Nightshade (Discarded Heroes) (38 page)

“It’s not—” Sydney ground her teeth. “Forget it.”

After she let herself into the room and had slammed the door shut, she slapped the dead bolt into place then flipped the other lock. She might be exhausted, but she wasn’t a moron.

At the sound of their voices on the other side of the wall, she snatched her bag and stepped into the bathroom. The tub looked new—tiled and clean. The thought of warm, pelting water lured her into wanting a quick shower to relax for a better nap. Even if she couldn’t get the funk out of her mood, she’d wash it out of her hair and pores.

As she peeled out of her clothes, the marks drawn on her belly grabbed her attention. They’d never figured out what the symbol meant. Despite both Holden and Lane doing research on the flight there, they’d come up empty. Under the undulating water, she massaged her belly—and a strong kick rewarded her touch. She laughed and flattened her palm over the spot. Another kick thumped against her hand. Glorious! A second in time when life felt almost euphoric.

Relishing the moment, she ended the shower, ready for sleep. She pulled on the jeans, then reached for her shirt—and groaned. She’d grabbed the wrong one. Her favorite rock band’s logo gleamed back at her with a large gold heart, complete with main arteries against the black background. Would it even stretch over her belly? She threaded her arms through it and pried it over the bulge consuming her midsection. Amazingly, even with the tightness, the shirt seemed to give extra support to her expanding waistline. And hey—she even looked like the movie stars who preferred skin-tight shirts to announce their offspring.

A big yawn pushed her to the bed. Hair still wrapped in a towel, she dropped onto the mattress and stretched out, promising herself she’d dry her hair once her energy reserves recharged. Her mind flittered to the way Holden had suddenly revealed he had designs on her. She’d never seen that coming. He was a solid professional, an incredible reporter. Maybe he’d decided they had enough in common that he’d give romance a shot, too. What was it with men in her life?

The realization made her ache for Max once again. She’d give anything for their marriage to be whole, for them to be expecting their son
together. S
he reached into her sack and drew out the necklace he’d given her then slipped it on. She curled onto her side, staring through the slightly parted curtains and a dingy window into the clear night.

With a big yawn, she closed her eyes and began a mental checklist of what she’d need to accomplish: find the men who were real-life heroes and applaud them in a blockbuster story. Raisa had said exposing them would jeopardize the men, but Sydney would ensure their names weren’t published. She’d even keep the meetings a secret and withhold identities. That’d be safe and wouldn’t interrupt their stealthy movement across the globe. Most important, of course, was to find someone who’d seen them here. She felt close. Yet a thousand miles away.

A lonely chill scampered across the back of her shoulders.

Insh’Allah. Going into backwater places, saving women and their children …

Thud!
A child’s wails wafted on the warm breeze. Rustle of movement. The cries shuddered to a stop. Sydney struggled to understand—where had they come from? She squinted through the darkness. Was someone there? Behind the curtain that billowed in under the guidance of a sticky breeze?

Reality shifted. The bedspread became a stretch of partially crushed grass. She crawled on all fours over the field. Closer. A man stepped from the brush and towered over her.

She jerked back, plopping onto her bottom. As she stared up at him, a brilliant light blinded her. Shielding her face, she scrambled away.

A soft fluttering. Then something landed nearby. The light vanished.

Sydney jolted upright, her heart pounding. She blinked around the room. With a gasp, she dropped against the pillows and tried to swallow the pineapple-sized lump in her throat. “It was only a dream.” A nervous laugh trickled through her.

She looked out into the crystal night. So clear. So bright. No more—

She froze. The window was open! Adrenaline whizzing through her veins, she dragged her gaze,
only
her gaze, to the door that led to Lane and Holden’s room. It stood ajar.

A body sprawled across the threshold.

J
ust think,” Jon said, his arm around Kimber as they trudged down the slope. “This time tomorrow, we should be home, or at least on a plane home.”

Kimber nodded and pressed her lips to Maecel’s white blond head, rubbing her hands over the hand-assembled carry pack the commandos had constructed.

Exhilaration coursed through him, making each step feel as if he floated, one step closer to soil he was just about ready to kiss. The men who’d rescued them wore no patches identifying their country, but they spoke English. With the paint rubbed over their faces, he doubted they’d be recognizable in a lineup.

Didn’t matter. He was just grateful they came when they did. Kimber didn’t seem as thrilled with the rescue, but her weakness from the fevers that had ravaged her body for the last several weeks probably stunted her excitement. In a matter of hours, however, they’d get her medical help, get her fixed up, and they could recuperate at home with their families.

He wasn’t sure they’d ever come back to Mindanao or to this small island. Oh sure, Kimber would insist, saying this jungle was where she belonged. And she did. She’d always seemed at home here, peaceful and content. Even now, hiking from a harrowing escape and toward the embrace of safety, her pace didn’t echo someone who … well, someone like him. She almost seemed to linger, as if she wanted to stay here. Even Maecel slept soundly—compliments, no doubt, of the hefty drug the medic had given her. Her smooth, repetitive snoring gave him reassurance that she, too, would be fine staying here with the screeching monkeys and thick air that left him almost gasping. If the commandos would let him, he’d bolt straight to the ocean and swim home.

Yeah, and maybe the fever was infecting him. The silly thought forced a smile to his face. Felt good to smile. Been too long.

He considered Kezia, who walked silently and without looking up or around. Was it too hard for her to see these men dressed like soldiers and ordering them about? Or was she just relieved to be free of the Higanti?

But were they really free?

Ahead of him, Kimber stumbled. Jon steadied her as she scrabbled over a small mound of rocks, two of the soldiers assisting on the other side. “Let me take Maecel,” Jon offered.

“No,” she bit out.

Jon paused, her hand still in his. He tightened his grip, wondering at her funny tone. The darkness stopped him from seeing her face or expression, but he was sure something was wrong. Once he cleared the hurdle, he sidled up to her. “You okay?”

“Tired, that’s all,” she said, shifting Maecel, her hands hooked on the back of the carrier as if she were holding on for dear life.

Reminders of where they were heading—home—kept his mind alert and his aching muscles moving. Maybe it would help her, too. “What’s the first thing you’re going to do when we get back?”

“Sleep.”

“Quiet ahead!”

The hissed command from behind silenced him. It was okay. He didn’t need to talk to thank God for getting them out of here. For the phone call that had actually worked to pluck them from the jaws of death. God was good. He’d brought them this far. He’d get them home safely, too.

T
hey know where we are
. The thought had haunted Max since escaping the perimeter of the camp. But that couldn’t be possible, because even Lambert didn’t know the minute details of the mission. Autonomy all but guaranteed success. The fewer who knew where’d they be, the fewer who could interfere. But he couldn’t shake the feeling they were walking into trouble.

Rendezvous: 0400. That meant they still had several hours to hook up with the Black Hawk that would ferry them to Clark AFB. There they’d hop a C-130 to Guam, where a medical detachment and government officials would take over.

Max checked his watch and nearly cursed. Too much terrain to cover. And civilians who’d endured weeks of imprisonment …

“Keep moving!” he gritted out, trying to push his voice as far as he could with as little sound as possible. No telling what lay about to trap innocents. He assessed the stream of bodies working through the thick, lush vegetation ahead. Although they’d hiked several miles without confrontation, they were still too close to be safe. No doubt the Higanti or Abu Sayyaf radicals had transportation. The close proximity worried him, forcing him to check his six. Clear. But the foreboding clung to him heavier than the humidity.

At his twelve, the lanky missionary mumbled encouragement to his wife, who’d insisted on carrying their daughter. “Kimber, let me take her. She’s heavy.”

“I’m fine,” the woman grunted.

Max looked at his GPS. Another five hundred yards or so would intersect their path with Cowboy and Legend’s. Once the full light of day hit them, they’d have to be more strategic and keep under the canopy of leaves. A strange tickle worked through the soles of his boots. “All quiet,” Max called. “All stop!”

Midas and Fix stopped, the native girl between them. Midas glanced back. “Chopper!”

The vibration seemed to emanate from his bones. The helo must be right over them.

“Take cover!” Max dropped low as the branches overhead swayed. Moonlight glinted off the hull of an attack chopper. The bird tore up the sky, heading straight toward them. He rolled into a thick tangle of bushes and low-crawled to the others.

Midas had the young girl secure, his body stretched over hers for protection. “They’re too close,” he growled.

They know
. It wasn’t just a hunch now. The proof whirled in the sky.

Max scrambled to the missionary and his wife, who lay huddled behind a large tree stump. Even with the green glow of the NVGs, he could see the fear in their eyes. “Stay low, keep moving,” he whispered.

They nodded.

Wind whipped against them. Like a giant bird of prey, the chopper swooped in circles. The branches snapped back and forth, smacking and lashing Max’s skin.

Lightning broke the void of early morning.

Max grunted, slamming his eyes shut against the brilliance that flashed through his goggles. A smart SEAL would trade these in for auto-adjusting goggles. He’d put that on his next req list.

Thwat-thwat-thwat-thwat!

The sound of the bullets pelting the palm branches drove Max rolling into the brush, bringing his weapon skyward. He blinked rapidly, trying to refocus, but couldn’t see the chopper. “Where is it?”

“Pulled high. Everyone, move. Go, go, go!” Midas waved the group past himself.

The husband caught his wife as she stumbled, but the native sprinted with Fix. As they pushed hard to the rendezvous point, a concern lashed at Max. The missionary woman. Her uneven steps and clumsy gait. What was going on? Exhaustion? Regardless of injury, they couldn’t stop. Taking a break meant a permanent one—death.

“Frogman,” Midas said in a low voice, angling the imager attached to his wrist so that Max could see it as they hiked. “I’ve got three readings on thermal, ahead twenty meters.”

Jogging behind the others, Max prepped for a confrontation. Since Cowboy and Legend should be more than thirty meters away and weren’t supposed to backtrack, that meant one thing: trouble. Of the fully automatic kind.

“Split up,” he said as he aimed upward, tagging the missionaries with him and motioning Midas to go low. With his weapon pressed to his cheek, he kept his ears trained, his eyes on every twitch and rustle of branches. The darkness worked against them. Predawn in a jungle varied little from night. Until the sun rose high and streamed in through branches, they’d need to rely on the NVGs and thermals.

“Why’d we split up?” the husband asked from behind.

Without answering, Max trudged onward, hoping the guy would stay quiet. A word spoken at the wrong time could kill them. Traversing the rugged slope parallel to Midas’s path, he kept a close eye on the others, waiting for the soldier’s signal.