Nightshade (Discarded Heroes) (46 page)

“Max, can we talk now?”

The sultry voice that had always heated his chest forced his eyes open. Sydney knelt next to him, her ocean eyes staring up at him softly.

Molars pressed together, he scooted over on the rock and let her sit. He couldn’t look at her belly and talk to her. Couldn’t accept she’d been with another man.

The monotonous thump of rain against the canvas beat into his muscles as they sat in silence. Bent forward, he rubbed his hands over his knuckles, wishing she’d get on with what she wanted to say. When she placed a hand on her belly and gave a soft laugh, he couldn’t take anymore. “What are you doing here in the Philippines?”

“Searching for a team of elite soldiers working the globe.”

“How did you find us?”

She shrugged. “God, I guess. It’s really too much coincidence to be anything else.”

The words soured in his stomach. “You’re going to tell me God is putting you through this?” He clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Sorry, don’t buy it.”

“Why?” she asked, a quiet challenge in her question. “Why can’t God use this to get our attention? He’s certainly gotten mine.”

Without straightening, Max peered up through his brows to the storm-darkened jungle. “There are better ways to get our attention.”

“Well,” she said, wiping the water from her hair, “sometimes when He uses the small things, we are so deafened by the world and our own desires, we can’t hear Him.”

“Yeah, I guess He’d have to be talking to us first.”

“He talks if we listen. Just like me. I’ll listen, Max. You looked really angry out there, on the pass. It … scared me.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll get you out of here, and you won’t have to worry about seeing me again.” The words burned all the way down.

Her eyes glossed. “I’m not sure what I’ve done to make you so angry. Something changed. Is it because of the baby?”

The word hit, center mass. “You could say that.”

“I … I was scared to tell you—” She shifted and bent awkwardly toward the side and fidgeted with her boots—and that’s when he saw a gold necklace glimmering against her black T-shirt. Not just any necklace. The one he’d had Cowboy deliver to her. The anchor.

What did that mean, her wearing the necklace?

Max nudged aside the question. He’d asked too many questions for too long. “Ya know, I don’t care, Syd. Don’t care that you came out here with your boyfriend, the father of your baby. Just don’t rub it in my face, okay?”

“What?” Her question breathed disbelief and anger. “What did you say?”

Had a northerly shifted their way? Why did it feel chilly? “Look, I have a team to lead. Just …” Keep talking. That’s all he had to do. But why? What was the point? “We can do this later. I have to maintain my focus on the team and getting to the coast.”

“You seriously think—” She pushed off the rock and stood just outside the cover of his tarp, rain splattering her face. She blinked, water bouncing off her lips. “Of course.” Her cheeks flushed. “God forbid you focus on me. Your wife. Our marriage. But that’s always been the problem, hasn’t it, Max? You’re too worried about what you want to protect, that you forget
who
you promised to protect.”

Fire burst into his chest. He stomped to his feet. “Sorry, I learned a hard lesson from my mom—that I can’t expect anyone to hold to their word. I learned that everyone walks out eventually, no matter how many times they promise not to. Just like my dad. Just like my mom. So, yeah, I do protect what I want.”

Sydney stared at him, her mouth open. “You never told me that.”

One side of his fortress collapsed. He bit back the curse on the tip of his tongue. She’d finally seen into that dark vault he’d sealed fifteen years ago.

“But you did tell me about your father.” She stepped closer, the tarp covering her again. “And you also told me you’d never be like him. So, tell me, Max. When are you going to make good on that promise?”

The gall! “You’re the one who forced me to leave. I didn’t want to leave.”

Her chin quivered again. “Your body was there, but your heart hasn’t been in more than two years.”

Right about the time he returned from that tour.

“If you didn’t want to leave so badly, why didn’t you fight for me, for our marriage, the way you fought for your job?”

“You have no idea what I’ve fought. How hard—”

“You’re right! I don’t.” She batted the hair from her face. “I don’t know because you stopped talking. Each night you’d jolt awake, drenched in sweat, having shouted and wrestled with ghosts. I was so worried about you, but you’d only tell me to go back to sleep as you dragged yourself to the bathroom for an hour-long shower. Why won’t you tell me what’s eating at you?”

“You don’t need to know.” He tried to stem the furious tide. “I don’t want you to know.”

Her brows knitted, nostrils flaring. “Why? Why are you shutting me out?”

Everything in him closed down. He’d tried to be open, and it had backfired. A tight lid slid into place, vacuum-packing all the anger and violent images. “Just leave it alone. Okay? I can’t change ….” He couldn’t say it. Not anymore.

“You can’t change who are you are,” Sydney said the words for him, sarcasm coating her tone. “Yes, Max, you can. If it ever becomes important enough, you can. The man I know, the one I love, can do
anything
when he focuses.” Her throat processed a swallow. “I want to be important enough.”

When he took a step toward her, everything in him railing that she would think that, she stopped him. And left.

Scolded and feeling like a schoolyard bully, he stood under her reprimand, somberly. The places he’d have to open up, explore, and face were so heinously dark, he didn’t think light could penetrate them. If he went into that black jungle of his heart, he wasn’t sure he’d make it out alive.

P
urpose. Purpose defines us.”

“Huh?”

Jon worked his way around a large gum tree and glanced at the soldier everyone called Frogman. He hadn’t meant to speak his thoughts. “Sorry, just thinking out loud.” Frogman shrugged.

But a stirring deep within Jon told him not to drop this train of thought—and to keep talking to the wounded soldier.
Wounded?
He sure didn’t look wounded, not with the toned, muscular build and the umpteen pounds of gear on his back. But even though there were no visible scars, Jon could well imagine the internal ones screaming for help. Supernatural help.

“In Old Testament times, each person within a tribe had a duty. Some were shared on a rotating basis, some were permanently assigned, like Aaron as the priest.” Jon smoothed Maecel’s hair, noting the IV bag was low. He’d have to mention that to the medic. “Those familial duties passed from generation to generation. So one always grew up with training and a sense of purpose.”

A purpose. How he longed to know what
his
purpose in life was now that being on this island and being a husband and lover to Kimber were over.

“But we don’t live in tribes,” Jon said with a smile. “Our purpose is found in Christ.” Where he’d expected derision, Jon found thoughtful consideration, which he tossed back at the special ops soldier. “Take you, for example. Clearly, God has given you a military purpose, a warrior’s heart. Did you know that David was a warrior before he was a king?”

The man grunted. “Yeah.”

Surprise seeped into Jon. “Have you found salvation in Christ?” He’d heard others whispering that the pregnant woman was the soldier’s wife. She’d shared her beliefs with Jon earlier as she encouraged him and tried to offer comfort regarding Kimber’s death. Anyone with eyes could tell their marriage was in trouble. And it burned a hole straight into Jon’s gut.

With a nod, Frogman picked a piece of fruit from a durian tree. “But even God considered David’s work too violent—He wouldn’t allow him to build the temple. The one thing David wanted to do, and God said no.” Frogman wouldn’t look at him as he carved the fruit in two pieces.

“But don’t you get it?”

This time, Frogman looked up.

“Your sins are covered in the blood of Christ.”

Frogman slowed, apparently thinking this through. He ate the fruit, his expression still grave and discouraged. He pursed his lips then shook his head. “I’ve screwed up too much.”

“Ah.” Jon chuckled. “Then it’s not God holding your sins over your head. It’s you.”

Frogman cut him a sharp glance, dark eyes blending with the paint that covered his face, neck, and hands.

“Forgiveness starts here.” Jon tapped his chest and stopped in front of the man. “It’s never too late.”

“‘Too late’ came and went.” With a gentle but firm nudge, Frogman moved him out of the way. “Coming up on enemy territory. All silent.”

Give him hope
.

“Frogman,” Jon whispered, garnering a heated stare. “God hasn’t given up on you.”

S
he needs a break. We all do,” Cowboy said in a stage whisper, falling into step.

“No time.” Teeth gritted, Max pushed forward, focused on one thing—getting to the coast. He could smell the salty spray, feel it sticking to his skin. Ignoring the blisters forming in his boots and under the place that rubbed raw on his shoulder as his pack shifted during the thirty-six hours of hiking, he encouraged himself with the thought that this was almost over.

“Frogman, your anger is pushing everyone, and too fast. Just let it go.”

Yeah. They all had the answers.

With a snort, Cowboy picked up his pace, inching ahead. “I expected more from you.”

A branch snapped behind him. He mentally cursed whoever was behind him. He slowed, the realization rushing him that there wasn’t anyone behind him. Or there shouldn’t be. He dragged his gaze to the back. Jungle flickered and waved under the guide of an ocean breeze.

“If you’d do the math—”

All stop. Max fisted the signal up, probing the variations of greens and brown around him. He eyed the clearing they’d just entered. Silently, he cursed himself for hurrying them into an open area. Should’ve gone around. Should’ve used Fix and the Kid as point. He ground his teeth. It was too late now. Someone was out there. Following them.

He eased into his grip, back-stepped, and circled a finger in the air. Behind him he heard the team closing up. A quick check confirmed the civvies were surrounded by his men. They’d take out whoever had found them. Get moving. Hustle it to the beach.

Chills slithered down his spine as he searched the canopy, then to the side. There! A darkened shadow wobbled.

He snatched up his M4 and took aim.

The foliage came to life. Men oozed from the pores of the jungle. His stomach plummeted. Firefight with this many would be a bloodbath—for the good guys. Shouts erupted as roughly twenty men dressed in old school jungle camos stalked them, pushing the group closer and closer.

“This isn’t good,” Fix mumbled. “We can’t just go down like this.”

“Quiet,” Max said. If he fired, at least four of them would shoot him. Dead before he hit the ground. Wasn’t worth it. They had to have been waiting in ambush. He eased his weapon down and released it, raising his hands out, but not too far from his weapon.

A scream whipped Max around.

While a dozen or more radicals broke up the team, penetrating the tight circle they’d just formed, two wrangled Kezia from the group.

“Max!”

“No!”

Pop! Pop-pop!

The chaos—and Sydney shouting his name—spun Max around. In the blur of the instant, the data rushed through his brain. Fix was down. Midas knelt beside the fallen medic. Legend, Cowboy, and the Kid were all sweeping their weapons toward the radicals. The leader held Sydney in a choke hold.

And Max had the man in his crosshairs. “Hold,” he growled to this team. “Hold your fire.”