Nightshade (Discarded Heroes) (25 page)

God, take me. Not them. Me
.

Agitation writhed through him, wresting him of the ability to stand still, to hold Kimber. He nudged her aside. “I can’t do this. I’m going insane.” He paced the length of the hut, his mind racing through the options. Each one came up empty, defeated. With all of them dead.

He roughed a hand over his face, hating the patch of wilderness growing on his chin. Hating the grime clinging to his skin. Hating the sores under the beard and rat’s nest of a hairdo. His arm still ached from the makeshift surgery, and he wondered more than once if the doctor had been licensed for humans or animals. Or did the man even have a license?

She came to him again, wrapping her arms around him. Hugging him.

But once more the desire to be free of this confining place, to find a solution that guaranteed that nobody—
nobody
—ever touched Kimber again, ignited more frustration. He pushed around her and went to the opposite side. Huffed. Turned and walked back. Shook his head.

“Jon?”

He paused in the path he was pounding into the earthen floor.

“What if God’s plan
is
for us to be the lamb?”

He spun, shaking a finger at her. “Don’t
ever
say that again. Ever!” Anger flashed through his mind and chest, burning. Raging. Because—

His shoulders sagged. Because he’d wondered that himself. And he didn’t want to think of the unimaginable ways they could die at the hands of the Higanti or the Abu Sayyaf or the other groups razing the land. He wasn’t sure which was worse. All too well, he remembered the American sailors strung up on the beach like a fish fry. Or the leader of a local Christian church left hanging from a tree the night a monsoon hit. His body had never been found.

Was that what God had for them? Was that their
purpose?
The sneer smearing into his face set off a warning in his gut, but he ignored it. “What would that prove?” He fisted his hands, rubbing his knuckles. “Who would profit from
that?”

“Jon—”

“No.” He flung around, glaring at her, his chest rising and falling hard. Too hard—a cough rumbled into his throat and seized him, nearly bringing him to his knees. In his periphery, he saw Kimber coming toward him. He held out his hand. “No!” He dragged himself upright and propped his body against the thatched wall. He shook his head and hacked up phlegm. He spit. “No. I’m not buying it. No way God has brought us all around the world to let those goons slaughter us.”

Peace and tranquility washed over her features, sympathy and empathy rolled into a beautiful package called Kimber. And merciful heavens—she looked like an angel, even with the hollows of her eyes darkened and her skin … pasty. Her bones protruding—the paleness. The fever. Her chills.

Oh God, help me!
The air whooshed from his lungs as he reached for her, his eyes wide and hands trembling.
Dengue fever
.

F
ragile china clinked and glinted under the gentle massage of warm candle lighting. White linen tablecloths draped over tables, spanning the short distance between couples and business associates. Supple red leather cradled Olin as he carved out a small chunk of his T-bone steak, dipped it in the signature sauce, and lifted it to his lips.

His taste buds exploded with the spiced, savory mixture. Eyes closed, he relished the flavor, thankful for this exquisite restaurant near the wharf. “Mm, blissful.”

Diamonds sparkled against the short crop of pearl-colored hair. Blue eyes glittered at him, adoring and sweet. His precious wife smiled. “Perhaps if it were your first time here, I might agree. But we’ve been here every Saturday night for eighteen years, and you always have the same meal.”

He winked at her and her taunting tone before he slid another piece into his mouth. Slowly, he chewed. Slowly, he savored. And swallowed. “If it’s not broke …”

She laughed and speared another piece of her salad. “Yes, yes. Really, Olin, you must find—”

“You have to help me!”

The shout jerked Olin from his tranquil dinner, nerves thrumming. He glanced to his right where a bedraggled man, arms hooked between two security officers, struggled for his footing. His eyes were locked on Olin.

A police officer rushed into the once-quiet restaurant, gaze intent on the rowdy man.

“Please, General! Please let me talk to you.” His wild eyes screamed at Olin, begged for the very help he shouted for.

“Get him out of here! He’s disturbing the guests.” A man in an Armani suit shooed the wrestlers away. “Out. Out!”

“General Lambert, I beg you,” the man howled, his face red. “I know you can help me. No one else can. I know about
them
. Please!”

Appetite vanished, Olin tossed down his burgundy linen napkin just as the maître ’d rushed toward him. “I am deeply sorry for this interruption, General. Please. There is no cost for your meal. We are most apologetic for this disruption. We will most certainly press charges—”

“No.” Olin nodded to his wife, who received the signal and slid from her chair, smoothing her perfectly coiffed hair. “Thank you, Jorge.”

His gut churned as the scene replayed in his mind. Surely the man couldn’t be talking about the one secret nobody knew about. Because if he was, then, well … someone knew. And that would have to be remedied. The invisible threads that connected the team seemed to have found visibility.

He shuttled his wife to the car where their driver waited. Over the hood of the car, he saw the police officer, now joined by three other units, wrangling the still-screaming man into the back of a cruiser. “I’ll be right back.”

“Olin,” she said, catching his hand before he could shut the door. “Please hurry. The opera starts soon.”

It wasn’t the opera or the time that was on her mind. Charlotte knew enough about his job to know she couldn’t speak freely. The opera, in their private, coded language, warned him to be careful. Careful but compassionate.

Smoothing his Italian suit as he strode toward the chaos ensuing across the parking lot, he drew up his courage. “Excuse me, officers.”

The scene fell ominously quiet as all struggle ceased.

When the wild man’s gaze hit Olin, he started rambling again. “I called your office, but they wouldn’t listen. They told me to leave a message. And I did. Twelve! Then when I demanded to speak to you, they hung up. And when I tried your home, the phone just rang.”

Olin smiled, admiring the tenacity of spirit. “It is a
private
residence.”

The man swallowed hard. Straightened, he darted a gaze to the cops. “Please, General Lambert, will you just speak with me?” He waggled his hands, locked in plastic rings behind his back. “You can see I can’t hurt you. I just …” Suddenly, he seemed reticent to speak—perhaps because there were witnesses. “Just a few minutes of your time.”

Olin studied the man. How much did he really know? “You realize, I am in no position to give orders.”

The man seemed to calm. “I do.”

“And you realize that my role with the Joint Chiefs prevents me from affording favors or taking them.”

Wild eyes again surfed the sea of officers before he licked his lips and nodded.

“Then what do you think I can do for you?”

“In all things prepared.”

One of the officers clucked his tongue and stepped in. “I think he’s had one too many, General.” With his hand on the man’s head, the officer aimed him into the cruiser. “Come on, you. Let’s get you dried out.”

At the words the man had spoken, Olin’s heart chugged to a stop. Then reengaged. “What is your name?”

The man froze and stared at him. “Peter Jordan.”

With that, Olin returned to his wife and their evening. By midnight, he stood in an empty bunker, the man stuffed onto a steel chair and guarded by two well-armed men. Olin gave the signal and the men removed the hood.

Fear etched into Jordan’s face flashed into relief. “General Lambert.” His shoulders slumped. “You believed me.”

“That remains to be seen.” Olin knew better than to give away information. “Tell me what you know.” Let them play the knowledge cards, show their hands.

Over the next hour, the man explained the chaos ravaging a small island, about their missionaries and a young girl.

“And what did you mean by saying,
‘In all things prepared
’?”

The man’s gaze dusted the cement floor. “I’ve heard there’s a team of men who can help in places and situations nobody else is willing to interfere in.”

“Would that it were so. Imagine the problems we could solve. Where on earth did you hear of such a thing?”

Jordan’s face paled. “I can’t say.”

“Then neither can I help you.” Olin turned and started for the door.

“Wait!” A half-choked sob snapped through the cold morning. “Wait, please.” He swallowed. “I got a note.”

“Go on.”

“It just had your name, the words I told you about, and said to tell you that I knew about them.” Jordan shook his head. Shoulders sagging, he hung his head. “It was my last hope. Jon’s my best friend ….”

Thick and hazy, an early spring mist coated the windshield. Sydney flipped the wipers, hoping the blades didn’t snag attention. She burrowed into the leather of her SUV and shrank, rethinking her plan to sit near the streetlight. Shadows scampered over the hood of the car, sending pinpricks of dread spidering across her shoulders.

Her gaze darted down the lonely, darkened street. Maybe this wasn’t her smartest move, but she had to get answers. Stonewalling was about the only thing the government sources had provided. Someone had added a deadly slant to this innocent human interest story. They’d killed her mother and stolen the only bit of sanity in her life. And she was going to find out why.

Scritch. Scritch
.

Warmth puddled in her stomach as she darted her gaze to the side-view mirror. A man shuffled up the sidewalk wearing a long trench coat and hat. Over his shoulder he carried a large duffel bag. She could only hope he was just a vagrant who didn’t want trouble, only a good meal. Maybe he was heading to the nearest shelter for breakfast. All the same, she nonchalantly double-checked the door locks. A fleeting and minuscule source of comfort.

Bright light broke the dimness of the early morning, yanking her attention back to the building across the street. A woman emerged, pulling a coat tighter around her as she stepped onto the stoop, locked the door, then hustled down the stairs.

Heart ricocheting through her chest, Sydney crouched a little lower as the woman crossed the street and slowly melted into the darkness.

Sydney started her vehicle and pulled along the curb in front of the townhome. Armed with her purse, voice recorder, and folder, she hurried to the apartment door. Hand poised to knock, she remembered the little boy whose drawing had convinced her Anisia knew something. The boy was probably sound asleep at this early hour, so she knocked lightly.

Hugging herself, she kept watch on her surroundings. When another man strode up the sidewalk toward the building, she knocked a little harder. A chill settled into her bones, but she wasn’t sure if it came from the weather or what she was doing.