Nightshade (Discarded Heroes) (22 page)

Not sales flyers. Two photos sat cockeyed under the blade. A photo of her and Lane in the pub. Another of them as they stood outside Giuseppe’s.

Scrawled in red, three words glared at her:
STOP OR DIE!

Hurtling over a motorcycle, Max ignored the screams erupting around him. He hit the ground and rocketed down an alley lit only by a corner lamp on the side of a building. Scattered light made specters out of every crate and trash can. But his focus remained locked on the man sprinting ahead of him. The man who’d stuffed something under Sydney’s windshield wiper.

Max had almost missed the drop, he’d been so ticked to find his wife and her coworker taking a cozy stroll down the Strand. Once he saw the threat scribbled over the grainy photographs, he burst into action.

“If you want to live, stop!” Max shouted as he barreled around a corner.

A shop door sprung open.

Max spun around the obstacle and resumed the chase. When the man tried to scale a wall, Max caught up. He threw himself full force into the guy’s back, grabbing the black windbreaker.

They dropped backward onto the hard ground.
Oof!
Wind knocked out of him, Max rolled right as the man scrambled. Scissoring his legs, he caught the guy’s long legs and made him do a face plant. Arching his back and winging his arms, Max flung himself forward, nailing the guy in the spine. He couldn’t kill him. Not yet. Needed information.

Max jerked him onto his back and slammed a hard right hook into his face. “Who are you? Who do you work for?”

“Nobody.” The man coughed and spit blood.

“Who do you work for?” He punched him again then boxed his ears. A thousand messages bombarded Max—the guy didn’t fight like an assassin. His moves were jerky, frantic. He couldn’t even defend himself. “The pictures! Why are you taking pictures of her?”

“It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me,” the man whimpered, his cement-shredded palms waving. “Some guy paid me to put them on the Lexus. That’s all I know.”

Even though Max knew hesitation killed, the panicked expression on the man—no, the teenager—stayed his lethal skills.

“What’d he look like?”

“I—I don’t remember.”

Another hard right. “Wrong answer.”

“Okay, okay.” Eyes wide and mouth oozing dark spittle, the guy shrugged. “Dark hair. Tall. Oh! He had a—”

Thwat! Thwat!

Max flinched at the familiar sound—instincts sending him spiraling into the darkened corner. Where had the shots come from? Spine pressed against the steel back door to a shop, he crouched and peeked around the alley. Since he wasn’t getting peppered with cement or bullets, he guessed the shooter didn’t have a clear line of sight. Or he’d left. But the latter was a risk Max wouldn’t take yet.

He eyed the kid, wanting to drag him to safety. No movement. They’d killed their own messenger? His gut roiled. Max eased the Ruger from his holster and pushed up onto his feet, his back hugging the brick wall behind him. Checking around the corner—

Plaster spat at him.

He jerked back. If he went down, he didn’t want someone framing him for the kid’s murder. He tugged his phone from his pocket and punched in the code. “Bravo One. Tango engaged. Sending coordinates,” he said into the coded program that would relay the information to the Nightshade team. They’d never get here in time, but at least he had covered his tail.

Eerie silence strangled the vibrancy of the once-busy area. With his shoulder forward and his focus streaking past the sights on his weapon, he slowly stepped from the shadows, inching along the walls. Processing every little shift in light, wind, and odor. He took a second to double-check the kid. The moon’s glow glared off the blood pooling on the messenger’s chest, mirroring the faint rise and fall of each breath.

Max stilled. The kid wasn’t dead. Could he get to the kid in time? He searched the alley. If he went into the open, he could end up on the cold slab right next to the kid.

This wasn’t Afghanistan or Iraq. And he couldn’t leave an innocent teenager to die. Clear the alley fast. Get back to the kid. Plan in place, he quickened his pace, side-stepping down the alley. He cleared each shop alcove. As he eased around the corner—something big and woody barreled at him.

He swung hard to deflect … too late!

Pain shot through his head and neck. Blackness descended.

H
ours. He’d stayed up all night in the wind and rain, praying there was enough of his body heat to register on a thermal scan. But now, limbs aching and chilled to the bone, he watched the approach of dawn. With it came an oppressive sense of hopelessness.

Who was he kidding? The chances were bleak that the events could be lined up to bring a rescue. They were lost. They all were lost.

No. God is a God of miracles. All things are possible with Him
.

All things were possible, but would they be rescued? What if God had other plans? What if God received more glory from Jon’s death than his life? The thought twisted his gut.

Surely God wouldn’t lead them here only to have Kimber and his sweet daughter butchered by men roused by violence and bloodshed.

Jon moaned. Longed for Kimber, to hear her calm voice, her ability to remain at peace in the midst of the storm. A strange feeling filled his chest—and yanked a hard cough out of him. On his side, he struggled through a coughing fit.

Dawn chased away the rain. At least for now. Jon had been on the island long enough to know once the season began, it would unleash its fury for weeks to come. He endured the harsh elements for two more days, each night lying out in the open, stretching his legs back and forth making mad angels. Ones he hoped could fly into the heavens and tap the shoulder of a U.S. satellite. It was his only hope.

Please, God. Just this one small miracle
.

A third night descended with another deluge of rain and cold. Jon curled into a fetal position, his arm receiving a good cleansing. He prayed it’d rinse out the infection, since these goons weren’t going to give him medical attention. A hacking cough seized control of his body. He coughed. And coughed. Struggled for air. Beat his own chest, trying to free the muscles that had clenched. But they wouldn’t release.

His vision closed in, fading from gray to black.

A
warbled sound bit through his brain. Max groaned.

“Hey, Frogman, time to rise and shine.”

Pulling himself up, Max winced under the thunderous roar that surged through his head and shoulders. “What …?” He squinted at the brilliant light pervading the alley. Only … he wasn’t in the alley. “Where am I?”

Legend loomed in front of him. “At the Shack.”

Max swung his legs over the edge of the bed and hung his head. How’d he get back to the warehouse? “What happened?”

“Don’t know.” Legend joined him on the mattress. “When I showed up, you were out cold and some kid was dead.”

Max stiffened, shards of pain stabbing his spine. He’d failed the kid. Failed! Again!

“So, Mr. Jacobs, what happened?”

Trying to find a position in which he could look up at Lambert without feeling like someone was sawing him off at the neck, Max grunted. “The kid …” His head pulsed with each syllable. “He planted some threatening photos on Syd’s car. I chased him down. We fought, and that’s when someone took him out.”

General Lambert sighed. Paced, his slick shoes scratching over the cement floor. “I’ve managed to put a tight lid on this incident.”

“Yeah,” Max grunted, staring down at the dried blood on his knuckles. “That anything like your assurance that you’d make sure the source backed off, leave my wife alone?” He glowered at the general in the doorway.

“Point taken, Mr. Jacobs. While my words may feel like platitudes, I’ve taken extreme measures to put an end to this.”

Max pried his gaze from the man. “I doubt your extreme measure and mine are the same.”

Olin chuckled. “I would agree. The source is not dead.”

“If he makes one more attempt on my wife, he will be.”

“Give us a moment alone, please.”

Max accepted the ice pack Legend stuffed toward him before he left. Applying the pack proved almost as painful as taking a hammer to his head.

“Max, what has happened is reprehensible.”

“We’re on the same page there.”

“The source is trying to protect the team.”

“Bull!” He cringed and let out a breathy groan. “He’s covering his own backside.”

Olin paused, tension lining his aged face. “Agreed.” He finally lowered his gaze. “Remember, the only person who knows the identities of Nightshade team is me. The source has no idea he attacked the very hand he’s feeding.”

Max grunted as realization burrowed past the thunder in his ears. “And you can’t tell him.” Because if he did, the team would be exposed.

“I’m afraid not. I have, however, guaranteed your wife will be heavily compensated for what has happened.”

He considered the general, a mixture of relief and outrage coursing through his veins. Compensation usually meant a bribe, a way to keep people quiet. Max wouldn’t stay quiet if this happened again. But knowing that Sydney was being looked after felt like a salve. “While I don’t like you buying my silence, and this in no way makes compensation for my mother-in-law’s death, I’m grateful you’re taking care of Sydney.”

“She’s important to you, so she’s important to me.”

Good. Because if not, he was gone.

“Reporting live from the Philippines, I’m Rorie Mills. Back to you, Alfred.”

“So tell us, Rorie, how is Kezia doing now?”

“Hey, look, it’s her!” Marshall grabbed the remote as he hushed the rest of the team gathered around the pool table. “Have you seen this reporter? She’s hot!”

“Kezia is recovering with her family. Right now, she has twenty-four-hour guards as they protect this girl so she can bear witness against the atrocities of the local radicals who have slaughtered hundreds, possibly thousands, across this tiny island. As you know, this area is a hotbed for radical Muslims, who believe the only true religion is Islam, and they will kill those who disagree, including innocent girls like Kezia.”