Nightshade (Discarded Heroes), page 18
part #1 of Discarded Heroes Series
If God wasn’t going to act …
Kimber nuzzled into his arms, night descending deep and thick. The heavy rains pecked out a soothing rhythm on the roof and seeped gently into the hut, dribbling on them. Despite the cooling rain, heat radiated to Jon. An hour earlier, they’d tucked Maecel under a blanket and made a pallet high enough off the ground that she could sleep in relative warmth.
“God’s going to rescue us, Jon.” Kimber’s words came faint and breathless.
Was that a question? He hoped not, because his faith was seriously lacking. And in the last few days, he’d seen even Kimber’s rock-solid faith begin to wane. He wanted to tell her that they just needed to trust God. But isn’t that what so many before him had done? And how many of those had come home in a pine box?
Sure, yeah. Jon was willing to make sacrifices when it came to fighting for the cause. And he didn’t want to limit God—but this? Waiting for a group of radicals to hand him and his family off to a group of ultraradicals, who would take great pleasure in dragging their naked bodies through the streets as a sign of what they did to the infidels of the Great Satan?
Who knew what they’d already done to Kimber? Over the last several days since he’d awoken from the coma, she’d been vague and downright evasive about what had happened to her during those days of unconsciousness.
“Kimber, what did they do to you?” He finally whispered the question, letting it hang as thick as the deluge pelting the shelter.
She tightened her arms around his waist. “It doesn’t matter.” Her body trembled, radiating firelike heat.
He clenched his jaw. “It does matter.”
Raised up on her elbow, she stared down at him. “Why? Why does it matter?”
How could she even ask that? “Because you’re my wife. I’m supposed to protect you.”
“And what would you do?” Kimber traced his bearded jaw, smoothing the wiry hairs. “Jon, the only reason you want to know is to fuel that anger I already see burning in your eyes. To fan the flames of your pride. Let it go.”
“How can you—”
“Because, this,” she said, motioning around them and up and down her body, “is all temporal. But our witness, our God, is eternal.”
He pushed off the cot, his legs nearly buckling—which made his feet slip on the mucky earthen floor. Steadied, he trudged to a small chair on the opposite side of the room. “We have to do something.”
She came to his side, her clothes all but hanging on her after the weeks in captivity. “We pray. That’s all we can do. Besides, Kezia is still here.” Kneeling before him, she peered up with those dark eyes that had stilled more than one storm in him. “I have hope that they will release her to us.”
“Kezia?” Jon pushed himself out of the chair and raked a hand through his hair, his fingers catching on the muddied, bloodied, tangled kinks. “Kezia! You’re worrying about her, but what about you? And Maecel?”
She smiled. “God will provide, Jon. You’re always telling me that. Besides, Kezia is the reason we’re here. I’m positive. I’ve seen it in my dreams. She’s going to be an amazing woman.” Kimber crossed the gap between them and placed a hand on his arm. “God will provide a way.”
Yeah.
But did he believe it? How many times had he uttered that axiom? They’d been tested before. But never like this. Never truly, brutally tested. Would this time be different? Would they, like Abraham, need a sacrificial ram to take their places? Jon wasn’t sure he could do something like that, offer his own daughter to God. His gaze drifted to the sleeping form of Maecel, and everything in him bunched up into a million knots. He would be the ram if it meant Kimber and Maecel lived and were freed.
God, take me. Not them. Me.
Agitation writhed through him, wresting him of the ability to stand still, to hold Kimber. He nudged her aside. “I can’t do this. I’m going insane.” He paced the length of the hut, his mind racing through the options. Each one came up empty, defeated. With all of them dead.
He roughed a hand over his face, hating the patch of wilderness growing on his chin. Hating the grime clinging to his skin. Hating the sores under the beard and rat’s nest of a hairdo. His arm still ached from the makeshift surgery, and he wondered more than once if the doctor had been licensed for humans or animals. Or did the man even have a license?
She came to him again, wrapping her arms around him. Hugging him.
But once more the desire to be free of this confining place, to find a solution that guaranteed that nobody—nobody—ever touched Kimber again, ignited more frustration. He pushed around her and went to the opposite side. Huffed. Turned and walked back. Shook his head.
“Jon?”
He paused in the path he was pounding into the earthen floor.
“What if God’s plan is for us to be the lamb?”
He spun, shaking a finger at her. “Don’t ever say that again. Ever!” Anger flashed through his mind and chest, burning. Raging. Because—
His shoulders sagged. Because he’d wondered that himself. And he didn’t want to think of the unimaginable ways they could die at the hands of the Higanti or the Abu Sayyaf or the other groups razing the land. He wasn’t sure which was worse. All too well, he remembered the American sailors strung up on the beach like a fish fry. Or the leader of a local Christian church left hanging from a tree the night a monsoon hit. His body had never been found.
Was that what God had for them? Was that their purpose? The sneer smearing into his face set off a warning in his gut, but he ignored it. “What would that prove?” He fisted his hands, rubbing his knuckles. “Who would profit from that?”
“Jon—”
“No.” He flung around, glaring at her, his chest rising and falling hard. Too hard—a cough rumbled into his throat and seized him, nearly bringing him to his knees. In his periphery, he saw Kimber coming toward him. He held out his hand. “No!” He dragged himself upright and propped his body against the thatched wall. He shook his head and hacked up phlegm. He spit. “No. I’m not buying it. No way God has brought us all around the world to let those goons slaughter us.”
Peace and tranquility washed over her features, sympathy and empathy rolled into a beautiful package called Kimber. And merciful heavens—she looked like an angel, even with the hollows of her eyes darkened and her skin … pasty. Her bones protruding—the paleness. The fever. Her chills.
Oh God, help me! The air whooshed from his lungs as he reached for her, his eyes wide and hands trembling. Dengue fever.
CHAPTER 14
Fragile china clinked and glinted under the gentle massage of warm candle lighting. White linen tablecloths draped over tables, spanning the short distance between couples and business associates. Supple red leather cradled Olin as he carved out a small chunk of his T-bone steak, dipped it in the signature sauce, and lifted it to his lips.
His taste buds exploded with the spiced, savory mixture. Eyes closed, he relished the flavor, thankful for this exquisite restaurant near the wharf. “Mm, blissful.”
Diamonds sparkled against the short crop of pearl-colored hair. Blue eyes glittered at him, adoring and sweet. His precious wife smiled. “Perhaps if it were your first time here, I might agree. But we’ve been here every Saturday night for eighteen years, and you always have the same meal.”
He winked at her and her taunting tone before he slid another piece into his mouth. Slowly, he chewed. Slowly, he savored. And swallowed. “If it’s not broke …”
She laughed and speared another piece of her salad. “Yes, yes. Really, Olin, you must find—”
“You have to help me!”
The shout jerked Olin from his tranquil dinner, nerves thrumming. He glanced to his right where a bedraggled man, arms hooked between two security officers, struggled for his footing. His eyes were locked on Olin.
A police officer rushed into the once-quiet restaurant, gaze intent on the rowdy man.
“Please, General! Please let me talk to you.” His wild eyes screamed at Olin, begged for the very help he shouted for.
“Get him out of here! He’s disturbing the guests.” A man in an Armani suit shooed the wrestlers away. “Out. Out!”
“General Lambert, I beg you,” the man howled, his face red. “I know you can help me. No one else can. I know about them. Please!”
Appetite vanished, Olin tossed down his burgundy linen napkin just as the maître ’d rushed toward him. “I am deeply sorry for this interruption, General. Please. There is no cost for your meal. We are most apologetic for this disruption. We will most certainly press charges—”
“No.” Olin nodded to his wife, who received the signal and slid from her chair, smoothing her perfectly coiffed hair. “Thank you, Jorge.”
His gut churned as the scene replayed in his mind. Surely the man couldn’t be talking about the one secret nobody knew about. Because if he was, then, well … someone knew. And that would have to be remedied. The invisible threads that connected the team seemed to have found visibility.
He shuttled his wife to the car where their driver waited. Over the hood of the car, he saw the police officer, now joined by three other units, wrangling the still-screaming man into the back of a cruiser. “I’ll be right back.”
“Olin,” she said, catching his hand before he could shut the door. “Please hurry. The opera starts soon.”
It wasn’t the opera or the time that was on her mind. Charlotte knew enough about his job to know she couldn’t speak freely. The opera, in their private, coded language, warned him to be careful. Careful but compassionate.
Smoothing his Italian suit as he strode toward the chaos ensuing across the parking lot, he drew up his courage. “Excuse me, officers.”
The scene fell ominously quiet as all struggle ceased.
When the wild man’s gaze hit Olin, he started rambling again. “I called your office, but they wouldn’t listen. They told me to leave a message. And I did. Twelve! Then when I demanded to speak to you, they hung up. And when I tried your home, the phone just rang.”
Olin smiled, admiring the tenacity of spirit. “It is a private residence.”
The man swallowed hard. Straightened, he darted a gaze to the cops. “Please, General Lambert, will you just speak with me?” He waggled his hands, locked in plastic rings behind his back. “You can see I can’t hurt you. I just …” Suddenly, he seemed reticent to speak—perhaps because there were witnesses. “Just a few minutes of your time.”
Olin studied the man. How much did he really know? “You realize, I am in no position to give orders.”
The man seemed to calm. “I do.”
“And you realize that my role with the Joint Chiefs prevents me from affording favors or taking them.”
Wild eyes again surfed the sea of officers before he licked his lips and nodded.
“Then what do you think I can do for you?”
“In all things prepared.”
One of the officers clucked his tongue and stepped in. “I think he’s had one too many, General.” With his hand on the man’s head, the officer aimed him into the cruiser. “Come on, you. Let’s get you dried out.”
At the words the man had spoken, Olin’s heart chugged to a stop. Then reengaged. “What is your name?”
The man froze and stared at him. “Peter Jordan.”
With that, Olin returned to his wife and their evening. By midnight, he stood in an empty bunker, the man stuffed onto a steel chair and guarded by two well-armed men. Olin gave the signal and the men removed the hood.
Fear etched into Jordan’s face flashed into relief. “General Lambert.” His shoulders slumped. “You believed me.”
“That remains to be seen.” Olin knew better than to give away information. “Tell me what you know.” Let them play the knowledge cards, show their hands.
Over the next hour, the man explained the chaos ravaging a small island, about their missionaries and a young girl.
“And what did you mean by saying, ‘In all things prepared’?”
The man’s gaze dusted the cement floor. “I’ve heard there’s a team of men who can help in places and situations nobody else is willing to interfere in.”
“Would that it were so. Imagine the problems we could solve. Where on earth did you hear of such a thing?”
Jordan’s face paled. “I can’t say.”
“Then neither can I help you.” Olin turned and started for the door.
“Wait!” A half-choked sob snapped through the cold morning. “Wait, please.” He swallowed. “I got a note.”
“Go on.”
“It just had your name, the words I told you about, and said to tell you that I knew about them.” Jordan shook his head. Shoulders sagging, he hung his head. “It was my last hope. Jon’s my best friend ….”
Thick and hazy, an early spring mist coated the windshield. Sydney flipped the wipers, hoping the blades didn’t snag attention. She burrowed into the leather of her SUV and shrank, rethinking her plan to sit near the streetlight. Shadows scampered over the hood of the car, sending pinpricks of dread spidering across her shoulders.
Her gaze darted down the lonely, darkened street. Maybe this wasn’t her smartest move, but she had to get answers. Stonewalling was about the only thing the government sources had provided. Someone had added a deadly slant to this innocent human interest story. They’d killed her mother and stolen the only bit of sanity in her life. And she was going to find out why.
Scritch. Scritch.
Warmth puddled in her stomach as she darted her gaze to the side-view mirror. A man shuffled up the sidewalk wearing a long trench coat and hat. Over his shoulder he carried a large duffel bag. She could only hope he was just a vagrant who didn’t want trouble, only a good meal. Maybe he was heading to the nearest shelter for breakfast. All the same, she nonchalantly double-checked the door locks. A fleeting and minuscule source of comfort.
Bright light broke the dimness of the early morning, yanking her attention back to the building across the street. A woman emerged, pulling a coat tighter around her as she stepped onto the stoop, locked the door, then hustled down the stairs.
Heart ricocheting through her chest, Sydney crouched a little lower as the woman crossed the street and slowly melted into the darkness.
Sydney started her vehicle and pulled along the curb in front of the townhome. Armed with her purse, voice recorder, and folder, she hurried to the apartment door. Hand poised to knock, she remembered the little boy whose drawing had convinced her Anisia knew something. The boy was probably sound asleep at this early hour, so she knocked lightly.
Hugging herself, she kept watch on her surroundings. When another man strode up the sidewalk toward the building, she knocked a little harder. A chill settled into her bones, but she wasn’t sure if it came from the weather or what she was doing.
She raised her hand for another rap on the wood, when light seeped out from the threshold. Sydney took a step back, listening. Waiting.
“Hello?” A faint, accented voice called through the thick wood.
“Anisia?” Sydney fumbled with her purse and folder, searching for a small light to read the prompts she’d printed to help her through this interview. She aimed the light at the page and read, asking in the woman’s South African language to please talk with her.
When only silence met her plea, Sydney wondered if she’d made a mistake. Had she pronounced it wrong? Or maybe she shouldn’t have come. “Anisia, please,” she said again.
Finally, the lock clicked. Slowly, light splintered the darkened porch. Ebony eyes peered at her. “They say I not talk you.”
“I know.” Well, she hadn’t for certain, but she expected as much. “Who? Who said this?”
Anisia shook her head. “I not know.”
Glancing at her notes again, Sydney repeated the phrase that promised she didn’t want anything but to talk. Obviously, she couldn’t tell the poor woman that she feared that the people who told Anisia not to talk had killed her mother. Then Anisia wouldn’t talk to her for sure.
A dingy white sweater hung large and loose on the woman’s thin frame as she stepped out of the way and let her in.
“Thank you.” Once inside, Sydney followed her down the hall and into the kitchen, where a kettle let out a soft whistle. Anisia rushed toward it and set it to the side, turning off the burner.
Having studied up on the customs of Anisia’s people, Sydney hung back until the woman motioned for her to sit; then she took the chair and mumbled her thanks.
As Anisia poured a cup and set it before Sydney, she met her gaze. “I speak English.” A shy smile softened the woman’s features but also strained the color around a scar along her cheek. “A little.”
