Nightshade (Discarded Heroes) (7 page)

“Frogman?”

Metal glinted from the side.

Rolling right, Max called, “Kill him! Take him!” He heard the colonel’s unsteady moves behind him. He pawed for the M4—felt warm steel.

Fire seared through his shoulder from behind. “Argh!” He drove his elbow backward. Made contact with the guy’s gut. Max spun with his arm drawn back to pummel the man.

Crack! Crack!

The colonel stilled. Dropped. Crumpled on the ground, two dark stains smeared through his uniform shirt. Max flipped the man over. Straddling the fat body, he waited with his fist poised to strike as he watched the lifeless eyes, waiting for the man to come to or steal a second life to finish off Max. Finally satisfied the guy was dead, he dropped him and staggered to his feet.

Max stumbled away, clutching his left shoulder. “He’s down.” He swiped his weapon from the ground and stepped into the hot night.

Exultant cheers burst out, stopping him. He gazed at the fifty-plus villagers smiling as they pumped fists in the air amid shouts of victory. A tall, lanky woman ambled toward him with a small boy perched on her hip. She gave Max a medallion and kissed his cheek, mumbling something in her language.

A man came forward. “She thanks you for saving her, the children. All of us.”

Max nodded, disconcerted as he stared at the medallion, then tucked it in his pocket. Someone touched his shoulder—pain ripped through him. He hissed and jerked away.

“I’ll get this taken care of, Frogman.”

Max tightened his muscles and glared at Fix. “I’m good.”

“Sorry, ese.” Fix grinned. “You don’t make that choice. As the only certified medic, I’m the doc. I outrank you in this case.”

He considered challenging the medic.

But the nod from the PJ reminded him they were a team. They’d successfully freed not only this village, but every other one along the river’s edge, from the tyranny of a gluttonous, perverted Janjaweed leader.

They’d done good. Real good. For the first time in a very long time, he experienced a sensation almost lost to him. Pride.

No, he wouldn’t challenge his own men. They were a team.

They were Nightshade.

A village near the island of Mindanao, Philippines

M
oonlight skidded and danced over the night-darkened waters of the Indian Ocean. Like a meditation fountain in one of the nearby villages, water lapped softly against the rocks below. Jonathan Harris lowered himself to a moss-covered boulder and rested his forearms on his knees. The thick air pressed upon him as heavily as the daunting awareness of what the sun’s rise would bring. Departure.

Back to the States. Plucked from the missionary life, from the hearts of the people he’d grown to love as his own family. All thanks to the guerilla coup overrunning the villages. Island Hope Foundation had been given two days to clear off the small island. The U.S. Embassy had ordered them out immediately, or they would be abandoned to their own devices.

Leaving wasn’t an option. When the notification came, Jonathan had talked with his wife, Kimber. They both agreed God had brought them here for a reason. Jonathan just hadn’t figured out what that was yet.

But then IHF received the daunting news that if any of their team stayed and lost everything in an attack, their primary pockets in the States and Britain would wash their hands of the project. Sometimes, Peter Jordan had muttered over the webcam, God uses common sense as much as the divine. And to Peter, common sense was clearing out until things settled.

This would be a good time to pray. Jonathan let out a long sigh and closed his eyes. Mentally, he trained his mind to silence, preparing to set his cares and heart before the Lord. With another breath, he … slumped.

Pray. How could he? They’d come to one of the many small islands surrounding the larger island of Mindanao to stay, to make their home among the inhabitants and be a witness, a living testament to God’s love. Now they were supposed to just walk out? Where was God in that?

Frustration pressed on him as he gazed over the lush tropical vegetation. The dull glow of the moon peeked through palm fronds waving under the tease of an ocean breeze. Kimber had given birth fifteen months ago to Maecel, the first of the children they hoped to have and raise on the island. This was home. Their home.

Jon rubbed his knuckles.
I don’t understand, God
. He smirked and let out a soft snort. Wasn’t that the way? Despite the Bible clearly stating the impossibility of comprehending the mind of God, humankind persisted in trying. So maybe man was essentially trying to drag God down to his level.

God in a box.

His heart twisted and knotted.
Forgive me, Lord
. He propped his forehead in his hand.

Snapping twigs drew him round.

Emerging from between two palms trunks, Kimber glided toward him. Even after four years of marriage, she still set his heart racing. “I thought I’d find you here,” she whispered and drew closer.

“You should be in bed,” he mumbled, turning back to the ocean glittering before them. “Is Maecel asleep?”

“Finally. Imee took over for me about an hour ago; you know how she loves Maecel.”

“She’s a good woman.” A friend they’d made, and now God would tear them apart.

Kimber eased down on the stone sloping gently up behind him and pressed her soft form against his back. Arms wrapped around his waist, she rested against him. “God knows what He’s doing, Jon.”

Brushing his palms together, he nodded. “He always does.” Still didn’t make any sense. Rarely had since the guerilla uprisings. “We wanted to make our lives here.”

Kimber sat quietly.

He’d always treasured her gift and ability to listen, to see beyond the surface. “Why would He send us out here then yank us back before we can get the orphanage built? Or stock the school?”

“I don’t know,” she mumbled.

Jon looked over his shoulder and eyed her. She sounded down—she was rarely down. “You okay?”

After a lengthy pause, she sighed. “I’ve wrestled with Him—with this relocation—long enough.” The sparkling water reflected in her eyes. Eyes that pooled with tears.

Jon shifted on the rock and reached back for her. “Kim, what is it?”

Nuzzled into his shoulder, she cried.

She’d been his rock, his strength. Even when things had become tough, Kimber always remained steadfast. To have her trembling in his arms, to feel the fear he’d been battling shaking her body tore at everything in him. Jon gritted his teeth. He drove his gaze to the star-littered sky.
God, where are You in all this?

Warm wetness soaked his shirt as his beloved clung to him. “I ….” She shuddered, sniffling. “Why do I feel like I’m never going to see them again?”

“Shh.” He stroked her soft blond hair. “We’ll only be gone until this chaos settles. We’ll return as soon as the U.S. okays it.”

“But what if it’s too late?”

He pulled back and cupped her face, peering into the dark eyes that had long captivated him. “You’re the one who always tells me God is never late.”

Head hung, she leaned into him. “I know. I’m not sure why I’m having such a hard time with this. Something just feels different.”

He hated the worry lacing her words and face. Desperate to ease the tension, he changed the subject. “The last time you said that, you were pregnant.”

She slapped his side playfully. “That is not the case this time, Jonathan Harris.”

Shouts from the hidden path yanked them both to their feet. Instinctively, he tucked Kimber behind him, bracing himself. Had guerillas already found them? Was it too late for them? Was the only key to survival surrender?

“Jon! Jon!” Datu rushed from the bushes, his eyes wide and a fist clenching a machete. “You must come. Fast!”

Tension kinked Jon’s muscles.

“Come. Hurry! They here.” He shuffled back to the path and waved Jon with him.

Grabbing Kimber’s hand, Jon followed the tribal chief’s son up the winding path into the hills. “What is it?” he asked, using their ancient tongue.

“They kill many. Everywhere in village. Kill all. Hurry!”

The guerillas. After all these months, the guerillas had finally set upon the village? Jon broke into a sprint, darting around vines, shrubs, and bushes, his heart already engaged in the fight. He prayed, his heart seeking the courage of David in battle; his mind, the wisdom of Solomon.

Screams pierced the night. An odd thick haze swarmed through the bushes.
Fire!
Crackling trailed his realization, the sounds of the fire licking and no doubt consuming the bamboo huts.

Jon leaped over a large rock—the last barrier into the village. In that airborne second, he saw and heard a dozen armed gunmen snaking through the raised huts shouting.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

Gunfire punctured the chaos and stabbed into Jon’s awareness as his feet skidded across the dirt path between two huts. He dropped to a low crouch, ducking behind a large basket. On his knees, he squinted under a hut toward the hub of the village.

A nightmare unveiled before him. Two men dragged Leili, a girl of no more than twelve, around a corner. She screamed and kicked, tears forming dark rivulets down her face. Jon’s stomach churned—only to threaten to heave when he made out the still form of Leili’s brother prostrated and … decapitated.

Jon jerked his gaze down.
Father!
Shouts pulled him out of his desperate cry. His heart leaped into his throat at the sight of a woman cowering under the powerful grip of a guerilla who aimed an AK-47 at her face. Imee!

Oh no. If that man had Imee, where was Maecel? At that instant, Imee locked eyes with him. And she darted a look toward the hut he’d shared with Kimber for the last two years. A burst of adrenaline shot through his veins at the hope that Maecel was still alive. Slithering around the large fire pit, he made his way toward his home. Less than twenty feet separated him from his daughter.

An infant’s wail sliced through him.

Two gunmen swung around, AK-47s seemingly sniffing the air for the infant’s scent.

Jon dove for cover as Maecel’s cries shattered his careful approach. He scrabbled under a hut and worked his way to the other side, hoping the soldiers didn’t see him. Dirt poofed into his face with each labored breath as he shimmied toward the steps and dragged himself halfway up the plank that formed a ramp into the hut. Amid the flurry of noises and scents, he peered into the darkened hut, past the thick smoke plumes from a nearby hut engulfed in flames. No soldiers. No Maecel. Nothing moved.

Oh, please no
. They couldn’t have found her. He dropped to his knees, the wood digging into his flesh. With his hands, he probed the blankets and simple furnishings for his plump daughter. Heavy breaths pounded his chest. Acrid odors filled his nostrils. His throat burned.

Maecel wailed. Near!

Where was she? He scampered to the far side, in the direction of her cries. There, in the oversized bassinet behind the rocking chair! He scurried to her writhing form beneath a small blanket.

As Jon scooped her into his arms, boards creaked behind him and a beam of light fractured the dark void. Someone had joined him.

Holding Maecel tight, Jon silently prayed as he turned. Two soldiers stood at the opening, machetes and AK-47s in hand. Another tramped up the plank, shouting.

One sneered at him, a rotted tooth mingling with the gray smoke. “Allah say kill all who will not convert.”

M
angeni Zisero?” Sydney stood on the stoop of the row house, shivering even beneath the warmth of her thick wool coat.

An ebony-skinned woman nudged the door open. “Yes?”

“My name is Sydney Jacobs,” she said, offering her hand. “I’m with the
Virginia Independent.”