Nightshade (Discarded Heroes) (5 page)

“That’d be a change,” the Kid grumbled.

“To go where?” the Beach Bum asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” the Kid interrupted. “Man, how is this any different than military? I got out for a reason.”

“You’ll go wherever needed.” The general turned toward the younger man. “Yes, Mr. Vaughn, you did get out for a reason. Tell me, did abandoning the one thing you loved the most give you the love of your father after all?”

The Kid paled.

“Why?” Max couldn’t stand it anymore. “Why are you doing this? What’s this thing to you?”

Lambert lowered his head then looked back at Max. “I am … discarded just like you.”

“Bull.” Max tucked his hands under his arms. “You sit in a cushy chair in a carpeted office. You’re paid, you’re connected—”

“I know what you guys have been through.” The general tapped his temple. “MAC-V SOG in Nam. Two tours.”

Max’s eyebrows shot up. That meant the man before him had likely seen more carnage than the rest of them put together.

“Heard the phrase ‘peace with honor’?”

Max shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Who hasn’t?”

“It was a platitude.” Lambert’s eyes flamed under his passion. “The armchair generals lost the war, not the grunts on the ground. We won every battle they let us win. But that doesn’t make it any easier when you’re the only guy who comes home from your unit with all his parts and pieces still connected where God put ’em.

“I may not be young, I may not have done combat tours in Iraq like you, Lieutenant, but I was tossed aside, too. For years I languished.” The general pushed to his feet, his voice thick and his eyes weighted by the story. “But I slowly remembered that I’d joined the military for a reason—I wanted to be a
man
. A real man willing to defend my country with life and limb. I knew then I could screw up my career or I could do my best to make a difference in the lives of those who came after.”

Silence hung rank and thick in the abandoned warehouse. Something akin to admiration leaked past Max’s barriers as he watched the indignant rise and fall of the general’s chest. A smile threatened his resolve as the old man glared at the hulking men around him.

Lambert’s lips tightened over a clean-shaven jaw. “What’s it going to be, gentlemen? Do you have what it takes to finish the fight with the gift God gave you? Or are you going to turn tail, accept what the government stamped on your papers, and leave—go quietly into the night?”

“Whoa-hoa!” Laughing, Beach Bum stepped forward. “Old Man’s got some fire under that shiny dome.”

Lambert spun toward the bum. “What’s it going to be, Sergeant Metcalfe?”

The blond pursed his lips, considered Lambert, then nodded. “I’m in.”

The bright blue eyes shifted to the Latino.

“You need some CPR, ese? You look worked up.”

A half smile slid into Lambert’s face. “A little passion never hurt, eh, Mr. Reyes?”

“You all right, old man.” He hooked Lambert’s hand and patted his back. “You all right.” Reyes leaned in toward the general’s shoulders and looked at the Kid. “But I don’t know about this kid. He don’t look like he’s out of diapers yet.”

“That’s wrong. That’s just wrong.” The Kid’s face flushed. “I spent six years in the Rangers. I have enough—”

“Rangers.” Max couldn’t help but grunt his disapproval. “That explains a lot.”

The Kid’s chin jerked up in defiance. “I’m in.”

It seemed Lambert grew with each affirmation. He shifted to the cowboy. “Mr. Neeley?”

Cowboy gave a slow, firm nod, his hat shading his eyes. “I’m ready.”

Lambert smiled. “Good. Good.”

They were all crazy. Joining a group like this meant more problems. “What if we get in trouble out there?”

“Then get out of trouble,” Lambert said. “Understand that this team does not exist. If anyone comes looking, there will be nothing to find. Only one man besides those of us in this facility knows it exists, and he’ll pay the highest cost if that confidence is broken. No one—and I mean
no one
—will know your names.”

“So our orders are coming from on high?” Metcalfe asked.

A twinkle brightened Lambert’s eyes and gave silent assent to the question, although he gave no answer. Instead, he continued. “Any mission, any activity will be utterly and completely disavowed by the United States.
You
will be disavowed. If you get into trouble, Mr. Jacobs, count on your ingenuity to get out. If you are killed, no one will know.”

“Or care.” The Kid shrugged, a sick smirk in his face.

Max wanted to punch him.

“Or maybe that’s where Sergeant Metcalfe, call sign Midas, will come in with his golden touch.” Lambert ambled toward him.

The beach bum made a
tss
noise and shook his head. “Nothing golden, just hard work.”

The general’s smile disappeared behind a stern facade. “What is your answer, Lieutenant Jacobs?”

“This is crazy.” What else could he do? Flip burgers at the nearest fast food? What was worth staying here for? No wife. No family. “Fine.” The separation papers told him he had nothing left here anyway. “I’m in.”

“Good.” General Lambert’s smile softened his commando persona. “Look around. The men here are your new brothers, your family. Only they will understand when the horrors of war invade your sleep. Only they will be there when you’re pinned down and need an extraction.

Arms wide, Lambert smiled like a proud father. “Gentlemen, welcome to Nightshade.”

T
his was her worst idea ever.

Okay, maybe not
ever
, but it sure ranked high on the stupidity scale.

But she needed closure.

Maybe that wasn’t really it, either. She just needed … no, she
wanted
to see him. Just one more time. To let him know she didn’t hate him, that he would always have a place in her heart—if he changed.

Sydney gripped the steering wheel tighter as she sat at the red light, her heart thrumming as she glanced at the collage box on the leather passenger seat. Row after row of Max’s medals glared back at her. He never cared about the awards, leaving them scattered over his dresser in the closet. He’d always groused that he’d done his job and didn’t need a shiny piece of metal to tell him that.

But she was proud of him and wanted to do something special, so she’d had them framed for his birthday last year. When she came home from work the next day, it didn’t surprise her to find the box hung—in the closet.

A strange dichotomy worked in Max Jacobs. Pride as hot and pure as molten gold ran through his veins. But not in the way one would think. He didn’t flaunt things. Instead, he held his head high, wouldn’t accept defeat, and resisted counseling for his anger.

She chewed her lip, wondering if she should just turn around right now and head home. Bryce would rake her over the coals if he knew she’d visited Max. While she understood her brother’s protective nature, he didn’t understand her feelings for Max.

Honk! Honk!

Sydney jolted out of her somber thoughts. The light had turned green. With a furtive glance at the delivery truck behind her, she pressed the gas pedal. Winding her way through the tangled streets to Max’s apartment, she swallowed the metallic taste darting over her tongue. A queasy stomach beaded her lip with sweat.

Maybe she should tell him …. If she was right, he deserved to know, didn’t he?

She frowned as she turned onto Parker Drive. Unease skittered down her spine as she took in the rundown street. Surely this wasn’t where Max lived. He’d never approve of such a place and had been downright hostile when she suggested living downtown, stating it wasn’t safe or nice enough.

Chain-link fence separated the street and sidewalk from the apartments. Small cement buildings looked wounded and bleeding with their peeling paint and cracked windows. She licked her lips as she eased the car along the curb in front of a red-brick building. Holding up the paper she’d written his address on, she confirmed the numbers with the weather-worn numbers hanging over the mottled wood.

“Oh, Max,” she whispered, guilt riddling her for living in luxury on the other side of town in their four-bedroom home with granite countertops. Eyes roving the street to verify her safety, she lifted the collage from the seat.

What if he wasn’t home? Maybe she should’ve called.

No. Because if she’d called, she would’ve talked herself out of this. Framed medals clutched to her chest, she climbed from the car, shut the door, and clicked the key fob. The
tweak-tweak
of her alarm gave little confidence the gray crossover would be there when she came back.

As she reached the top step, Sydney stared at the keypad and speaker. She’d have to buzz him to let her in? She blinked. What if he refused? Her gaze traced the dark green paint that split and peeled in more places than not. Just as she turned to press the button, the front door flung open. A man rushed out with barely a glance in her direction as he shouted on a cell phone.

Heart in her throat, she caught the door before it closed and slipped inside the building. Stairs rose directly in front of her, begging her farther into the dank structure. With a breath for courage, she climbed the stairs, cringing at each pop and creak as she made her way to the second floor in the hopes of finding apartment 214.

A minute later, she stood before the black door. Clanging and grunts slithered under the doorjamb in a repetitive fashion. What was he doing in there?

Better knock before you talk yourself out of it
. Rapping on the wood, she held her breath.

A heavy thud was soon followed by three smaller ones. For several seconds, silence reigned. Her gaze flipped to the peephole. It looked new compared to the beaten and worn brass numbers. No doubt Max had installed it—and was looking at her right now. A smile bobbed and fell from her lips. A chain rattled, then a
click
, and the door opened.

Max stood there, shirtless and breathless. “Syd,” he said, his chest heaving—a sheen over his well-toned torso. Behind him, she saw his all-in-one gym. He’d been working out. And it showed. “What’re you doing here?” He frowned and glanced down the hall.

“Don’t worry. I’m alone.”

Now that he wasn’t in the service, he looked so good with his longer hair, sweat dripping off a few strands. Stubble lined his jaw, adding to his rugged appearance. Curse the way the man left her weak in the knees, her stomach churning.

His face darkened. “You’re alone?”

“Don’t worry. Bryce doesn’t know.”

Max hissed. “He’s the last thing I’m worried about. I’ll get my shirt and walk you out.” He turned back into his apartment.

And that’s when she saw it—the streak of still-red scabs down his back and shoulders. She winced and gasped. “What happened to your back?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” Stuffing his arms into a T-shirt, he moved into the hall and locked his door.

“That’s not ‘nothing.’” She stilled when he stepped closer to her. “You had a bike accident, didn’t you?”

One side of his mouth curled upward as he hooked her elbow and led her down the hall. “Something like that.”

“Did you see a doctor?”

He stopped and cocked his head to the side, his dark eyes penetrating her reserve. “You’re worried about me.”

“Of course I’m worried. Just because this … this thing is happening doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.”

Max tucked his chin, tension radiating from him. “This
thing
is divorce. A petition
you
filed.”

Ignoring the way her chin quivered, she shoved the collage toward him. “I brought this over. It’s the last of your things. I thought you’d want it.”

Max glanced down at the box then at her. Irritation crowded the concern that had lingered only moments earlier. Slowly, he took it. “Syd,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.