Nightshade (Discarded Heroes) (36 page)

A
re you up to it?”

Sydney glanced down at the belly she’d bared to them as they headed to Heathrow. “I don’t see that I have a choice. I tried to wash off the symbol, but it wouldn’t come off. Is it permanent?”

“Henna, most likely. Fades eventually.”

With a sigh, Sydney pinched the bridge of her nose. “I mean, it’s almost as if she chose me; she wants me to go there.”

“I definitely agree,” Holden said, his excitement still evident.

“Imagine if you hadn’t felt the need to shower.” Lane chuckled. “Who knows how long it would’ve been before we would’ve figured it out?”

Holden lifted his world phone and pulled up a number. He pressed the phone to his ear and started rambling in a foreign language, apparently working his connections to get them on the ground and to the location—he’d insisted the symbol was one of an organization there and would most likely lead them to proof of this team. The most tangible proof they’d had yet.

Leaning against the headrest, Sydney stared out at the city blurring past. Uncertainty dogged her, warning her she should just head home right now. Forget this story. It wasn’t as important as her son or her own life. Rubbing her belly reminded her of the brownish symbol beneath her hand. With all these clues, maybe they’d get in and out before anyone knew where they were. She’d go home then and never
ever
take an assignment overseas. Yes, it was thrilling, but she wasn’t an adrenaline junkie like Holden. Or Max. The two were eerily similar. She had a lot of respect for both men.

“Okay, we’re set. We’ll get a hop into Bagram, and I have some friends who are part of the security detail at the base who’ll escort us to Kandahar.” Holden scrolled through and found another name.

Escort. Why did that sound so ominous? “Can you do that? Pull our soldiers from their duty?”

“Sorry. My friends are civilian contractors working with the military. They don’t answer to the U.S. government when they want to leave.”

Her mind reeled with images of explosions and gunfire and suicide bombers. Women walking onto buses with C-4 vests. Killing themselves and everyone else.

Oh Lord, what am I doing?

She closed her eyes, letting the motion of the vehicle lull her to sleep. She didn’t want to think; she didn’t want to imagine what could happen. Just get it over with. Get in. Get out. They’d have the story of a lifetime, and she’d never do it again. This just wasn’t worth it. The throb in her head and the pounding in her chest said so. Not to mention the small life inside her, kicking and punching her, as if even he were telling her she wasn’t thinking straight.

Would she make it back to the States to tell Max about this baby? Give him the chance to be a father to their son?

Within hours, they boarded a C-130 and were strapped into a five-point harness along with a couple dozen camo-clad men. Soldiers.

“Marine Special Operations Command—MARSOC,” Holden whispered casually to her as he stowed his pack between his legs.

Sydney eyed the men. Some so young. Others weathered by age and battle. They reminded her of Max—the same intensity and determination to get a job done.

She almost laughed. Even though she could relate, she knew it was only a small inkling of what it was like to want to get it done and get home.

The flight, rocky and horrendous—nothing like their first-class flight to London five days ago—left her sick to her stomach. She forced herself to fall asleep, but dreams invaded her slumber with haunting encounters of a woman wearing a suicide vest. Sydney had tried to talk her out of it, but the woman shook her head, a tear streaking her cheek, seconds before an explosion knocked Sydney off her feet—and jolted her awake.

“We’re here,” Holden said, smiling.

Her eyes burned and sweat dribbled down her back. Had someone turned off the air conditioning? Yeah, right. In the middle of 115-degree heat?

Wind slammed the unrelenting heat into her as she disembarked, following Holden and Lane off the tail of the C-130. She let out a small grunt against the smothering air that already threatened to bake her into oblivion. Both men turned toward her, reaching out to assist the poor pregnant woman down the ramp.

“I can walk on my own,” she groused, hating the way the soldiers watched and snickered.

Two black Suburbans tore toward the unloading plane. Tires squealing, they lurched to a stop a dozen feet away.

“Aha!” Holden pointed toward the SUV. “Here they … are.” His words faded with her breath as they watched several men in dark suits and others in what looked like security uniforms storm toward them.

A tall, lanky man tugged off his
Men in Black
sunglasses. “Sydney Jacobs?” he asked, piercing her with a steel glare.

Holden and Lane eased closer to her.

Disquieted at the way he not only knew her name but seemed ready to take her into custody, she drew up her chin. “Yes?”

“FBI, ma’am. I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us,” the man said, hands on his belt.

“Have I done something?”

“Ma’am, please.” The man looked around then back to her. “For your safety, come quickly.”

Only then did she spot the guard towers every twenty feet or so, manned and gunned. She bit back the acidic taste in her mouth as she stepped off the platform. Two men took hold of her arms and escorted her to the first SUV. She glanced through the heavily tinted windows, watching as Lane and Holden climbed into the second. Despite the anxiety welling up within her, she breathed a sigh of relief for the cool AC.

Within minutes the Suburban steered into a hangar, and just as quickly, the large sliding door closed. The men piled out but stayed close to the vehicle.

Sydney unfolded herself, feeling every bit the fugitive on the run. “I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m an American citizen.” She glanced around the cavernous building. Where was the second SUV? Where were Lane and Holden? Her stomach kinked.

“Which is exactly why we have direct orders to see you onto the next plane back to the States.” The man removed his sunglasses and motioned her toward the heavily fortified entrance. Steel and cement barricaded what looked like a reinforced door. Two armed soldiers stared out toward them, unmoving.

The throng of guns and suited men all but pushed her into the high security structure. Past the first layer of defense, they were met with another. The lanky man swiped a card through a reader, and the door groaned out of view to the left.

They entered a sparsely furnished room—nothing but a desk, metal chairs, and a few filing cabinets. In the center a woman sat behind a glass barrier, watching them carefully.

“Margaret, relay confirmation of receipt of the package.”

The woman gave a curt nod and went to work.

“This way, Mrs. Jacobs.”

She wrested her arm free from his hold. “Just who are you? How do you have the right to do this to me? I’m here on a story, and I’ve done nothing to warrant being treated like a criminal.”

“Criminal?” He scoffed as he led her into another room. “This is first-class treatment compared to what criminals get. It’s for your protection, Mrs. Jacobs. Maybe you don’t understand the country you just hopped a C-130 into.”

He had a point. Besides knowing that women had to wear fabric head to toe and that many special ops soldiers had worked the region, she really hadn’t kept up with the minute details.

With each step, strength and courage drained from her. She turned to the man—but the door slammed shut in her face. Stunned, she couldn’t move at first. Then she spun, searching for another way out.

No sooner had she spotted the steel door on the other side than Holden and Lane were shoved into the small conference room.

Lane rushed to her and embraced her. She wriggled out of his hold, and when he planted a peck on her cheek, she pushed him back. “Please … don’t.” Ignoring the hurt in his expression, she propped her hands on the metal table in the center of the room and eased onto a chair. “They’re sending us back.” Tears pricked her eyes. Defeat clung to her worse than the heat that still seemed to seep off her clothing. “All this work—”

“Maybe it’s for the best.” Holden sat next to her, his head down.

Indignation dug through her increasingly foul mood. “Best? How can you say that? We’ve had leads, we are right on the cusp—”

“I’m just saying,” he said louder, his eyes widening as he nudged his shoulder forward and rubbed his ear, “they’re just trying to protect you.”

“Protect me?” She rolled her eyes. “Someone figured out what we were doing—”

“And
they were worried about you.” Holden coughed into his hand then rubbed his ear.

Rubbed his ear. Was he trying to tell her someone was listening to their conversation? “Maybe you’re right.”

A subtle nod and smile.

“I’m just ready to get out of this heat,” Lane grumbled.

“Our flight from Heathrow leaves in the morning. Hopefully we can still catch that.” Quirking an eyebrow, Holden seemed to be hinting that she should go along with this.

“It’d be good. I’d hate to have to call my brother and explain why I’m arriving later. He won’t be too happy. He’d probably notify the Feds in Virginia, as protective as he is.”

Holden winked. “He sounds like a big brother, all right.” He seemed to be trying to convey some hidden message to her, but she was lost.

An hour later, they were hastily removed from the room and stuffed in Suburbans once again. They were shuttled across the tarmac to a waiting jetliner. Two agents escorted them onto the plane then left. Sydney, Lane, and Holden sat quietly as the plane taxied and streaked into the air.

Once airborne, Lane leaned toward Sydney. “I overheard one of the attendants talking about London. They’re sending us back to the States.”

Amazingly, she felt relieved to be on her way home. Shame slithered through her, taunting her lack of spine. Was she so ready to give up? Yes. Exhaustion ripped at her. Fear for her life wore down her courage and defenses.

“I think I’m going to sleep for a week,” she mumbled.

Holden frowned. “Sydney, don’t you get it?”

She blinked. “What?”

“When we get to Heathrow, we catch the next flight to the Philippines.”

“Phil …” The name died on her dry, chapped lips. “Why are we going there?”

He tugged a folded piece of paper from his pocket and held it out. “It’s the last place on your list.”

And the last place she wanted to be heading right now.

Structure B3. Inner circle. Max peered through the night vision goggles, assessing the setup of the Higanti camp. A keen intelligence lurked behind the design, laid out like an onion. Several layers had to be peeled back before reaching the middle. In other words, two defensive barriers guarded what Nightshade wanted.

“It’s going to be tight.” He mentally mapped the sequence they’d plotted days earlier.

“That’s for sure,” Midas whispered from his right.

As he scanned the first layer, then the second, something snagged his mind. He panned back, lenses fixed on one source emanating an incredible amount of heat to be lit up like that. “We have intel about electricity?”

“No. Why?”

“Check out D1, outer perimeter.”

A soft grunt came from Max’s left. “I think you’re right,” Midas said.

“So, how does that change our options?” Fix asked.

If they had electrified gates, Nightshade could bypass them. It wasn’t anything they hadn’t encountered before. What bugged him was the possibility of perimeter motion sensors. Getting close enough to cut the cord …

Why get close when they had eyes above?

Max spoke into his ear mic, his head and voice low. “Delta One to Ghost One.”

“Go ahead, Delta One.” Cowboy’s whisper was almost inaudible.

“Target D1, outer perimeter. Confirm presence of cables.”