Nightshade (Discarded Heroes) (44 page)

Shrugging, Max considered the rippling water. “Would’ve tried a little harder.” Any other time he would’ve said that was an easy answer. But this morning, under the tease of the dawn’s first rays, he wondered what it really took to make a marriage work. And what gave Jon Harris so much strength, the ability to accept his wife’s death? It wasn’t that the man didn’t love his wife—he could see the fat tears and grief that pushed down on him. But there was something—more. Deeper. “Can I ask, how did you make it work?”

“Make what work?”

“Your marriage. Out here in the jungle with hardships—and no doubt you’ve seen things you probably didn’t want to see.”

Jon shrugged. “It’s a choice. You have to decide it’s worth it. She’s worth it.”

Too easy. Max regretted asking.

“You just decide that no matter what it takes, you’re going to make it work. You’re going to see it through.”

“Frogman!”

The call drew him around. His heart leaped when he spotted the cowboy heading his way. He excused himself as he turned and clasped Cowboy’s hand. “What’d you find? Anybody alive?”

“Fix is checkin’ ’em out.”

“Good, good.” So if the cowboy wasn’t telling him anything shocking and grim, then he could assume everything was cool. That it wasn’t Sydney. He tried to nudge his thoughts toward the mission, toward getting to safety. But his gaze surfed between the trees and bushes looking for whoever “them” included. “We’ve, uh, got about a day’s journey down the worst terrain you’ve seen yet.”

“Max—”

A swell of adrenaline swished through his veins at hearing Cowboy use his first name. “I just want to get out of here.” He grunted, roughing a hand over his face. “And remind me to tell the Old Man our next mission will not be on a mountain or in a jungle.”

“Max, she’s pregnant.”

“Who—?” He stopped short and drove his gaze to the medic’s tarp, where a man and woman stood just outside. A faint glow from within the tarp silhouetted her significant bulge.
“Who
in the name of all that’s holy was stupid enough to bring a pregnant woman into this?”

Cowboy stood by silently.

Agitation plowed through him. He wanted to punch something or someone. Were the fates aligned against him? Or had God had enough of him and now wanted to annihilate every hope of getting off this putrid island? He wanted to say he didn’t care, that the woman would have to tough it out. And she would. They didn’t have time for frequent breaks. Then again, he wasn’t going to be responsible for another death. “Where’s Fix?”

Cowboy pointed toward the Kid, who sat by the baby’s carrier as Fix administered another sedative.

Max stomped over to his medic. “Fix, what’s with the woman?”

He strung an IV into the baby’s hand and set a pouch on the edge. “Watch that. She needs to stay hydrated.” He stood, hesitation guarding his eyes. Then he darted a glance to Cowboy. “We’ll need regular breaks for the woman. It’ll slow us down.”

Max scowled. “Clock’s ticking. We’ll be dead meat by tomorrow morning. How often do we have to stop?”

“As she needs it. Her BP is low, the concussion has her vitals whacked, and her baby’s heartbeat is slower than it should be—I think. I’m not a pediatrician, so I could be wrong.” Fix started back toward the tarp and the couple.

Cowboy shifted into view. “Max, you need to know—” His friend sighed and looked down. Slowly, he brought his gaze back to Max then glanced toward the woman and man. The man touched her shoulder, and she moved toward a rock and lowered herself. So they had lovers footing it into the jungle. Max would think the guy would know better than to let a pregnant woman into a terrorist-infested jungle.

“It’s Sydney.”

“What’s Sydney?”

“The woman,” Cowboy said, motioning toward the couple. “It’s your wife. She’s here.”

Buzzing started at the back of his brain and slowly spread into his awareness. Hot. Then cold. It all flashed through his nerves, barreling down and back with lightning speed.

“No,” he said, his voice catching. The fog of panic cleared. Couldn’t be. “Sydney’s not pregnant.”

“It’s her. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

Not possible. Why would she be on this side of the world? And with another man!

Wait! Max narrowed his eyes, suddenly recognizing the long-legged gait. Lane Bowen. She was here with that weak-kneed yuppie. They sure looked cozy. Which is why he’d knocked the guy out cold months back. Were they a couple now that she’d filed for separation? Is that why she’d filed? Because she knew she was pregnant with Lane’s baby?

Curse the dogs! God had it in for him.
A choice
, Jonathan Harris had said. Well, there was no choice here. Sydney had decided for both of them. Max stomped toward where he’d set up some supplies.

“Frogman?”

Max spread his hand-drawn map over the rock and held up a muted flashlight. “We’re here. By nightfall we need to be there, or we might as well be dead.”

“Max.” Cowboy’s tone pleaded with him as he tried to turn Max toward him.

Freeing himself of the grip was easy. But avoiding the man’s stare wasn’t. “Let’s just … get out of here.” He tapped the map, trying to restart his brain on what route to take. “There are a half dozen villages along this spread. The only one we thought would be helpful is the one we almost didn’t escape from.”

After a sigh, Cowboy traced his finger over a spot. “What’s this?”

“Basically, a twenty-foot drop. We’ll have to hike around it, but it’s going to be tough negotiating the area.”

“What’s our projected ETA at the base?”

“Oh hundred hours. If we push them, we can make it.”

Cowboy shook his head. “It’s not wise to push her, Max. She’s already worn down and traumatized. She needs to rest.”

“She’ll have to do that at the base. We don’t have time to baby”—he about bit his tongue on the word—“someone through this. Each minute here we’re one breath closer to death. Look at the missionary’s wife.”

“Max—”

“Get everyone on their feet.” Back to business. Get out. Get away from her. “We’re out of time.” He wouldn’t think about the fact that their divorce wasn’t even final and she was already carrying someone else’s child. His heart thumped so hard, he staggered.

Cowboy cornered him between the rock and a palm. “You should talk to her, let her know you’re here.”

“No!” The growl ebbed through Max. “Just …” Eyes closed, he balled his hand. “Don’t tell her it’s me, that I’m here. Let’s just get this over with.” He rubbed his eyes, fighting back the confusion, the torrent of feelings. Some new feeling worked through him that he couldn’t quite place.

His eyes drifted to the body of Kimber Harris. Death. That’s it. Death. His marriage to Sydney was dead. What surprised him more was the realization that he’d still held an atom of hope that he could fix things, himself, their marriage. But now, the tiniest element had been obliterated. And the impact felt nuclear.

Cowboy blocked his path. “We’re friends. So I’m going to cut it straight. You’re screwing this up. God’s givin’ ya a second chance. She’s your
wife!”

“And she’s carrying someone else’s child!
His
child!” No wonder she so quickly filed for the separation. “Everyone, on your feet. Move.” Then a thought speared him. “Cowboy.”

Cowboy turned, his brows drawn tight.

Max set his pack down, worked his way out of the interceptor vest, then tossed it to the guy. “Have her put that on.” He returned the pack to his shoulder and set out. Their marriage might be over, but he’d do everything he could to make sure her life wasn’t.

Weariness slunk through Sydney as the sun rose high overhead. At least she thought it was overhead. With the clouds and thick ceiling of palm fronds and other tree limbs, she couldn’t tell—except for the oppressive heat that glued her shirt to her back and stomach. Blisters worked into her boots. Boots designed for fashion. Boots not designed for hiking. When had she become so insensible?

Moisture from the early morning dew that settled over the soft grass made the hill seem like one long, slick banana peel. More than once her feet slid forward—and Lane caught her. As they hiked down one particularly tough spot, Ghost One and Midas assisted her.

“Keep it moving,” Gruff called, patting the drill sergeant’s shoulder.

Sydney wanted to spit on the man. Let him saddle an extra twenty pounds around his waist, then add this stupid vest that wouldn’t even cover her belly and rubbed her underarms, and see how quickly he moved. Every soldier seemed to be concerned about her welfare, except him and the drill sergeant. All he wanted was to get where he was going.

Okay, yeah, that wasn’t a bad thing, but she wanted to arrive alive.

She snapped her thoughts closed, remembering the missionary whose wife lay on the stretcher in a bag, her gray, lifeless face staring up at the sky. In a strange, twisted sort of way, she looked peaceful.

Sydney maneuvered closer to the missionary. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

He glanced at her and smiled. “Thanks.” His gaze fell on his wife’s still form. “She wanted to die here, so I’m glad.”

Glad?

“At least I still have a piece of her with me,” he said, nodding to the pack strapped to him. White wisps of hair rustled under a breeze.

Sydney smiled, her hand going to her belly. “How old is she?”

“Fifteen—sixteen months.”

“Quiet! Keep moving,” Gruff hissed from a few feet away as he slogged toward the front.

She hated the paint streaked over their faces. It blended their faces and identities into a camo smoothie. She could only differentiate one from another because of the size differences and because Ghost One had a Southern accent, the medic was Latino, one was African American, and one had a bad attitude.

“He’s a sour pill.”

“Maybe because we’re lost,” Lane mumbled.

With a start, she looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“We’re not lost,” Ghost One cut in. “We came under fire, so the chopper couldn’t come in.” He led them to a grove of gum trees. “Move into the shade and rest. Fifteen minutes.” With that, he handed out small protein bars and removed a slim pack and passed it to her. “Sip slowly and only a little. This has to get us through the day.”

After a bit of liquid refreshment, Sydney tried to get comfortable with the armor vest, but no matter how she sat, the thing pressed against her stomach. “Hey, what’s with the drill sergeant and Gruff?” She opened her bar and gave him the wrapper when he held his hand out for it.

Ghost One grinned. “Gruff, as you call him, is always like that.”

The first bite could’ve been confused for a mouthful of baking power, but she wasn’t going to complain. Then again, after a few more nibbles, she could almost sense the protein and nutrients seeping into her cells. “And the drill sergeant, the guy calling the shots?”

Ghost One paused then stuffed the wrappers in his larger pack. “Lot on his mind. Hasn’t slept in about three days, one of his objectives just died, he’s been tasked with two extra civilians now, and we’re all but walking into a trap.”

“A trap?”

“The whole island is a trap, but the route to the coast is laden with terrorists. It’ll take a miracle to get us through.”

Something in Sydney turned to iron. “I believe in miracles.”

Ghost One’s gaze popped to hers. He smiled. “Me, too, ma’am.”

What if the drill sergeant didn’t believe in God? Would that doom them? “Yeah, but does he?”

“I think he used to.”

Sydney watched the guy through the trunks of the trees. He’d never ventured more than a dozen feet from her or Lane, yet he barked at them like dogs. Of course, he did all his barking in a tight, controlled manner, never loud enough for anyone but those in this little troupe to hear.

Lane moved off to take care of business.

“So, how’s your boyfriend holding up?” Ghost One asked.