Nightshade (Discarded Heroes) (35 page)

“Sydney! Where are you? We’ve been frantic. Holden called in some friends, and they’ve been scouring the map for you.”

“Slow down, Lane.” She cradled her head in her hand as she lowered herself into a chair. As she reveled in the relief of sitting, she spotted the double-door emergency entrance—and the name of the hospital. “I’m at the Tooting Hospital.”

“Hospital! What on earth? How di—”

“Please, just come get me.” Suddenly she felt alone and desperate.

“We’re leaving now. We returned to London yesterday when you disappeared, so we’re not far away.”

“Hurry. Bye.” She gave back the phone and thanked the receptionist before returning to the vinyl, scoop-shaped seat. Wait—Lane had said yesterday. She snapped her gaze to the receptionist. “What day is it?”

“Thursday.”

Thursday! Two days?
She’d been unconscious for two days? She rubbed her temple and resisted the urge to wilt. It had been her choice to come out here, her choice to press on with this story and find the truth—and it could’ve ended a lot worse.

A cup appeared in front of her. She peered up at Dr. Gallance, who smiled. “It’s juice—it’ll help your blood and sugar levels, hopefully stave off that chill and throbbing headache. Too, you’re probably dehydrated.”

“Thank you.” She took a sip and savored the coolness rushing down her throat. The sensation trickled through her entire esophagus and into her stomach. Doing away with propriety, she guzzled the rest and let out a long, ragged sigh.

Dr. Gallance pulled another juice bottle from her pocket and handed it to her.

Sydney laughed and took that one, too.

“Are you in trouble, Sydney Jacobs? Do you need the authorities?”

Her first reaction was to snap no, but that would look and sound suspicious. “No. I can’t explain what happened, but my friend will be here soon. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re American. You’ve obviously been drugged—there are no apparent abrasions or cuts, but your balance is off, and your pupils are still partially dilated.”

“I suppose that would explain why it seems so bright.”

Dr. Gallance nodded. “It appears you’re fine, but I am concerned. It is my duty as a doctor to report suspicious events to the authorities.”

That pulled Sydney’s gaze to the good doctor. “Please, I know you have a responsibility, but I’m fine. My friend will be here—” Just then she saw Lane’s long-legged stride tearing up the sidewalk and storming through the doors. “That’s him there. He’s going to take me home. Everything will be fine.”

“Syd!” Lane rushed down the hall toward her, Holden hot on his heels. Lane dropped to a knee beside her. He cupped her face in his hands then kissed her—right on the lips!

Sydney jerked away and flinched at his intimate behavior. She gulped back the sickening feeling of having him cross that line from friend to … something else.

“Is there anything we need to sign?” Holden asked, handing the woman his business card. “You can send any bills to that address.”

The woman gaped.

With that, Holden turned and guided Sydney out of the hospital. Disoriented after Lane’s kiss, she leaned into Holden, only then realizing how fully terrified she’d been to wake up in a strange place, having no idea where she was or how she’d gotten there.

Once inside the car and pulling away from the hospital, Sydney slumped, resisting the tears blurring her vision.

“Are you okay?” Holden asked quietly. “Have you been harmed?”

“No. No, I don’t think so. I feel groggy. The doctor said my pulse was low, and I’m dehydrated, but otherwise I’m fine.” Elbow on the window ledge, she held her head.

“I need you to tell me everything, Sydney. We’ve lost two days.”

“A lot has happened in those forty-eight hours, too,” Lane offered.

She glanced over her shoulder at him and saw the concern in his eyes. “What?” She looked to Holden. “What happened?”

“Two incidents—uprisings, if you will. I think, if we’re going to catch this team you’re after, we will need to look at those places.” The skin around his knuckles whitened. “Both locations involved radical groups that won’t hesitate to kill us. So I need to know exactly what happened to you to know how to proceed.”

Sydney huffed. “Well, I doubt what I experienced will be much good to you. I was ferried from Keighley to a chopper then to a jet. On board I met a woman named Raisa who was pregnant like me—only further along. She mentioned that her husband was a rebel leader and that she was in hiding for her and her baby’s safety.”

Holden’s jaw muscle bounced. “What else?”

Raising her hands in surrender and frustration, she half laughed. “That’s just it. She wouldn’t say anything else. Just told me to let them do their job.”

“Are you sure?” Intensity darkened his face. “Anything.”

“What? Do you think I’m holding back on you?”

“No.” Holden braked at a roundabout then accelerated and whipped them around the circle. “Listen, these people that this woman is a part of, they are notorious for speaking without speaking. Conveying hidden meanings in things they do.” He banged the steering wheel and cursed. “If I’d known you’d be talking to them, I could’ve prepped you on their so-called codes. Told you how to speak that silent language.” He banged the steering wheel. “What a waste!”

“Wait,” Lane said, easing a hand between their seats as he spoke. “These people, this woman, knew that Sydney wouldn’t know the codes, right? So maybe she left a clue or something.”

“Not likely,” Holden said.

Frustration coated Sydney. She felt as if she’d ruined the whole thing, lost their only real chance to get some traction on this story.

“Unless …” Holden shook a finger in the air. “Sydney, tell me everything that happened, right down to people on the plane, water glasses—anything!”

Scrambling, she searched her memory. Slowly, she recounted everything that had happened, from being dragged aboard by two thugs, to being stuffed in a chair, and then the woman sitting down in front of her. The beginning of the conversation edged on boredom. Then she’d ordered tea.

“Tea?” Holden straightened in his seat. “You had tea?”

Why did that excite him? “Yes.”

“What does that mean?” Lane asked.

“Shh,” Holden hissed. “Go on, Sydney.”

“The servants—”

“How many?”

“Two women and a man.”

Holden nodded, waiting.

“They … um … they brought in the silver serving tray with a carafe and cookies. There was a tiny bud vase, I remember now, that I didn’t think much of.”

“What kind of cookies?”

Was he serious? She blinked and told herself to answer, to trust him. “Chocolate, raspberry, and some other kind with some reddish-dark filling.”

“Red?” Again his head snapped toward her. “The flowers, what did they look like?”

“Weird—really odd. There were three—two red and a pink.”

“Were they bulbous looking?”

Sydney nodded, holding the dash as he yanked the car to the curb in front of their hotel.

Holden laughed a triumphant laugh as he parked and shifted to face Sydney, his brown eyes sparkling and alive, leaving her out of the excitement. “Beautiful! Okay, anything else? Other foods, drinks, anything else she said?”

With a shrug, Sydney felt like she was seriously failing her foreign correspondent crash course and letting everyone down. What if she forgot something that was vital? A key clue to the whole story? “As far as I can remember, nothing. It was after the cookies were served that she insisted I leave them alone, said it was better to leave them to their fate, that Allah had gifted them. Just before she told me I was drugged, she said they were doing God’s will.”

Holden’s eyes widened. “Insh’Allah? Is that what she said?”

“Yes.” She peeked at Lane, relieved to find he looked as confused as she felt. “What am I missing? What does it mean?”

“Let’s get our bags,” he said and climbed from the car. In the elevator, he bounced on his toes as the car lifted. “This is unbelievable. Do you realize you’re the first American woman to ever have a conversation with Princess Raisa?”

“Princess?” Sydney’s pulsed zapped. “No wonder she acted so uppity.”

“She’s the wife of Prince Ubai, who was murdered a few months ago. She was all over the news; then she disappeared.”

“So what does the code mean?” Lane asked.

A smile filled with glee and pride spread across Holden’s face. “It means we’re going to Kandahar.”

Sydney slumped against the mirrored walls. “Afghanistan?” She tried to keep the shriek out of her voice. “I thought they hated Americans.”

“Well, in some places, and it seems Raisa was pointing you to a particular Taliban stronghold.”

“Taliban?” Sydney rubbed her temple—the door to the elevator slid open, and she rushed out, her heart ramming against her chest. “Are you crazy? That’s not something we can do! We’ll get killed.”

“I hate to agree with her, but—”

“Think about it. What other hot spot would be a perfect location for this spec ops team? I have contacts there. I can get us into Kandahar, but finding the right street or building or sect—that’s the trick.”

“Trick?” Sydney stuffed her hands on her hips. “I’m five-and-a-half-months pregnant. I don’t do tricks!”

Holden smiled gently and came to her, clasping her shoulders. “I promise, I have this under control. It will be
tricky
, but I’m certain we can pull it off. Now, please—get your bag, and meet back down here in a half hour.”

In her room, Sydney plopped against the bed and buried her face in her hands. All she wanted right now, with her energy and courage bottoming out, was to go home. She sighed, feeling grungy and exhausted. Maybe a quick shower would rejuvenate her, pelt some sense back into her … coming all the way across the ocean to play investigative reporter, putting her life and her baby’s in jeopardy. And now—
now!
—Holden wanted to go to one of the most hostile territories in the world.

She grabbed a pair of jeans and a white top. In the bathroom, she flipped the shower knob then worked the buttons on her blouse. She caught her reflection and groaned—death warmed over. Twice. Peeling out of the grimy top, she reached for her pants—and froze.

On her swollen belly and in an odd, greenish black ink, a meticulously drawn, strange symbol stared up at her.

“I thought you were handling this.”

General Olin Lambert tucked back the footrest of the recliner and pushed to his feet as he pressed the phone to his ear. “What ‘this’ are you referring to?”

“The reporter!”

In the kitchen, Olin drew out a glass and moved to the refrigerator. He lifted a crystal pitcher of orange juice. “I have taken care of things there.”

“Have you?” A smack resounded through the line. “Then explain to me why this reporter ended up in a London hospital, drawing the attention of every authority in that country.”

Glass paused in midair, Olin’s stomach plummeted. He lowered the glass to the granite counter. “What are you talking about?”

“Watch the news for once in your sorry life, Olin. She’s all over the news in London. She’s not leaving it alone, and you promised me—
promised!”

What was Sydney Jacobs doing in England? “Calm down—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down. That team is out there in the middle of a mission that could blow all of us into the next century politically.” The chairman cursed. “You take care of this, or so help me God, I’ll send every spook in the EU after her.”