Nightshade (Discarded Heroes), page 15
part #1 of Discarded Heroes Series
“Get up!”
Something rammed into Jon’s ribs as he lay on his side on the ground. He curled in on himself, trembling from a fever that devoured him.
“Get up!”
He opened his eyes just in time to see a boot swing toward his stomach—and braced for the blunt force. Oof! Jon doubled—and snatched the man’s leg and jerked hard.
The soldier flipped onto his back. Just as quick, the man pulled himself up and lunged. He pinned Jon to the ground and rammed a fist into his face. Without a shred of mercy, the guy stood and stomped on Jon’s broken arm.
Volcanic fire lit through every cell of his body.
His world spun—and went black.
Water. Cool. Refreshing. Too much! He couldn’t breathe. Jon writhed. He was drowning! He yanked forward, gagging and coughing. Just as fast, his awareness hit on his grim environment. The soldier who’d pummeled him towered over him, laughing as he tossed a bucket to the side.
Head swimming, Jon tried to steady his body’s volatile reactions. Propping up with one hand only served to make his stomach churn. His arm oozed blood and puss with each pump of his heart. He winced as he studied the distorted shape his arm hung at—it’d most likely have to be rebroken and reset when they returned to the States. His stomach roiled at the thought. And what ribs weren’t broken protested the swelling and movement of any muscle. He squinted, wondering why his calf muscle seemed to stretch tight the fabric of his khaki pants.
“Leave him. We’ll have fun with the others.”
Jon’s ears burned. He tried to watch where they headed, but when he turned his head, his elbow gave out. He fell hard against the earth—and his trembling body thanked him. Huffing against the exertion, he reminded himself he wasn’t alone in this. Somewhere these dogs were holding his wife, daughter, and Kezia. And where was Datu?
On the thick, humid wind, a noise snagged his attention. He rolled his head around, searching the empty distance between his cage and the meticulously concealed huts. What had he heard?
A baby’s wail pierced the early night.
“Maecel!” Jon dragged his body around, faced the direction. Every muscle trembled. Still, he strained and hauled himself to his feet. He stumbled to a pole that held the fence and propped himself up. “Kimber,” he called, his voice cracking and bottoming out. Fresh pains scalded his raw throat.
Another cry from his infant daughter whispered through the thickening night.
“Maecel!” His shout was lost amid a rumble in the skies. He glanced up through the trees—nothing but black. Thunder cracked.
A scream blasted into him.
Jon frantically searched the village. “Kimber!” He’d not seen a single soul in the days he’d been here, save the men who’d beaten him. How could there be so many huts draped with branches and trees, bushes heavily planted around them for concealment, and no people?
“Kimber!” His veins pulsed furiously as he howled her name.
He had no sooner heard footsteps to the side and looked—than he met with the hard plastic end of a fully automatic weapon.
Jon dropped like a rock on his left side. Pain spiked through his arm.
The hulking mass stood over him and again drove the butt of the weapon into him.
“Stop! We need him alive.”
The man hovering shuffled his feet closer to Jon’s head. He mumbled a curse, struck Jon’s head with the steel-toed boot, then left. Jon pushed himself onto his back and lay staring up at the sky, crying. A drop plopped onto his cheek, cold and wet. Rain.
Of course. He chuckled. Rainy season. Why not? Everything else had gone wrong.
Within seconds, a deluge washed over him. He lay with his eyes closed, rain pelting his body and drenching his clothes, his very soul. Lightning splintered the darkness. A storm raged around him and in him. Invaded his life. A half snort worked its way up his throat. Hadn’t he just a day ago—or was it more?—whined about being yanked from the island, afraid his purpose hadn’t been fulfilled? Was this his purpose? After all their hard work, was it his fate to be a martyr?
Be a missionary, save a tribe, see children clothed, fed, and educated. Being here, being a hand, a physical extension of Christ’s love, had given him pleasure. He could almost say it fulfilled him. Now, was he to die for the cause? A martyr. Odd. He’d never seen his life going that way.
Temptation dripped into his soul to just let himself go. Just let the elements and injuries have their way. Already, he could feel the cold rain numbing his extremities. The ground beneath him sluiced, and he sank lower. He was being taken from the Tagalog anyway. Did it matter?
What would happen to Kimber and Maecel? If they survived.
His eyes popped open. Survive? A beautiful, white, Christian woman? She’d have no chance. They’d brutally rape, beat, and hack her up for speaking up for her faith, which she would. Oh, she definitely would. How many times had he longed for just a half ounce of her die-hard determination? If she wasn’t already dead, she would be. And he couldn’t do a single thing about it.
And Maecel. Her chubby, round face of innocence. Every semblance of that which Mauk and the Higanti hated.
He had to get himself together. If he wasn’t dead yet, then maybe God wasn’t finished with him. And if Maecel was still out there crying, then no way would Jon Harris lie down like a dog, lick his wounds, and die. He had to fight. Had to save them!
He tried to pull himself up, but the muddy ground formed a suction, resisting his efforts. Finally, with a slurping noise, he broke free from the hold of the earth. He pushed and dragged himself to his feet. Shuffling back to the pole, he weighed his options. Shouting in this storm would do no good. Nobody would hear him, let alone care.
He sighed and did the thing he should’ve done first. Prayed. “God,” he began, emotion clogging his throat. Head tucked, he peered through the rain in the same direction he’d heard his baby girl. “They’re out there. I don’t believe You brought us this far to have us slaughtered.” At least, he seriously hoped not. “Help me stand firm …. Just … help me.”
White lit the night. Jon waited for the rumble of thunder sure to follow. Would they have a chance to escape? Slipping and sliding down the hilly terrain could prove deadly. Jon looked up to gauge how hard or long the storm would last, but he couldn’t see anything.
Can’t see.
A smile dug into his face. He might not be able to see, but Someone else could. And maybe, just maybe, that Someone could open someone else’s “eyes”—the military used heat-seeking satellites, right? Maybe if Jordan got a message to someone, they could track Jon’s sat phone to the area, then use thermal imaging.
Was it hoping for too much?
What did he have to lose?
His wife and daughter.
CHAPTER 11
Suspicious? How?”
“Bryce, grow a brain!” Sydney worked hard to control her irritation, still exhausted from yesterday’s funeral and the exhilarating first flutter of life within. “I don’t believe it’s a coincidence that my house explodes and kills our mother on the same day I got threatened.”
He held out his hands. “I can see why you might come to that conclusion, but there’s no evidence, and until the investigation report comes back, we can’t do anything.”
She wanted to claw the reasonable, rational mentality from his skull. He’d been a detective too long. “So we just sit around while Mom’s killer runs free? What if they come back?”
Bryce scowled. “Sydney.” He looked toward the living room where Victoria was herding the girls for bedtime. “Let’s just take things one fact at a time. Okay?”
“Fact? You want facts? First—”
The shrill tweedle of the phone cut her off. She glared at him and snatched the phone. A glance at the caller ID warned her to take this call privately. “Excuse me,” she said and slunk away to answer. “Hello?”
“Hey, how’re you?” Concern oozed through Lane’s voice. “Can you talk?”
Sydney sighed and slipped down the hall to talk with Lane in private. “Anxious to get back to work, and yes, I can talk.”
“Buck would shove me face first through the window if he knew I was calling.”
She closed her bedroom door. “What’s going on?”
“Well, I wanted to see if you’d share your notes on the incidents with me.”
She straightened, feeling an innate possessiveness regarding her stories. “Why? Those are mine. I’ve worked them front to back—”
“I’m not trying to steal them. I just …” He huffed. “I found something I think is related.”
“What?”
“I … Sydney, someone blew up your home. I don’t think we should talk about this over the phone. Can you meet me?”
With a furtive glance to the door and knowing Bryce would have a conniption if she left this late, she hesitated. Then drew up her shoulders. Her brother wasn’t going to rule her life anymore. Max had always said she was strong, but being protected by a detective brother and a spec ops husband, she’d never had to prove that strength.
No time like the present.
“Where?”
“Cassidy’s at the North End. Say, in an hour?”
“I’ll be there.” Exhilaration swirled through her at the thought of defying her brother. Of a late-night mission about her story. In her closet, she changed into her favorite jeans, noting the waistband was fairly snug, and a black embellished T-shirt, then slipped into black flats. Armed with her messenger bag, purse, and phone, she strode into the kitchen, replaced the phone on its cradle, then started for the door. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“Whoa. Hold up,” Bryce said, leaping over a couple of toys, his large strides carrying him quickly to her. “Where’re you going?”
“Out,” Sydney said, giving him a look she hoped conveyed her determination.
He paused, reaching for her. “Do you think that’s a good idea? It’s late, and—”
“I’m a grown woman, Bryce. I can’t hide here. I can’t bury my head in the sand.”
“Nobody’s asking you to do that, but Sydney, the baby … Mom.”
“What about them, Bryce? Mom is gone.” Her heart cinched into her throat. “I can’t change that by gluing myself to her home for the rest of my life. And this baby is coming whether I’m here knitting a million outfits or meeting friends.” She let out a stiff breath. “Please. Just give me room to be a person again, okay? I’m going insane here. You and Vic—” She clamped her mouth shut and looked away. She couldn’t tell him how much it pained her to watch their perfect family going on without a hitch. “Don’t wait up for me. I’ll be fine.”
Hustling down the steps to the path, she tried to calm her bouncing nerves. She’d never been so direct with him, so adamant. It wasn’t that he meant to run her life or tell her what to do. Bryce had just been the man of the family for the last fifteen years, and with Mom’s murder, he probably felt more burdened with the responsibility of watching over her than ever. But she wouldn’t let him suffocate her.
Forty minutes later, as the adrenaline rush bottomed out, she pushed through the doors of the small pub with a massive reputation. She smiled, knowing Lane had chosen this spot not for the liquor and merriment, but for the crowds.
He spotted her and waved her to a booth in the far corner. A lone candle flickered on the table as she squeaked over the bench seat.
“Wow,” he said, his grin large. “You look great, glowing.”
Heat crawled up her neck and into her face. “Really?” Could it be that the baby was already making her glow? She wondered what Lane would say about the baby. Would it temper his attraction to her, the attraction he’d never been able to hide? Or would he get all overprotective like Bryce? She shuddered.
A waitress slid a glass of water onto her table. “Something to drink?”
“I’m good. Thanks,” Sydney said. Drawing the glass on the paper coaster toward her, she looked at Lane. “So, what’d you find?”
“Well, it’s not so much what I did find as it is what I didn’t find.”
She shrugged out of her jacket and settled back against the vinyl seat. “Okay.”
He leaned in, his green eyes probing the pub. “You’ve found two situations in which atrocities were carried out and many UN-bound countries had their hands tied.”
“Right.”
“Yet someone went in and silenced the problem.”
As a tendril of smoke wove toward her, Sydney’s irritation grew. “Lane, you’re not telling me anything new. I’ve lined up interviews and am waiting on calls from the Pentagon.”
“Exactly.”
She blinked at his animated expression. “I’m not following you.”
“What if the American government is connected?”
Sydney’s ire ratcheted as she held up her hands in question. “Why do you think I’m trying to contact the Pentagon?”
“No,” Lane said, hedging closer, his finger poking the table. “I mean, what if they’re buying some favors. Classic Capitol Hill maneuver—you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. If they’re meddling in tribal uprisings—something we would never get involved in normally—it would seem they’re intentionally shifting the balance of power.”
“Why? And who would do something like that?”
“The payoff is greater than doing things the UN way? Someone’s getting a fat pension? I bet some senator or congressman is living high off the hog for intervening, maybe the chairman of the Arms Committee? And with the threat against you, the attack, I can’t believe it’s random. Something is going on here that is far bigger than a human interest story.”
Sydney swallowed the bitter burst of fear that glanced off her tongue. She ran her fingers through her hair, detangling the long strands as she worked the information over. “It would make sense.” She nodded and smoothed back her hair. “I call the Pentagon about Namibia. They blow me off. Then I call about Moz, and they accuse me of harassment, nearly get me fired.”
Lane propped an arm on the table. “Then you get the threat. And boom.”
Sydney flinched.
He reached across the table and placed his hand on hers. “Syd, I’m sorry, I didn’t …. Bad choice of words.” Shifting closer, he eased into her personal space. “You okay?”
Feeling awkward at his touch, she forced a smile and burrowed back against the seat with a shaky nod. “I guess I’m not feeling so great.”
“Would you like to get some air? We could walk the Strand.”
After a curt nod, she strode out into the night, grateful for the early spring weather that doused her with a cool breeze. She inhaled deeply and tucked her purse over her shoulder. Burning around her lower abdomen begged for scratching, and she appeased the call, her mind drawn to the precious life inside her. Wonderful and bittersweet.
Lane emerged a minute later and joined her, his hand going to her elbow. “What was that smile for?”
“Just thinking.”
They started up the sidewalk, making their way toward a well-lit street lined with shops and restaurants. “You look beautiful tonight.” He tucked his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders.
With a shy, disconcerted smile, she thanked him and kept moving, trying not to think about all the times she’d spent on this very street at the little Italian eatery. Giuseppe’s. Max’s favorite spot. He always called ahead and arranged to sit at the table next to the pier. Max and water were like her with chocolate and peanut butter. Never enough.
“You seem distracted.”
“Huh?”
“I’ve asked you twice now if you were hungry.”
“Why would you ask that?”
“Because you’re staring at a couple eating dinner.”
Sydney jolted into the present, a blush heating her face. “I’m sorry. It’s hard to let some things go.” Once again walking, she steered her wayward thoughts back to the reason for meeting with Lane. “So what can I do? I mean, I’m not ready to let the stories go. I’ve hit a nerve.” The salty breeze tousled her hair into her face, and she plucked the strands free. “I want to know what nerve that was.”
“Me, too. I’ve never seen such a strong reaction. It has to mean something.”
“Yeah, but can we prove it?” Would it be too dangerous to prove it? And how on earth had she ended up threatened by something that seemed so innocuous?
