Nightshade (Discarded Heroes) (48 page)

Sydney glanced back to where Ghost One assisted Max in carrying the body of their fallen comrade. In spite of the reconciliation that had occurred between her and Max, she saw how the loss of one of his team members weighted him. And in the haze of euphoria and grief, she tried to grapple with the fact that she’d spent the last three months hunting down an elite team, a team led by her own husband!

Fresh tears worked through her composure. He’d been through so much. All these years, all these battles. Just as Holden had said. Max was a warrior. Pride filled her, watching her husband—
husband
—as they plodded toward the lapping ocean.

Although Max’s anger had erected a virtually impenetrable barrier in their marriage, God had knocked it down. While she knew he bore responsibility in their marriage, she secretly wished she could’ve had this firsthand knowledge of his career sooner. Then maybe she would’ve been a bit more understanding. More accepting of him.

The heavy thuds of the rotors thundered as the helicopter roared closer. Sand and harsh wind whipped into her face. Long strands of hair stung her face, and she closed her eyes against the grains peppering her cheeks and eyes.

“Syd, let’s go,” Max shouted over the din.

He guided her, Kezia, and Lane into the Black Hawk. The chopper crew assisted her toward a small vinyl seat straddled over a canvas hold. They buckled her in and then secured Kezia. Lane sat next to her, his face awash with fear and yet relief.

They were going home. Alive. Reconciled. Her baby would have his father. She’d have her husband back. Things were going to work out just fine. Sydney averted her gaze as Gruff unloaded one of their own from his shoulders. The man had died for her. The harsh reality stung.

Bamboo grated against the steel floor as two soldiers worked to secure the gurney at Jon’s feet. He stroked his baby’s head, his gaze on his wife’s body, now zipped head to toe. For the first time since Sydney had joined the group, the little girl awoke. Screaming and disoriented. Good. At least she had enough bearings and vitality to protest.

Ping! Ping!

The chopper veered to the left sharply—up and away. Sydney grabbed the edge of her seat and thrust a hand in front of Kezia as someone shouted, “Taking fire! Taking fire!” The girl clung to her. What was going on? Was everyone already on board? She scanned the black-clad bodies near the open door. Where was Max? Maybe she’d missed him. With the paint and everyone dressed alike.

“He’s down, he’s down!” Ghost One sat on the edge, his weapon pointed toward the ground. No, wait—he was firing at something!

Her stomach tightened. Weapons’ fire tore through her hearing. Shots errupted from all directions, by all the soldiers.

Where was Max? As the chopper swung back, she saw the spread of brown beach … and a black form stretched out over the sand.

Her breath backed up into her throat. Then rushed out. “No! Max! Stop, he’s not on board!” The chopper devoured her screams.

Gruff motioned the pilot back to the beach as others provided suppressive fire. The chopper slowly swooped back down and hovered over the sandy stretch. Amid the plume of sand swirling around them, she spotted Max.

He lay on the beach, his tactical gear a stark contrast against the sand. He wasn’t moving.

Face down.

“Maaaxxx!” Her scream mingled with Maecel’s.

Seconds later, Ghost One leaped out, followed closely by Gruff and another of their team.

Sydney tried to wrestle free of the belt.

“No!” The Kid stopped her, a hand over hers. “They’ll get him. Stay.” When she started to object, he shook his head and shouted, “He’d kill me if you got off and got hurt. Stay!”

As if everything swirled into one slow-motion movie, Sydney squinted through the sheet of sand to the men sprinting toward Max. Two bent and hoisted him off the ground. Another fired shots into the trees. Tiny explosions of sand erupted as the three hurried back to the chopper. Max hung limp between them.

Two soldiers lifted Max’s shoulders and set him on the steel floor of the chopper. His head lobbed to the side, facing her. Gravity pressed her to the side as the chopper veered off. But nothing could pull her gaze from Max’s closed eyes and limp body. Tears found their exit again, choking her with the fear that she’d lost him. He’d just promised that they’d get back together and work on their marriage, and now … now he was gone?

She cupped a hand over her mouth, disbelief choking her.

“Where’s his vest?” Midas shouted as he ripped open Max’s shirt with a knife. Blood spread down from his shoulder and chest.

“A medic should do that,” someone shouted.

“Our medic is dead!” Gruff shouted back.

Sydney sat back, fingering the multistrapped vest Ghost One had given her. It was Max’s! If he’d been wearing it, the bullets would’ve hit the body armor, not him. He’d not said a word about his missing vest. But that’s the way he’d always been. Sacrificing. Quiet strength burning brightly in his eyes.

As the chopper roared across the ocean and Midas worked to stop Max’s bleeding—Sydney stared at his face, disbelieving. Hot tears streaked down her face. They’d just agreed to make things work. They were going to be a family. He couldn’t die. He just couldn’t.

A hand patted her leg, jerking her from the woeful thoughts.

Ghost One wiped a rag over his face. “He’ll make it.”

Gulping the fear back by the mouthfuls, Sydney stared at Ghost One. “How do you know?” she shouted over the growl of the engine and rotors. She silently begged him to give her a reason to hope, to tell her they weren’t going to be ripped apart permanently.

“He’s too thick-headed to die.”

A half-choked sob escaped as the man wrapped an arm around her. “You must really know him.”

“Like a brother.”

T
iny fingers wrapped around his as the soldiers respectfully loaded the oak coffin up the ramp of the C-130. With plane engines roaring as loud as his heart, Jon lifted Maecel into his arms. A longing, tight and constricting, wormed through his chest. Tears, unbidden and sudden, lurched to his eyes. How he ached to wrap his arms once more around Kimber. To see her sparkling blue eyes smiling at him. Hear her laughter and the always encouraging words that sang from her lips.

“Mama,” Maecel said, pointing to the box.

How excruciating to try to help her understand. Of course she didn’t.

She stuck two little fingers into her mouth and sucked on them. Any other day, he’d have stopped the habit, but today he granted her whatever measure of comfort she needed. If only God would grant him some measure, too. Something to ease the wicked pain threatening to send him to his knees.

Tears blurred his vision as the casket disappeared through the back hatch. In the jungle, carting the remnant of the woman he loved through the damp, mucky terrain, it hadn’t seemed real. As if she’d been sleeping.

But now, standing alone on the tarmac with his daughter, it was far too real. He buried his face in Maecel’s shoulder and sobbed.

T
he soldiers of Max’s team lined up on either side of the ramp leading into the C-130, fingertips pressed to their temples in a final salute to their comrade as a steel coffin rolled into the transport. Behind the casket came Kimber Harris’s.

Watching through the window overlooking the airstrip as tears streaked down her face, Sydney cried for Jon Harris, for the fallen soldier. The pain was too great. And too close.

Would Max die, too?

Slowly, she turned and slumped against the hard plastic chair. Hanging her head, she wiped her nose, silently praying God would guide the surgeon’s hands in the operating theater. Max’s operation had been going on for hours, and still no word. She shifted on the vinyl chair, rubbing her neck.

“What were you doing on that chopper, Midas?” she heard Gruff demand of the green-eyed team member.

“Saving his life.”

“You’re not a medic.”

The guy looked down then back to Gruff. “Actually, I am. Fully vetted.”

“And why didn’t we know this before?”

“Nobody needed to know. They took away my certification.”

“Sydney?”

She blinked and looked up.

Lane’s smile didn’t make it past the mole next to his lip. “I … I hope he makes it.”

She drew back, uncertain whether to scoff or accept the words that seemed empty in light of the way he’d pursued her these last few months.

“I’m serious.” He raked a hand through his sandy blond hair. “If you’re happy, that’s what matters. And I know you’ve wanted Max to come around. I mean …”

Awkward silence hung between them.

Clearing his throat, he stood. “I-I’m going to get something to eat.” When he turned and took a few steps, he grazed shoulders with Ghost One.

“Sorry,” Ghost One mumbled.

Almost immediately, Gruff fell into step with Lane and hooked an arm around Lane’s bony shoulders. “We need to have a little talk.”

The not-so-subtle messages—Ghost One’s shoulder bump and Gruff’s “little talk” with Lane—told Sydney these men were serious. And spoke of the imperative for complete anonymity. They would do everything and anything to protect that.

She considered Ghost One as he handed her a bottle of orange juice and eased into the chair across from her. “Midas says you look pale, probably need the sugar.”

Uncapping the bottle, she found her gaze once again on Jon Harris. He’d go home without his wife. With painful memories of watching her die. She tensed her jaw, trying not to explore the possibility she could do the same. Instead, she forced her mind to the juice and took a sip, ignoring the way the man across the aisle from her watched her without watching. A guardian, of sorts. Max’s friend.

Movement outside the building caught her attention. A man in military uniform strode from the building toward Jon, shook his hand, then spoke into his ear.

“Who’s that?” Sydney mumbled.

“Our guardian. He’ll make sure our presence here is kept quiet.”

Sydney met Ghost One’s stare evenly.

He winked then tapped her leg. “Hey, there’s the doc.”

Sydney came to her feet awkwardly as a man in green scrubs shuffled toward her.

“Mrs. Jacobs?”

“Yes?” She straightened the too-tight shirt across her belly. The strength she lacked in her body she felt in the support of Max’s team. As she stood before the doctor, she glanced back. The fact that the team huddled confirmed what she’d sensed.

“I’m Dr. Tomzyck.” He considered her then took her by the elbow. “Why don’t you sit?”

If he wanted her to sit down, did that mean Max was dying? “No. Just tell me.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you,” Dr. Tomzyck said. “You just look a bit worse for the wear.”

“I’m sure we all are.” Her respect and admiration for the men around her swelled.