Firethorn (Discarded Heroes)

by Kendig, Ronie

  Unease slid through Max’s gut. Was it too clean? Too perfect the way Dighton had escaped when the others said he was dead? That he came away with weapons?

  As the call connected, Max stared at the Aussie for a long, hard second.

  Squirt frowned. “What?”

  “Whose side are you on, Dighton?”

  Rrrinng.

  “You must be out of your mind to question my loyalty.” He pointed to his face. “Look at this!”

  “Convenient graze.”

  Rrrrrinng.

  Come on, Syd. Pick up.

  “Hey, I’m a SEAL. An American. A member of Nightshade. Since when do I get the long walk off the short pier?” He punched to his feet.

  So did Max…only he stumbled because of his leg.

  “You don’t trust me? Is that what this is about?” Dighton reached toward him.

  Max brushed the hand away. “Step off, Dighton.”

  “Hi, baby. What’s up?” Syd’s voice sailed through the line.

  “Syd”—Max pointed Dighton away—“Hey, babe. Listen—“

  “No, Dillon. Hang on, Max.”

  “No, Syd.” Max’s pulse thumped. “Syd!”

  She must’ve lowered the phone, because her voice sounded distant.

  Dighton scowled as he stepped closer. “Hey, I’m one of us, remember?”

  “Yeah?” Max angled the device away from his face. “Well, one of us just dismantled the team. And right now, I don’t trust anyone.”

  “Bloody bad decision, mate. Our team has been skewered and set on the barbie. I’m ready to get them back. Are you?”

  Chin tucked, Max glared. “Don’t.” Teeth ground, he flared his nostrils. “Those are my men. They followed me. Nobody wants them back more than me.”

  “What about their families?”

  Max held his ground.

  “Look, all I’m trying to say is you’re not the only one pissed off by this.”

  Max met the guy’s eyes. “Syd!” he shouted into the phone. “Syd, are you there?”

  “Yeah, sorry. Dillon was trying to get—“

  “Syd, stop talking.”

  Silence rent the line.

  “Mrs. & Mrs. Smith.”

  “Who? Wha—” She sucked in a breath. “Oh my gosh, Max.” Her words wavered with thick emotion. “Are you serious?”

  “Do it. Get the kids and do what we talked about, baby.”

  “No…” A whimper, so unlike her, snaked through the line and coiled around his chest.

  “Syd.” He tried to be firm. But inside, a massive sinkhole was consuming his life. “Do you remember everything?” “Y–yes. I…PIG.”

  Relief swept through him. “Yes, baby. Do it.”

  “But Max—don’t you remember where I am?”

  What day is it? Did she have plans? Tuesday, right? No, they’d been in Tunisia then. It was Thur—Saturday. The shower. Oh God, help us. “Syd, get them out. Get everyone out right now!”

  CHAPTER 3

  Wallens Ridge Federal Penitentiary, Virginia

  He’d missed Christmas.

  Rubbing his fingers over his knuckles, Griffin stared up at the picture taped to the wall. Christmas. He rocked gently, working the tension from his back and shoulders. Missed Madyar’s turkey and ham.

  Missed Madyar. The memories unleashed with a vengeance.

  “Uncle Griff, check out the news.”

  Griffin glanced at Dante—and froze.

  A dark shadow passed in front of the see-through curtains.

  He reached for his weapon.

  Glass shattered. A round black object bumbled into the center of the living room.

  Instinct told him to plug his ears, open his mouth, and squeeze his eyes shut.

  Boom! Crack!

  Even with his eyes closed, intense whiteness and the concussion of the flash-bang made him stumble backward. He blinked and tried to peer through the numbing brilliance. No good.

  He heard the front door disintegrate under a ramming rod. Black-clad figures—blurred by the haze of smoke filling the room—streamed in.

  “Get down! Get down! Get down!”

  Hand fisted, Griffin squeezed it tight till the muscles in his arm trembled. Teeth grinding, he glared at the black-and-white pages on the thin mattress beside him. He’d battled PTSD as a kid. Gotten over it. Didn’t need this. Not again.

  Where was God when the SWAT team raided their home, treated him and Pop-Pop like criminals? Cuffed Dante, who was so terrified he tried to run? Phoenix and Madyar were in the kitchen…then came the knife in the gut—

  “You’re under arrest for the murder of Congressman Billy Jones.”

  “Where were you, God?” Griffin bit out quietly as he stared at the open Bible. He’d lived to the Code his whole life. Fought for a good life, a safe place for his family. Honor. Respect. He’d earned them. Now…gone. They were all gone.

  Head down, he wrestled with the verse from Psalm 9 that said God was a refuge, a stronghold in times of trouble. Madyar died. Dante was traumatized. His family ripped apart. And him—in a Level 5 prison. Where was God’s help?

  I brought you to the end of yourself to bring you to Me.

  That was the truth. There was nothing left of the man he’d made save the skin and bones stuffed in this prison. He’d never been a religious man. Not till he landed here, in a cell, alone with himself.

  Griffin glanced at the pictures Phee brought—the family at Christmas, Dante’s freshman photo, Dante’s football picture—and lowered himself to the ground, gaze locked on the images as he began push-ups. He would never forget what happened. What the injustice system ripped from him. Hadn’t seen Dante in six months. The boy turned fifteen last week. The thought twisted and knotted in Griffin’s gut. The plan to give Dante his first car when he was of age collapsed on a misty night.

  Out for a run to clear his head before bedding down, Griffin had seen two men sprinting out of a pedestrian tunnel. The scene just didn’t sit right with him, so—being the Recon Marine that he was—he went to check it out.

  A man lay in a puddle…of blood. The congressman.

  Griffin had no sooner reached him than the cops arrived. He’d given his statement, and they told him he could go. A week later, all the demons of hell descended on his life.

  He blew quick breaths as he rapid-fired through the push-ups. As a kid, he’d gone to counseling, worked through the trauma. “If you don’t deal with it, the pain will bury you,” the counselor said.

  “Got a visitor, Riddell,” a voice shouted through the bars. “You know the drill—assume the position. On your feet.”

  He hopped upright, spread his legs, and placed his hands behind his head. Who was visiting? He’d seen Cowboy last week for their biweekly meeting. Phee came the week before. He was only allowed four hours of visitation each month. They’d had them planned because all too often the guards forgot to inform the prisoner and the visitation never happened.

  Griffin detected Guard Acton’s presence to his right. Shorter by a head and sporting a large belly, Acton wouldn’t have a prayer if Griffin wanted to fight. But the man’s height wasn’t what kept Griffin in check—it was the fifty-thousand-volt stun gun that could jolt him into next week. That and his pride. He’d been an exemplary inmate and earned the visitations that had started last month.

  Acton clamped a cuff around Griffin’s wrist, drew it around and down, then did the same with his other wrist. Another guard tightened shackles on his ankles.

  This—this is why he told Phee never to bring Dante here. He didn’t want the boy seeing him like this, seeing the inside of a prison.

  Cuffed and secured, Griffin shuffled around, the chain clanking. “You know we don’t need these.”

  “Yeah, and the first time I believe you, boy, I’m dead.” Acton nodded. “Let’s go. Clock’s ticking.”

  Boy. Griffin let the slur slide. Wouldn’t do no good to object. He’d get shocked. Or shot with those rubber bullets. Besides, he wouldn�
��t let some balding fat guy get a power trip on him. On the battlefield, as in all areas of life, I shall stand tall above the competition. The Marine Creed served to keep his mind focused, his actions controlled. His emotions deadened to incitement. Besides, he did stand above these fools—by at least a head.

  With the reduced leg movement, compliments of the steel around his ankles, the walk took way too long. If someone had come to visit, something had to be wrong. Colton told him Lambert was working to get him out of Supermax, but the petitions were falling on deaf ears.

  The whole system is deaf.

  Through one door, locked in the exchange point, then through another, he lumbered. Acton pressed the call button on the door marked VISITATION. A click resounded through the sterile white hall, and the guard flipped the handle. The door swung inward. Bleachers flanked one wall, the only accommodation for sitting—to make sure the prisoners had no available weapon at their disposal.

  “Phee?” Griffin shuffled in, hands going slick at the sight of his sister, who stood from the bottom step of the bleacher where she’d been sitting. Behind him, he heard the door slam shut and the locks engage. “What’s wrong? Is Dante—?”

  “I’m sorry.” Her satiny skin wrinkled up, her nose pinched as she shook her head. “I tried to tell him, to explain…”

  The air swirled behind him. Griffin turned—his cafeteria-fed stomach heaved at the young man standing nearby. “Dante.” His breath caught. The boy was tall. Much taller than the last time he’d seen him. Almost as tall as me.

  Dante’s eyes fell to the cuffs, down the bright orange jumpsuit, straight to the shackles.

  No…no, Dante couldn’t be here. Can’t see me like this.

  Griffin jerked back to his sister. “Why did you bring him?” he asked between gritted teeth, shooting a sidelong glance to the guard standing in the corner. One wrong move…“I told you not to.”

  “I…I wanted to come.”

  The boy’s voice had deepened. He was becoming a man, and Griffin wouldn’t see it happen. He closed his eyes. “I don’t want you—“

  “Yeah, you made that clear,” Dante said.

  “No.” Griffin turned to him, shaking a cuffed hand at him. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

  “Why not? You don’t have any of your own. You don’t talk to me. Don’t write me.” Hurt gouged a painful crevice through Dante’s words and expression.

  “What do you want to see?” Griffin heard the growl in his voice and tried to tamp it down. He raised his cuffed hands. “This?” He jangled his feet. “This?”

  Phee came to his side. “G, please—let him talk.” She placed a hand on his arm, her black sweater fresh with the scent of a crisp winter. And unusually noticeable in this dank room.

  “Naw, forget it.” Dante started for the door on the other side of the room. “I’m done.”

  “Dante, please.” Phee hurried after him, her boots clunking on the cement. “Tell him. Tell him why you insisted on coming today. It’s important, baby. Please…tell him.”

  Hesitation held Dante at the door as he looked over his shoulder at Griffin. Broad shoulders were filling out the lanky frame of the boy Griffin would do anything for. I wanted so much more for you, Dante. So much more. But someone blasted those dreams into oblivion.

  “Naw. Uncle G doesn’t want me. Then I don’t want to be here.” Dante pressed a button on the wall, requesting to be let out of the visitation room.

  Though the words hurt—bad—Griffin wouldn’t stop him. The boy didn’t belong here. Had no business being in a prison. “Remember what it’s like behind bars. And don’t end up here. You were raised better.”

  Dante’s hooded eyes rolled as he pushed out of the room. “Whatever.”

  Phoenix stood at the threshold, glaring at Griffin. “You’re a proud fool, Griffin Riddell. I’m ashamed, and Madyar would be ashamed.” Her eyes watered. “He’s getting scouted for football.” Her voice cracked. “College football, G. And he just had to tell his uncle. Knew the man who taught him to play, who used to throw that stupid ball around the backyard every weekend, would want to know, that he’d be proud of him.”

  His shoulders slumped.

  “Well,” she said with a sniffle. “Now you know.” She drew in a stiff breath, then wilted. “Please—let me bring him back in. Talk to him. Encourage him.”

  “Encoura—” He clamped his mouth shut and shook his head. “Phee! Look around you. It’s Supermax. Why would you bring him up in here and do this? I told you—told you not to.” Dante didn’t need to see Griffin shackled and humiliated. He needed to forget that Griffin existed, move on with his life. Get scouted. Go to school. Make a name for himself. “Keep him in school, Phee, but don’t bring him back here.” He locked eyes with her. “I mean it.”

  Her brow tangled and her mouth opened. “You and your stupid pride!”

  Secret Facility, Maryland

  “Evening, General.”

  Olin returned the obligatory salute but barreled down the narrow hall to the command room. He popped a pill in his mouth and prayed it’d steady the erratic rhythm that had taken over his heart.

  “Everyone’s here, just like you asked. We’ve been powered up for about ten minutes.”

  “Good.” Olin swiped his badge and punched the door, descending the half dozen steps into the command center. “Jernigan, what do we have?” He watched the door shut, then nodded to Colonel Bright. “Secure that.”

  The man spun and activated a code that would keep anyone outside this team locked out. As Olin stared at the box and the red indicator light, he realized how trivial a notion of security was at this moment. The team had been attacked. Men—no, not just men, but those he considered sons—had been attacked. At least one had lived long enough to activate the emergency signal.

  “Not much, sir,” Lieutenant Colonel Dale Jernigan looked up from a whiteboard. “Emergency signal came in approximately twenty minutes ago.”

  “Source?” Olin worked his way to the command deck.

  “Snakeroot.”

  So, Dighton was alive. “What else do you have?”

  “Nothing, sir. We’re still—“

  “I need data, people. Lives are at stake.” When only the hum of machines answered, Olin pounded a desk. “Now!”

  The screens covering the walls leaped to life.

  “Those are news images.” Lieutenant Jason Sparks punched on the keyboard. His fingers made typing look like aerial combat. Light reflected off his wire-rimmed glasses as he peered up over the monitor at Olin. “Glory One is coming online…now.” The wiry officer pulled his gaze to the massive screens.

  Haze danced over the gray screen, then crackled and blipped. An image taken from miles above Earth’s surface revealed the nightmare. The warehouse, aflame, lie half in ruins. Emergency vehicles crowded the road leading to the pier.

  Olin stared at the flames, still trickling up, as if reaching for the satellite that snapped the images. “What’s the time delay on Glory One?”

  “Fifteen, twenty seconds,” Sparks answered.

  Not good enough. He needed to rewind time. See what happened before the emergency crews were onsite. His gaze fell on the brunette sitting at a cluster of terminals as her digits flew over the keys. “Major, tell me you’ve got something.”

  “Sir,” she spoke from her seat on the raised platform. “I’m accessing and pulling surveillance-camera feeds from the surrounding area. There are four.” Her gaze struck his, then snapped back to her work. “I’m enhancing and isolating…”

  Olin threw down his trench coat and briefcase, then stalked over to Sparks. He leaned down and very quietly said, “Can you get into the satellite feeds for tracking assets—without anyone knowing?”

  “We don’t have the clearance for that.”

  “I didn’t ask if we did. Can you do it?”

  The man’s blue eyes sparkled. “Of course.”

  Olin nodded. “Do it.”

  Another few seconds and the
lieutenant paused.

  In a whisper, Olin provided four name codes. “Find them, Jason. I want my men back. But not a word.” He clamped a hand on the man’s shoulder, then blew out a breath as he surveyed the amphitheater-style room, the dull gray walls bathed in the bright glow of monitors. Hands on his hips, he watched the screens. Of the six, two showed images stuttering in from the satellite feed. A third filled with billowing smoke.

  “That’s from a Jet Ski outlet directly north of the warehouse,” Major DeMatteo said. “I’ve contacted the owners and requested all recordings. Someone is working on feeding them into our—“

  “There.” Jernigan pointed to the bottom right screen. “That’s the feed.

  “Rewind it,” Olin said. “Let’s see this thing from the beginning.”

  “Yes, sir.” DeMatteo went to work on the keyboard.

  “Sir,” Sparks spoke up. “I’ve been monitoring cell phones since the emergency signal was activated. Sydney Jacobs received a call from Wolfsbane’s cell phone for less than two minutes.”

  “Did you get a location?”

  “Not exact, sir, but I’ve extrapolated using known data. The call was made from somewhere along the Virginia coast to a cabin in the mountains.” The man shifted toward him. “Our data verifies Nightshade Alpha has a cabin lease there.”

  “If we can figure that out, so can someone else. I want a chopper there ASAP.”

  “Already en route, sir.”

  The monitors went hazy. “There!” Olin said. “Start from right there.” The haze was from the interference their jamming technology created during extraction and drop off at the Shack. As if to confirm his thoughts, the screens came back to life.

  The windows took on a yellowish hue. A sliver of light narrowed, then vanished on the cement. Someone had hit the lights, then closed the main bay door. Then nothing. Conditions unchanged. The men probably headed in the back, showering up before going home.

  Olin tried to stem the emotional squall threatening to drown him. “Fast-forward. We’re short on time.”

  DeMatteo flicked a key and time warped. A light flickered in the upper level. The office. Who had gone into the highly secured room? Olin’s heart chugged. Only two people had the code for that room. Himself. And Max Jacobs.