing he could see on the upper deck where the grenade had hit was the carbon fiber canopy that had lost its portside supports.

  Fire licked starboard but didn’t seem to be progressing or worsening. He thanked God the Gen2s hadn’t hit the engines or gas tanks. It seemed their intention had been to kill Leif and the director, not sink a boat, so they’d turned their firepower against Andreas’s powerboat, which had raced away. He’d heard Iskra yelling but was glad they’d kept going so she could escape.

  Between him and Your Destiny, he didn’t see any oil slicks or gas halos on the water, so he treaded closer. The yacht was surprisingly intact after that RPG. He grabbed the aft deck and hauled himself up. Water trickled off his bare, shaking legs.

  “Dru?” Leif called, moving around the table and reaching for the rail to the upper deck and the open salon. He climbed, finding the stairs strangely warm on his cold feet. As the deck came into view, he hesitated. The canopy lay across the deck, half melted by the fire that was working its way into the belly of the yacht, having already eaten through the upper deck. The once built-in hot tub was slanting downward into the cabins of the main deck. He considered the Portuguese bridge as a means to get to the bow.

  “Dru!” Leif shouted. “Dru, you up there?” Though he listened, the crackling and popping fire made it hard to hear anything.

  He spotted an extinguisher and grabbed it, then sprayed the upper deck, spotting a slow burn happening in the VIP suite below. There wasn’t enough in this extinguisher to snuff out all the flames. He swung back down to the main deck and took the Portuguese bridge to the bow but stopped when he saw the windows to a guest room were blown. A body, arm trapped under it, sprawled across the daggers of glass on the padded bench beneath the windows.

  “Dru!” Leif shoved forward, cursing that he’d had to ditch his shoes. Glass sliced his feet, but it was the least of his worries. He reached for the director, who lifted his head and grimaced before collapsing back on the cushion. Leif realized his arm wasn’t trapped—it was gone. Missing from the elbow down.

  Tourniquet!

  “Hold on. I’m going to remove your belt.” Leif undid the buckle, then tugged the black leather belt free
.

  Dru grunted and shook his head, muttering incoherently.

  “Quiet. I’ll get this on, and we’ll get you to the raft.” Blood slicking his hands, Leif worked fast, knowing every second counted. But even as he tightened the strap around the stump, he realized it wasn’t bleeding as badly as it should be.

  An odor hit him. Recognition hit—fuel. There was a fuel leak somewhere.

  With the tourniquet secured on Dru, Leif shifted. “Hold on. I’m going to lift you.”

  “Leave . . . me,” Dru huffed.

  Leif ignored him, grabbed a life vest from the nearby couch where they had been stored, and hooked it over Dru’s head. He latched it and then slid his hands under Dru, glass slicing his arms, and scooped him up. Hearing the director groan and expel a wet-sounding breath disconcerted Leif. He’d seen enough combat injuries to know things didn’t look good for the director. But he had to try to save him.

  A high-pitched whistle streaked his ears. Oh no. That fuel had caught a flame.

  Leif pulled Dru against him and scrambled for the bow. He planted a foot on the sofa and climbed atop it. “Deep breath!” he ordered as he vaulted over the rail.

  Bright light rent the power of darkness. Heat scalded his back, trickling goosebumps down his spine as another explosion lit up the night.

  A powerful hand punched them into the cold water and plunged them down . . . down, pulling Dru from Leif’s grip. The director slipped away, but Leif snagged fabric. A leg. He latched on and kicked hard, forcing them back to the surface, where night had turned to day.

  He hauled in a breath, yanking Dru with him. The director popped up, the buoyancy of the life vest keeping him on the surface, but he was limp, his head listing. Face still in the water.

  Leif hooked an arm around Dru’s neck and pulled him against his chest. Felt for breath. Nothing. He shook the director. “Dru!” Treading water, he did his best to pump his hand against Dru’s chest, knowing the life preserver was limiting his effectiveness. “C’mon!” he growled. “Dru! Dru, c’mon. Wake up!” He kicked hard and did his best modified chest compressions, holding the director with one hand and pounding with the other.

  Dru coughed. Gagged. Vomited water and gagged again.

  Relieved, Leif again hooked his neck and held him close. “Just hang in there,” he said, glancing around the expanse of water. Hoping, praying someone would come back.

  “Leif,” Dru said, the exertion making him cough again. “Listen. Rutger—”

  “Shut up,” Leif hissed against his ear. “Just work on staying alive. Okay?”

  “Listen,” Dru rasped. “Please . . .”

  “I got all night.” It wasn’t funny and probably his worst-timed joke ever.

  “The Book . . . missing part . . .”

  A leaf was missing from the book that was more like a scroll, but they’d known that since the beginning.

  “Rutger . . . destroyed . . . made me . . . memorize it,” Dru said, his voice growing faint amid the fire simmering and the yacht sinking. “‘Al’el must go to the deep and there yield a mighty blow . . .’” A shudder stole his breath, and he fell back against Leif’s shoulder, then went still.

  “Hey.” Leif bounced his shoulder. “Dru.”

  “So . . . sorry . . . tired.”

  “Yeah, well, die later.”

  Dru heaved a breath, then rolled his head. “‘At last the final war comes. Al’el must . . . move fast . . .’” He struggled against chattering teeth, his blood pressure no doubt dropping. “‘. . . and use his mind . . . to wit and war. Blood . . . spilled . . . then so much more . . . raging soul delivers . . . lethal blow . . . back where it started . . . stands against those who reap. Facing . . . betrayal and danger, his blade has come, sealing . . . fate.’”

  Leif felt the icy tendrils of fear snake around his heart. That . . . that didn’t sound good at all. “Very encouraging.”

  Dru coughed a laugh and took in a mouthful of water.

  Irritated with himself, Leif pulled him up and back, making sure his face was out of the water. “Sorry.”

  Shaking his head, Dru groan-coughed. “Fate,” he breathed. “Book doesn’t . . . it doesn’t say . . .” He went still, then jerked. “Leif.”

  “Relax. Save your breath.”

  “Won’t . . . make it.”

  “Not if you keep talking.” Leif searched again for a boat or ship. Something. Why hadn’t anyone seen the explosion? Where was help?

  “Sorry.”

  “No,” Leif growled, chest tightening with the words, knowing where the director was going with this line of dialogue. “Don’t do that. Save it.”

  “Braun—” Dru went tense. “Look out for”—he wheezed—“her.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll make it back, and you can—”

  The rumble of a motor caught his attention.

  Leif swung around, probing the waters.

  A beam of light stroked the surface.

  “Here!” He waved, kicking to keep them afloat. “Here!”

  The beam caught them.

  He let out a shout, then a laugh. “Help’s here.” He waved again, feeling the ridiculous need to make sure they didn’t lose sight of him. “Right here.”

  The boat surged, water lifting and tossing them back a few more feet as the hull breezed up alongside. Hands dangled over the side.

  “He’s in shock. Lost a limb. Take him,” Leif said, catching the hull and nudging Dru toward them.

  The director was drawn out of the water, and then others assisted Leif onto the deck. His legs wouldn’t hold him up. He stumbled and tripped.

  “Whoa, Chief. Here you go.” A coastie directed him to a bench—but what he saw was Iskra. Relief choked him. Instinct pushed him to her, but his legs missed the memo and buckled.

  Iskra caught him, hooked his arm over her shoulder, and guided him to a bench. Shivers wracked his body, but a thermal blanket dropped over his shoulders. He caught the edge and pulled Iskra tight into his hold.

  “He’s gone,” someone said.

  Leif peered over Iskra—and saw the coastie sitting back and not working on Dru. “No!” He surged from the bench. Crashed to his knees. “No, he’s alive.” He scrambled on all fours to the director. “He’s alive.” He stared down at the unblinking eyes of his friend.

  Ashen, mouth agape, Dru lay unmoving.

  Leif started compressions. “Count for me!”

  “Chief, he’s gone. Not breathing, no pulse. Significant trauma and blood loss—not only from his arm, but the glass in his back likely bled him out.”

  “Count!” Then the coastie’s words registered, and Leif paused, staring down at his lifeless friend. “Glass?”

  “It was pushed pretty far in—the life preserver hid it,” the coastie said, nodding to the flotation device they’d cut away to work on Dru.

  Leif crumpled. “How did I miss that? I shouldn’t have missed that!”

  “Even if you hadn’t, there was nothing you could’ve done.”

  “He was just talking to me,” Leif said, placing a hand on Dru’s chest. He gripped Dru’s shirt, wishing he could bring him back. His eyes burned. His heart burned. Dru couldn’t be dead.

  Gentle hands pulled him away, and Leif turned, wrecked. Not wanting to talk. Not wanting to look at Iskra’s face. They fumbled their way to the bench, and he dropped down hard.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, tears in her eyes.

  Leif tugged her against his chest, cupping her head. Staring at Dru. Fighting the tears. Realizing that the man who’d mentored him, saved him, protected him . . . was dead. A sob wracked his chest. Tears blurred his vision. He’d gone out on a limb to get Leif answers. And he’d died for it. He’d apologized.

  But, really, it was Leif who owed the apology.

  Now he also owed a debt.

  TWENTY-NINE

  REAPER HEADQUARTERS, MARYLAND

  “How ya doin’, Cell?”

  Cell glanced at the red-bearded cowboy. “You
know, it’s really amazing how my wound hasn’t miraculously healed in twenty-four hours like yours.”

  “What’re you grouchy about?” Saito frowned at him across the hub.

  “Oh, I don’t know. It’s not like a half dozen men broke in here, shot most of us, then left. Or that Veratti is trying to effect a world takeover, or that our team leader has gone rogue and his assassin girlfriend is MIA, as well as the deputy director.” Cell lifted a hand, immediately regretting the move as it twinged his wound. “And let’s not forget the new evil overlord who’s as friendly as a rabid javelina.”

  “A what?” Saito asked.

  “It’s a pig thing,” Culver said. “Looks like Pumbaa from The Lion King.”

  “Only uglier,” Cell added. “And meaner.”

  “Can we not get off topic here?” Saito slapped down a folder. He glanced at Alisz sitting in a nearby chair. “Which one of you is going to explain what was said earlier about Mercy being able to find them?”

  “She can,” Alisz said. “The Neiothen are activated and initiated using RFID. It was cutting-edge tech back when it was implanted. And each one has a unique RFID with which to locate them. If you know how.” She cocked her head. “And Mercy knows how.”

  “How do you know what Mercy can do?” Baddar challenged.

  This time Alisz didn’t answer, locked in a visual duel with Mercy, whose face was crimson, despite what Cell imagined was a reassuring touch from Baddar. It was surprising how much Alisz riled Mercy.

  “Let’s have it,” came the very grating, commanding voice of Colonel Nesto. “Cough up why you know this. Maddox—you too.”

  Man, Cell wanted to take that guy down a few notches.

  Mercy’s glower shifted to the colonel. “You will have to talk with Director Iliescu about that.”

  Alisz stood. “I don’t understand. You can help your friend. Why won’t—”

  “No matter my past or what I can or can’t do—you are not trusted here, Alisz. You told me in there that you were sent by ArC!”

  “Hold the fluff up,” Cell said, his heart racing. “ArC?”