Wolfsbane (5 page)

Shoulders up, the Coastie looked between Olin and Langston, then slowly nodded. “Yes, sir. My brother—older by a year, and I never let him forget it.”

Sibling rivalry. He wasn’t surprised. “I don’t doubt that.” With a knowing grin, he pushed through the room. And froze.

A frail slip of a woman sat curled on her side, legs drawn close under the pale blue blanket she’d pulled over her shoulders. Her gaze rested on the bank of windows overlooking the city, but the vacant expression told him her mind wrestled somewhere else. Dark brown hair hung down her back, stringy and tangled as if she’d showered but never combed it.

She hadn’t flinched at his entrance. Or turned to see who entered. Did she even hear him?

He took a few tentative steps to bring himself into her direct view.

No response.

“Danielle?”

She blinked. Her eyes darted to the floor, where they skidded and leapt from one object to another.

Noting her nervous reaction, Olin lowered himself into the vinyl chair nestled under the window. His heart sagged at her gaunt face, her right eye swollen shut. Her lower lip ballooned and cut. Butterfly stitches winged over her eyebrow and another on her chin.

If Jacqueline saw her once-vibrant daughter haunted and distant like this, she would roll over in her grave.
I’ve failed you, Jacqueline
.

Tucking aside his shock, he scooted to the edge of the seat. “Danielle, it’s me, Olin Lambert.” He set his hat on the table next to her bed.

She followed his movement, her gaze staying on the hat.

He rested his forearms on his knees. “You’re home, Danielle. Back in America.”

His chest thumped, remembering CPO Metcalfe’s description:
“clothed only in an army jacket.”
Everything paternal and primal rose up. He fought the urge to go to her, wrap this young woman in his
arms, and promise to avenge whatever had happened. But the Coastie’s comment about her not allowing anyone to touch her kept him seated.

The clock over the door ticked down the minutes in the haunting quiet. Olin thanked God there wasn’t a window in the door because Langston would no doubt have his face glued to it.

“I’ll wait, Danielle,” he said, keeping his tone soft, fatherly. “You asked for me; I’m here.” Sitting back, he crossed his legs. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Silently, he prayed. Prayed hard. That God would reach into this woman, stop her from disappearing from reality and delving into madness and delirium that sometimes happened to those who endured captivity.

After nearly thirty minutes of silence and one interruption when Langston peeked in and Olin gave a grave, glowering shake of his head, Danielle let the blanket fall from her shoulder. She pushed out of the bed and plodded to the small bathroom in flannel pajamas and bare feet. Bent over the sink, she cupped her hand under the stream and sipped.

Olin stood. Did she need a drink? He looked at the pitcher by her bed. Should he offer water from it? When he glanced back to her, she stood over the toilet, hunched. A minute later, a gagging noise clenched his stomach.

“Danielle!” He rushed to her side. “Are you ill?” Only then did he notice she had a hand in her mouth. “What’re you doing?”

A demonic-like sound erupted.
Splat!
Vomit launched from her mouth and hit the commode, wall, and floor. A long string of orangeish spittle dangled from her mouth—wait, no! Not spittle. A string, tethered to something.

His own stomach roiled as he watched her unhook it from her teeth. Spitting in the sink, she held the thing in her hand. An acidic stench devoured the air. The smell proved sickening, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the object.

Stunned, he waited as she peeled back what looked like film from … some gray thing. His pulse ratcheted. A thumb drive! His gaze shot to hers.

Danielle cupped water, slurped, swished, then spit. Delicately patting the edges of her injured mouth with the back of her hand, she turned to him. And stretched out her hand, palm open with the device.

Cold, dark, unfeeling eyes came to his. “Everything you need to kill him.”

CHAPTER 2

S
tacked on either side of the point of entry Nightshade waited. The seven members of the team were split into two groups—Alpha Team, led by Max, and Bravo Team, led by Colton “Cowboy” Neeley. They’d been a team for less than two years and when Reyes died, that left them one man down. Instead of merely replacing body count, the Old Man added two former spec ops men to Nightshade. Duty demanded the team work efficiently and with stealth. They’d trained for weeks.

Today would decide if they were ready to face an enemy with cohesion.

After a firm nod, Max trained his gaze on the point of entry. Griffin “Legend” Riddell, who had helped put the team together, stood behind him and patted his shoulder, signaling readiness. Max took a step back, raised his foot, and rammed the heel of his boot into the door. Vibrations rattled through his leg as the door flung open, hinges groaning. Dust filled the air. He snapped up his weapon and supplied cover as Legend moved forward and tossed in a flash-bang.

“Flash out!” Legend returned to the stacked position.

As the
tink-tink-tink
of the canister seemed to count down the seconds to its detonation, Max focused on the dimly lit corridor beckoning them. Itching to take them down.

He glanced aside for a second, waiting for the white-hot flash of the detonation.

Boom!

A gust of warm wind and dust rushed from the building, as if fleeing the chaos descending upon it.

Familiar with the precision and maneuvering required to clear a building and not shoot or kill one of his own, Max hustled across the
threshold. He went right, crisscrossing the point of entry with Legend, and buttonhooked.

A tango leapt from the corner.
Tat-tat-tat!

The target fell.

“Tango down,” Max called as he swept his gaze until it intersected with Legend’s line of fire.

“Copy.” Legend didn’t hesitate. “Clear.”

The rustle of tactical pants and the soft squeak of boots on the dirty vinyl floor helped Max keep tabs on the team as they filed into the boxed corridor.

He rushed past a kneeling Legend who held a corner, his weapon aimed across the L-shaped juncture that fed them into the rest of the building. The hostages were believed to be in Red Three on the upper level. First order of business: clear Blue Two, Three, Four and find the stairs.

Back to the plaster, Max sidled up to the corner where yet another hall presented itself. T intersection. Not good. They’d have two routes to address in tandem and not get killed.

First things first. The hall that banked to the right. It could hold numerous tangos. Or none.

Canyon “Midas” Metcalfe pied out, starting at the left and sweeping in an arc to the right. He pied out as far as possible, moving forward to increase his angle of fire farther into the dead space, Marshall “the Kid” Vaughn right behind him. The former Army Ranger had grown up a lot since the team’s first days together.

Keeping tabs on Cowboy allowed Max to slip into position at the corner, trusting the man would alert them to trouble before anyone ended up exposed. He signaled back to Legend to cover the far corner where they were blind to make sure more tangos didn’t pop up.

Finally, Midas stopped pieing. He paused, squeezed his eyes, then shook his head and continued.

What was that?
With the muzzle of his weapon almost flush with the corner, Max knelt. More rustling brought up the rear as Alpha and Bravo fell into place. He felt the presence of Legend and Aladdin at his six. He nodded his readiness.

“Move!” Midas hissed.

Simultaneously they entered the dead space. A sniper, Cowboy’s movements were stealthy and silent as he hurried forward. Max stayed on his knee, pivoting around the corner, sighting shadows, dust, smoke, searching for—

Tat-tat-tat!

Cowboy fired before the dust cleared enough for Max to spot the tango flipping around the corner at the other end of the corridor. “Tango down.”

Using hand signals, Max sent Bravo Team snaking down the hall in a bound-and-cover approach. They’d already met with resistance, so caution should be exercised more than ever.

With the others executing their plan, Max prompted his team to proceed. On his feet, he hustled forward. At the T intersection he waited, knowing Legend had swept to the opposite side. Max and Legend cleared their immediate areas along their respective walls, starting from the corner and continuing to the farthest. For Max, that meant staring down a door marked S
TAIRS
. The hostages should be up there.

Poised to the left of the door, Max nodded to Aladdin, who provided cover for their six.

Like before, they teamed up and provided protective cover as Max busted open the door. His heart rammed into his lungs as he sighted figures at the opposite end of the hall. He got a bead on the closest.

“Friendly, friendly!” Cowboy’s whispered call stayed Max’s trigger finger.

He blew out a breath. Stairs now. It’d been an easy insertion so far. No doubt they’d meet heavy opposition up that stairwell. Max stalked onward. Up the stairs he went, sweeping his weapon side to side, checking for ledges where bad guys could take out the team. He knew from instinct, from training with these men, that Legend was one step behind him, covering.

Despite their efforts to remain stealthy, the iron stairs rattled as the guys followed. Reaching the point just before he could be engaged from above, Max turned around and covered overhead, searching for an opening, an opportunity for someone to take his head off or add another hole. Sure enough, a clear angle.

Tension mounted. Quick and quiet, he blew out another breath. Another step. He ascended stepping backward. Ever so carefully … backward … covering the side and above. Legend still covered him and a sea of tactical gear snaked upward. Fluid. Smooth. Man, he loved this team. At the top, Max shifted to cover overhead as Legend remained front oriented.

Groan!

Max snapped his weapon to the right as something flew up. He fired. The tango collapsed. “Tango down.”

Like an undammed river, the team flooded onto the second level. Left and right engagements ensued with multiple “tango down” calls. Partitions and cubicle walls created a nightmare of a logistical challenge. As chaos fell quiet, he heard it.

Whimpering and grunts carried through the air.

The sounds drew him onward. Adrenaline sped through his veins. Bravo Team swept wide left, coming around the back side of the stairwell.

Alpha team cleared right. Then left.
The place is like a maze
. With each advance, the rooms brightened. A window? Light? Hopes rose. Had to be close now. Another L intersection. He stepped around—

Snapped back, his pulse drumming. Held up a closed fist, eyed the team. Nightshade had grouped into strategic positions, all within a dozen feet of each other. Working in teams they protected the hostages but also themselves—no friendly fire.

His split-second recon revealed the scene that faced them. A brightly lit open space. Though the floodlights worked to blind him, he used hand signals to relay the layout, as he could decipher it: Two tangos guarding three hostages. In the corner. Guns to the hostages’ heads.

Legend nodded.

Max whipped into the open.

Flashes of movement. Max nailed a tango to the right of a hostage. He buttonhooked as more gunfire rattled off and cordite filled the air. Smoke and dust spiraled through the blinding setup.

A shadow flickered to the extreme left. Max turned.

So did Legend.

In the second it took Legend to turn, panic spiked through Max.

As if in a slow-frame action shot like a cheap movie, he saw the scene unfold. Saw Legend’s finger coiled in the trigger well. Saw the shadow take shape. And saw
who
it was.

“No!”

Tat-tat-tat! Tat-tat-tat-tat!

Max lunged, slammed Legend’s weapon down. “Hold your fire!”

The reel skipped into real time.

Aladdin stepped from the far side.

“Hold your fire. Hold fire!” Max made sure the entire team saw his raised fist. “It’s over.” Well, at least the drill. The fury roiling off Legend was a totally different thing. When Lambert intro’d the new guys, Legend had been more than clear about his feelings regarding
John “Squirt” Dighton and Azzan “Aladdin” Yasir, especially the latter.

“Fool!” Puffed up and tensed, Legend cursed. “What’re you doing over there?”

Shrugging, Aladdin pointed to the walled space from which he’d appeared. “Half dozen tangos waiting in ambush for the team.”

It seemed Legend’s chest and biceps swelled. “You should be with the team!” He stormed forward. “
With
them,
protecting
them.”

When Legend clenched his fists, Max leapt in front of him. “Hold up, stop.”

“I just saved every man on this team.” Aladdin raised his arms. “What’s your problem?”

Brows slamming down and whites of his eyes practically glowing, Legend took another step forward. “You want to know my problem?”