Silence dropped on the Shack.
“Where’s Max Jacobs?”
As the question streaked through the warehouse, Max registered a red glow in the far corner. Even as he noticed it, he heard a beep. Another. His gaze darted to the source of the noise. Two men were walking the perimeter, their M16s dangling as they raised their arms and pressed something against the supports. Arms lowered and the men stepped back revealing gray bricks with wires.
Explosives.
Gotta stop this. Do something. His gaze collided with Cowboy’s. The big lug gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
Max’s nostrils flared as he wrestled with what to do.
“Where’s Dighton?”
How do they know our names?
“Dead,” someone answered.
Pulled back into the shadows, Max clenched his eyes and bit down on his tongue. Dighton was dead. What about Aladdin—had he survived the fall?
Sirens wailed in the distance.
“Load ‘em up.”
“What about Jacobs?”
“Outta time.” The leader left as the gunmen dragged the team out of the building.
Stealthily, Max held on to the box and sprinted the length of the hall to the side of the Shack. In the conference room, he plunged toward the window. Craned his neck to peek out. Three vehicles—twin white vans and a black town car.
The guys were loaded into the van and one into the car.
The leader shifted, held something out, then it wavered.
Detonator.
Max spun around, searching for an out. Doors. Only one way down—the stairs. But they led to the bay, which would be engulfed.
Windows. Overlooked the dock. The canal. It was January. The water would be brutally cold. His split-second assessment told him no matter what route he took, it’d be deadly. Despite his training, if he didn’t find shelter out of the water once he broke surface, he’d die an ice cube. If he stayed, he’d die a fireball.
Good thing SEALs are insulated against cold water.
Max vaulted toward the window, hurtling the computer through the window. The glass shattered as a violent force blasted through the air. It lifted him. Up…up…Flipped him. Searing pain sliced through his arm. Heat stroked his back and legs. Fire chased him out of the building. Into the night.
Boom!
Another wave slammed into him. Threw him backward. Toward the water.
Something punched his gut. Knocked the breath from his lungs.
Bright white lit the night. Blinded him. Then—almost instantaneously—black. Pure black. And he was falling…down…down.…
CHAPTER 2
Shanganagh Cemetery Shankill, Dublin Ireland
Life and death had much in common with the clump of dirt in her hand: They were cold and hard. What difference did it make to be alive? Other than the fact one could sense the hurt, the pain that infected this world. On the other side—if one believed that sort of thing—you didn’t care about those toiling through time. Pain was abandoned. Hardships forgotten. People loved a distant memory. Sorrow gone. Respite found.
You lucked out this time, Tina.
Squatting beside the mound of dirt, Kazi Faron rubbed the earthen material between her fingers. The pieces fell from her palm and were carried away by the wind. Just like life. Rubbed the wrong way, it vanished.
She stared down at the narrow angular box. A bitter wind swirled and nipped at her cheeks as she lingered, ignoring the shovel-wielding men huddled against the frigid weather, waiting to fill in the hole.
Waiting to fill the hole.
One that would never be filled.
Her breath puffed. Snowflakes danced and fluttered, a final peaceful adieu to the woman who would never draw another breath. Never feel the cold air. Never give another caustic laugh. Never…nothing.
Kazi closed her eyes and let out an agonizing breath. It should have been me. Molars clamped, she shoved down the torrent of emotions ready to regurgitate her fury. Her throat burned. Tears stung her eyes.
A blast of icy air whipped at her. Poking her, pointing out her guilt. White flakes, fat and plentiful, freezing her heart. Her soul.
A strange peace encompassed her, steeling her with purpose.
Another gust of wind, pushed up off the coast, whipped at the land on the other side of the tall hedgerow on the far end of the cemetery, hitting her. And with it came a laugh. Kazi blinked and looked around the rows of headstones, pulse hopscotching at the sound. “Tina?” The name was out before the idiocy of saying it registered.
The dead don’t talk.
But memories lived forever. And Tina’s laugh…Annoying and infectious, it’d rippled through the club on their first meeting, drawing Kazi to her. It’d been her luck to have to rout her accomplice from a steampunk club in the middle of London.
“And who are you to be tellin’ me what I’d be doing? The Queen Mum?” The girl’s shrill voice carried easily over the throbbing music. She leaned across a beefy man and grabbed a glass of white foam-topped black liquid and took a gulp.
“Shut up and move” had been the reply quickest on Kazi’s tongue. But she thought better of it, spotting the bulge under the arm of the oaf. A weapon.
“Her first cousin, twice removed, then added again.” Kazi had never taken cheek from anyone. She wouldn’t from this wiry girl with nose and eyebrow piercings. But she needed her for the gig. Carrick had insisted on them pairing to finish the job. “Her paramour, Lord Carrick himself, says we need to talk.”
Slowly as the girl’s gaze roamed Kazi’s conservative black jeans, black jacket, and cross-trainers, the smile and amusement drifted away on the thumping bass that vibrated the cement floor. Even amid the raucous noise of the nightlife, the sound of the girl’s glass slamming against the table drew the gazes of those around them. She pushed to her feet, albeit wobbly.
Great, a drunk.
She swallowed—hard. Leaned into Kazi, tucking her chin. “Carrick?”
So, the girl understood. Maybe this would work.
Kazi nodded.
“Well.” The girl smoothed down her bustier-styled top, her bosom heaving over the top, then adjusted her wildly absurd hat with a massive purple plume. “Can’t keep the good lover waiting, can we?” A shaky smile lit her eyes.
“Oy!” The beefy guy grabbed the girl’s shirt and yanked her down. “Who says you’re leaving?”
In the space of one strobe-light flash, a knife glinted in the girl’s hand as she pressed it to the man’s neck. “I’m thinking it’s me friend, Mr. Gerber, here that does.”
The guy raised his hands and eyebrows as he leaned away from the blade.
On her feet, the girl jerked her head to the left. “Let’s go, cousin.” Without missing a beat, she plunged through the pulsating club.
Kazi followed. What sort of crazy had Carrick linked her to this time? Names meant nothing, Kazi knew that. Or at least she should. But when she’d heard Kristina Kelley, she’d expected someone a bit more…tame. The vitals told her Kelley was a Dubliner. And in the minutes Kazi had been in the club, it was obvious the girl was at home in the throngs, in the chaos. Kazi could relate. Here one could find anonymity. A twisted but comforting security. Nobody knew your identity. Nobody could—
Wait.
They were going the wrong way. Kazi glanced back over her shoulder, over the bobbing heads, past the chandelier sparkling with red, blue, and yellow lights, to the towering arched double-doors and the envious eyes of those still trying to gain entrance peeking in past the bouncers.
She looked back to Kelley—enveloped by the dancing crowd. Her purple plume waved a good twenty feet ahead of Kazi.
“Hey!” She shoved through the bodies, hurrying after the girl. Kazi cursed herself for letting this much distance grow. Each foot gave the girl precious minutes to find a place to lay in wait. She’d been led into a trap before. And this felt a lot like one. Out in the warm London air, Kazi stopped short. A dark alley met her. Lampli
ght to her right, maybe fifty feet. A hiss of a cat to her left. A trash bin. But no Kristina Kelley.
The gentle rustle of a tulle skirt behind her.
Kazi spun, saw the blur of movement, and threw herself up into the air. Pulled her arms into her chest, rolled her shoulders, twisting up and out of reach with an aerial. She landed, hands up, ready to fight as she crouched.
Wide eyes held hers. Then…laughter. Annoying, infectious laughter. “That was brilliant!” Kristina launched at her—
Kazi readied for a fight.
Arms wrapped around her.
She tensed.
The girl squeezed, then released. Stepped back, grinning like the Cheshire cat.
A hug?
“I know I’m going to like you. I’m Tina.” The girl slapped Kazi’s shoulder. “What’s the gig?”
The clearing of a throat snapped Kazi from the past. A man in a wool coat and hat jerked his gaze from hers to the ground and coughed into his hand.
She grabbed a fistful of dirt and punched to her feet, gaze locked on the simple pine box. Kazi stood over the hole and extended her arm. “I’ll make him pay, Tina.” She let the earth slip from her fingers. She just needed one lucrative assignment to fund her retirement and revenge.
Thump. The sound of the dirt hitting the box pounded into her chest, riveting the resolution to her heart.
“For every…”
Thump-thump.
“…single…”
Thump-thump. Thud.
“…drop of blood.”
Near the Shack
The burn radiated through every muscle in his chest as Max hovered fifteen feet below water. With a hand clamped over his right thigh, he focused not on the fire in his leg from the metal embedded there, or the fire in his chest from oxygen deprivation, but on the figures standing on the dock. Backlit by the raging inferno once called the Shack, the men were easily detectible in this murky water.
It’d been more than two minutes since he’d submerged. His best time in BUD/S was just shy of three. That was when he was in shape. He grimaced and trained his mind away from the throb in his skull that demanded he take a breath.
Finally, the figures faded.
Max eased himself to the surface, clinging to the wall of tires padding the cement wall. Though he wanted to haul in a deep breath, doing so could alert the tangos. Across the canal, his team was loaded into two vehicles. Four armed guards kept their weapons pointed at Cowboy and Midas as they carried a limp Aladdin between them.
Max flared his nostrils. Gotta do something. Max hustled up the tire wall and flopped onto the dock. He rolled, cringing as the metal chunk sticking out of his leg pressed against the ground. He stumbled to his feet and hobbled to an alcove that concealed a door.
Shouts and curses leaped into the night, snapping Max’s attention to a sleek black limo where three men wrestled the Kid into the back.
Water dripping down his face, he appraised his leg. The steel went deep. If it hit an artery and he pulled it out, he was as good as dead. Spine pressed into the corner, he wished for Midas’s quick healing touch.
Engines roared into the night. Once again, Max watched. Waited. He didn’t want to expose his location. Watching as the vehicles vanished in the night with his men, Max fisted a hand and pressed it to his lips. Whoever had done this, whoever attacked them, killed Dighton—they’d pay. Max hated not being with the guys, but not being captured improved the chances of stopping whatever was happening.
But right now he had to get word to Lambert. To do that, he had to get out of here and find a phone. Mode of transportation?
My bike. Was it still stowed under the main bay? He’d always parked it there because it was a safe spot, tucked out of sight. Would it be that easy?
Probably not. But he’d be a fool not to check since he had no other way out of here.
First—he had to take care of the leg. He lowered himself to the ground, stretched out his leg, then tore off a stretch of his shirt. Once he wrapped the jagged piece with the shirt, he braced himself—and pulled.
“Augh!” Max clamped his mouth shut. Warmth gushed down his thigh. Teeth clenched, he snapped out the strip of shirt, dislodging the metal, and quickly wrapped the shirt around his leg to stem the bleeding. He pulled it tight, again groaning through the searing fire that lit up and down his body. A metallic flavor glanced over his tongue. Blowing out a breath through his mouth, he ignored the heat flush that swept his body and climbed to his feet.
Smoke and ash filled the sky, burning his eyes. That was nothing on what looking at the Shack did to him. Years of camaraderie. Missions. It wasn’t the Hilton, but it was their five-star hotel after a mission. Nothing like coming home to familiar territory.
Now it was gone.
Since it’d take three times the energy to hobble around the pier to the burning Shack, Max opted to go to water. After all, he was a SEAL. At the edge of the pier, he considered the tires. And then his leg. No climbing. It’d be slow and messy.
Backward, he toed the edge—most of his balance on his left leg—and pinched his nostrils, the other arm crossed over his chest, and stepped off. He dropped. Water engulfed him. He launched toward the surface. Although he was sure the tangos were gone, he kept his movements fluid and quiet as he approached the dock nestled against the Shack’s burning frame.
Heat intensified as did the smoke. In the distance, he heard the sirens. He hauled himself up over the edge and rolled, coming up and into a clumsy jog. Avoiding the flames that punched out of the broken windows and now-missing walls, Max made his way to the parking bay.
Dripping wet, he should be okay against the flames as long as he avoided a personal encounter. He hoisted his shirt up over his nose. Glass and ash crunched beneath his boots as he made his way to the cementlike vault where he’d stowed the Hayabusa. He struck a hunk of twisted metal, pain darting up his throbbing leg. He bit down on the curse that wanted to leap out. Steadying his breathing, he eyed the area beneath the stairs, which had collapsed. But the hole looked intact. He hobbled closer.
The sleek black form came into view. Besides some dents, the bike had survived. With a breathy laugh, he patted it. Good. Good, now…weapons.
He coughed and looked toward the locker room.
Correction. Where the locker room used to be.
The warehouse roof groaned and wailed as it gave up its final beam. It fell silently. A series of explosions ripped through the building.
Max dove under the cement well, stuffing himself beside his bike.
Boom! Crack! Pop-pop!
Metal and steel twisted as it descended, effectively caging him in the hole.
Not good!
Max shoved the metal with his foot. It gave a little.
He scooted himself down and shoved again.
Just a little more.
On his feet, he leaned against the steel rafter. It wouldn’t budge. God, I need a break here! He coughed, tears streaming down his cheeks from the smoke and ash.
Grooooaaaann.
The beam swung out of the way.
Max stared, stunned. What the…?
As he turned back to his bike, a form coalesced to the right.
Max threw a fist.
The form dodged it and came up, fists up, one foot back—ready. “What was that for, mate?”
Stumbling backward, Max blinked and coughed. “Dighton?”
The man nodded and waved him out. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
Hurrying back to his bike, Max swept the kickstand free and rolled it backward. Sirens shrieked over the din of noise from the raging warehouse. Lights flashed and swirled, mingling with the fire and smoke.
“This way.” Dighton tugged on Max’s arm.
When he started away, Max saw the M4 slung across his back. Where’d he get that? The image of the collapsed locker room where they’d stowed their gear after the mission filled his mind.
They jogged toward what used to be a main wall. Dighton st
epped over a steel brace and waited as Max popped the bike’s front tire over the twelve-inch beam. Max doubled over, coughing, as he trudged forward with his bike.
“Phone,” Max said with a gasp. Then coughed. “Lambert.”
“Already sent the distress call.” Dighton squatted beside a Dumpster, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Tires crunched. Not close, but then again, entirely too close. Fingers of light traced the buildings as if pointing to Max and Dighton.
“We need to move.” Max straddled the bike, which wasn’t built for two, but they’d have to make it work. They were all that was left of Nightshade, and they had to stick together. Figure this out. Get the team back. Make whoever did this feel a lot of pain. A whole lot. Dead was too good for these thugs.
With Dighton behind him, Max ignored the pain stabbing his leg and ripped the gear. They screeched down the alley, aimed to the right, away from the warehouse. In the side mirror, Max took one last, long look at the Shack. Burned down. Burned into his memory.
They rode up the highway for a dozen miles, then Max aimed into the national park, hoping for some anonymity and quiet to think and plan. At a picnic bench, he killed the engine and rolled to a stop. They sat on the cement bench, surrounded by the rustle of trees and insects.
“They knew who we were,” Dighton said.
“My wife. Gotta call…my wife.” Only as he straightened and hauled in a long draught of clean air and cleared his throat did he see the mess someone had made of Dighton’s face.
Dighton rested his forearms on the table. “They tried to spill my brains. Took me for dead and left. The bullet only grazed my cheekbone.” He smirked. “They’re good, but I’m better.” Cocking his head, he lifted his shoulder and smeared the blood off his face.
“I need to get to a phone.”
Dighton slid a cell phone over the table. “They’re probably being monitored.”
“It won’t matter.” He punched in the number to Syd’s cell. “We need weapons, too.”
Dighton stood and lifted a Glock from each side of his pants. From the back, he drew out an M4. “When they dragged Colton out, I grabbed these and climbed out the window.”
Firethorn (Discarded Heroes) Page 3
