Nightshade (Discarded Heroes) (34 page)

C
heek pressed to his M4, Max ignored the sweat rolling into his eyes. Dawn teased the village as he sidestepped closer to it, the soft sounds of Midas’s movements behind him. Fix had his flank. Raspy breathing, uneven and almost gurgling, trickled through the humid air from the girl now unconscious in Midas’s arms. They’d hiked more than a mile to reach the only village where he felt confident the natives would ask questions first, shoot later.

But he wasn’t taking chances. Slowly, he swept the sight across the huts, searching for danger.

Midas grunted. “If they see your weapon—”

A man stepped from the shadows beside a hut, stared at them for a second, then shouted over his shoulder.

Hustling forward, Midas angled his body to show the girl, talking in Tagalog to the man. Each word grew louder until a half dozen men with spears stood blocking the path.

Max pinned his sights on the man who’d signaled the alarm. He wanted to ask what his teammate was saying, but he’d keep his peace and wait. Midas would let him know when things were clear or if he needed to do something. Still, tension balled at the base of his neck.

“Lower the weapon,” Midas whispered to the side.

Stealthily, he rolled his shoulder, hoping this wasn’t a bad idea. He had good reflexes and knew a few jujitsu moves, but if one of those spears spiraled through the air …

Max eased his face away from the weapon, monitoring the villagers’ reaction. When two of them echoed his actions by lowering their spears, he propped the M4 on his other arm with the muzzle down and nodded for Fix to do the same. Prepped and only seconds from the ready.

“Why you come?” A short man, a blue stripe painted across his forehead, strutted to the front of his men.

“We need shelter for this girl,” Midas said and motioned toward the girl. “He’s a doctor. We must help her; she’s dying.”

Without taking his eyes off them, the elder spoke to the others in Tagalog. Finally, he nodded. “You come.”

Weapon to the side, Max followed Midas and Fix into a hut, where the elder cleared a small mat and motioned to it. “Here.”

Max stood watching the door, feeling distrustful and anxious. Intel might state this village behaved friendly to outsiders, but the reception they’d received was anything but friendly. He positioned himself at a small window and stood guard, hoping this diversion worked, that the soldiers lying in wait for Nightshade would be distracted by a call to this village where two American soldiers brought a wounded girl.

A half hour later as Fix ministered to the girl, Max lowered himself to a crouch, attention on the group gathered outside, and Midas watched from the door. At least the villagers hadn’t asked who they were—then again, that worried him. He tugged jerky from his pocket.

“He’s not a doctor,” he mumbled.

Midas grunted. “Technically, no. But you try explaining to them that he’s a PJ with enough medical skills to do more damage than a licensed doctor.”

Needle and thread worked together to stitch up the girl’s side. “Not sure she’ll make it, but we got their attention.” Bent over the girl, Fix tied off the thread and assessed his work. “I think … I think that’s it.”

“No,” Midas mumbled as he moved toward the dais where the girl lay outstretched. “That’s too much blood for—” He lunged and clamped a hand over her side. “Look! She’s been shot.”

“No way—” Fix gasped.
“Dios mio!
I never saw it.” He flew into action with Midas at his side.

Max considered the men, once again disconcerted over Midas. The guy knew the island, knew … medical stuff? How was that possible?

A flurry of raised voices and shouting drew Max back to the window. He eyed the villagers in the early morning light. “They didn’t ask who we were or why we were here.”

“Figured that out, did ya?” Midas resumed his position by the door as Fix finished the small operation to remove the bullet.

Fix dabbed antiseptic over the wound then began applying gauze.

“Means our time is short.”

“No.” Midas glanced back at the operating area, frowned, then looked outside. “It means we’re already late.”

Raking a hand through his hair, Max sighed. Nothing about this mission had gone right. Maybe they shouldn’t have come. Maybe they should’ve passed on this mission. Did they even have that option? He’d have to check with Lambert when they got back. By far, this was the most detailed assignment, and the lengthiest.

“You got someone to go home to, Midas?” Fix asked.

“Nope.”

Fix stood and dumped water over his bloodied hands then used a cleanser to scrub them clean. “What’s the point, ese?” He clicked his tongue. “I mean, you’re out here so long, life back there seems like fairyland.”

“Yeah, everything’s screwed up; everything goes wrong no matter how hard you try. And she only gets mad and wants you to leave.” Max swallowed the thick swell of emotion, only then realizing how much he’d revealed. Unsettled, he shifted and glanced at his teammate.

Covering the girl, Midas swept a strand of hair from her young face. Max grunted. She couldn’t be more than twelve. And now she had psychological bruises for the rest of her life. It was wrong in all kinds of ways.

“I’ve done all I can do,” Fix muttered.

“Then let’s clear out.”

Midas stood and shouldered his supplies then glanced at his watch. “I don’t imagine we have much—”

Throaty and loud, the rattle of a diesel rumbled through the morning.

Max jerked up his weapon, peered outside the hut, and bolted toward the trees. He heard Midas and Fix behind him warning him not to stop until they couldn’t go any farther. Branches whipped back under the stinging reprimand of bullets. Bark flew out at them.

Nothing like being able to predict guerilla movement.

After a solid forty-minute jog through the dense terrain, they pulled up next to a small cluster of trees. Max consulted his GPS and looked out at the skyline, assessing the dark clouds sweeping in.

“Think the team’s ready?” Midas sipped from his camelbak, swished the water around his mouth, then spat it out.

“Ready or not, we’re hitting tonight. These guerillas are too keyed into our movements. If we don’t do it tonight, it’ll be too late.” He plotted the quickest route to where he’d penetrate the Higanti camp and extract the missionaries. Tugging the radio from his pocket, he drank from his water pack. “I’ll notify the team, see what effect our stunt had.”

Midas sat against the trunk of a tree, eyes closed and arms folded over his chest. Fix, propped up next to him, did the same. The one thing they’d all learned was the incredible benefit of power naps. Get rest at any possible point. Sleep called to Max.

He keyed his mic. “Ghost One, this is Delta One, come in.”

Static hissed through the line, forcing Max to shift and stare up the hill, as if he could see where the snipers were settled into position.

“Ghost One,” he spoke into the secured radio. “Repeat, this is Delta One, come in.”

“Copy, Delta One,” broke through his ear mic. “This is Ghost One. Over.”

The kinks in Max’s muscles unraveled at the sound of Cowboy’s whispered words. He was probably already in place and waiting for the fireworks tonight. “Give me a sitrep.”

“Tangos reduced, headed to the six.” South. They were headed south.

Perfect
. Max grinned. “Roger that. En route. Over.”

“Over and out.”

When Midas came up without a hesitation, Fix slapped his shoulder. “You realize a power nap means you actually sleep.”

“Not in this life.” Standing, Midas shrugged the pack farther onto his shoulder. “Let’s get it moving.”

The plan had worked and afforded the team a bit of time and fewer bodies to wrestle with to extract the missionaries. Why these people didn’t leave when they had the chance, he’d never understand. Of course, the same could be said about him—why did he keep doing missions that threatened his very life? The thought pounded him. He’d always known he’d be a sailor; then when his grandmother had died and there was nothing left for him, he hadn’t thought twice. And hadn’t again, until … Sydney.

Silently, he thanked a God he hadn’t addressed in years that she was safe in the States, probably out on a date with that puke Lane Bowen. He’d never want her to see the cruelty of war and its gruesome effects.

Someone must’ve clobbered her good. Sydney moaned as she fought the haze clouding her mind. Each arm rivaled the weight of an anchor, pinning her body down. She opened her eyes and—and cringed. A gleam shot through the back of her eyeballs, the fluorescent light painfully bright. Dragging her hand to shield her face, she groaned. She squinted around the room, trying to catch her bearings.
Where am I?

Voices rose and fell from somewhere behind her. Was she still on the plane? The concrete floor and long hall warned her she wasn’t. Propped on her arm, she peered through a knitted brow to decipher the setting. White halls. To her side, she spotted someone moving.

“’Ello, what’s this? I thought you cleared the bay.”

“Indeed, I did,” another replied. The sound of shuffling feet soon delivered a nurse to Sydney’s side, but she looked around. “There’s no chart, Dr. Gallance.”

Doctor?
Sydney pushed herself upright—and wobbled. The woman wrapped her arms around her, and Sydney clung to her as the room spun and whirled in a dozen crazy colors. Chills pimpled her skin. She shivered.

“Whoa! Easy there, ma’am. You’re going to fall off if you aren’t careful.” The scent of fabric softener tingled against Sydney’s senses as the woman peered into her eyes, apparently assessing her. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Where am I?”

The nurse laughed. “In a hospital. But I’m not sure why.”

In a flash, it all rushed back to her. Raisa unwilling to give helpful information, the airplane ride to nowhere, then some off-the-wall comment from her host about sleeping well. At least with the British accents shading the words of the medical staff here, she had good reason to believe she was still in England, but
where
in England?

“What city am I in?”

The nurse cast a furtive look to the doctor, whose shoes squeaked against the floor as she joined them. The doctor assessed her. “Get her a warm blanket.” With a smile, she stood in front of the metal gurney. “I’m Dr. Charlotte Gallance. What is your name?”

“S-Sydney Jacobs,” she murmured as the doctor placed two fingers on Sydney’s forearm. Nervous jitters snaked through her body. The baby thumped in silent protest to her hunched position. Sydney nudged her shoulders back to afford more room. She put her hand on her belly, wanting the doctor to verify his health.

As if on cue, Dr. Gallance lifted her stethoscope and pressed it to Sydney’s chest then to her swollen womb. “Well, your heartbeat is a bit slow, which could explain your chills. Do you know what happened or how you ended up here?”

“No, I don’t.” She would not tell this doctor or anyone else that she’d been drugged. The most important thing was getting hold of Lane and getting out of here. What if they were dead? What if Jerome had gone back and killed Holden and Lane? The thought nearly sent her into a panic. “May I make a phone call?”

Dr. Gallance considered her then nodded. “I suppose that’s in order. Can you walk?”

Sydney eased herself off the gurney—and instantly Dr. Gallance reached out to steady her. “I’m still getting used to this,” she said, patting her belly.

The doctor led her to a nurse’s station and leaned against the counter. “Since you seem to only have what’s on you, I’m going to assume you have no money to use the public phones. Keep it short.”

Handset in hand, Sydney punched in Lane’s number, trying to distance herself from the station, not only to hide her conversation, but to conceal the fact that his number was an international number from here. Wherever
here
was.

“Hello?” Strain roughed up Lane’s voice.

“Lane, it’s me.”