Olin inched closer. “What’s wrong?”
Aboard Santana Airline Flight KBF213 On Approach to Caribbean Airstrip
Sydney Jacobs held a sleeping Dakota in her arms. Dillon stretched out on the laid-back seat beside her. Thoughts of Bryce threatened her conviction that escaping like this was the right thing. Had her brother just sacrificed his life for hers? She just could not accept that. She would believe the best. Believe God for the best.
She brushed the silky black strands from Dillon’s face, eliciting a small shudder. It’d been a nightmare of a day, and yet he’d borne up like a trooper. Peace hovered over the flutter of his dark eyelashes against his olive complexion. So like Max—peaceful when asleep, a veritable storm awake.
Like a Navy SEAL.
Yeah, he had as much fire in his belly as his father.
Marshall stood as the tires squawked on the runway. He turned and locked gazes with her. Something alarming whittled away what little courage she’d regained since the Air Force jets banked off. She drew straight, internal alarms blazing.
Subtly, he motioned with his hand, then moved to the door. Once they’d taxied to a hangar, he opened the door.
As he stepped back, she saw glints off cars outside. Four sedans screeched to a stop around the plane, and a sea of men disembarked. Dressed in suits and expressions grim with business, they strode toward the craft.
Sydney looked at Marshall, who was locked in a confrontation with his friend. Rel stood beside them, her pale-brown eyes wide with concern.
Marshall seemed to grow a few inches. “Mario—relax.”
“Who is that?” The Latino raced up and down the plane, staring out the windows. “This is bad. Real bad. Who are they?” He threw his hands up. “We can’t just let them come up in here.”
Marshall strode toward him. “I don’t know who they are. Just relax. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Stupid?” The man stabbed a finger at him. “That’s exactly what I did when your dad said to take you—“
“My dad?” Marshall’s voice pitched.
His friend hedged.
Eyes ablaze, Marshall threw a hard right. It nailed the man square in the jaw. The door opened, and men—all Middle Eastern—glided into the plane as if they owned the jet. A man dragged Mario off and stuffed him in one of the cars. Another pounced on Marshall, pinning him against the hull.
Sydney rose, ready to object, demand to know what was going on.
Marshall jerked toward her. “No.” He sliced a hand through the air. “Don’t.”
Bitter acid coated her tongue as she returned to her seat, holding her infant son tighter, checking on Dillon…on the others.
“Sydney.”
A whispered call from across the aisle drew her attention to Danielle, who cuddled a sniffling, red-eyed Tala. “Outside,” she mouthed.
Sydney craned her neck to look through the window. Her breath caught in her throat as men crawled into the belly of the plane. A giant tanker pulled alongside and began dumping fuel into the jet.
The sound of sure, confident steps down the aisle snagged her attention. Three men stalked past her. She half expected them to wear hoods or masks, but they clearly had no fear of being recognized—or worry that Sydney could identify them later. Maybe because they intended to kill everyone.
Thwat! Thwat!
A strangled cry came from the cockpit. There, a man hauled the body of the pilot out of the cockpit and, with the help of a second, ferried him off the plane and into one of the waiting vehicles, which pulled away as quick as it had arrived.
She eased back into the seat, the leather hissing beneath her. Dakota lifted his head for a brief, bleary-eyed moment of confusion, then snuggled back into her neck. She savored the sweet innocence that stood in stark contrast to the skilled, lethal men who’d taken over their plane.
The man holding Marshall glanced at her, stepped back, slid his weapon into his jacket, then climbed into the pilot’s seat. Sagged against the curved wall of the interior, Marshall drew in a ragged breath, touched his ribs gingerly, then straightened.
“What’s going on?” Sydney hissed to him.
“Just…wait.” With a look of regret—or was that relief?—Marshall slipped into a chair beside Rel and took her hand. “I think it’s going to be okay.”
Think? He thought it was going to be okay? But then…even if he had concerns that they weren’t, what could one man do against eleven? Gravity pressed her back in the seat, and only then did Sydney realize they were on the runway. “We’re taking off.” This time, her own voice pitched.
“It’s okay,” Marshall said.
“Okay? How do you know?”
“Who are they?” Rel asked the question hanging on everyone’s lips and in the cries of Tala and McKenna.
Marshall swiveled toward Sydney, Dani, and Piper. “I…I think the Old Man sent them,” Marshall said, adrenaline cracking his voice.
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I couldn’t—the message was vague. I knew something was up but didn’t know what. I thought it was the pilot, but—if it wasn’t, I couldn’t risk speaking out.” He ran a hand through his hair.
Piper scooted to the edge of her seat. “They are Mossad.”
“How do you know?” Rel asked.
“The way they move, the way they…are—it’s very much like my cousin Azzan.” Despite the words she offered, there was no peace about her. “If they are helping, we will be okay. But make no mistake—do not get in their way. Do not argue.”
“Are we safe?” Sydney asked.
Piper hesitated, her gaze tracking over the half dozen suits now poised around the aircraft. The plane began moving before she offered a soft, “Yes. More than you would be anywhere else. As long as we do not interfere. They have a mission. They will complete it.”
The takeoff was seamless and quiet, clearly executed under experienced hands and operatives. As the plane rocketed across the world, Sydney allowed herself to relax, her mind speeding through scenarios and questions—mostly, why hadn’t she heard from Max? And Bryce—
A sob leapt through her throat. She covered her mouth, the image of his SUV twisted and gnarled in a heap of flames squeezing the last vestige of strength from her. Please, God…don’t let him be dead. Or Max…
Was it too much to hope for? Too big a miracle? Quietly, she prayed as the hours slipped by with meals, naps, and very little discussion. The children played and talked, hardly noticing their thirty-two-thousand feet in the air adventure. It was good for them, but Sydney could not tear her mind from Max or Bryce.
As the cabin lights dimmed and children slept, Dakota and Owen went full wail. “I’ll get the bottles ready this time.” Sydney pushed out of the seat.
In the galley, she ignored the man whose sidearm bulged through his suit as she prepared the bottles. Capping the bottles, she turned to leave. Two steps later, she heard voices and turned. The guard slipped through the curtain to a small room that boasted a table, six chairs—all occupied—and a bank of computers.
Heart in her throat, she moved forward.
“Mrs. Jacobs,” the man at the head spoke. “How may we help you?”
Startled by his clear, unaffected English and impeccable manners, Sydney hung between the curtains, bottles in hands. “How do you know who I am?”
With a breathy laugh, he held her gaze but did not answer.
Right. Okay, get on with it before you lose your nerve. “Are those”—she motioned toward the computers—“secure?”
“Of course.”
She set the bottles aside and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Could I…could I try to send a message to my husband? It was too dangerous at my brother’s home.” She shoved the mental image of that SUV out of her mind again. “I think I know how to get hold of Max.”
The man stepped aside and placed a dark hand on the black seat. “Please.”
She hurried around the table, her mind reeling.
He leaned across in front of her and closed the laptop then pointed to the man beside her. “Tell Yusuf where and what you want to type. He’ll do it for you.”
Of course. They wouldn’t let her have unfettered access to all this equipment and technology.
“It’s an old forum,” she explained. “When we were dating, he used to leave me messages when he couldn’t tell me where he was.” Was she exposing Max—would telling these Mossad agents about this put her husband in more danger? Desperation clung to her, forcing her forward. She had to know if he was alive.
With a few deft keystrokes, the man accessed the forum. They scanned the messages, her heart dipping with each click and scroll. Thirty minutes netted them nothing. Hopelessness coated her defenses, weakened her, and left her feeling drained.
New tears sprung to her eyes.
“Do not fear,” Yusuf said. “We will keep trolling and dissecting the data. We will also plant a message, one that will flag your husband’s attention should he revisit the site. Is there anywhere else he might check?”
She shook her head, dislodging the gloom, which she attributed to hormones and stress. “Knowing him, he wouldn’t send regular e-mail because it’d be monitored or interfered with.”
“We’ve already planted messages there.”
Sydney widened her eyes. “Why? He wouldn’t use that. It’s too exposed.”
The man offered her only another plaintive smile. “Which makes it the perfect place. They won’t suspect it. We have added others as well.”
She turned back to the monitor as Yusuf brought up four or five sites with what seemed a single keystroke.
“Your Flickr account, yes?”
Mutely, Sydney stared at the images. But one snagged her attention. “Wait—that’s not…where is that?” An image of her, Dillon, and Dakota on the beach stared back at her. “I—that’s not…I’ve never been there.”
The man closed the browser and another sprang up. Twitter. A string of messages showed up, but she looked for something different, unusual. “I don’t…?” But then she noticed words wrongly placed or misspelled. She darted a gaze to the man and found a smirk on his lips as he X-ed out.
Behind her, the leader spoke, “As you can see, there are myriad ways to plant messages. Your husband is skilled, trained to use his mind as well as his body, yes? If he is out there, we have left a trail he can find.”
If…if he is out there. “What if he can’t access a computer?”
For the first time, the man’s arrogance slipped. A shout from the far end severed the conversation. “Shut it down! Hacking!”
Computers thrummed on the electric current as monitors blurred and fizzled to death. Silence hung like an anchor. “What was the source?” the leader asked. “Not sure,” a smaller man at the far end said. “But…I think…” “Where?” the leader shouted. Wide, unfocused eyes came to his. “Texas.” Sydney frowned. “Texas?”
“You perhaps heard of the virus planted in Iranian computers that disabled them?” The man raised bushy eyebrows. “It is rumored they were started in Texas.”
“What does that mean?”
“We are not the only ones looking for your husband or trying to stop the others who are.”
Green World Health Compound, Uganda
In a surreal nightmare that felt drug induced, Scott lay on his back, staring up at what should’ve been a beautiful afternoon. Hearing hollowed, vision blurred, he saw something streak through the sky. Fire and smoke engulfed the chopper lazing overhead. A wall of pressure slammed into his chest. The world went dark.
Rain pelted his face. Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.
Scott turned his face away. Wait. Not rain. He pried himself off the ground, the thunk of rock and debris prickling his skin. Rolling over, he searched for Marie. His mind warped into action, remembering the explosion that threw him into the side of the main building. Like being sucker punched by a blast of wind with a serious attitude.
Groaning, he pulled himself onto all fours. Cradling his side did little to help the agony twisting through his gut. Like a ghost, a vision of men rappelling from another chopper drifted into his awareness. That meant they’d been overtaken.
“Marie,” he said, ash and smoke filling his lungs. He coughed. Choked. Panic grabbed him by the throat. “Marie!” Gravelly and strained, his words sounded foreign even to him. Crunch-crunch.
A combat boot stepped into view.
Adrenaline spiking, Scott lunged. Wrapped his arms around the rebel’s waist. Took him down. He slammed a hard right—into a helmeted face.
“Augh!” Pain stabbed through his wrist. Up his arm. Right into his shoulder. Even as he growled, he felt the fresh squirt of blood down his arm and chest. But he didn’t care; these animals had taken over the compound. Taken Marie.
Scott growled and lifted a weapon.
Something cracked against his skull. He tumbled sideways, head and mind reeling.
“Scott, no! Stop.”
The soldier he’d straddled flipped onto his feet and shouted, “Stand down!”
Confusion shuddered through him. He squinted up, the glare of the sun bright and silhouetting the man hovering over him. Dressed in combat fatigues, the man wasn’t here for coffee. Scott snatched the handgun from his belt. Amid Marie’s scream, he whipped it at the soldier.
A booted foot flew into his face.
CHAPTER 27
Eurostar Bound for Paris
One hundred eighty-nine miles an hour. Two hours, thirty-five minutes. Phenomenal speed and distance covered, and yet Griffin felt a gaping hole in his chest, burned into him when Kacie buried her face there and cried.
Cried.
He’d let her shed those tears, silently willing her to shed a few for him. He’d lost enough in this nightmare that had accosted his life. But now, as he sat in the last seat of the train rocketing away from the snake-of-a-Carrick, he wondered. Did Kacie get on the train? Or had she sent them off on their own?
He shifted in the seat. Maybe she was just trying to put time between them. Not make it look so obvious that they were traveling together. He bent forward, forearms resting on his knees. Glanced over the seat, back down the narrow aisle toward the front of the Eurostar.
“She’ll be here,” Colton said, eyes closed, head back.
Sloughing his hands together, Griffin peered down the cabin. They’d been in motion for forty minutes. More than enough time for her to find her way to him. He pushed to his feet.
Colton’s chuckle and the pressure of the high-speed travel pulled at him as he stalked through the train to the next cabin. Through the other car, he entered the café-style cabin. Decked out in highly polished stainless steel and checkers, the place seemed like a sixties throwback. His gaze skipped over the seven passengers to the body angling out of view on the other side. Kacie. He stormed after her, weaving around the pole-style bars that littered the cabin. As he stepped through the door, he saw a door closing. Bathroom.
He lunged and sliced his hand in between the door and jamb.
A woman gasped.
Using all his upper body strength, he pushed open the door.
Red-rimmed eyes stared at him—fumed at him. Kacie batted her white-blond hair from her face. Her mouth formed a perfect O as he pushed into the ultracompact bathroom closet.
His shoulders rubbed the wall. He angled left. Banged a light fixture.
“You big oaf! There’s not enough room for two.”
Stuffed in the corner, he gripped her waist, lifted her, and set her on the counter that was barely as wide as her small hips. He dropped back against the wall that made him feel like a cement block wedged into a round hole.
Arms folded, he nodded. “Talk.”
As if someone had pressed a knob and ignited a gas grill, fire erupted in her green eyes. “Talk?” Her lips tightened. “What do you think I am? A vending machine?”
Something had wounded her—deep. That’s part of what he’d noticed earlier. Just didn’t exp
ect it to come with tears. “I’ll wait.” She needed to get this out, deal with it.
Kacie reached for the door.
He shifted and plopped against it, planting a booted foot on the commode, and peered at her out of the corner of his eye. “Cozy, huh?”
“Griff—” She bit her lips and tossed her head back, smacking it against the mirror that lined the bathroom wall. Thud. Thud-thud.
Quiet held them captive.
“What changed, Baby Girl?”
Rolling her head to the side, she looked at him with red, puffy eyes. Something strong and powerful snaked through his mind, through his muscles, through everything in him—He’d do anything to make whatever it was that tore her up so bad go away.
“I’m missing something,” he said. “We escaped the club, you made it out alive, but something…changed. I want to know what.”
She gazed at the opaque square window as if she could see anything through it. “What does it matter to you as long as you get your boys back?”
That was reaching a ways back, even for her.
But then, as if someone had pushed a button, the fight leeched out of her. She slumped and let out a long, stuttering sigh. “He killed my family—everyone except Roman. The one person I wish he had killed. But the ones that matter…they’re all dead now.”
Griffin came up off the wall, arms spread.
Kacie met his gaze. “Burned down our home.” A lonely tear streaked down her face. “I gave up everything”—her thin pink lips trembled—“so Mamo and the others could go on.”
“How do you know? Carrick seems like the type to like mind games.”
She shook her head, wiping away the tear. “Pictures. And Roman. He was there. Didn’t even act like he was sad about their deaths.” She pursed her lips and straightened. “Carrick actually took pictures of the house. Showed them to me.”
“Doesn’t make sense.”
Kacie laughed, a hollow, empty laugh. “Nothing he does makes sense.”
Firethorn (Discarded Heroes) Page 27
