Nightshade (Discarded Heroes), page 12
part #1 of Discarded Heroes Series
Boop-boop. Boop-boop. Sydney glanced at her phone face. Saved by the mom. “Oh! Lane, my mom is calling. I better take this.” She quickly ended the call and switched over. “Hello? Mom?”
“Hi, sweetheart. How’re you doing? Did you get to see the doctor?”
“I did.” She looked at the second burrito, one bite removed, and felt nausea sweep her. Had she really eaten an entire, nasty, fast-food burrito? Ugh! She dropped it in the bag and wiped her hand on an imprinted napkin. “Everything looks fine, Mom. He listened to the heartbeat and examined me.”
“Did he give you a due date?”
“He did.” She gripped the wheel tightly and drew in a breath. “June first.” Max’s birthday. Could the timing be any crueler?
“Oh, sweetie,” came the long, sigh-breathed near apology. “Do you know what the sex is?”
“I have another appointment in a month for an ultrasound.”
“I’m just so excited about this baby. My baby girl having a baby! It’s so wonderful. I mean, I know things weren’t planned, but why don’t we go shopping tomorrow for some maternity clothes and baby things? That’ll be fun.” Her mom’s chipper voice grated against her.
It wasn’t that her mother was insensitive, but Sydney didn’t feel like celebrating. “My clothes are fine. I still haven’t had to let out the buttons yet, so I don’t want to go big until I really am.” Which would buy her some time at work. And with Buck. And Lane.
“Look, Sydney, this child is a precious gift—”
An eerie whistle rent the line.
“Ack!” Sydney yanked the phone away, cringing. Carefully, she tested the line to make sure it was gone. “Mom, what was that noise?”
A busy signal rattled her.
she pressed END and redialed. The phone rang and rang. No answering machine. Unease snaked around Sydney. A chill draped her shoulders. She tried again. Again. Adrenaline spiking, she dialed her brother.
“Hey.”
“Bryce, I think something’s wrong.”
DAY TWO
Hours later
The viper dropped like a rope in front of him. Thump! It slithered and pulled itself into a coil. Jon stopped and flung out his hand to the side, protecting Kimber from stepping into the snake’s path. He eased the machete handle up and gripped it tightly between both hands. As he lifted the weapon up, the snake slithered closer.
Huddling a sleeping Maecel closer, Kimber’s quick intake of breath and the rustling of jungle litter as she took shelter behind him spurred him on. He had a family to protect!
Flexing his biceps, he hauled it up—
“No!” Datu’s snapped word slammed into Jon, who nearly stumbled forward as he tried to stop the inertia.
Regaining his footing, he looked at the chief’s son. “What do you mean, ‘no’? That thing can kill us. I’m going to do whatever it takes to protect my family.”
“If soldiers find carcass, they find us.”
The logic was flimsy, but a margin of truth remained in it.
“This way. We go this way. No kill snake.” Datu waved Kimber and the others to the side and around trees and bushes, avoiding the snake and apparent proof of their whereabouts.
Jon watched as the group filed single file in a wide arc. Something ate at him about the way Datu seemed so adamant about leaving no trail. They were in the middle of a dense tropical jungle on an island and hours away from any cities. What was he afraid would draw trouble? The smell of one snake’s rotting corpse?
With one last look at the banana-colored snake, he trudged behind the others. Maybe it was just exhaustion settling in that made him feel so edgy. Trust had never come easy to Jon, but eking out a living in a village with natives who were nothing like you—they bore the olive skin, dark eyes, and short stature of their lineage, and he bore his own blond hair, blue eyes, and near-basketball-player height—presented its own challenges, not unlike the ones he’d battled in Colorado and by not being a basketball player in a college of state champions. But here? Here he’d found happiness and peace. And a deeper level of trust in God’s sovereignty and ability to provide, always provide.
No, this concern wasn’t the result of his spiritual journey, the journey that restored him to his father—for the most part—and to God the Father, eventually bringing him here. A journey that proved to him that he didn’t deserve the love of those who’d become a part of his life. Kimber. Maecel.
Or maybe it was because of his spiritual walk. Perhaps this nagging was a warning. Of the supernatural kind.
Yeah. As the delicate realization took root in his gut, he grew to understand the guidance of the Holy Spirit in this instance. A sweet, soft voice never raised over the din of life’s chaos. A gentle word, a slow breeze.
Show me, God. What do You want me to see?
Almost instantly his eyes skimmed the dozen feet stretching between him and the last man in the group. Weeds bent and snapped. Grass and jungle litter crushed flat. A shrub’s branches broken. With a half dozen of them slogging up a hill, anyone with a brain could find the trail.
Pausing, Jon drew back. No, something wasn’t right. As a matter of fact, this was very wrong. They were heading much farther north than necessary. Getting up and away from the village made sense, but this route? Wasn’t this the way Igme had warned them about? The blue-streaked jungle warriors lived up this way, didn’t they? But as Kimber had asked—why? Why would Datu take them into the jaws of the lion?
He considered the man he’d allowed to lead them into the heart of darkness. What did he really know about Datu? He knew Igme, Datu’s father, well enough—a very reputable and honorable chief among those on the island. There wasn’t a clan or village that didn’t know Igme or his fair rule. When IHF first made contact and offered education and financial assistance, Igme had readily agreed. It had been an amazing experience for Jon to lead the man through the prayer of salvation.
Over the last two years of living with the clan, Jon had grown to love Igme, staying up late discussing matters within the village and outside. Even now he remembered the chief’s concern about his second-eldest son, Datu.
His soul wanders. It was the only thing Igme had said of his second born. Not being the eldest and not having the blessing of his father yet, Datu had not been granted a seat during clan meetings. Jon had thought Datu had been a bit restless because of this, but was it more?
And where was Igme?
The thought stopped him cold. He pivoted, as if he could see through the miles of vegetation they’d already traversed and back to their village.
Only as he considered the chief’s son plodding uphill with confidence and determination did Jon realize there might be something more sinister at work. What if he was leading them to the Higanti for a specific purpose? But what? What would he …?
Jon’s stomach clenched as a thought took hold. A trade.
He locked his gaze on the slight form of Igme’s second-born. Had his soul wandered to the darkness? Jon’s thoughts swam as a sizable distance grew between him and the group.
“Jon?”
He looked up the incline, grateful to see Kimber slipping back through the ranks to him. Good, he could share his concerns with her.
From the front, Datu’s brow furrowed as he stared down at him.
“I’m right behind you,” Jon said, hoping to reassure the man and not draw attention to himself or his suspicions. As Kimber dropped behind with him, he nodded for her to start back up the incline. “Keep moving and listen.”
Her blue eyes widened. For a second, she seemed to study him, then nodded and hiked.
“Something’s not right,” Jon whispered.
Over her shoulder, she said, “I can sense it now, too.”
Relief flooded him at her simple words.
“What do we do?”
Several steps filled the gap as he tried to figure out the best way to effect his plan. “I’m going to fall back some and try to contact Peter to see—don’t turn around!”
She whipped back to the front, and he could see her arms automatically embrace the sling with their sleeping daughter. Still, he noticed the way her movements became mechanized, stiff.
“Try to act natural, Kimber. We need to buy as much time as we can.”
When the lead was enough that he felt Datu wouldn’t detect his actions, Jon eased the sat phone from his pocket. Holding it low, he scrolled to Peter Jordan’s information. Gaze bouncing to the others, he pressed SEND and watched the connection symbol, waiting for it to sync up. A second later, he stepped off the path and stood behind a tree. He tugged up the hood on his shirt and tucked his chin, eyes on the group.
The ringing tone sounded like a screeching monkey in his ear.
His pulse ratcheted.
The line picked up. Clanking. Had the phone been dropped.
“Hello? Jon, is that you?”
He pulled in closer to the tree. “Yes, Peter, it’s me.”
“Thank You, God! Jon, where are you? Did you miss your flight?”
“No. Yes.”
Peter laughed. “I know you weren’t ready to come back, but for pity’s—”
“Peter, listen! Things are bad. Kimber and I are on the run with Datu.”
“Igme’s son?” Peter’s voice hitched at the end.
“Yes. You have to send help. I think he’s taking us to the Higanti.”
“Hig—no! You can’t let him.” Strain cracked the jovial mood of Peter’s tone from seconds earlier. “Get out of there, Jon. Now! Oh, dear God, help me think!”
“Mauk overran the island. There’s nowhere else.” He peeked around the palm trunk—bamboo barreled at him.
Crack!
His vision ghosted. Pain wracked his head. Warmth slithered down his face. Kimber’s cries screamed into the blackness that devoured him.
CHAPTER 9
Don’t move!” With his M4 trained on her, he ignored the bead of sweat that streaked from his helmet into his eye.
Head-to-toe gauze swayed in the hot desert wind. Dark brown eyes peeked out from the burka.
His gaze locked on the rectangular bulge beneath the light material. The fabric caught—revealing a corner. Shouts and snapped words erupted around him. The men in his unit scrambled innocents to safety behind a cement barricade.
Grip tight but not too tight, he stared down the sights. “Raise your hands! Raise your hands!” Another soldier swooped around her from the left, hollering as they kept a safe distance.
Tears poured from her eyes. She shook her head.
“Don’t do it,” he shouted in Pashto as he backed up. Please don’t.
Screaming in her native language, she said, “I have no choice.” Her hand moved toward her torso.
“No!” Max dove.
Boom!
He jolted, the memory fresh and painful of the instant his body had rammed into the barricade, breaking his arm.
Darkness drenched the night with sweat and nightmares. Wrestling with the sheet, he dragged himself off the mattress and pushed up. He stumbled to the shower and flipped the water on. Under the icy spray, he propped himself on the wall, his forehead against his arms, trying to forget the young woman who’d been forced to obliterate herself in the name of radical Islam. He pounded the wall with a guttural cry.
Why couldn’t he forget her? Or the little boy who’d blown himself up after his family had been killed in a deadly engagement in the mountains of Afghanistan? Or the countless others who’d eaten his bullets? His buddies who’d lost limbs or life itself?
Two weeks in the Caribbean hadn’t erased those memories. Two years wouldn’t either. He’d live with this for the rest of his life.
Oh…God…help. He lowered himself to the floor and buried his head in his hands. At seventeen and stupid, he’d believed God had called him into the military, given him a gift, as it were. Some gift. Complete with everlasting repercussions. Wounds that don’t heal.
“Why?” he shouted, ramming his elbow into the walls. “Why would You do this to me? Why put me in those places and rip me apart, inside out? I’ve lost everything—everything because of this job! Why? Do You enjoy tormenting me?”
Bang, bang, bang!
Max jerked himself off the shower floor and spun, as if looking through the wall to the front door. He spun the handles, snatching a towel from the shelf. Hurriedly, he dried off and stuffed himself into clean undergarments, then a pair of jeans. Hobbling as he slid his foot through the other leg, he hurried to the door. “Coming!” He zipped the jeans then raked a hand through his hair, glancing around for a shirt. No go. He swung the door open.
Cowboy tipped the rim of his Stetson back and grinned. “Am I interrupting?”
“Probably saving me from a bolt of lightning.” Max waved him in and darted to the bedroom, grabbing a T-shirt. Weaving his hands into the cotton, he returned to the living room. “So, what brings you by this pit so late?”
“Visiting some old friends in the area.” Cowboy handed Max a small box. “After the island, I got this for you. Might want to dig into it.”
Tentative of the contents, Max considered the overgrown cowboy as he glanced at the name on the bag. “Hastings?” He wrinkled his nose. “Can’t say I’d ever expect to see you at a high-end shop like that.”
“The bag … I … um … it was the only one lying around the house. My mom shops there.” He removed his hat and smoothed his hair.
Since when had the cowboy acted nervous? Max drew the box out of the bag and stilled as he glanced down at a small black Bible. The gift irritated him. Pat answers always had. “Thanks, but I think God and I are through.”
“Have you asked Him about that?”
“Look, it’s a nice thought, but …” He ran his thumb over the gold lettering of his name on the cover. Changing the subject wouldn’t work. Not with Cowboy. Max just had to gut it up. Even if he did bare his soul in the process. At least he knew his venom wouldn’t affect the man before him. “I joined the Navy because I thought … I thought that’s where God wanted me.” Grief choked him. “Now look at me. An angry screwup.”
The man’s large hand rested on Max’s shoulder. “Start reading about David.” He tapped the Bible. “The king faced battles, enemies who tried to kill him. Check out his story. I think you’ll find out you’re not alone.” Cowboy squeezed. “No, I know you’re not alone.”
The gold-edged pages gleamed at him. “I don’t know, man. Not really up for a guilt trip.”
As he reached for the knob, Cowboy chuckled. “Who is? But if you want to salvage your life—and I’ll say it again: your marriage is not lost—then this is where you start. Fight for something that’s worth it, Max.”
Alone once again, Max fanned through the pages, the burst of cool air thick with new-paper smell. A million black words whizzed past. Handwriting scrawled over the thin paper caught his attention. He flipped to the dedication page. Sentimental Cowboy had inscribed it with the To, FROM, DATE, and a scripture reference. Maybe the cowboy was right.
Right, how? It wasn’t like reading a book could fix his problems. Or blot out the gruesome images that haunted his waking and sleeping.
Could it?
He shook his head. How many times had he felt guilty hearing all the sermons about what he should be doing? What good did it all do?
Max slid the Bible onto the kitchen counter, grabbed a bottled water from the fridge, and went to his weight bench. Seated on the inclined bench, he turned on the TV then eased himself back and lifted the bar from the braces. Pumping iron, running, and baseball had always been his outlets. Tonight it just didn’t seem to faze him or take the edge off his burning agitation.
The monotonous drone of a twenty-four-hour news channel blended into his puffs and grunts as he worked his muscle groups and toned his body. It was one thing Sydney did like about him.
He paused, hands on the bar overhead, remembering her warm fingers smoothing over his chest and abs. Longing for her touch ate at him. Max sat up and stole a peek at the Bible. Maybe … for her.
Won’t work.
The news anchor’s voice snagged Max’s attention with talk of a possible bombing. “A small community has been literally rocked during a late night explosion.”
“That’s right, Alfred. Tonight the small community of Harvard Oaks is reeling from a devastating explosion that has leveled one home and damaged two others.”
Max pushed to his feet, staring at the screen. Harvard Oaks. That’s where their house was, the one he and Sydney built.
