Nightshade (Discarded Heroes) (17 page)

Crack!

His vision ghosted. Pain wracked his head. Warmth slithered down his face. Kimber’s cries screamed into the blackness that devoured him.

D
on’t move!” With his M4 trained on her, he ignored the bead of sweat that streaked from his helmet into his eye
.

Head-to-toe gauze swayed in the hot desert wind. Dark brown eyes peeked out from the burka
.

His gaze locked on the rectangular bulge beneath the light material. The fabric caught—revealing a corner. Shouts and snapped words erupted around him. The men in his unit scrambled innocents to safety behind a cement barricade
.

Grip tight but not too tight, he stared down the sights. “Raise your hands! Raise your hands!” Another soldier swooped around her from the left, hollering as they kept a safe distance
.

Tears poured from her eyes. She shook her head
.

“Don’t do it,” he shouted in Pashto as he backed up
. Please don’t.

Screaming in her native language, she said, “I have no choice.” Her hand moved toward her torso
.

“No!” Max dove
.

Boom!

He jolted, the memory fresh and painful of the instant his body had rammed into the barricade, breaking his arm.

Darkness drenched the night with sweat and nightmares. Wrestling with the sheet, he dragged himself off the mattress and pushed up. He stumbled to the shower and flipped the water on. Under the icy spray, he propped himself on the wall, his forehead against his arms, trying to forget the young woman who’d been forced to obliterate herself in the name of radical Islam. He pounded the wall with a guttural cry.

Why couldn’t he forget her? Or the little boy who’d blown himself up after his family had been killed in a deadly engagement in the mountains of Afghanistan? Or the countless others who’d eaten his bullets? His buddies who’d lost limbs or life itself?

Two weeks in the Caribbean hadn’t erased those memories. Two years wouldn’t either. He’d live with this for the rest of his life.

Oh…God…help
. He lowered himself to the floor and buried his head in his hands. At seventeen and stupid, he’d believed God had called him into the military, given him a gift, as it were. Some gift. Complete with everlasting repercussions. Wounds that don’t heal.

“Why?” he shouted, ramming his elbow into the walls. “Why would You do this to me? Why put me in those places and rip me apart, inside out? I’ve lost everything
—everything
because of this job! Why? Do You enjoy tormenting me?”

Bang, bang, bang!

Max jerked himself off the shower floor and spun, as if looking through the wall to the front door. He spun the handles, snatching a towel from the shelf. Hurriedly, he dried off and stuffed himself into clean undergarments, then a pair of jeans. Hobbling as he slid his foot through the other leg, he hurried to the door. “Coming!” He zipped the jeans then raked a hand through his hair, glancing around for a shirt. No go. He swung the door open.

Cowboy tipped the rim of his Stetson back and grinned. “Am I interrupting?”

“Probably saving me from a bolt of lightning.” Max waved him in and darted to the bedroom, grabbing a T-shirt. Weaving his hands into the cotton, he returned to the living room. “So, what brings you by this pit so late?”

“Visiting some old friends in the area.” Cowboy handed Max a small box. “After the island, I got this for you. Might want to dig into it.”

Tentative of the contents, Max considered the overgrown cowboy as he glanced at the name on the bag. “Hastings?” He wrinkled his nose. “Can’t say I’d ever expect to see you at a high-end shop like that.”

“The bag … I … um … it was the only one lying around the house. My mom shops there.” He removed his hat and smoothed his hair.

Since when had the cowboy acted nervous? Max drew the box out of the bag and stilled as he glanced down at a small black Bible. The gift irritated him. Pat answers always had. “Thanks, but I think God and I are through.”

“Have you asked Him about that?”

“Look, it’s a nice thought, but …” He ran his thumb over the gold lettering of his name on the cover. Changing the subject wouldn’t work. Not with Cowboy. Max just had to gut it up. Even if he did bare his soul in the process. At least he knew his venom wouldn’t affect the man before him. “I joined the Navy because I thought … I thought that’s where God wanted me.” Grief choked him. “Now look at me. An angry screwup.”

The man’s large hand rested on Max’s shoulder. “Start reading about David.” He tapped the Bible. “The king faced battles, enemies who tried to kill him. Check out his story. I think you’ll find out you’re not alone.” Cowboy squeezed. “No, I
know
you’re not alone.”

The gold-edged pages gleamed at him. “I don’t know, man. Not really up for a guilt trip.”

As he reached for the knob, Cowboy chuckled. “Who is? But if you want to salvage your life—and I’ll say it again: your marriage is
not
lost—then this is where you start. Fight for something that’s worth it, Max.”

Alone once again, Max fanned through the pages, the burst of cool air thick with new-paper smell. A million black words whizzed past. Handwriting scrawled over the thin paper caught his attention. He flipped to the dedication page. Sentimental Cowboy had inscribed it with the To,
FROM, DATE
, and a scripture reference. Maybe the cowboy was right.

Right, how? It wasn’t like reading a book could fix his problems. Or blot out the gruesome images that haunted his waking and sleeping.

Could it?

He shook his head. How many times had he felt guilty hearing all the sermons about what he should be doing? What good did it all do?

Max slid the Bible onto the kitchen counter, grabbed a bottled water from the fridge, and went to his weight bench. Seated on the inclined bench, he turned on the TV then eased himself back and lifted the bar from the braces. Pumping iron, running, and baseball had always been his outlets. Tonight it just didn’t seem to faze him or take the edge off his burning agitation.

The monotonous drone of a twenty-four-hour news channel blended into his puffs and grunts as he worked his muscle groups and toned his body. It was one thing Sydney
did
like about him.

He paused, hands on the bar overhead, remembering her warm fingers smoothing over his chest and abs. Longing for her touch ate at him. Max sat up and stole a peek at the Bible. Maybe … for her.

Won’t work
.

The news anchor’s voice snagged Max’s attention with talk of a possible bombing. “A
small community has been literally rocked during a late night explosion
.”

“That’s right, Alfred. Tonight the small community of Harvard
Oaks is reeling from a devastating explosion that has leveled one home and damaged two others.”

Max pushed to his feet, staring at the screen. Harvard Oaks. That’s where their house was, the one he and Sydney built.

“Three fire departments have responded and are battling this incredible blaze. As you can see behind me,” she reported as the camera panned, “little is left of this once-beautiful home. With me, I have a neighbor.” The reporter shifted and the camera turned
.

Max grabbed the sides of the TV, staring …. That. Was it his home? It was! No, this couldn’t be possible.

“What is your name, sir?”

“Mike Brookshire.”
His neighbor!

“What can you tell us, Mr. Brookshire, about this home and the people who live there?”

Disbelief froze Max. His home, the one he’d shared with Sydney, lay in ruins. He sprinted to his room and grabbed his keys and jacket, his heart jack-hammering. Ripping across town on his Hayabusa, he pushed 120. Couldn’t get there fast enough. Was she dead? Had the explosion killed her?

The bike wobbled. Front tire skidded, but he pulled it straight.

God, if You’re still listening…just let her be alive
.

A hard right brought him onto the street. Emergency personnel blocked the road, redirecting traffic and ordering onlookers to stay at a safe distance.

“Sorry, you’ll have to turn back,” an officer told Max.

“I live here,” Max said. “I think it’s my house.”

“What address?”

“Seven-hundred Morning Sun.”

The cop’s face paled. “Go ahead, but stay out of the way.”

Max’s stomach churned. A thick plume of smoke billowed down the street, snaking over homes and yards. As he neared, he spotted a red F-250 and guided his bike to the curb. Bryce. He should’ve known her brother would be here already. Why hadn’t anyone called him?

Because you’re not part of the family now
.

But by law, she was still his wife. Max hoofed it the last fifty yards. Four fire trucks crammed into the tiny curve in the street where the house sat. A black body bag sat on the sidewalk, two techs bent over it.

His knees buckled.
God, no!

“Come over this way. There’s not as much smoke, Mrs. Jacobs.”

Max jerked up, spotting a swarm of emergency workers around a woman—Sydney. A large fire jacket hung on her narrow shoulders, devouring her. Cheeks marred from the ash, she slumped into her brother’s arms. Rivulets of tears marked their path with stunning clarity against the gray smudges.

“I’m terribly sorry about your mother,” a woman crooned as she brushed Sydney’s hair back.

Her mom? Only then did he see the white Chrysler 300 sitting in the drive, mangled and blackened. What happened?

Without hesitation, he darted toward her. “Sydney!”

She shoved to her feet, face awash with—could it be? She looked relieved to see him.

He reached for her, surprised when she came into his arms willingly. “Are you okay?” He pressed a kiss to the top of her smoky-smelling hair.

She clung to him. “She’s gone. My mom is dead.” Even in his arms, she struggled to remain on her feet, so he eased her down to the back of the ambulance. “It should’ve been me; it should’ve been me.”

“Don’t say that,” Max urged, kneeling before her.

“The investigators said it looked like an accident, Syd,” Bryce added, his heated glare never leaving Max.

Said
it looked like an accident. Max studied his brother-in-law for a moment. Bryce the Detective knew something, something he didn’t want to voice in front of Sydney.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Bryce finally grumbled.

Max had expected as much. The man was right—the protective order. Turning his attention to Sydney, Max stilled. He didn’t want to leave her, not like this with their home burning—the last symbol of their marriage.

“You should leave,” she mumbled, more tears spilling as she gripped his hand. “I don’t want another fight.”

“A fight?” Did she really think he’d start one here? Now? With all this?

“You heard her.” Bryce moved closer.

Max tensed, his muscles flexing.

Sydney reached out, her hand touching his cheek. “I …” She looked down at her lap, then brought her tormented gaze to his.

“Syd.” He swept her face, aching.

“Leave now,” Bryce said, shouldering his way into the moment, “and I won’t have you arrested or file a complaint.”

Max hung his head, the volley of fury barreling up his chest.

“Please, go.” She sniffled then stood and walked away.

An IED wouldn’t have done more damage.

He couldn’t just let her go. Inclined to follow, he started forward, but Bryce cut into his path. Max took a step back and watched as a paramedic handed Sydney an oxygen mask.

“You never did know when to leave well enough alone,” Bryce said.