Nightshade (Discarded Heroes), page 2
part #1 of Discarded Heroes Series
Glass popping and crunching snapped his attention to the road. The SUV sat like a giant spider. He wondered who was in the vehicle as he eased farther into the foliage. A carpet of pine needles concealed his steps. He glanced back to the intruder.
The SUV shifted as a man climbed out. Large, African American, and an expression that said he didn’t mess around. Whatever the guy wanted, he wouldn’t take no for an answer. At least not easily.
Even from ten yards away, Max could see the muscle twitching in the man’s jaw. He swallowed and licked his lips, readying himself for a confrontation. He swung back and gazed up at the canopy of leaves. Could he hoof it back to his apartment? Gathering his strength, he shrugged out of the shredded leather jacket, wincing and grunting as it pulled against raw flesh.
“You through? Or you want another go at it?”
What? Max peered around the trunk, surprised to find the man at the edge of the road, hands on his hips as he stared into the trees.
“We took you for stronger.” The man glanced back at the bike. “But maybe you’re nothing but broke and no use to no one.”
Heart thumping, Max jerked back and clenched his teeth. Who was this joker?
“So, what’s it going to be, Jacobs? You ready to face a little reality?”
How does he know my name? “Who are you?” Max hissed as the tree rubbed his raw shoulder. “What do you want?”
“You.”
Max drew the SOG knife from his pocket and opened it. Holding it down, he pushed into the open, making sure his injuries didn’t show him weak. “What’s the game?”
The man’s eyebrow arched. He angled his left shoulder forward, tugged up his sweater’s sleeve, and flexed his oversized bicep. A tattoo expanded across his muscle. Marine. MARSOC, if Max made out the symbol correctly. Marine Recon Special Operations—impressive.
An ally? As he struggled out of the ditch and back onto the road, Max collapsed the blade. Heat rose from the cement, aggravating the exposed flesh on his back and legs.
“Navy and Marines, you and me. Almost brothers. It’s the Rangers I don’t like. So, I forgive you for coming at me with a blade. This time.”
Max stared. Confusion—and pain—wrapped a tight vise around his skull.
“What’s it going to be, squid?” The guy pointed to the wreck of a bike on the road. “You don’t have a ride back to town. So why don’t you climb in and listen to what I have to say?”
Might ignore the nickname jab, but the guy assumed too much. “You flash a tattoo and think I’ll just bend my knee? I don’t think so.” A silent brotherhood had closed Max’s knife. But he didn’t want company. The oaf’s or anyone else’s. But how else would he get home?
“What? You think you’re going home? To your can opener and mattress?”
Mr. Recon had a point. Still, he knew too much, and that made Max stiffen—fiery shards prickling his back.
“No obligation. Show me a little respect, and just hear me out.”
At least, as the man had said, he’d have a ride. Eyes on the large man, Max pocketed the knife as he trudged to the other side of the SUV and opened the door.
He paused at the plastic covering the seat. He jerked his gaze to the driver.
Mr. Force Recon grinned. “You’re predictable, Jacobs.”
Max lowered himself onto the seat, cringing as new fire crawled over his back and legs. He buckled in, the irony of the seat belt crossing his mind. “So what’s this about? Why have you been following me?”
A crisp cologne swirled in the air-conditioned interior as Mr. Recon folded himself behind the steering wheel. “You’ve been recruited, Lieutenant Jacobs.”
Max snorted. “Already did my time. I’m out.” He gulped against the flurry of emotions within.
“Yeah? How’s that working out for you?”
Glaring, Max resisted the urge to thrust his SOG into the guy’s gut. He’d left the service for Sydney. Only it’d been too late. And in one fell swoop, he lost everything. “Why don’t you tell me? You seem to know everything.”
Mr. Recon pursed his lips and nodded. “Okay.” He rubbed his jaw. “You were discharged ninety days ago. In that time, you’ve been arrested twice, once for fighting. The second time—less than three days ago—for assault against your now-estranged wife.”
The words cut deeper and stung worse than his now-oozing flesh. Max looked at his hand and flexed his fingers.
“Yesterday you were hit with a permanent protective order by said wife. She filed for separation.” He leaned on the console and again arched that eyebrow. “How am I doing?”
“If you knew anything about me, you’d dull your edge.”
Wrist hooked over the steering wheel, Mr. Recon continued unfazed. “The military discharged you. Honorably. A veteran of two wars. Untold combat situations and medals. They tried to put you out medically two years ago, but you fought it.”
“And won.”
“Yessir.” The man nodded for several seconds. “So, why now? Why’d you let them put you out this time?”
Max shoved his gaze to the heavily tinted windows. That was a story nobody needed to hear. Bury it six feet under and walk away.
“You’re a discarded hero, Lieutenant Jacobs.”
Head whipped back to the driver, Max fought the urge to light into the guy. But something in the amused eyes betrayed a camaraderie. An understanding. Acceptance.
“Who are you? What’s your story?”
“Name’s Griffin.” He bobbed his head as they pulled onto the highway, driving east toward the Potomac. “My story …?” A toothy grin. “Let’s just say I got smart.”
The sound of crinkling and rustling plastic pervaded the cabin as Max shifted to alleviate a pinprick fire shooting down his leg. He hissed and clamped a hand over his thigh. “So, what’s the gig?”
“The gig is whatever nobody else will do. What you should ask about is our group—and I do mean our group, Lieutenant. Because you are fully a part of this. Are you ready to step out of the medical trappings of your discharge, of the devastation that has become your life since you’ve returned from your last tour?”
Max grunted. “Yesterday.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” Tires thumped over docks as Griffin steered into a warehouse. “Then this is where it starts.”
CHAPTER 2
You did the right thing.”
Sydney Jacobs traced the knot patterns in the oak tabletop without looking at her mother. Vanilla-scented steam spiraled up from the mug of hot tea cradled in her hand. Maybe she had done the right thing.
Maybe not.
The only certainty right now was how miserable she felt. Despite the receding pain in her cheek and jaw, her emotional scars hung thick and heavy around her heart. It wasn’t supposed to be like this ….
Pushing the depressing thoughts away, she took a cautious sip and set down the drink.
Her mom slipped into the chair next to her with her own coffee and a basket of pastries. “I know it’s hard to see outside the bubble that has encased your life, but you needed to do this.” Reaching between the mug and pastries, she touched Sydney’s shoulder. “For you.”
Sydney traced the lip of the mug then sighed. “It’s been a week, and I can still see the fury in his eyes.” She fought the tremor slithering through her lips. A piece of her resented the man who was supposed to protect her—her husband! Another piece understood that war had ravaged his mind, his soul.
He’d always been intense. That very attribute had drawn her to his dark eyes and smile. Max never did anything halfway. Full throttle to the end. But he’d gotten worse with each tour, with each stint away from her. Proof of his volatility lay in the telltale yellow, slightly swollen bruise on her cheek. She shouldn’t have tried to break up the fight. Now she looked like a victim, and Max an abuser. The thought twisted her heart.
Her mom nudged the basket closer. “Go on. I got apple fritters, your favorite.”
Sydney wrinkled her nose. “Not really hungry.” With a shuddering sigh, she lifted her tea and took another sip.
“You have to eat. I won’t watch my daughter waste away.”
“I’m far from that.” Sydney rose and headed to the sink with her mug. “I’m going to head in to work. I need to get my mind on something productive.” She dumped her coffee. The liquid raced around the stainless steel basin. Brown. Swimming. Just like her muddied marriage. Right down the drain.
Why couldn’t she save it? Where had she gone wrong?
“Please eat something. You’re rail thin.”
She whipped toward her mother to argue—but her world spun. Dizzy. Hollowness devoured her hearing. She held her forehead and blinked.
“You okay?” Concern flooded her mother’s voice as she joined her, touching Sydney’s shoulder. “I am really worried about you, sweetie.”
Hands on the sink, she squared her shoulders. “Well, don’t. This isn’t exactly where I wanted to be with my life, but … I’ll be fine.”
How had she gotten here? From a lavish wedding, through five years of marriage, building a beautiful home with Max, one she’d thought would draw them back together … and now, he was gone. Not allowed within fifty feet.
“How about if I meet you for lunch?” Her mother’s gaze bore into Sydney. “I’d like to check out that little Chinese restaurant we passed on the way home yesterday.”
Max doesn’t like Chinese.
Sydney’s eyes burned, and she bit her lip against the quivering. “Yeah.” Drawing herself up, she donned a faux air of confidence. “I’d love some orange chicken.”
“Sweet and sour for me.”
“Okay.” She could do this. “One o’clock at Chang’s.” Sydney gave her mom a quick hug and strode toward her bedroom, anxious to be free of her presence. Although loving and caring, her mother also knew how to smother. Like right now. And Sydney needed time and room to think. Odd that she’d head to work at a busy newspaper in Virginia to do that.
She pushed open the door—and stopped. The bed she’d shared with Max for the last five years gaped, opening a cavernous hole in her heart. They would never share a bed again. She’d never again lie in his arms, feeling warm and safe. Sydney eased the door closed and leaned against it, her hands still on the knob. Head propped on the wood, she blinked back tears and looked up at the ceiling.
God, why?
After mentally shaking off the question, she shoved away from the door. Not going to mope. Wouldn’t get her anywhere. She stomped to her closet where clothes flanked her, and she ran her fingers over the fabrics. Her hand rested on a silky top, one Max had always called sexy.
A pang knifed her heart. The same top she’d worn when he’d erupted. Anger lashed out. Hadn’t she done everything possible to save their marriage? And what had he done? He’d walked away. He sure didn’t have a problem fighting for his military career, but when it came to her and their marriage, the hero she’d fallen in love with had vanished. Argument after nasty argument with her begging him to seek help. Their pastor had even volunteered to do it for free. But Max only roared louder. Somehow he seemed to think it made him less of a man. Or weak. God forbid he be weak—after all, the SEAL creed demanded perfection.
With a sigh, she bent and retrieved a black turtleneck from the lower shelf. Then gray slacks. An ensemble to give her a conservative, got-it-together appearance.
If only she did.
In the bathroom she worked a straightening iron through her hair then added some pomade to limit the frizz that would kink her strands in the moist Virginia air. Fingering the long strands into place, she noted how the fluorescent lights hit the bruise marring her cheek. Maybe a little more makeup. After dabbing some flesh-colored base onto the spot, she appraised herself in the mirror. Not bad. Hopefully enough not to draw attention.
She turned sideways, gauging her weight. Hmm, perhaps Mom was right. But since when was “a little thin” bad? She grabbed her tote and headed to the front door. After yet another promise to meet her mother for lunch, Sydney made her way to work. Funny how every turn, every signal felt … different. Yet inanely the same. She tilted the rearview mirror and eyed herself. Double-checked the puffy cheekbone—concealer worked wonders. Would anyone notice? Would they stare?
God, please just let me have a quiet day. She swallowed hard and climbed out of the Lexus. She paused as she considered the SUV, remembering Max’s adamancy that she could have whatever she wanted. He’d been like that. Always giving her the best, as if he thought he could make up for the one area he failed—giving of himself. With a huff, she headed up the steps toward the glass atrium at the Virginia Independent, wishing she’d stopped for some backup. A two-pump mocha. With caramel.
Her heels hit the high sheen of the foyer as she hurried to catch the closing elevator doors. She whizzed inside with just seconds to spare and punched number six.
“Sydney? You’re back?”
She spun at the voice, surprised to find LaDona Fletcher leaning against the mirrored wall. The woman pushed past two men.
“Hey,” Sydney managed, suddenly realizing how unready she’d been for this day. “How’re you?” She gripped the bar as the elevator lifted, nausea washing over her.
“Great. Now that you’re back Kramer will get off my case. He’s been ranting about not having a decent editor in the building.”
Even to her, the smile felt wan. “I guess that means I have job security.”
A quiet dong sounded, and the doors slid open. LaDona hurried out and waved. “Let’s do lunch soon.”
Following the features editor, Sydney blinked as the woman rushed off without another word. Since when did Fletcher have time for lunch with anyone? She shrugged and stepped into the fluorescent light-humming mall of cubicles. She wove past the monotonous maze of squares, smiling as old friends’ eyes widened and some staffers said hi.
An electric hum bathed the office as the staff launched into another busy day, keyboards clicking, cooling fans thrumming. At her desk, she breathed a sigh of relief that she’d not been inundated with cheery welcome backs or the doleful looks that said they knew of her problems. Her separation. She dropped into her chair and settled in to work.
During the first few hours, she managed to get her voice mail cleared, e-mails organized, and mail sorted—most into File 13.
“Jacobs!”
She jerked up and met the hardened gaze of Buck Kramer across two rows of cubicles as he stood outside his office.
“Let’s talk.” He hiked his thumb over his shoulder before storming back to his desk.
Stomach knotted, Sydney pushed out of her chair and strode across the room. In his office, she almost smiled at the familiar stacks of papers piling up on the conference table. Awards, mementos, steins, and memorabilia covering his twenty years as managing editor weighted the oak bookshelves. Even the dank smell of cigarettes from his smoking years still lingered.
Hunched over his desk, he flipped through several files, his thick head of hair belying his sixty-plus years. “Sit down.” Without looking up, he pointed toward the cozy chair opposite him then slid the papers aside and met her gaze. “So. You’re back.”
“Yes, sir.”
From beneath bushy brows, he considered her. “Is your mind here?” His head cocked to the side, eyes narrowing “Or is it on that bruise?”
Her fingers automatically went to her cheek. Heat rushed into her face.
Buck cursed and mumbled. He shook his head, apparently composing himself. “Sorry, Syd.” He tossed down his pen. “I promised your father I’d watch after you, and I just …”
Licking her lips, she waited for him to finish, silently willing him not to go into the incident, her past, her failure.
“I could kill that—”
“I’m fine.” Her heart thumped as she plastered a smile onto her face. “I know you have strong feelings about what happened—as do I—but let’s just … leave it in the past. Okay?”
Somber gray eyes met hers. A single nod. “Fair enough.”
On her feet, she scooted around the chair. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to get back to work. There are a million e-mails to wade through.” Without waiting for a reply, she hurried back to the safety of her cubicle.
Over the next hour, she sat a little lower in her seat and avoided looking over the carpeted divider. Better a mouse in its hole than a mouse in the trap. Would she always feel like cowering? The blessing of working for one of her late father’s best friends seemed less than ideal at the moment. Kramer knew too much. Cared too much. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose.
