Nightshade (Discarded Heroes) (40 page)

“What hap … pened?” he asked, his words slurred. He reached for his head and staggered to his feet.

“I don’t know.”

He groaned and eased into the chair by the small dresser. “It feels like I tried to stop a semi with my skull.”

“Let me look.” She tugged his hand away. Running her fingers over his head, she winced at the lump rivaling a golf ball. “Looks like you’ve got a nice souvenir, but there’s no blood.”

Banging at the door jerked them both around. “Sydney!”

Holden. She hurried to the main door, unlocked it, and flung it open.

He urged her back and slammed it shut again. When he turned, the yellow glow of the light bathed the small handgun he held. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Startled at the weapon, she recoiled then shook off her reaction. “I’m fine—Lane was attacked. Where did you get that? And how did you know something was wrong?”

“No time to explain. Grab your stuff, and let’s go. I hired a guide, but he’ll leave us if we’re too long in coming. We have to take a boat to the other island.” He smirked at Sydney. “Nice hairdo.”

“It’s not even daylight.” Combing her fingers through her hair, Sydney glanced at the bed. Something—papers—fluttered under the tease of a Mindanao breeze that pushed back the curtains. “What is that?” She plodded over and lifted the pages. A stack of photos.

Both men joined her. Lane reached around her and pointed. “Look, the patch on his arm.” He plucked the photo from her and slumped onto the bed, still cradling his head.

“It’s them, the star.” Sydney flipped through the others, her mind whirling. Photo after photo of the men working. “Look, look! This woman—it’s Mangeni!” She turned to Holden, bewildered. “Why would someone give us—”

“The better question is who. If these guys are black-ops, who’s ratting them out?”

She stopped on the last page. Numbers and locations. “What are these?”

Holden lifted Sydney’s pack and handed it to her. “Grab your stuff. We can decipher them later. Our guide’s waiting.”

Sydney peeked out the now-open window and tried not to think about how the last ten minutes amounted to a heap of trouble. Dangerous, deadly trouble. A man breaking into her room, knocking Lane out, and leaving clues—a horrifying thought skidded into her. She stilled—had the man spoken the Insh’Allah she’d thought she heard in her dream? Was he telling her that the elite team was doing God’s will, or was he saying that revealing the team was God’s will?

“Syd.” Holden prompted her.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, as she started for the door.

Awareness of how easily the man had infiltrated her life without her knowing kept her head down and her thoughts racing as they wove through the busy street toward a jeepney. Mentally she groaned, hating the thought of the jarring ride they were about to endure.

Holden helped her in and paid the driver. In seconds they were barreling through the city. The way he drove, their jeepney driver seemed like a guided missile—only without the guidance. Trounced. Bounced. Rolled over curbs—and feet! Around cars that nearly broadsided them.

Holden smiled at her. “Want to close your eyes?”

“How about I vomit all over you?”

Flinging around a corner, the driver seemed oblivious to the marked lanes and normal flow of traffic. Soon he whipped to the side of the street and braked hard, nearly tossing Sydney out.

“There he is,” Holden said, snapping her attention to the end of a darkened alley.

A short man waited, dressed in a torn, dingy white shirt and soiled khakis. He darted a glance around then frantically waved them toward him.

Sydney’s knees buckled as she walked, but Lane slipped an arm around her waist. “You doing okay?”

She twisted out of his grasp. “Fine.”

Why did this gig get worse at every junction?

Lane’s hand on the small of her back pushed her forward. Would he never get the hint? She skipped a step to move out of his reach, but there was no such luck. With his long strides, he remained right next to her, guiding her. She guessed he meant to protect her and be chivalrous. And that wasn’t a bad thing, but …

When they turned the corner, they both stopped.

A beat-up old Jeep sat in the alley between two apartment buildings. Idling, the thing rattled and shuddered as if it had a bad cold. It wasn’t the banged-in side door or the broken windshield that bothered her. It was the pin-striped-style holes. Bullet holes. Sydney glanced nervously at Lane.

“I’m sure it’s safe.” He didn’t sound convinced.

Just go home, Sydney. Just go back home, crawl under the covers
. “Holden,” she said, hating the whimper in her voice.

He came to her side, tucking his head. “I know it might look bad—”

“You could say that.”

“Trust me. I did some casual asking around, and it seems your guys are on one of the small, nearby islands. Back-channels report an explosion up in the mountains there. The only way to get to your guys is with him.” He planted his hands on his belt. “It’s your call, Syd. I won’t force you to go.”

But you’ll go without me, right? Steal my story
. Did it matter anymore? Was it worth it?

The photos in her bag seemed heavy as bricks. They were key to finding the men. Given their camo-painted faces, she couldn’t tell who was whom, but it was a huge leap forward. No, she wasn’t going to shrink from this story.

Yet something niggled at her. She just didn’t know what.

Suddenly, the man screeched and pointed to Sydney. In a lively voice, he prattled in Tagalog, apparently refusing to let Sydney come. Maybe this was divine intervention, an answer and confirmation to the really bad feeling taking root in the pit of her stomach.

Holden strode toward him, tossing his pack in the Jeep as he did, and spoke in the man’s language. Several times their would-be guide shook his head and flashed his hands emphatically, as if signaling
no way
, which only had Holden reaching into his pocket for more money. Soon the objections ceased.

“Get in,” Holden said through gritted teeth.

Sydney climbed in the back of the Jeep, her pack nestled between her feet, and buckled in. She cast Holden a furtive glance as she adjusted the belt under her enlarged belly. “Are you sure this is okay?”

With a cheeky grin, Holden winked. “If you are dissuaded that easily, you’ll never get your story. Don’t worry. Like I said, I won’t put you in danger.”

Yeah right, Pinocchio
. Had he forgotten about Keighley? About the chopper, the plane, and her waking up in a foreign hospital with no identification? Then the FBI stuffing them on a plane bound for London? And just how long had Holden been sounding like a used-car salesman without her noticing? Next thing she knew, he would offer to throw in a case of grenades with that life-threatening ride into the mountains.

A man stepped through a nearby door and shouted something as he pumped a fist in the air. The driver shouted back, his own fist relaying a silent conversation. Sydney watched the anger in his face as he hollered. But as they rounded the corner, the man at the door smiled at her. A smile that said she wouldn’t be coming back.

Really. She was an idiot. Her son, jostled and trounced as the Jeep hit ruts and zigzagged up the winding roads, gave her the swift kick she needed. Something deep and harrowing wrestled within her, warning her to go back home. A bitter, acrid taste coated her tongue. She gulped past the apple-sized lump in her throat.

As they tore down the roads, heedless of the potholes and in some places where there was no road at all, she had to duck and protect her head from the palm fronds slapping at her. “God, please,” she whispered, hoping nobody could hear, “get me home safely, and I’ll never want another adventure. I like quiet. Quiet is good. I know You hear my prayers—but if You never hear another one, please hear this. For my baby.”

The vehicle lurched to a stop by the water, and the man waved them to a boat that looked more like a rotting log than something that should hold four people. In the boat, she gripped the sides, hating the way her stomach rose into her throat. Not good. Within minutes, they were delivered to a frond-encrusted shore, ushered up a small embankment to where a structure offered another vehicle, almost the twin of the one they’d left on Mindanao.

By the time feeling had left her legs and a pounding headache made coherent thought impossible, they pulled a sharp right—and the truck lurched to a stop. The driver rattled off to Holden, who shifted around to them. “He says this is the last market stand. If we need bathrooms or water …”

Anything to get out of the Jeep. To remind her land really existed and didn’t move. She unbuckled, and for a second, she considered taking her pack but opted to leave it. She could just see herself wrestling that in a cramped bathroom with her big belly.

A few minutes later as her land legs slowly returned, she came out of the hut and walked the market of fruits. Even without the early morning blues streaking the sky, she could tell the fruit was ripe by the delicious scents wafting up to her. The pineapple smelled wonderful and made her taste buds pop at the tart but sweet scent. She paid for bottled water as she considered a mango.

“You holding up okay?” Lane bought his own water and uncapped it.

She sipped the liquid and looked toward the skyline, where golden hues hid behind a mottle of early morning clouds. “I find myself missing superhighways and my SUV with amazing suspension.”

Chuckling, Lane nodded. Then paused and stared at her.

“What?” She guzzled more water.

“You don’t wear your hair down often.” He smiled, a tenderness filling his face.

She straightened, closing her bottle. “Look—”

He held up his hand. “Hey, don’t bother, Syd. Even I know I can’t compete with his memory.”

Bristling, she rubbed the skin on the mango. “It’s not that.” Liar. “I’m just not ready for a relationship. Other things need my attention.” She pointed to her belly. “Case in point.”

“But that’s just it,” he said earnestly. “I want to be there for you, help you with the baby.” He swept a hand along her cheek. “All I care about is you and making sure you’re taken care of.”

Taken care of. Yeah. “Thanks, but I’m going to take care of myself, Lane.”

A flurry of excitement erupted around them. A shout. A scream.

As they turned, Lane pulled her closer, and this time she didn’t fight him. She scanned the road and small area. The shop owner darted back into the building and shut the small bamboo door. Then the windows.

“Stay here,” Lane said, nudging her into a small alcove next to the building.

Was this how she took care of herself? Hiding in a corner? Irritated with her own cowardice, she pushed herself out and watched Lane half jog to their vehicle. Holden sat in the front seat next to the driver, obviously making sure the guy stuck around.

A woman’s whimper yanked Sydney around. Huddled under a stand, the woman motioned Sydney to join her. What …?

Then the woman pointed.

Sydney looked in the direction the woman indicated. A man at the end of the street. In the
middle
of the street. What was he looking …? No! He had something on his shoulder—a launcher! She jerked to the right. He was directly in the path of—

“Lane!”

A whistle screamed down the road. Smoke and fire pierced the engine.

Boom!

Fire burst out at her.

B
irds flew out, screeching and mirroring the panic that lit through Max. Flames licked the trees and devoured the foliage in an angry, hungry circle. The explosion had been big. He strained to make out details through his binoculars. But the distance proved too great.

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

Nothing.

“I can’t see a thing for the smoke,” the Kid said.