Nightshade (Discarded Heroes), page 8
part #1 of Discarded Heroes Series
Voices skated into the darkness ahead. He aimed in that direction, ducking under low-lying branches and climbing over fallen trees. Minutes later, he met up with Datu.
Kimber rushed to him, tears streaming down her cheeks. “He wouldn’t let me go into the village. I was praying so hard! And then when he brought her, I couldn’t leave.”
“Her? Brought who?”
Her frantic barrage of partially slurred words slid over his mind, dousing him in confusion. With both his daughter and wife wrapped securely in his arms, he whispered a quick prayer of thanks for their safety. Kimber kissed Maecel, who finally puckered her lower lip, then burst into tears and lunged for her mother.
“You help,” Datu said, motioning to something behind a log.
After handing Maecel off to Kimber, John strode toward the man—and stopped cold. A young girl sat huddled on the forest floor, arms hugging her knees as she rocked. Tattered clothes hung from her petite frame. Ebony hair dumped over her shoulders, concealing her face in shadows—but still, the bruises screamed.
When Jon reached to brush aside her hair to assess her injuries, she yelped and jerked away.
Datu rattled off something in Tagalog, his voice and demeanor nervous, but pleading and urgent. “She the one. They rape, beat her. She escape.” He squatted before the girl. “This Jon. He good man.”
Sniffling and shaking, the girl dragged her gaze to Jon. “You’re a Christian, yes?” she asked, her words colored with typical smatterings of a Filipino accent.
Surprised by her near-perfect English, Jon knelt and casually inspected her injuries. “That’s right,” he mumbled, scanning her face. “You know English. How?” The darkness worked against him, shielding her in the black void of night. Her right eye looked nearly swollen shut. Blood glistened on her lower lip, probably still bleeding because of her crying.
“My father is a missionary, like you. They …” A sob wracked her, and she burrowed in on herself, once again rocking. Eventually, she raised a battered hand to her lip and winced. “They butchered him! Then they did things … and killed my mother and sisters.” Anger bit an edge into her broken words. “I should be dead, too. I should be dead!”
Jon touched her smooth olive skin, now bruised and marred, feeling the stickiness of the drying blood against his palm. “God saw fit to keep you alive. And I’ll do my best to make sure you have time to figure out why.”
“We go, meet others at safe place.” Datu prodded. “Her leg broke. You carry?”
Jon looked at the girl again, wondering if she’d panic at his touch. It was the most reasonable choice to have him carry her. Datu bore the short stature of his people. And Jon, blessed to be from a line of long-legged ancestors, had height and strength on his side. He bent closer to her. “What is your name?”
She regarded him again with those dark, penetrating eyes. So like Kimber’s. “Kezia.”
“Okay, Kezia,” he said softly, shifting to a better posture and for balance. “I’m going to lift you. I don’t want to hurt you any more than you’ve already been hurt. Is anything else broke?”
Tears swam in her eyes as she shook her head and lowered her gaze.
Crack! Crack!
The nearby sound of gunfire swirled adrenaline through Jon’s limbs. He slid his hands under her and hoisted her up, tensing when she whimpered again. He turned, and Datu guided them uphill. Staying off the cut path, the group would have a better chance of avoiding the guerillas. But they’d also have a better chance of encountering other unfriendly life forms—snakes, venomous critters, and the often irritable lemurs.
An hour into their trek, they came upon a small creek rushing over rocks and trees. Datu stopped, glanced around, then sloshed through the water and toward a gathering of large boulders.
Jon, lifting Kezia above the fast-moving water, worked his way across with Kimber’s guidance and help. Together they stood on dry land—and froze.
“Where’d he go?” Kimber drew closer and gripped his arm.
Tension balled in the pit of his gut as he searched the shoreline for sign of the chief’s son. “I don’t know.” He squinted, hoping to see through the darkness, but only shadows and the gurgling sounds of the creek came to him.
Then a shadow rose up out of the rocks like a specter.
Jon’s heart sped.
“This way,” Datu hissed. “Hurry!”
Sucking up the frantic chill that darted through him, Jon nodded, urging Kimber ahead of him. “Go.” They climbed over the rocks, Jon ever so careful with his wounded charge. Only as he crested the last large boulder did he see the darker-than-dark void amid the cluster. A cave!
He crouched and waddled into the darkness. But the deeper he maneuvered into the cave, the brighter it grew.
“There’s light ahead,” Kimber whispered.
A man’s face appeared. Then another. Jon recognized some of the men as belonging to Datu’s clan. A few, however, were not familiar. Where had they come from? Four came toward him and motioned to the girl. Kezia whimpered and snuggled into his hold.
“Over here.” Datu stood over a blanket where another man waited with what looked like a medical kit.
Jon delivered her safely to the blanket and set her down. When he straightened, he gaped, unbelieving that he could stretch to his full six-foot-two height. Portions of the ceiling were charred, apparently from pit fires. How long had this cave been used as a place of refuge?
The doctor crouched over the girl, probing her side and leg.
Kezia’s eyes darted to the ceiling, and even from a distance, Jon saw her trembling chin and moved closer. He eased himself into her line of sight. “It’ll be okay, Kezia.”
Black and swimming in tears, her eyes begged for hope.
“Back, back!” the doctor groused.
When Jon obeyed and scooted away, Kezia cried out, “Don’t leave me!”
Her words, strangled by her tears, stilled him. “I’m not going anywhere, Kezia. I’m here. I won’t leave you.”
As torches flickered nearby, the light revealed the extent of her injuries. A jagged, bloody line stretched from her chin to her ear, where the lower portion of the lobe had been sliced off. In his periphery, Jon saw the doctor reaching for her leg.
Kezia screamed—then went limp.
Jon’s heart seized. Soft cries behind him yanked him back to reality. His wife. He stumbled over to Kimber, where she huddled in a corner with Maecel. He slid along the stone wall to the ground, pulling his girls into his arms. Holding them seemed the only normal thing he had left. He kissed the top of Kimber’s ash-covered head, his eyes on the frail girl who’d survived atrocities no human should experience.
Father…why?
Once Kezia’s leg was set and her face stitched, the doctor shifted and nodded to him, as if saying all would be well.
“Salamat.” Jon whispered his thanks, careful not to disturb his daughter, now sleeping in Kimber’s arms. Gaze fixed on the young girl, he did not want to relax despite the good prognosis. He must keep vigil, keep his promise to be there for her. Yet his eyes drooped, heavier than the rocks surrounding them. Sleep claimed him greedily. Fleeting, frightening images darted through his dreams. Screams, the glint of machetes, blood dripping like a waterfall. Abu Sayyaf soldiers—both terrifying and wicked. One leaning over Kezia as she slept in a pain-induced coma.
Jon jolted awake—then flung his arm up against the shadow looming over him.
Datu hovered. “We talk.”
Extricating himself from Kim, who was propped against him, Jon yawned. Head tucked so as not to graze his thick skull on the sloping ceiling, he joined Datu beside a small table. A woman handed him a ladle of liquid. He thanked her in Tagalog and sipped it.
“Kezia see General Mauk.”
The ladle wobbled, water sloshing over the lip as Jon stared at Datu. “Mauk? How? Where did she see him?”
“He hurt her. Try to kill her.”
A cold chill darted across his shoulders. “You realize …” Jon couldn’t say it, couldn’t give breath to the unspeakable things Mauk would do to a girl like Kezia.
“Yes. She Christian. They no want her talk.”
A girl with firsthand knowledge of the atrocities the guerillas perpetrated against the villagers was a mouth that could potentially bring them down completely if she’d seen something powerful—and gruesome—enough. No guerilla would tolerate that. Especially not a Christian witness.
To silence the voice of hope, the evil one would do anything, including slaughtering an entire village. All because missionaries wanted to bring hope and love, God’s love. Missionaries. Him. Everyone knew the truth about what the guerillas did. But knowing and proving it were two different things. And stopping it was nearly unfathomable. This was the last thing they needed. Mauk and his mercenaries would hunt her down and kill without regard. Their being Americans only increased the pleasure with which Mauk would kill Jon, Kimber, and Maecel, for not only helping her but for their very existence on an island Mauk sought to control.
“We climb hill.” He trudged through the cave, motioning Jon to follow as he moved into the open.
“Hill?” Jon tensed, his gaze skipping upward, taking in the thick cluster of trees that blended into one mind-bending blur of green. Up the hill meant heading straight into the dark heart of the area. “Isn’t that where the Higanti live?”
Datu blinked, startled. His determination slipped back into place quickly. “No, we no go there. Just up … hill.”
Kimber joined him, cradling Maecel. They shared a nervous glance.
“Come. Hurry, they follow.” Datu pointed behind them, and sure enough, Jon saw the forceful swaying of branches as the radicals climbed after them.
Still, his mind wasn’t settled. The Higanti warriors were nested deep in the jungle, building their forces to exact revenge against the radicals and take back land that had been stolen from them. The plan unseated what little of Jon’s confidence remained that they’d get out alive. Fiercely loyal and brilliant in fighting, the Higanti were not to be trifled with. Mighty fighters. Strong-bodied, despite being short.
They were a small clan on the island. But they were also the only clan who’d mustered enough anger and determination to fight Mauk once before. The world had considered the battle a civil war and had ignored both it and the Higantis’ plea for assistance. Not an official tribe, they did not even gain the ear of their own government. Thus they fought with rage and hated Mauk and his militia.
There was just one problem.
The Higanti hated Christian missionaries more.
CHAPTER 6
Something was wrong. Max stared out the side window, his thoughts on the conversation at the attorney’s office. Syd’s voice … he played her words and intonations over in his mind. He detected stress. But there was something else. And her eyes—
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Sure.” Max’s gaze bounced from the rain-mottled window to Cowboy—but not even all the way before flipping back to the street puddles and what happened at the MSA meeting.
Was she hiding something? No. One thing he could say about her in all their years of marriage: Syd had always been forthright. He rubbed his knuckles over his lips. What was going on? The balance in that room had tipped, and not just because it was a divorce meeting.
He let himself wonder what their lives would be like without all the problems, without the anger and arguing. Would they be a regular Leave It to Beaver family? Maybe have kids and live happily ever after? She’d always wanted a baby, but he’d reasoned against it, especially with his job taking him away so often. Maybe he should’ve gone easier on that.
“Here we are.”
Max tensed. Had they already made it to his apartment? He blinked and cleared his throat. “Thanks for the ride.” He grabbed the handle and pushed on the door.
“Hey.”
With a glance back, he slid from the cab.
“You need company tonight?”
The comment hit Max sideways. He didn’t need anything. Isn’t that what he’d always said? He was a SEAL. He could take care of himself and an entire platoon. “I’m good.”
Uncertainty lurked in Cowboy’s eyes.
“Night.” Max slammed the door before the guy could start the spiel he felt coming on. He trudged across the parking lot to the front door. Pulling the key from his pocket, he once again felt a familiar weight encircle him. Breathing became a chore. He looked at the door, the brass numbers tacked into the faded paint, slightly off-center. Like his life. Why bother going in? He was alone with his latest purchase—a single mattress that he’d pushed against the wall in the efficiency. The TV was propped on the kitchen counter right in front of the mini microwave. The dingy room might as well be a padded cell for all the good it did him.
Forget it. He needed white noise. Crazy noise. He spun and crossed the lawn to the storage building he’d rented as a garage. Within minutes, he streaked down the rain-slicked roads on his bike. Up one side, down the other. Searching … for something. Whatever it was, he’d know it when he found it. Or when it found him.
But all he found in the next hour was aggravation and damp pant legs. He wove into a gas station and ripped off his helmet. As the tank filled, he leaned against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. Once again, his mind wandered back to the meeting. Was that moment the final rivet in the steel trap of their marriage? He had to accept it, right? Their marriage ended. She was gone. Really, truly gone.
You could’ve stopped this.
He shifted off the bike and finished pumping. Key stuffed in the ignition, he reached for the handles—
Laughter burst out at him, snapping his gaze to a three-story brick building across the street. A couple swaggered from the entrance, arms wrapped around each other, their merriment skidding over the road and into his chest like the bullets of an AK-47. Every staccato note a thump against his pride. He’d been happy like that once.
He swallowed. Glanced back at the building and the sign hanging over the door. FOOLS GOLD. He’d fit right in.
No. Bad idea.
Cranking the engine, he looked back. What would it hurt? He let the engine rip and aimed the bike to the opposite side, where he parked. Helmet under his arm, he leaped off. He hustled to the door and pocketed the key to his Hayabusa in his leather jacket.
Dim lighting danced over a haze of smoke circling the interior. Clinking and more laughter filtered into his awareness as he scanned the split-level bar. An upper balcony area sported a pool table, video games, vinyl chairs, and a dart board. In the center of the lower floor, the bar sparkled with neon signs and lit-up liquor displays.
Head tucked, he strode to the bar. Just one. Enough to take the edge off the perpetual fire in his gut. The dull pain that throbbed through years of a failing marriage. Hands on the slick surface, he hunched his shoulders and kept his head low.
“What’ll ya have, handsome?” the bartender, a buxom blond, asked.
“Jack Daniels.” He set his helmet on the empty stool next to him.
“Bottle or glass?”
“Gl—”
“Ginger ale,” Cowboy’s voice cut in from behind.
Where had the guy come from? Was he following him? Heat blasted Max’s neck and shoulders as the meaty man slid onto the stool next to him. “Leave me alone, Cowboy.”
“Ginger ale, darlin’. Two.” Cowboy shifted on the seat then leaned toward Max. “Not going to let you do this, man.”
Staring at his flesh turning white around his knuckles, Max ground out, “Not your choice.”
Cowboy chuckled. “Actually, it is. I don’t want you showing up hungover some day and slumping into my line of sight.” The burly man nudged his elbow. “Course, maybe you do need another hole in that thick head if you think this is the answer.”
“I don’t need lectures.”
The bartender set two glasses in front of them. The swirling, sparkling liquid masked its true identity—a nasty carbonated drink. If only Max could mask himself.
They sat for several minutes without speaking. He concentrated on the pain shooting through his jaw and neck as he ground his teeth together. Amazing how with music and laughter blasting through the bar the silence settling between him and Cowboy proved deafening.
Cowboy took a sip of his ale. Set the glass down. “I know what you’re doing.”
Score one for Cowboy. But it didn’t exactly take a genius to know what Max was doing in a bar.
“Drowning the pain isn’t the answer.”
