Nightshade (Discarded Heroes), page 10
part #1 of Discarded Heroes Series
He flicked his wrist and checked his watch. Six thirty. They should’ve been at Zamboanga International Airport by now. Jordan would go ballistic when he found out they’d missed the flight. Shifting Maecel to his left arm, he dug in his pack for the satellite phone.
“Oh no,” Jon mumbled as he tried to navigate terrain with Maecel, the phone, and the uneven path.
Kimber glanced over her shoulder, dark ringlets dangling in her face. She brushed the strands aside. “What’s wrong?”
He met her gaze and held up the phone. “Battery’s low. I’ve got to call Jordan, let him know we’re not going—”
“No! No, no!” Datu snapped, rushing toward Jon. “You no call.”
Jon paused, considering the chief’s son. “I have to. They’re expecting us.”
“No!” Datu shook a stubby finger. “You no call. You call, Mauk come.”
“What do you mean? I’m calling our mission board. They have to know. They might even be able to help Kezia.”
“No. Mauk see all. He know all—he own all.”
“He doesn’t own Island Hope.” Jon glared down at the fierce brown eyes. Yet dread swirled in his gut. He didn’t want to believe what Datu was saying. Didn’t want to believe that a deadly foe could intercept his phone call to IHF. But it made sense. Yet how else would they get help? And if he waited, the sat phone would be dead and there would be no chance.
“Jon,” Kimber said as she took Maecel from him. “Let’s just keep moving. Maybe we can figure something out.”
Figure something out? Was she kidding? If they didn’t make that call now, they never would.
“God will work it out. He’ll show us.” She strapped a blanket around Maecel, effectively creating a sling.
How was it that she always had the peace, the inner strength that he longed for? Would that he could be as confident in God’s ways as she was. God, help me trust You. He stuffed the phone back into his pack and followed her. He’d think after eight years of missionary work, three immersed completely in the culture, he’d have that part down pat.
Far from it. Every day, every breath brought him to his knees.
And then there was Kimber. Kimber Leigh stanton, home-schooled, eldest of six children, heart of gold. Many times she’d told him that God had given her everything she ever wanted in life. To have a godly husband, to be a mother, and to work the mission field. Living as an example of Christ’s love fulfilled Kimber in ways that still boggled his mind. Then again, she ministered to the wounded hearts. His job was leadership.
Maybe I just have to figure it out my way.
He grunted. For as long as he could remember, his way had been the hard way. That’s exactly what he’d done before stepping onto the mission field. Growing up as a preacher’s kid did weird things to him. He wanted to make his father proud but somehow found himself doing everything but making the man proud. Kinda hard to live up to the gigantic reputation of a wildly successful, megachurch pastor-father when you’re sliding out of jail on drug-related charges. Two years later, Jon had set out for the Philippines, determined to prove his mettle, his worth as a son of Stephen Harris. A son of God.
And his father would climb the steel rafters of the sanctuary when he found out Jon and Kimber never made that plane.
No. Jon had to find a way to get word to his father or IHF about what was happening. He’d make a call. Just a short one.
But what if Mauk did intercept it and learned Jon and Kimber had escaped? Not only escaped, but had Kezia. The sky would unleash more than rain. What hope existed if they got embroiled with the Higanti, who would make sure Jon and Kimber never left alive? Was there any hope to get out of this?
He wiped a hand over his face, swiping the sweat from his skin. Aches dug into his shoulders and back, kneading a hefty dose of tension into the very marrow of his bones.
“We take break,” Datu finally called.
Resting against a palm trunk, Jon dug into the pack and retrieved an energy bar. Maecel’s face lit up. “Me, me, me,” she said with a throaty grunt and motioned for the food.
Jon smiled and broke the bar in two, handing one piece to Maecel and the other to Kimber. He then gave them a water pack. He shifted his position and nudged closer to his wife. Head tucked, he whispered, “I have to call Jordan.” He skated a glance around the makeshift camp. Nobody seemed to be listening, including Kimber, who ate and talked playfully with Maecel.
Was she listening? Had she heard? “I’m concerned he’s taking us to the Higanti, and if they learn we’re Christians, we’re dead.”
“You don’t know that’s where he’s taking us.” Her hissed words warned him of her feelings.
The heckling sounds of the tropical forest pervaded the silence that hung between them. Jon lowered himself to the ground, his back to Datu and the others. “But what if it is?”
Kimber locked eyes with him then lifted Maecel up, effectively blocking her face. “Why? Why would he do that? He could just kill us here and get it over with.”
Why, indeed? That was the question plaguing him. Again, the smartest thing was to try to call IHF. “If I can call Jordan, he might be able to get us out, but it’s going to take some time to put together the plans. Until then …”
“We’re on our own.”
His nod felt curt to even him. “We just have to stay alive.”
Her eyes darted to his. “And what if the call brings Mauk?”
“I have to try.” He swallowed the doom hovering over it. “Either way, we’re dead.”
CHAPTER 7
You have a problem.”
Olin slid a mint into his mouth and looked over the park, appreciating the beautiful sunshine and cool breeze. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and relaxed, his words aimed at the man sitting behind him. “I have many problems, but none that concern you.”
“A woman is inquiring about the missions. She called within two days of Moz. How does she know about that?”
A shallow laugh worked its way through Olin’s chest. “It was on the news.”
“But her questions are detailed. She knows about Namibia, too.”
“Relax, Chairman. My team is well-hidden and will not be blown.”
“If they’re blown, you’re blown. Then I’m blown.”
Olin sighed and watched a green kite soaring overhead.
“I’m not going to let that happen. I won’t go down. You promised me—”
“And I keep my promises.” He leveled a firm gaze at the man. “I assure you, were this a problem, it would be eliminated already. If you overreact, mistakes will be made. Trust my men. Trust me.” Olin smiled at a woman as she walked her fluffy white dog past. Once she was out of earshot, he cleared his throat. “I’ll take them off the grid for a while, but that also means you’re out of luck with any black-ops necessities. Just understand, Chairman, that keeping them out of sight and mind is done in exchange for your promise to leave this alone and not leap without looking.”
Without a word, the chairman stood and walked down the path toward the Potomac.
Welcome to Paradise Gardens. Max stared out at the diamond-encrusted water. Unbelievable. He’d been ready for another long stint in the jungle hunting bad guys, equalizing pressure … but this? A pristine beach on a private island for two weeks? He crossed his legs, bent over, and stretched. The only thing in the last four days since the helo deposited him on the hot sands that had saved his sanity was tearing up the beach until he felt like he would drop.
After a few more stretches, he started his run. The first day, he’d been so ticked he’d completed the first circuit in under an hour. Now he ran a fast clip, but since there wasn’t anything else to do on this godforsaken island other than crawl the walls, he made several circuits. At least it ate up the hours. The rigorous workout of running in the sand tamed his mind and strengthened him.
Someone had it in good with Lambert. How else could the general manage sending a team of six onto a private island for fourteen days with free rein? And not just an island, but a fully stocked and loaded home that rivaled the Taj Mahal with its ornate detail and luxury. It was too much. Far too much for a group of soldiers. Besides, what was the point? Were they supposed to unwind? Like that could ever happen.
As the sun rose higher and beat down on him, Max completed a lap and slowed. Laughter rumbled from the volleyball pit. Fix jumped and slammed the ball hard—it pinged off the compacted sand and burst up at Cowboy and Griffin. Even amid the triumphant shout of victory, Fix high-fived the Kid. They were laughing, acting like they didn’t have a care in the world. Lucky them.
Dripping sweat and disgust, Max climbed the steps to the house.
“Max!” The Kid jogged toward him, wearing those stupid Hawaiian shorts and a goofy grin. “We need another player for the match.”
He considered the sand pit but shook his head. “It’s even. You don’t need me.”
“Actually, we talked Legend into playing finally. And Midas is just coming in from a swim.”
Griffin lumbered onto the sand court with a taunting grin.
“This why they call you Legend?”
A laugh seeped through Griffin’s chest. “Let’s find out.”
Midas sloughed his way up the shore, wiping the salty water from his short crop, and jabbed his board into the sand. With a grin, he stepped onto the court—on Fix’s team.
Ah. A challenge.
Max almost grinned as he plodded toward his new teammates, Cowboy and Legend. They patted his back and took up positions. Crouching, Max peered under the net at Midas.
“Ready to eat sand, Frogman?”
“You first.”
Cowboy served, and the ball sailed over the net, straight toward Fix, who bumped the ball toward the Kid, who in turn set it up—
Midas leaped into the air and pummeled the ball.
It streaked straight toward the ground. Max dove hard. But a blur of white told him he’d been too late.
His opponents cheered his failure. Max pulled himself off the beach.
“That’s all right. That’s all right,” Legend said, clapping and swiping palms with Max. “We’ll stomp them. Bury them six feet under.” His laugh seemed to echo over the waters.
Rolling his shoulders, Max returned to his spot and readied himself for the serve, this time coming from Reyes. The man served effortlessly, and Max began to wonder if he’d been set up. Midas hooted when Cowboy intercepted and bounced it up. Max jumped and slammed the ball back over the net.
A plume of sand burst up—and only seconds before he made out Midas’s long frame sliding toward them. The ball was still in play! And back on their side.
Legend once again bumped it to Cowboy, who set it up. On his feet, Max again leaped and spiked the ball. This time the Kid missed—and it smacked the hot sand.
“Score!” Cowboy and Legend cheered, slapping Max on the back. An hour and two games later, with the points tied and both sides set to win, a truce was called for lunch. Max appreciated the way the guys played, the way even though they were on opposites sides and willing to drive a ball hard into each other’s chests, they were a team. It was good. Real good.
As they trudged into the house to shower and change for lunch, the Kid sidled up next to Max. “D’ya hear?”
“What?”
“Oberly is having a massive party tomorrow night. Guests are going to be flown in.”
With a check on the rest of the team, who’d slowly gathered, Max couldn’t help but be surprised. Guess this wouldn’t be quite as solitary as they’d thought. More people, more noise. That should be a good thing. So why did it bug him so much?
“Probably be women.” The Kid’s grin grew bigger, if that was possible. “Loads.”
That’s why. A party meant revelers, happy drunk idiots. He tucked aside the urge to knock the Kid upside his head. Marshall was young, inexperienced. Didn’t have a clue about life. Rich kid. Had daddy foot the bill for anything he wanted, like parties with loose women and booze. Not only would there be drunks, but there’d also be people who would question why a half dozen well-muscled grunts were holed up on a secluded island.
“A party?” he asked, looking to Cowboy.
The cowboy shrugged. “Seems so. They’re setting up tents and decorations by the pool, which is why we’re out here. Gettin’ outta the way.”
Max chewed the information.
“Rumor has it,” Legend said, “the team’s invited. One caterer even said it’s a group of models coming in for a photo shoot.”
“Yes!” the Kid shouted, then laughed. “See? A party unlike any other. Maybe they’ll want us to pose with the ladies.” The Kid turned sideways, flexing his biceps, then rolled his abs.
Midas shoved the Kid. “You haven’t got a prayer, Scrappy Doo.”
“Yeah, a party—with professional photographers who could slap your ugly mug all over the front of a magazine and blow our cover.” Max could tell by the seriousness in Cowboy and Legend’s faces that they had already thought about that. “Steer clear. Lambert told us to lie low, get some R&R. Avoid attention.” He headed to his room.
Cleaned and marginally refreshed an hour later, Max returned to the main floor, where marble and ornate statues ruled the cavernous room. Sparkling chandeliers spun light into the living area and the foyer. Max banked right and strode down the slick floors to the grand dining hall on the northeast corner, its wall of windows overlooking a small inlet. Two round tables skirted in burgundy and topped with mounds of mouth-watering food were almost concealed behind the bulk of the muscular men already scavenging. Max grabbed a plate and joined his teammates.
“Hey, you worn a track in the sand yet?” Cowboy popped a grape in his mouth as he shifted to the right one step and scooped some creamy stuff onto his plate.
Had anyone else asked that question, Max might’ve smacked them. But it was Cowboy. His new ally. The man who saved him from getting stupid … stupider. “I’ll have it ready by the time we leave.”
Cowboy grinned, chewing. “Thought you might.”
Quiet descended on the group as they chowed down, anticipation over the arrival of the models still clogging the air. Almost as if on cue, a man in a wait-staff uniform appeared in the doorway, standing with his arms stiff at his side and his chin parallel to the floor. He cleared his throat.
As one unit, the team turned toward him.
“Mr. Oberly has graciously extended an invitation to a quiet gathering, poolside this evening, to meet his guests.”
The Kid and Fix slapped a high-five.
Steer clear did not mean steer straight into the target.
Max clenched his fist, watching as the Kid danced with two women, whooping and hollering. Less than a half dozen feet away, Fix did the same. And surrounding the entire party, a throng of photogs.
“This is a bad idea,” he mumbled.
Cowboy lifted a bottled water from the buffet table. “Can’t do much about it, so let’s just blend.”
“Blend?” Max glared at the cowboy who, dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a button-down shirt, didn’t know the meaning of the phrase.
“What?” Cowboy grinned broadly. “Hey, it’s my style. I’m comfortable with who I am.”
Chuckling, Max slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks, silently cursing Olin Lambert for telling the team they’d be spending a few days doing recon in an upscale setting. Be sure to pack appropriately. Yeah, Olin had seen this coming.
He considered the drinks, wondering which ones had the wrong kind of punch.
A warm hand rested on his chest, snapping his attention to the blond leaning into him. “You look lonely,” she purred. Pretty platinum hair curled around a young face, framing her chocolate eyes. “Dance with me?”
Tensed at her touch and seductive manners, Max tried to keep his attention on her face. He was married—well, at least technically. But Syd had closed the door, hadn’t she? Besides, what could one dance hurt? He let her lead him onto the dance floor set up under the tent. She turned into his arms and set a hand on his shoulder. “So, what’s your name?”
“Max.” Why did this feel like junior high?
“I’m Tawny.”
He resisted the urge to groan, and just when he thought better of agreeing to this, she closed what space remained between them and curled into him, her cheek against his. Something inside him curdled. But it felt good to hold her, to feel her soft curves against him. Yet it made him miss Sydney—the shape of her body, her full curves, the way she fit perfectly into his arms and embrace, unlike the woman in his arms now.
