Nightshade (Discarded Heroes), page 19
part #1 of Discarded Heroes Series
“I speak Tsonga—a little.” They both laughed, easing Sydney into the conversation. “I only have a few questions.” She added cream and sugar to the mug of coffee. Despite the fact she normally wouldn’t drink caffeine, she also wouldn’t refuse this woman’s hospitality. But coffee wasn’t what she’d come here for. Best to just get on with it. She set down the cup and peered at the woman. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Anisia gave a faint nod then drew in a long, staggering breath before she let it out. “They come at night when everyone sleep. I not sleep. My son sick. I hear strange … uh … noise. See men dress like trees come. Bad soldiers no see them.”
“Soldiers—who are they?”
“They take us from villages, force us to work fields and do things. They …” She hung her head. Then her gaze drifted past Sydney to another room and lingered there for so long it eventually drew Sydney’s attention round.
Through a narrow door, Sydney saw the boy asleep on the sofa.
“They rape.”
The words backed up Sydney’s breath and thoughts. The boy was the product of a rape? Is that what she was saying? Suddenly, she found it hard to look at the woman. Licking her lips, she turned back.
Anisia shrugged. “He good boy.” She sipped her coffee. “Here, he have chance be good. Strong. Not like them.”
Only then did Sydney notice what she had mistaken for age was in fact a maturity forced upon this sweet woman by years of hardship, brutality, and unimaginable terror. “Yes, he has a chance for a good future here. He’s a sweet boy.”
The smile filled Anisia’s face; then she rose. “I be back.”
Sydney shifted and watched the tall, lithe woman glide into the front room and kneel next to her son. Anisia brushed a hand over his face then stood again. When she returned, she laid several papers on the table, bringing with her a swirl of heady spices. “He draw those. The men who save us.” She patted her shoulder. “They wear.”
Sydney frowned but looked at the small stack of drawings. The star with the odd center and sword. Lightning bolts.
Another drawing had a half dozen men, each depicted differently. She glanced at the beautiful, dark-skinned woman. “Six men?”
Anisia nodded.
Sydney used her phone and took a photo of the star symbol—and noticed that sketched onto one man was a very crude rendering of the American flag. She pointed to the star and shot the woman a questioning glance. “Did you see this?”
She shook her head. “No. My son draw that after we come here.” She patted her forearm. “The star? He have there, but hide when we see. All very good fighters. Fast.” Tapping her head, she smiled. “Smart. They trick soldiers. Make them sleep.”
“I’m sorry? What do you mean they made them sleep?”
Another smile lit the woman’s face. She held her hand like a cup and tipped it toward her face. “Drink. Janjaweed not know.”
“Did they drug you and your people?”
Anisia laughed. “No. We not allowed water at night. Little in morning and after work.” Arms folded, she leaned back with an expression that betrayed her pleasure at what happened. “Soldiers always celebrate weekend. Men this know and drug them. We escape. But some wake, and they shoot. Star men not hurt, but Janjaweed lose many.”
What must it have been like for this young woman to see all this, to endure such atrocities? And being so young, yet she seemed so content. “How old are you?”
“Twenty.”
Sydney tried not to let her shock show. This woman had borne a child at the raw age of fifteen—a pregnancy forced on her by a brutal, fierce soldier. A man who murdered her loved ones and raped her. Sydney’s hand went to her rounding belly. Her baby had been conceived in love. How great the irony. Anisia’s baby was conceived in hatred and violence but now had a better life. Sydney’s baby was conceived in love and the bond of matrimony but now would be raised by only one parent.
“You baby?” Anisia smiled and nodded toward Sydney’s hand and belly.
The heat crawling into her cheeks must surely have given her away. “Yes.”
“Your baby have good mom. And father.” She reached across the table and touched the wedding ring on Sydney’s finger.
Tears blurred her vision, but Sydney blinked them away. How could she explain to a woman who’d been through such an unspeakable existence that this was a point in her life where she questioned God. “No. My husband … is gone.”
Anisia’s face fell. “He die?”
Sydney swallowed the tears. “No, he’s just a very angry man.”
“He beat you?”
Sydney shook her head. “No.” Why did her pain sound trivial? It wasn’t. Max refused help. Refused to work on their marriage. “I should go.” She gathered her things. “Thank you so much for talking to me, Anisia. I am very grateful.”
Dark fingers wrapped around Sydney’s arm. “Pain come in many colors.” She smiled sweetly.
Sydney sniffled. “Yes. Yes, it does.”
“You baby have good mother. I pray God take good care. Maybe even bring back you husband.”
Words failed. Her brain wouldn’t cooperate. She hugged Anisia and quickly left. As she drove home, tears flowed unchecked. Stupid hormones. If only that was all it was. The pain remained despite the months that stretched the separation closer to the actual divorce. She banged her hand on the steering wheel. “I won’t do this. I won’t cry anymore.” Phone in hand, she called Lane. “Hey, I’ve got the proof we need.”
The line went silent.
“Lane?” Her heart skipped a beat, remembering when the line died—and so had her mother. “Lane!”
“Sorry. I’m … what did you do, Sydney?” Concern and hesitancy laced his words.
Why did he sound so irritated? “I spoke with Anisia. I’m certain the men we’re after are Americans.”
“Sydney, I hate to break it to you—”
She frowned. “What? What’s happened?”
“Buck’s looking for you.”
“Looking for me?” She glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard. “It’s only six in the morning.”
“He called me an hour ago.”
Sydney tried to steady her racing pulse.
“We’re off the story.”
“No! Why? He can’t do this.”
“Well,” Lane said. “He can and did. And vowed to have you arrested if you tried to contact anyone again.”
Laughter permeated the country home filled with the thick scent of pine and simmering cinnamon spices. Max shrugged out of his leather jacket and set it on a chair as they passed through the dining room into the large, open living area.
He couldn’t stand the suspense anymore. “So, what’d she say?”
Cowboy grinned as he lowered himself into a thick gold chair. “Who?”
Perched on the edge of the sofa that divided the dining and living areas, Max narrowed his eyes. “You know full well who I’m talking about. Did you give her the box?”
“I did.” Cowboy smoothed a hand down the leg of his blue jeans.
“And?” The suspense was killing him.
“She wouldn’t take it.”
His heart hitched, disappointed. “You’re kidding?”
“At first.” Cowboy chuckled.
Max landed a fake punch on the guy’s shoulder.
“She knew you would have a good reason, so she took it and went back in the house. I honestly don’t know if she loved it or hated it.”
A small child with white blond hair darted across the room and leaped into Cowboy’s lap. “Daddy, Nana said dinner would be ready in firty minutes.”
“Thirty,” a woman called from the kitchen.
“That right?” Cowboy grinned, scooting forward as the girl straddled his leg like a sawhorse. “Max, this is McKenna.” He looked into his daughter’s eyes. “Mickey, this is my friend Max.”
“I know who he is, Daddy.” She swiped at the blond hair that fell in her face, swinging her legs and bright red boots back and forth.
“You do?”
“Uh-huh. Nana said you were shooting pool with him late one night.” McKenna bolted back to the living room, her knee-high boots clomping over the wood.
“You’re in trouble,” Max taunted his friend.
Cowboy slumped against the seat. “You have no idea.” Then he pulled himself up and slapped Max’s leg. “Come here; let me show you something.”
They headed to the back of the house, but instead of climbing the stairs, Cowboy opened what looked like a closet door, flipped on a switch, then disappeared inside. “You coming?” His voice carried from a distance.
Max peeked around the corner, surprised to find a set of stairs leading down under the house. He hustled down the steps, surprised at the cement walls. “What is this, a bunker?”
Cowboy clicked on another light and shrugged. “You could call it that.” He punched a code into an access panel, and the wall in front of him slid back. “We had one in Texas. Ya know—with the tornadoes and all. So, out here on seventy acres, I figured it couldn’t hurt.”
Inside, Max stopped. The guy had a small arsenal racked on the wall. “What is this?”
“I’m a collector.” Cowboy folded his arms over his chest, fingers tucked under his armpits. “Most of what you see is antique.”
Max ran a hand along a long rifle. “They look pristine.”
“Yep. Had ’em restored. Some I outright paid a small fortune for, like that early nickel Remington Model 1875, single action Army revolver.” He pointed to a shiny silver-barreled gun gleaming under a tinkling fluorescent light. “Look at ’er. All original, excellent metal and markings, including the barrel address and number 44 on the frame.”
With a low whistle, Max stepped back. “I’m impressed.”
“Kinda used to be an obsession, ya know?” Cowboy shrugged. “Not so much anymore, but it’s a way me and my dad would connect. Go to gun shows, plan our next purchase. He bought some of these, but his hands don’t work so good anymore, so he passed ’em on to me.”
Dad. What would it have been like to have a dad who actually wanted to connect rather than beat the fastest path out of his life?
“Colton!” a semishrill voice carried down into the cellar. “Dinner’s almost ready. Why don’t y’all wash up?”
The cowboy pinched the bridge of his nose. With a sigh, he shook his head. “I am grateful for their help with Mickey, but some days I’d be glad for the privacy.” He patted Max’s gut. “Ready for some chow?”
Upstairs they headed into Cowboy’s “apartment” to wash up. As he waited for the cowboy, Max noticed the brown, oversized bag sitting on the bed. Hastings. Max tilted his head, remembering the bag Cowboy had delivered the Bible in.
“Go ahead,” Cowboy said, stepping from the bathroom.
Max pointed to the bag. “I thought you didn’t shop there.”
Cowboy looked at the bag then quickly wiped his hands on a towel. “I … it’s … old.”
Was the guy’s face turning red? Oh, Max couldn’t let this go. “Come on, Cowboy, cough it up. I’ve bared my soul. Time for some of yours.”
Blue eyes flashed at him. “I don’t like being cornered, but you’re right. Friends cut it straight.” He huffed. “But this stays between you and me, got it?”
A grin pulled Max’s lips apart. This was going to be good. “Okay.”
Cowboy scratched the back of his head. “There’s this … person at the store.” He glanced at Max, looking guilty and embarrassed. “I guess you could say I’ve been reconnoitering.”
“Recon? On a Hastings employee?” Max held a fisted hand to his mouth to cover the laugh seeping into his throat. “What does she look like?”
Rivaling songs belted into the room. Max gripped his phone. Cowboy did the same. They both glanced at their screens. The Nightshade signal.
“Looks like we’re going to miss dinner.”
DAY TWENTY-FOUR
It was true. With each day that Jon’s strength returned, that his limbs firmed and the cough subsided, Kimber weakened. What alarmed him was that the woman who never complained, not even in childbirth, now moaned about the ache tightening her back that made it difficult to move. Neither of them voiced what was quickly becoming obvious. At any other time, the fever could be treated medically and the patient would recover. But here? Where their captors seemed to be waiting for the end of the world, hope faded with each sunset.
He gazed out the thin gaps in the thatched hut, peering up at the light that snuck past the thick canopy of leaves. Light. Of what day? How long had it been? He wrapped his fingers tightly around the wood spindles and squeezed. According to Kimber, he’d lost nearly a week to the fever that—
Jon froze. Had he given his wife the sickness that now ravaged her body? He shifted back and peered over his shoulder. She lay on the small cot, curled on her side, pale. So very pale. He turned back to the bars and hung his head. How long would God leave them here? Why hadn’t Peter gotten them out yet? The insanity was the fact that he and Kimber had left the civilized world to come out here, be a light to the darkened world, and bring hope, and yet he had no hope.
I am your hope.
Clenching shut his eyes, Jon gritted his teeth. He wanted to believe the soft whisper truly came from the Divine, but after all this time, all these weeks …
Then again, the Higanti had kept them here much longer than he’d anticipated, apparently unable to reach an agreement with the radicals. No surprise there. At least they were still alive. But it also made him realize their chances of a rescue were all but a fantasy.
A gentle touch against his leg snapped him out of his morose thoughts. He glanced to the side—and down. White blond hair, though dirty, gleamed like a halo against the dank backdrop. Soft blue eyes glittered up at him. Maecel held both hands toward him. “Up, Daddy.”
With a smile, he hoisted his daughter into his arms. She nuzzled into him, her no-longer chubby hand patting his shoulder. Jon rubbed her back, noting the rank odor emanating from her. And this time, it wasn’t dirty diapers. They’d been unable to bathe her—for that matter, nobody had showered. He missed the sweet smell of mango soap Kimber had made that normally clung to Maecel’s shoulder-length hair and skin.
He tightened his hold on her, nudging her to rest against him. “Soon, baby. Soon we’ll be home.”
She lifted her head and smiled at him. “Go?” She nodded, innocence supreme. “See Imee.”
Imee. He hadn’t thought of the woman since they’d been captured. Guilt wove a thick band around Jon’s chest. He didn’t know where Imee and the others were. Was she even alive? Would he ever see his parents again? If he did, his dad would probably take him up into the mountains for a long walk and talk. His mother would scoop Maecel into her arms and not let go for a week. He would get away to a lodge with Kimber for the weekend, leaving their daughter in the protective care of her grandparents. He ached to stretch what little morsel of hope remained and believe that a rescue could happen.
Rescue. Right. The Higanti were holding them just long enough to hand them off to the radicals. Which meant being moved. Eventually. Surely it didn’t take this long to put together a team and come save the day, did it? What hope was there?
I am your hope.
In that moment Jon realized that maybe, just maybe, they did have hope. Assemble a team, get them out. It could be done, and stealthily.
No. Hope should not be based in anything temporal. Like Kimber said, they would be gone one day. Only God was eternal. If Jon transferred his hope to God and only God, then he couldn’t be disappointed.
As he rubbed Maecel’s back, he lowered himself to the chair, watching as she drifted off to sleep. Light as a feather, she gave a soft shudder as Jon lowered her into his arm and cradled her. He stared down at the little angel who’d overtaken his heart and life. Love found new meaning and depth the moment she was born, grunting and offering her first protest at the world.
Movement to the side startled him. Kimber knelt next to him, brushing Maecel’s hair from her face. “To have the peace of a child …” Dark patches encircled her eyes.
“You should be resting,” he whispered.
Soft and slow, a smile came to her lips. “I feel fine.” She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. “I had another dream.”
“Yeah?” He lowered Maecel onto the cot and turned to his wife—and stilled. Even with the circles and the gauntness, even more than that, she looked haunted. “What’s wrong?”
