Nightshade (Discarded Heroes) (41 page)

Below him, Midas squatted with a long-range scope. “Looks like someone took out a vehicle.”

Repetitive snaps echoed through the mile that separated them from the raging ball of fire.

“Sounds like they’re not done with whatever they’re trying to kill,” the Kid said. “But ya notice? Nobody’s shooting back.”

“Think maybe the bad guys caught up with those journalists?” Fix offered, peering through his own scope.

Max resisted the urge to stomp the guy’s head. “Ghost One, come in.”

“This is Ghost One,” came the hushed reply.

A kink in the tension ball in Max’s stomach released. “Please tell me you’re there.”

“Negative. One hundred yards northeast.”

The kink tightened again. “Get in there and find out what happened.”

“Roger, going in.”

It’d be just like her, with all that tenacity and fire that had drawn him like a moth to the flame. His nostrils flared as he tried to think past the thrumming of his heart that rang in his ears.

He’d never forgive himself if she died tracking him down.

“We need to get under way.” Though the words came from his mouth, Max barely heard them. He blinked. Right. Get moving. “On your feet.” Mind still on the explosion and the possibility that Sydney had just been buried in a burning ball, he returned to the missionary who held his wife’s IV-rigged hand.

On his haunches, Fix fisted a hand over his mouth, staring at the woman’s ashen face. For several minutes he stayed like that then shook his head and pushed to his feet. He met Max’s gaze.

Had they come all this way, gone through one trap after another, only to have her die? He bobbed his head to the side, drawing Fix over. “Can you sedate her?”

“Already did. She’ll be out of it in a few.” Fix glanced back at Kimber Harris on the ground, her husband steadfastly at her side. “I don’t know how much longer she’ll hold out. She’s emaciated and weak. She’s lost a tremendous amount of blood. A low-grade fever is complicating it. Her blood pressure is scary low. Even with the stretcher the guys made, every time we move her—” He pushed his gaze in the opposite direction, and in a very low voice, he said, “I doubt she’ll make it.”

Max watched as Jon Harris cradled his daughter in one arm and gripped his wife’s hand in the other. With the explosion down the mountain, would he be holding Sydney’s hand as she bled out and died?

This mission had tanked in a big way. Disgusted, Max returned to the missionaries. Sweat and stench spiraled up from the man as he hovered over his wife and whispered soothing words to her.

Max patted his shoulder. “We have to go. It’s going to be rough. I don’t know if …” Of all the—

He clamped his jaw tight. Max couldn’t say it. Couldn’t tell the man the truth. “Your wife—”

“Kimber’s strong.” Blue eyes darted to him with defiance. “She’ll make it.”

Max gave himself a mental shake and shifted toward Midas. “Get your gear. We gotta make tracks.”

With a curt nod, Midas slung his pack over his shoulder.

“Uh, Frogman?” The Kid’s voice cracked. “I think we got trouble.” He spun and scrambled up the slight incline, shoving his NVGs toward Max. “Check it out—two o’clock.”

Snatching the goggles from the Kid, Max glared at him, daring him to add to this colossally screwed-up mission. He peered through the lenses. And cursed.

A dozen unfriendlies crowded the screen, green and entirely too close. Sizing up their weapons, he cringed. His gut coiled. Machetes, axes, spears. Higanti.

“Scouting party! Take cover,” he hissed, pointing to the dense vegetation and knowing that although they could easily take a dozen village warriors, it’d be the hundreds prowling the jungles for them that would complicate things. “Midas, get the girl. Kid, behind the rocks. All quiet!”

Beside him, a strange gurgling noise.

“No,” Fix growled as he lunged toward Kimber Harris. “She’s not breathing.” He pumped his hands against her chest, then blew into her mouth.

“No time, Doc. No time,” Max said between gritted teeth. “Twelve mean and ugly coming our way.”

“She’s dying!” Fix continued, panting and counting.

Jon Harris huddled over his wife, holding her hand tightly. “Please … please, God—Kimber. Please don’t die. Please, sweetheart. Please. Stay with us.”

They didn’t have time for this. If they stayed out in the open, they’d be dead. The team would be dead. The missionaries, the girl—everyone.

But what kind of cad would stop the medic from working on a missionary woman?

Jaw ground, Max balled his fists, watching the futility of the resuscitation attempt. What good would that be if they all died?

Why? Why in the name of all that was holy and just would God put him in this situation? Was God going to force him to kill one of His children?

A whistle stabbed his thoughts. The Nightshade signal. The Kid, it was the Kid warning them the Higanti were close.

Max clamped his hands on Jon Harris’s shoulders and jerked him back. “Get under that bush and do
not
move.” With a thrust, he shoved the guy in the direction.

“My wife—” he yelped, pressing his hands against the pouch containing his daughter. He started back toward the woman.

Ruger snapped up, Max stared down the barrel to the man, his chest tight, his pulse thundering through his head. “I will put you down myself.”

The man froze … then wilted. “She’s dying.”

Max lowered his weapon a fraction “We all die if we don’t hide.” An unfamiliar pressure pushed down on his shoulders. “I—I’m sorry, but …”

Where had his soul gone? How could he be this calloused? He wiped the sweat from his face as the man turned, walked to a cluster of trees not far from his wife, and lay down on the floor with his daughter in the pouch, then covered them with jungle litter. All too clearly, he watched his wife battle for her life.

Being hacked into a thousand pieces by the Higanti paled in comparison to the million pieces of his heart held together by sheer willpower. With a quick glance around the area to make sure the team wasn’t overtly visible, Max realized he didn’t even have the strength of heart to curse God this time.

He tucked himself flat amid a bramble of weeds and bushes and pulled his M4 up so he could yank it up at will. His gaze probed and poked the darkness until he finally spotted Fix burrowed in next to the missionary woman, still working. Fingers digging into the cool soil, Max groped for control, for something to go right. Yet every quiet
thump
of the medic’s hands over her heart sounded as a gun blast to Max’s trained ears. A bitter taste burst across his tongue, and he swallowed the squirt of adrenaline and fear.

The crunch of leaves and twigs silenced his morose thoughts.

Fix hesitated and glanced in Max’s direction then lowered himself to the earth.

Gradually, a dozen forms solidified in the small clearing. The way they walked through the jungle, as if they were a part of it, not as if they were trying to get out of it, unnerved Max. They were too familiar with the hills—would they recognize the odd rises and color patterns in the terrain that were screamingly obvious to him?

He eyed Fix and the woman lying sandwiched between two trees and a line of small palms. It was impossible to tell if grief or the all-quiet imperative kept the medic’s head down. A trickle of light danced over one side of Kimber Harris’s face … and revealed her slow descent from this world.

He swallowed, hoping the Higanti couldn’t see her and panicked that he’d be forced to watch her die.

Her lips parted then closed. Again … opened.

Seconds pounded through his skull as she lay there without moving. Fix’s gaze crawled to Max. His shoulders sagged, and he finally lowered his head.

No!
Max coiled his fingers into the soft dirt, squeezing … wishing he could reach across the open space and hand-pump Kimber Harris’s heart. Keep her alive. She deserved it. Deserved to live with her husband who loved her so much and the adorable child so much like her mother. He squeezed again, mentally prodding her to live.

Do it! Live!

He tightened his hand around the dirt until the strain almost shook his arm.

Snap!

Max flinched and peered up at the sound. An oak of a Higanti warrior approached. With legs that seemed thicker than cannons, the guy swung a long-handled scythe loosely at his side. Each step brought the
tsing
of that blade closer.

Closer.

Max’s finger eased into the trigger well. Fury licked through him that these whacked-out villagers had put Kimber Harris’s life on the line. Possibly pushed her into eternity. Forced him to do something that shredded his soul.

A flurry of words shot out, and the Higanti paused. His heart rapid-fired as one snuck toward the Kid’s position and poked a spear at the earth. Max’s gut clenched at each jab.
God—?

The Higanti near him turned back. Swung his scythe wide.

Metal and fire sliced Max’s cheekbone, the
tsing
of the scythe ringing in his ears. He fisted his free hand and bit through the pain. Warmth slid down his jaw and neck. Behind the cluster, he saw Midas throw something down the incline.

Seconds later, birds screeched and shrieked, breaking the deadly silence, and erupted through the jungle. Branches swayed and palms
thwapped
.

The Higanti warriors raced in the direction of the birds.

The team waited as silence once again gaped and yawned. Finally, Max wiped the blood from his face and gave the all clear.

Jon Harris scrabbled from his hiding place and rushed to his wife. A half gulp, half sob burst from the missionary. “No …”

Max cringed, unable to remind the man to keep his voice down so he didn’t draw the Higanti back.
Let them come
. He shivered, recognizing the bloodlust that coursed through him.

Sorrow clung to the man’s face. He shook his head and sighed. “Oh God, I wasn’t ready.” The man crumpled against his wife. “Kimber, we need you. Maecel needs you.” With his daughter sandwiched between him and his dead wife, he cried. Sobbed.

Max shifted away, the turbulent emotion ricocheting through his chest. Too bad he couldn’t sedate the man just like his daughter, anything to quiet that gut-birthed sob.

You’re a jerk!

No, he had a tight lid on things, and that kept him topside, above the emotional squall. If he could just deaden his feelings the way he had twenty-plus years ago when his father had walked out, he might be able to put a coherent thought together and get out of here—without any more fatalities.

The Kid and Midas moved off to the side.

They needed to move.
He
needed to move. Put a lifetime between him and this nightmare. His gaze drifted back to the scene. The sleeping babe’s head rested just under her mother’s chin. One asleep for now, the other forever.

Max shook his head and turned away. And yet … wasn’t this what he’d always done? Deadened the pain—no,
killed
the source so he didn’t have to feel.
This is your fault
.

No. He’d done everything he could think of—he hadn’t invited the Higanti.

You let her die. Made Fix stop
.

What else could he do? Their necks would’ve been severed if the warriors had found them. Why did it matter? Fatalities happened. Missions were dangerous and deadly. That’s why he and the Nightshade team were trained and sent.

“I’ll take good care of Maecel,” Jon said with a shuddering breath. “I’ll never let her forget your smile or your love for her.”

Lips pressed tight, Max drove his gaze to the ground. Worked to keep his chin from quivering as he watched the man hold his dead wife. Heard his quiet cries. Whispered promises.
Bury it…bury it
.

He clamped his jaw.
You did this
. Breathed harder.
You killed her
. Max forced himself to shoulder his pack, ignoring the weight that seemed to descend on him, leaving him exhausted and aching. Why couldn’t he shake this off? He hesitated, his gaze trekking over the scene with Jon, Kimber, and Maecel Harris. He had to remember this, because in some tripped-up way, this was his fault.

A strange glow glittered through the trees. With its first golden rays, dawn stretched from the horizon and kissed Kimber Harris good-bye.