Nightshade (Discarded Heroes), page 9
part #1 of Discarded Heroes Series
“Yeah, what do you know?” Max grabbed the drink and gulped—anxious to have a reason not to talk. The ginger ale stung. Almost as good as liquor. Only it didn’t last as long.
“I tried the bottle for a while—and found out what it’s like to wake up and have no idea if you made it home without killing someone. Or to find yourself in bed with a woman you don’t know.” Cowboy’s head sagged a little under the confession. “It’s not worth it.”
Score one more for Cowboy. So he had a history. Didn’t mean he knew what Max was going through. Didn’t mean he understood consummate failure. Obviously the guy had a good life—nice truck. Family—a daughter and parents who were still around. Things had turned out okay for him.
Max had pain—gouge out his heart, slice and dice it, skewer and flame-broil it pain. “Look …” He let the words die on his tongue, struggling to be civil. “I appreciate your noble effort to rescue me, but I’m a lost cause. Round up some other pathetic soul to save.”
When the bartender made her rounds, Max signaled her.
“Jack Daniels.”
“Look, Emerie,” Cowboy said as he leaned across the counter, speaking to the bartender. “I just feel compelled to inform you that my friend here has a rare disease. And if you serve him alcohol, it’s going to bring on a violent reaction.”
Max thrust himself upward. “What? What’re you talking about?”
“See?” Cowboy winked at the girl. “It’s already starting, just being around the stuff. If I were you, I’d mosey on away and pretend you never saw him. That way, when the law arrives, you aren’t responsible. Right?”
Max saw red. Pure red—Cowboy’s blood spilled all over the floor. He’d kill the guy!
But he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. He’d severed his marriage with a wrong move. Wouldn’t do it this time. He snatched his helmet and drove himself out the front door, tension piling on top of the knots at the base of his neck. Chest puffed out, he drew his fist to his side, ready to pummel someone. Anything! He stomped past the trash can—and drove a hard roundhouse kick into it. Metal clanged against metal, drawing out more of the demon caged within. Only then did he notice the chain holding the trash bin to a steel frame. With a bounce, he spun and planted another straight into it. The chain snapped.
“Sure am glad that’s not me.”
Max spun around with a solid, hard right.
Cowboy ducked. Then he grabbed Max’s forearm and spun him against the wall, one arm pinned behind his back, the other pressed to the crumbling bricks. His helmet clattered against the sidewalk. Mortar dug into his cheekbone.
Max cursed. “Stay outta my life!”
With a slight nudge forward, Cowboy scraped Max’s cheek along the brick.
“Get off me!”
“Get it under control, sailor.”
“I’m not a sailor. I quit.” I’m a loser. Class-A failure. He wriggled against the steel-like hold, his breathing coming in gulps as the tension dribbled out.
Slowly, Cowboy’s grip eased. Max flipped around, his back against the wall the cowboy nearly made him eat. Blood trailed down his cheek. He wiped it away.
Hands on his hips, Cowboy let out a heavy grunt. “So what happens in the field when someone crosses you? Going to point that M4 at their skull?”
Glowering, Max kept his trap shut. Knowing what’s right and doing what’s right was a game he’d always lost. He raked both hands through his hair. “I can’t do this.”
“Not alone, you can’t.”
But he was alone. Utterly. His best friend, the most incredible woman he’d ever met, was gone. And it was all his fault. I don’t want to live. I don’t want a life without her. He clenched his eyes and sucked down the adrenaline spurting into his throat. Suddenly aware of the small crowd lingering by the still-open door, he straightened. Braved a glance at Cowboy. “I … I better head out.”
“Why don’t you come over and shoot some pool?”
Temptation mingled with relief at the thought of not going home to an empty apartment and being alone with his thoughts. “Why? You want to put my head through another wall?”
Cowboy grinned. “If that’s what it takes, sailor.”
The word wasn’t lost on Max. With an accepting nod, he bounced the keys to his bike in his hand. “I’ll follow.”
Forty pothole-jarring minutes later, Max rolled to a stop outside a pristine, ranch-style home situated on vast acreage. A front porch, complete with double swing and porch light, proved he and the cowboy had next to nothing in common. I tried the bottle for a while …. He glanced to the side as Cowboy parked his truck in a massive garage. What shadows hid behind the guy’s sunny disposition?
Once inside a small enclosed entry, Cowboy led Max down a darkened hall and banked right—then straight up a narrow flight of stairs where he flipped on a switch. Light bathed a large, converted attic. A pool table devoured the bulk of the room; a leather couch sat against a lone window in the far wall.
“When I had the house built,” Cowboy said as he chose a pool stick, “I wanted a place I could come and spend sleepless nights without disturbing anyone.” He grinned and pointed to the rack on the wall, indicating for Max to make his pick. “It’s right over my bedroom, so no one’s the wiser.”
With a pole in hand, Max squeaked the chalk over the tip. “How often are you up here?”
Cowboy shrugged. “Don’t keep track.” After he racked the balls, he shifted to the far end of the table. “Wanna break ‘em?”
“Go ahead.”
That was his first mistake. Cowboy slaughtered him in minutes. A few more rounds, and Max began to realize the enigmatic cowboy had probably logged enough hours up here to rank as a professional pool player.
Close to midnight, Max rolled his shoulders and accepted the soda Cowboy offered. “I take it you’ve done a lot of steam burning up here.”
Cowboy grinned. “A lot more than I’ll ever admit.”
Stroking the sweat beads on the soda, Max slumped against the pool table. “I’m going crazy with the divorce.” His gut twisted into knots with that revelation. “I—it’s what I deserve, but …” The back of his throat felt raw—like everything else in him. He roughed a hand over his face then rubbed his eyes. Maybe he should just get some rest.
Cowboy pitched his empty Sprite can and joined him, arms folded over his thick chest. “I think there’s hope, Max.”
The surge of energy made him almost giddy. But he knew better. He squished the flickering flame of hope. Wouldn’t let himself be fooled. Wouldn’t be a fool. That thread of hope dangling before him morphed into a viper.
Hope was dangerous. Deadly.
Static hissed through the line as the voice mail connected. Sydney tapped a pencil eraser against her desk, waiting for her voice mail message to play.
“Ms. Jacobs, this is Deidre Hicks from the Pentagon Public Affairs Office. I just wanted to inform you that the incident you asked about in—uh, Namibia? Well, ma’am, I’m afraid there’s no record of any such incident. Maybe you have the wrong date. Or country. Thanks for checking with us at the Pentagon. I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more help.”
I bet you are. Sydney flung the pencil at the carpeted cubicle divider and pursed her lips. Yeah. Right. No records. Having been a military wife, she was used to the Potomac two-step. Ask one question, get the answer to another—or nothing at all. Convenient for them. Altogether frustrating for her. Sitting up, she laced her fingers through her hair, propped her forehead on the heels of her hands, and let out a long, slow breath as she stared between her arms at the names on her list. With a groan, she dragged the pencil back and sliced through General Snow’s name. Strike four. Olson, Dean, and Woodhouse had all said the same thing.
But Mangeni had sworn vehemently that the soldiers had come in October. And that they were American.
Uncapping her bottle of water, Sydney studied the spreadsheet where she’d listed all the vital information. She worked the names, dates, and notes. Dead ends. Every single one.
“How is that possible?” she asked herself.
“What’s that?”
Sydney jumped at the sound of Lane’s voice. “Where did you come from?” She laughed and swiveled her chair toward him as he plopped down in the spare seat.
“In case you forgot, I sit about three rows back, two over.” A smile twinkled in his eyes.
“Ha. Ha.” She slid the file shut and let out another sigh. “It’s a bit hard to do a human interest feature when you can’t track down a human with interest in talking.”
“You still don’t have anything?”
She glared at him. “Don’t rub it in. It’s impossible. Every lead flops.” She fanned the pages of notes and incomplete information at him, rustling his sandy blond hair. “I really don’t get it. I mean obviously someone knows when a group between six and ten purportedly American soldiers enters a village, demolishes it, and according to Mangeni, rescues the villagers from a notorious Janjaweed leader. A leader who it just so happens turned up downriver two weeks later sprayed with a dozen bullets.”
He looked at the closed folder. “Maybe the woman didn’t recall the facts correctly. Or maybe it’s a translation error.”
Sydney wrestled with his suggestion. “I’ve gone back and questioned her twice in the last two weeks, hoping that’s the case. But her story hasn’t changed.”
Lane’s gaze locked on something behind her—actually over her head.
“Uh, Syd …”
She furrowed her brow and glanced over her shoulder. A dozen reporters hovered below a television monitor mounted in the corner of the office. The ticker feed read: LIVE FROM MOZAMBIQUE.
Behind the attractive reporter, a smoldering village lay in ruins. “…just joined us, I’m Rorie Mills, live in Mozambique. To be precise, I’m standing in the middle of a small village that, less than twenty-four hours ago, endured a brutal and bloody battle.”
The words pulled Sydney from her chair. “You seeing this?” she mumbled, wandering closer to the monitor and hugging herself.
“Yeah.” Lane’s breathy words skated down her neck. He peeked around from behind her. “Sounds just like Namibia.”
“While the government has made vast improvements here in Mozambique, there is still a battle raging against drug lords transporting their illegal wares through this area, which has been a central transit point for South Asian hashish and, to some degree, the drug methaqualone for export to South Africa.” The reporter shifted so that she stood sideways and pointed. “These villagers claim local guerillas have taken their family members, literally dragging them out in the middle of the night, to work the drug fields. Fear and terror have reigned here.” She turned back to the camera. “That is, until last night. Reports are that a team of elite soldiers—some villagers claim they were American—swarmed in during another kidnapping raid and successfully prevented the seizure of the able-bodied men and women. However, soon after—”
“It’s the exact same thing.” Sydney spun and strode back to her cubicle. With the pages spread over her workstation, she pointed to it. “Look. A village in trouble. Elite soldiers. This isn’t a coincidence, and who knows why they’re going in there, but I bet someone is getting thick pockets for this.” She grabbed her phone, pressed her fingertips under the number for General Snow, and punched it in. “Let’s see what the good general reports now.”
“Easy there, Syd.” Lane reclined against her cubicle, his green eyes searching hers. “You don’t want to stir up trouble.”
“Trouble?” she scoffed, then whipped her attention to the line. An automated voice filtered into the reception. “Ugh. Voice mail.” After leaving a message requesting an explanation and whether the incident was truly related to Namibia, she tossed her phone. “Why would they hide this?” She peeked at the screen. “This is a good thing. Helping those who can’t help themselves.”
“It’s a political hotbed.”
She blinked at Lane. “What?”
“Syd!” Buck Kramer’s voice boomed across the maze of cubicles, yanking her around. He stood just outside his door, his bushy eyebrows drawn into a deep scowl. “In my office, now!”
“Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound good,” Lane said, looking over his shoulder.
Dread swirled in her stomach. “The last thing I need right now is to lose my job.” Especially now that her doctor had confirmed the pregnancy. She needed the insurance if she wanted to avoid having to file for reimbursements with TRICARE, which undoubtedly meant Max would find out.
As she stepped away, Lane gently caught her arm. “Let’s do lunch afterward.”
About to agree, she saw something in his gaze that unnerved her and doused her casual consent. Did Lane have romantic notions? Even if she were officially divorced from Max—which she wouldn’t be for many months—it would take much longer than that to heal. To stop hurting. To stop loving Max.
“Sorry, I can’t.” She scrambled for a plausible excuse. Her gaze shot to the monitor that still rambled about the chaos in Mozambique. “I’m going to head over to Mangeni’s to see if I can get anything else out of her.” She slid her arm free with a mumbled explanation of not keeping Buck waiting.
Discomfort bombarded her. Between Lane’s not-so-subtle interest, the exhaustion that came from carrying a precious new life inside her, and the stress over this stupid humanitarian piece that proved to be much harder than it should be, Sydney longed for the days when she was a housewife with a part-time job.
At Buck’s office, she found the door shut. She peered through the glass and saw him rubbing his temples as he spoke on the phone. With a gentle knock, she motioned, asking if she could enter. Instead of waving her in, he shot her a heated glare. The look blasted into her chest, worrying her. After a few more nods to whoever had fouled up his mood, Buck hung up and shouted for her to enter.
Hesitation guarded her steps as she entered. “Is everything okay?”
“No, it’s not okay! Shut the door.” He huffed and pushed out of his creaking chair. “I thought you were working on human interest pieces.”
“I am. LaDona assigned me the For Human Sake column. I’ve been—”
“Then what in Sam Hill are you doing calling the Pentagon again?” His round face reddened. Sweat beaded on his brow.
“I … I was ….” She drew in a breath, steadied herself. I will not cower. I have done nothing wrong. “The woman I’m doing the first piece on wants to thank the men who saved her village last October. I’m trying to find out who they were.”
“So what do you need the Pentagon for? Why are you harassing the top brass?”
“Harassing!” The accusation slid down her spine like a steel rod, straightening her. “I haven’t harassed anyone. I’ve been—”
Shaking a finger at her, he stormed around his desk. His entire body rippled with the anger leeching out in liters of sweat. “You are not to call anyone at the Pentagon again unless you have my express permission.”
“But—”
“Is that clear?” he shouted, his double chins jiggling.
Mentally and physically, Sydney drew back. He’d never been so … frightening toward her before. Working to calm her ramming heart, she nodded.
He grumbled some curses as he waddled back to his desk and dropped into the chair with another epithet. “You’re going to be the end of me.”
“I’d think you’d be thrilled with a hard-hitting reporter.”
“Not when you get caught and draw every politician down my back!”
She pulled her waning courage up off the floor and stood. “May I ask what they said?”
He scowled at her with a look that dared her to ask again.
Licking her lips, she accepted the grating answer and left, fighting the urge to sprint from the building. As she neared her cubicle, she heard her cell phone’s distinctive ring belting out “Jesus Take the Wheel.” She darted the last few feet and snatched up the phone. The caller ID didn’t register a number.
Brushing aside her frayed nerves, she pressed TALK. “Sydney Jacobs.” When no response came, she hunched her shoulders and burrowed into the minute privacy of her cubicle, straining to hear. “Hello?”
“First and only warning. Leave it alone.”
DAY TWO
Dawn rose like a specter of doom. Each sprinkle of daylight shattered what little possibility they had of staying hidden. With Datu and seven men from the cave, Jon and Kimber struck out on their journey into the hills. To the Higanti. Ahead of him, four villagers who’d constructed a stretcher conveyed Kezia through the lush landscape. Their dark figures almost blended with the scenery under the tease of light. With each foot he put in front of the other, Jon felt the atmosphere thickening. Soon the skies would let loose their bounty. And they had no shelter, no umbrellas to protect against the inevitable drenching downpour. He smoothed Maecel’s hair, wondering how he’d keep her warm so she wouldn’t catch a cold or worse.
