Nightshade (Discarded Heroes) (20 page)

Carrying the lily, Max slunk across the near-perfect lawn. A mere hour had passed, but already the tent had been dismantled, the chairs and green carpet removed, and the casket lowered six feet under. Two workers slung dirt onto the hole.
Thump. Thump
.

He stilled, somber over the realization that it could’ve been Syd in that oak vault. He ground his teeth and gripped the white flower tighter. Olin had promised he’d take care of things. Had the thugs gotten the message? If not, Max would deliver it. Personally.

The men working the grave glanced at him then stopped and moved away from the semi-filled plot. Heart in his throat, he trudged closer and crouched next to the gaping hole. For several long, quiet minutes, he stared at the upturned dirt, so symbolic of his life that had been churned and shredded. The woman in the steel coffin didn’t deserve this, a brutally cruel death. Sure, she’d been hard on him throughout the years he’d known her, but he’d deserved it. Truth be told, Mrs. K was the closest thing to a mother he’d had. Maybe that’s why he rebelled against her. Didn’t want to own up to the inscrutable feelings.

“I screwed up, Mrs. K.” He shifted, feeling like a schoolboy. “I know that now, and I’m sorry.” He ran his thumb along the waxy, green stem, knowing that if the tough Irishwoman were still here, she’d be giving him an earful.

Man, if he felt this massive hollowness at her passing, what must Sydney be feeling? He couldn’t imagine. Oddly, he had this sudden urge to reassure the dead that he’d make it right, fix things, anything.

But could he? Could he pull himself together and get it right? How many empty promises cemented the gap between him and Syd? He couldn’t even count the number of times he had apologized to the only woman who could tolerate him. Maybe he should try—

He’d just fail. Again.

“I don’t think I can do it, Mrs. K. It’s too late.” He looked at the flower and heaved a sigh. “But I’m going to make sure she doesn’t end up down there, too. Right now, that’s the only promise I can make.”

A thought dragged out the only smile he had left. “If you have it in good with the Big Guy up there, tell Him I could use some help.” He stood and held the flower out over the chasm. “I’m sorry.” Releasing the flower, he watched it tumble end over end until it landed softly on the dirt. “I’ll look out for her. Adios, Mrs. K.”

And he’d start by making sure the contract on his wife wasn’t fulfilled.

Late into the night, Max tugged back the Velcro band on his watch and glanced at the glowing numbers. Syd’s bedroom light had gone out thirty minutes ago. He leaned against the bark of the tree with an energy bar and his camelbak. Someone might think he was crazy or that this stakeout was futile, but if whoever blew the house figured out it was his mother-in-law, and not Sydney, who had died, they’d come back to finish the job.

Max chomped into the vitamin-compressed bar and chewed slowly. The look on her face at the graveside service had gouged a long, deep crevice through his heart. It said everything he already knew. He might not be a part of her life anymore, but that didn’t mean he’d let someone hurt her. He’d dealt with enough powerhouses to know how these types operated. Which meant leaving her unprotected wasn’t an option.

Around ten o’clock a police cruiser slid down the street. Max pulled himself into the shadows, hoping the moon didn’t reflect off his bike and draw attention. When the car disappeared around the next corner, he let out a shallow breath.

He hauled himself up into the tree and wedged himself against a couple of branches. Using his NVGs, he scanned the quiet neighborhood through a sea of green illumination. A cat’s wicked eyes glowed back at him, followed by a meaty hiss.

Max sneezed as the fur ball scooted backward.
Stupid cat
.

The throaty rumble of a diesel engine roared through the night. A minute later a door opened then closed. Max swung the goggles around—and nearly cursed.

“You realize this is considered stalking?” Cowboy taunted him.

“How did you”—Max sneezed again—“find me?”

“Having a little feline trouble?” Cowboy waved him down. “Let’s talk.”

“I’m not leaving, if that’s what you’re here to tell me.” Landing with a soft thump, Max considered his friend. “I’m sticking around to make sure whoever did this doesn’t finish her off.”

“I’m here to relieve you.”

Max looked at his friend, stunned. “Seriously?”

Cowboy tilted his hat back a bit. “How are you? I mean, with the funeral and everything. Did you talk to her?”

“I obeyed the court order and remained fifty feet away.” He pursed his lips and tried to laugh it off. “Wish someone would tell grief about that order so it’d keep its distance.”

“Yeah, it’s kinda selfish that way.” Cowboy glanced at the house. “What room’s she in?”

Max pivoted toward the colonial-style home with immaculately manicured lawns. “Her room has always been the front right corner. I’m guessing her brother and sister-in-law are using the master suite, and the girls are in the back bedroom.”

“All right.”

“What about your Remington?”

Cowboy grinned. “Never leave home without it.”

Max nodded, appreciating that morsel of reassurance.

“Go on,” Cowboy said. “Run home, shower up, grab some real food, and get some rest. Griff volunteered for early morning, so you’re not back on duty until noon.” Cowboy started back to his truck, his black Stetson pouring deep shadows over the man’s face.

Max stared after him. “Why are you all doing this?”

Cowboy spun and walked backward. “We’re a team. It’s what we do.”

Disbelief shrouded him. Nobody had ever done something like this for him. What made Cowboy do it?

The Bible.

Max shook his head. For several seconds he stood watching his mother-in-law’s home then Cowboy’s big black truck. At least Cowboy had his Remington 700. The cowboy could nail a guy nearly a mile away with his sniper skills. The thought pushed a smile into Max’s face. This would be a good,
real
good time for the bad guy to show up.

T
hroat raw, spirit and arm shattered, Jon lay staring up through the palm fronds as they waved overhead. They arched over him like guardians. If only they’d actually guarded. His screams for Kimber and subsequent shouts for anyone only introduced him to the butt of an AK-47 and knocked him out cold. At least he had slept, which was more than he could say now.

Unable to move without his head pounding, he lay as still as possible. Stars peeked through the canopy and winked at him. Night settled in around him like a plague, bringing with it every nocturnal critter possible. His skin crawled at the sound of their tiny legs pecking over the dirt and leaves.

“Get up!”

Something rammed into Jon’s ribs as he lay on his side on the ground. He curled in on himself, trembling from a fever that devoured him.

“Get up!”

He opened his eyes just in time to see a boot swing toward his stomach—and braced for the blunt force.
Oof!
Jon doubled—and snatched the man’s leg and jerked hard.

The soldier flipped onto his back. Just as quick, the man pulled himself up and lunged. He pinned Jon to the ground and rammed a fist into his face. Without a shred of mercy, the guy stood and stomped on Jon’s broken arm.

Volcanic fire lit through every cell of his body.

His world spun—and went black.

Water. Cool. Refreshing.
Too much!
He couldn’t breathe. Jon writhed. He was drowning! He yanked forward, gagging and coughing. Just as fast, his awareness hit on his grim environment. The soldier who’d pummeled him towered over him, laughing as he tossed a bucket to the side.

Head swimming, Jon tried to steady his body’s volatile reactions. Propping up with one hand only served to make his stomach churn. His arm oozed blood and puss with each pump of his heart. He winced as he studied the distorted shape his arm hung at—it’d most likely have to be rebroken and reset when they returned to the States. His stomach roiled at the thought. And what ribs weren’t broken protested the swelling and movement of any muscle. He squinted, wondering why his calf muscle seemed to stretch tight the fabric of his khaki pants.

“Leave him. We’ll have fun with the others.”

Jon’s ears burned. He tried to watch where they headed, but when he turned his head, his elbow gave out. He fell hard against the earth—and his trembling body thanked him. Huffing against the exertion, he reminded himself he wasn’t alone in this. Somewhere these dogs were holding his wife, daughter, and Kezia. And where was Datu?

On the thick, humid wind, a noise snagged his attention. He rolled his head around, searching the empty distance between his cage and the meticulously concealed huts. What had he heard?

A baby’s wail pierced the early night.

“Maecel!” Jon dragged his body around, faced the direction. Every muscle trembled. Still, he strained and hauled himself to his feet. He stumbled to a pole that held the fence and propped himself up. “Kimber,” he called, his voice cracking and bottoming out. Fresh pains scalded his raw throat.

Another cry from his infant daughter whispered through the thickening night.

“Maecel!” His shout was lost amid a rumble in the skies. He glanced up through the trees—nothing but black. Thunder cracked.

A scream blasted into him.

Jon frantically searched the village. “Kimber!” He’d not seen a single soul in the days he’d been here, save the men who’d beaten him. How could there be so many huts draped with branches and trees, bushes heavily planted around them for concealment, and no people?

“Kimber!” His veins pulsed furiously as he howled her name.

He had no sooner heard footsteps to the side and looked—than he met with the hard plastic end of a fully automatic weapon.

Jon dropped like a rock on his left side. Pain spiked through his arm.

The hulking mass stood over him and again drove the butt of the weapon into him.

“Stop! We need him alive.”

The man hovering shuffled his feet closer to Jon’s head. He mumbled a curse, struck Jon’s head with the steel-toed boot, then left. Jon pushed himself onto his back and lay staring up at the sky, crying. A drop plopped onto his cheek, cold and wet. Rain.

Of course. He chuckled. Rainy season. Why not? Everything else had gone wrong.

Within seconds, a deluge washed over him. He lay with his eyes closed, rain pelting his body and drenching his clothes, his very soul. Lightning splintered the darkness. A storm raged around him and in him. Invaded his life. A half snort worked its way up his throat. Hadn’t he just a day ago—or was it more?—whined about being yanked from the island, afraid his purpose hadn’t been fulfilled? Was this his purpose? After all their hard work, was it his fate to be a martyr?

Be a missionary, save a tribe, see children clothed, fed, and educated. Being here, being a hand, a physical extension of Christ’s love, had given him pleasure. He could almost say it fulfilled him. Now, was he to die for the cause? A martyr. Odd. He’d never seen his life going that way.

Temptation dripped into his soul to just let himself go. Just let the elements and injuries have their way. Already, he could feel the cold rain numbing his extremities. The ground beneath him sluiced, and he sank lower. He was being taken from the Tagalog anyway. Did it matter?

What would happen to Kimber and Maecel? If they survived.

His eyes popped open. Survive? A beautiful, white, Christian woman? She’d have no chance. They’d brutally rape, beat, and hack her up for speaking up for her faith, which she would. Oh, she definitely would. How many times had he longed for just a half ounce of her die-hard determination? If she wasn’t already dead, she would be. And he couldn’t do a single thing about it.

And Maecel. Her chubby, round face of innocence. Every semblance of that which Mauk and the Higanti hated.

He had to get himself together. If he wasn’t dead yet, then maybe God wasn’t finished with him. And if Maecel was still out there crying, then no way would Jon Harris lie down like a dog, lick his wounds, and die. He had to fight. Had to save them!