Soul Raging Read online

  “. . . you were supposed to say that you didn’t have any other options, that you were maybe scared . . . That’s you. You’re Ossi.”

  Rutger Hermanns had told Leif he was integral in the fight against ArC, but hearing this from a friend made him sick. Forced him to process the truth in a new way. It explained a lot—the missing time, the inability to remember six months. His unnatural speed and ability to heal quickly. His lack of fear.

  He shifted and, at the far end of the street, spotted the taillights of the team’s SUV slipping away. It was like some massive symbol—all the good parts of his life being boxed up and shipped off. Like a soldier’s body coming home to be buried, forgotten.

  What was left?

  A man he didn’t know.

  And yet . . . he wasn’t bothered seeing them leave. Knowing they’d get on the jet and be home inside twenty-four hours, he felt . . . relieved.

  Something dark inside him vied for dominance. He didn’t want to face that monster, to become one who hunted and killed. If he was a Neiothen, it meant he was connected to the Armageddon Coalition. Essentially, he was the enemy.

  He tugged out a phone and dialed.

  “It is good to hear from you, Mr. Metcalfe.”

  “I’m ready.”

  TWO

  EN ROUTE TO MARYLAND

  Silence could be a weapon used against a person to extract tears and fears. But the twenty-plus-hour silence as the team trekked back to America made Iskra Todorova want to kill. They had intended to talk and plan, but less than an hour into the flight, Director Iliescu informed them the briefing would wait, that they were not to discuss anything until they gathered in the bunker.

  She should have followed her instinct and gone after Leif. It was exactly what he had done for her when she was being kept by Hristoff Peychinovich. So what had held her back? What made her mute in his defense? Was this the type of friend—girlfriend—she was to him, a silent one?

  Yet even with that mental flagellation, she kept her mouth and heart closed.

  “Are we seriously going to sit here and not talk about this?” Culver groused from his seat.

  Only the thin, conditioned air of the jet met his query.

  “We suck,” he muttered.

  “It’s a little late to do anything, now that we’re thirty-three thousand feet in the air,” Cell said. “Besides, he’s back there.”

  “We have a day to get up to speed, maybe get ahead of it—”

  “Ahead?” Cell scoffed. “Dude, we’re so far behind, we might as well be the b—”

  “I think,” Mercy said in a strong, assertive voice, “that the best way to help Leif is not to do anything stupid. To think through this, get as much intel as possible. Use this time on our own to brainstorm.”

  “Right, so I was thinking—”

  “On. Our. Own,” Mercy bit out.

  “We are on our own,” Culver shot back.

  Appreciation slid through Iskra at the “misunderstanding” Culver used to his benefit, as well as his desire to throw himself into action. But for Leif? Or against him?

  “No, I mean—”

  “He know what you mean,” Baddar said, touching Mercy’s arm.

  She hesitated, considering the red-haired man. “Leif needs us to be intelligent, not rash.”

  “I ain’t got no rash,” Culver teased, “but I do have an itch that wants to be scratched—my trigger finger.”

  “Exactly what we don’t need!”

  “What do you know about operations, HackerGirl?” Culver growled.

  Weary of the bickering, Iskra pushed to her feet, strode to the back of the jet, and locked herself in the lavatory. They were a broken, crumbling team. Peyton and Adam were at Landstuhl Regional Medical Center and would return once she was stable, but in reality, the rest were all as broken.

  Just like Iskra’s brother, Leif had gone through the training and physiological alterations of a Neiothen. But Mitre, whom everyone else knew as Andreas or Andrew, was far more damaged. At least she thought so, after their encounter at Rutger Hermanns’ estate, when her idealistic view of him had been unmercifully shredded, along with her very naïve, unrealistic hope that when she found him, she could save him. But Mitre believed he had been damaged in a way that left him good for one thing—combat. Fighting those who had done this to him, the notorious Armageddon Coalition.

  Leif is with Mitre.

  Of course. It made sense. At the amusement park, Mitre was there to help identify the final Neiothen. It was hard to comprehend that both her brother and the man she loved were part of a super-army referenced in the Book of the Wars of the Lord. She had fought hard and failed to get that ancient text from Hermanns several months ago in a salt mine in Israel.

  She sighed. That confrontation seemed so long ago.

  Unable to endure the lavatory smell any longer, she ducked into the galley for water.

  “How are you?” came a soft voice from behind.

  Uncapping the bottle, Iskra turned to the small table where Mercy sat, and searched for an answer. The hacker was the closest thing to a friend Iskra had since joining the team, but she still wanted to don her hardened shell and once again become Viorica. Go after Leif.

  No. That life had been too hard for too long and too damaging to her soul. Viorica must remain in the past.

  She shrugged at Mercy’s question. “Sad, hurt.” Angry. Powerless. “Maybe it’s my fault.”

  “How can you even think that?”

  “If I had worked harder to find the book, maybe he would not have felt the need to do this.” Her words were empty of conviction, and when no response came, she saw the remonstration. The disbelief. “What?”

  “So . . .” Mercy drew a leg up on the seat and hooked an arm around it. “You don’t think he’s”—she dipped her chin in meaning—“turned?”

  Fire coursed through Iskra. “You so quickly betray your friends?”

  “No!” Mercy wet her lips, glanced out of the galley toward the others, then back at Iskra. “It’s just . . . the code we heard in the park was for Leif.”

  “But Mitr—Andrew used the resonance rifle in The Hague to counteract the chip.”

  “And you . . . you think it worked?”

  “Of course it worked!” The futility of such a question and the eons she took to answer it made Iskra wonder. “If it had not, Leif would have betrayed us right there in the park.”

  Mercy peered through a knitted brow. “You’re sure?”

  Indignant and frustrated, Iskra could not continue this discussion. “Excuse me.” She strode for the gangway.

  “Wait, Iskra. Please. I only meant—”

  “I know what you meant,” she snapped, whirling around. “And if you all turn on him, then even if I am wrong, who is left to help him come back? How did you so quickly trade loyalty for . . . this!”

  She stalked back to the restroom, the only place that afforded her solitude to think through this ordeal. Door locked, she thrust her fingers into her hair and stifled a scream. Hot, angry tears raced down her face, unbidden and unwanted. She did not want to cry, because that meant she had accepted this, and by accepting it, she had turned on Leif.

  He had fought like nobody else for her and Taissia, her five-year-old daughter. He had raced all the way to Russia and literally knocked down doors to rescue them. Why had she not done more to help him?

  With a shuddering breath, she pulled herself straight. Saw her reflection in the mirror. Dark hair and eyes. What did he see in you? A girl kept by a ruthless ArC operative, raped repeatedly, hard and bitter toward life and men. She had nearly killed him to accomplish her mission. Ciro Veratti’s mission. All with the goal of freeing her daughter from a nightmare existence. When she failed to make that happen, he entered the game and changed everything. Changed her.

  Hanging her head, she rubbed her neck and ached for him. She could not leave him like this, could not believe he was one of the dark souls ArC had altered with chemical infusions and
a chip implant.

  She refused to abandon him. Not now. Not ever.

  Iskra pulled out her phone and swallowed as she found Mitre’s number. Would he answer? Would he tell her if Leif was with him? She would never know if she did not try. She pressed TALK.

  The phone rang several times, the noise grating against her nerves. She rubbed her temple. Please, Mitre. Please answer.

  “Yes?” His clipped, sharp answer backed her breath into her lungs.

  “Is he there?” Over the drone of the jet, it was hard to hear if he spoke. But she doubted she had missed a response. So. He would not respond to that. “Is he okay?”

  “Auf Wiedersehen.”

  “No, wait! Tell him I—”

  A series of beeps and then emptiness filled her ears. She slammed the phone against the lavatory counter. “Curse you!” And yet there was no anger, because he had answered her. First by picking up the call, then by not expressing surprise or confusion at her questions. If he was not with Leif, he would have asked who she meant.

  Unless he had anticipated the call, knew Leif would run, and denied assistance. Which was possible. Being a reformed Neiothen, Mitre no doubt felt the need to protect Leif from everyone. Including—no, especially—her.

  * * *

  MILAN, ITALY

  “What happened?” Ciro Veratti told himself that eliminating everyone in this proverbial war room would show a significant lack of restraint. He must be better than that. “Where is he?” He looked to Dr. Sheng, one of the lead scientists on the Netherwood project. His wife, a psychiatrist in America whom Ciro had recruited for practicality’s sake, had very nearly betrayed her connection when Ossi inquired after Carsen Gilliam during his attempt to stop ArC. “You sent the initiation code with the high-frequency burst, yes?”

  Sheng’s eyes widened. “Yes, of course.” He gave a cockeyed shrug. “Just like all the others.”

  “Sir.” The colonel stood with his lackeys on the far side near three large suspended screens. “You should see this.”

  Why could the colonel not just deliver the information? Irritation scraped along Ciro’s collarbone and up his neck until he clenched his teeth. He forced himself to cross the room, glowering at the officer.

  “Go on, Flinn,” the colonel said to the man in black tactical gear.

  The sergeant shifted, darting a look at Ciro—who imagined putting an extra hole in his head—then indicated the wall screen. “At the amusement park, we noticed this man.”

  Ciro focused on the shape moving through the park, which really had been a brilliant location for the attack. If it had worked. But it hadn’t. An unacceptable yet unalterable loss. Now they were down one integral asset, and he needed to remedy that before Risen went online. Still. One failure to multiple successes. He must pick his battles.

  “What about him?”

  The sergeant smiled. “He entered the park with a woman and later crossed paths with candidate Ossi at least four times. The third time, they lingered long enough to converse.”

  “But,” Ciro said with more than a little frustration, “he’s clever enough to avoid cameras, and the hat hides his face from satellites.”

  “Yes, sir.” The smile didn’t vanish.

  “Has someone told you I’m a patient man?” Ciro asked calmly.

  Straightening, the grunt refocused on the screen. “Our system is sophisticated enough that we don’t need facial recs. By comparing him with known subjects like candidate Ossi, we can accurately assess his height and weight. In addition, we then use his gait and posture against known individuals.” His gray eyes glinted. “Especially Neiothen.”

  Understanding dawned, making Ciro feel like a parent whose rebellious child had simply needed a firm hand to find their way in the world.

  “As you can tell, sir, it appears to be—”

  “I know who it is.” Ciro could not keep the acid from his words. Thoughts churning, he knew his anger was wrongly directed. His gaze connected with the middle-aged woman he’d kept on too long, despite her many shortcomings. “You failed me, Ms. Lapaglia. Again.”

  Face ashen, she swallowed. “Sir?”

  “Come, Chiara.” He tucked his head as he started toward her, considering how to correct her many failures in this project. “Will you pretend you were not aware?” He sniffed a laugh. “I am not sure which would be worse—to admit you did not know or to admit you did.”

  Her gaze skittered between him and his right-hand man, Santo Greco, who mirrored Ciro’s path around the room. Her chin and hands trembled. “Sir, I—”

  “You were to monitor the whereabouts of Rutger Hermanns and his protégé at all times.” Ciro stopped before her, studying her. Sensing the palpable tension in the room, noting the terrified silence despite the others working, doing what they should to bring Risen online.

  “Yes, sir . . . ?” She wore an uncertain frown.

  “Then why did you not report to me that Akin was at the amusement park?” His gaze met Santo’s with the briefest of nods.

  “Because—”

  Thwat! The discharge of Santo’s suppressed weapon shifted the electrically charged room and came with the splatter of blood and gray matter. Gasps followed the termination, but the busy thrum quickly resumed, everyone re-engaged in their work. As it should be.

  Ciro glanced over his shoulder. “There are no excuses,” he growled. “Not this close to the endgame.” He flicked his attention to the colonel. “If your technology is so advanced, I should have been notified that Andreas Krestyanov was in that park. Our sniper could have eliminated a very big problem.”

  “Had we done that,” someone asserted from a workstation in the middle of the room, “it would’ve alerted the Taiwanese president and possibly the entire American team.”

  Shock had nothing on the rage that surged through Ciro as he stared hard at Dr. Jennifer Malloy, the lead psychoanalyst, who dared counter him. It was under her supervision that Netherwood had been revamped. “Be glad, Dr. Malloy, that I still appreciate your work.”

  Her gaze was steady and unrepentant. “Thank you, sir.”

  He could not blame her, though he wanted to, because she was right. But killing that coldhearted operator was something he’d been itching to do. “Akin is a thorn in my side.”

  “Is it possible he removed his implant?” Dr. Malloy suggested.

  “No.” At least not as far as they knew. Ciro looked to Sheng for confirmation.

  The scientist shook his head frantically. “No, not possible. The implants are too deeply embedded.” He shrugged. “And with Akin, it has been implanted so long that neural paths have formed around it. Removing it would have severe cognitive repercussions, possibly even death.”

  Ciro focused on the colonel. “How are things going at the facility with the second generation?”

  “On track. The major says the team has been running scenarios on the system for the last ten days, purging bugs.” He nodded. “They’ll be ready.”

  “They’d better be! We only have four weeks left.”

  With a grim expression, Santo approached and angled his shoulder toward him. “Hermanns is here.”

  Arching his eyebrow, Ciro mused that his pent-up frustration might find release today after all. “Show him to the conference room.”

  “Abassi.” Santo nodded to one of his men, who left to carry out the task.

  At a terminal, Ciro pointed to the monitor. “Pull up our internal security feeds.” On the screen, Abassi delivered Hermanns to the glassed-in room, offered him nothing—not even a glance—and left, locking the door. Did they have any of the gas they’d used against the Chinese minister? Hmm, perhaps it might contaminate this area as well. It would be a terrible inconvenience, but since they were pressed for time . . .

  “Sir, perhaps a moment to clean up?” Santo suggested, indicating his jacket.

  Ciro appraised his silk-blend suit, which now sported blood spots. Though repulsed, he decided it would be effective. “No.” What better
way to make his point to Rutger? He could endure being soiled awhile longer. He started for the door, and Santo hustled ahead to usher him into the hall. Two more guards fell in behind as he strode toward the conference room.

  Santo flicked open the door.

  Ciro smirked as he met his guest’s gaze. “Rutger.” He motioned Santo inside, taking far too much pleasure when Santo locked them in and made Rutger shift. “Imagine my surprise that you come to me.”

  The German hesitated for the briefest of seconds. “You always make us come to you.” He glanced at Santo. “I see you’re up to your old tricks, ja? If you cannot force people to do your bidding, kill them.”

  Ciro pursed his lips. “Tried and true.” He slid his hands into his pockets. “Now, what reason have you to disturb our work?”

  After a sigh, Rutger said, “It’s Andreas—Akin.”

  Interesting. “What is?”

  “He’s . . .” Rutger wiped a hand over his mouth. “He’s gone rogue.”

  Ciro barked a laugh. Was he supposed to believe this? “Clever.”

  The German frowned, shaking his head. “I don’t—”

  “No.” Ciro moved to the window that overlooked the city. “You don’t, do you? You don’t understand what you are dealing with. Who you’re dealing with.”

  “Ciro—”

  “Andreas interrupted our work at the park.” He eyed Rutger for signs of deception, worry, or surprise. Nothing but a blank façade beneath the graying goatee. “Now you tell me he is rogue.”

  Placid acknowledgment came in the form of a one-shouldered shrug. “I came as soon as I heard what happened.”

  “Mm.” Ciro brushed at the blood on his jacket. “I just made an example of someone who had more excuses than loyalty.” With a heaved breath, he squared himself. “Must I do it again?”

  “Why do you not listen? He is rogue. I cannot track him anymore.” Hermanns motioned frantically. “Surely you have detected this as well. I do not know how he did it, nor do I know if he is yet alive. You must intervene!”

  Lies, lies, lies. Even were they not, Ciro could not eradicate this vermin from his organization. Through this pig the remnant of the Neiothen could be found and snuffed out, if he would bide his time. “Is this about Katrin? Still?”