Firethorn (Discarded Heroes)

by Kendig, Ronie

  The ironic thing about his comment was that Griffin would never be ready. Which suited her just fine. She had a career. Well, after she re-created herself. That was the key. She’d had to re-create identities in the past. No reason she couldn’t overhaul who she was and come out better, stronger. She didn’t need Griffin.

  When she was ready?

  She’d been ready yesterday.

  He didn’t like people getting into his attic, where all his dirty laundry was hidden.

  She understood that. She did. Even though she’d spouted the one truth to him that had never crossed anyone else’s ears, he’d been so blinded by his own anger and desperation to protect his past and himself that he hadn’t even heard her.

  And it stung. Like a thousand-pound yellow jacket had rammed his butt into her chest.

  Even now, the sting proved acute. I was ready to give him everything!

  Kazi hauled her mind back to the data. She blinked away the rejection, the hurt, and pushed herself into her new plan, keying in another site. She floated around the hidden portals…then stilled. She honed in on a coded phrase on a bakery site. Quick keystrokes carried her to a secure, secretive underground cyberspace.

  HELLO, GYMNAST.

  Kazi’s stomach squeezed. So, word had already gotten out about her identity. She’d have to make this stop brief. She typed: GUESS MY SECRET’S OUT.

  YEAH…HAPPENS TO THE BEST. WASUP?

  LOOKING FOR NOOSE AROUND MY NECK.

  Was she too bold?

  NEED ANOTHER? LOL YOU’LL BE GROUNDED FOR A WHILE, EH?

  Wow, that was fast. She clicked out a reply. YEP. BETTER JET. BYE.

  She thrilled over the luck of finding that connection. Kazi logged out and drew in a deep breath, skating her gaze around the room to be sure nobody was wiser to her schemes. Her gaze collided with a pair of blue-green eyes.

  Aladdin peered over his monitor. Held fast. Only as the sounds in the room flooded back to her distracted mind did she realize he was talking to the man next to him. So…why was he looking at her? Did he trace her?

  Cold dread washed over her. He could’ve had a program on here to monitor keystrokes. It’d make sense—in case someone stumbled upon something, they could backtrack.

  Aladdin returned to his search.

  Kazi blew out a quick breath. Words emblazoned—particularly, three letters—on the back of her corneas ensnaring her thoughts. She’d have to be an idiot not to figure out what that griefer meant. The trouble was coming up with a plausible explanation Griffin and the others would buy. She studied the data on the giant grease board dividing the kitchen from the command center. She compared them against the possible locations, knowing Carrick would hunt down whoever had tried to take Griffin and Neeley down.

  She hit on two words and knew beyond a shadow of doubt where the team was supposed to go. And where Carrick was. She compared the notes with satellite images. She went to Google and did a search of the names. One headline in particular caught her attention.

  GREEN WORLD, INC. INITIATIVE IN UGANDA RESTORES HOPE.

  She scanned the article, noting names and locations—including one very familiar name: Senator Warren Vaughn. He’d put together the Green World initiative, winning popularity and all but erasing famine and starvation in the area. Recently, efforts were under way to spread the success of this program.

  Page after page of results cheered Green World and praised Vaughn. In fact, he’d been named to numerous committees, handed several honorary doctorates.

  Pinching her lower lip, she clicked a detractor headline that read: GREEN WORLD RAPES HOPE OF NKYOOE. The document was actually a self-published PDF posted on a “lemon” site. The author, a humanitarian aid doctor named Marie Beck, claimed Green World was in fact promoting sex slave trade, and rather than turning backward the hand of hunger and disease, they were infecting the people with a far more dangerous plague: false hope.

  I know where they are.

  “I know where they are.”

  Kazi twitched at the proclamation that mirrored her own thoughts and pulled her focus from the laptop to Aladdin, who now had Griffin hovering over them.

  “Let’s hear it,” Griffin said, expectation on his face—so much so that Kazi dreaded what the assassin would say next.

  “This document by Marie Beck mentions Warren Vaughn, his agency Green World, and a small village called Nkyooe in Uganda. She also notes several other similar efforts.” Resolution carved into Aladdin’s handsome, scarred face.

  How did he find the same page I found?

  “Out of the eight locations, Nightshade has crossed paths with five of them that I can tell.” His gaze hit hers. Seared. Then went back to the information. “The first mission was in a village where a rogue colonel was brutalizing the people.”

  “Paka,” Marshall said with a growl in his voice.

  Aladdin had piggybacked her keystrokes. How?

  “Give the Kid a brownie. Yusuf just found something that shows Paka was the first military official named in an early report by Warren Vaughn on the success of Green World.” Aladdin stood. “I think we have our location.”

  Griffin held up a hand, staring at the data board. “Wait—let’s be sure this is the place. Kid, pull up that satellite you hijacked—“

  “Borrowed.” The Kid’s grin was primal. Obviously in his element with the team and breaking into technology, he went to work.

  “A’right.” Griffin smiled. “Borrowed. Now, see what’s happening near that village. We can’t go in there blind.”

  When would the men around Marshall stop referring to him as the kid of the group? He’d taken his place. Silence strangled conversations and movement as they all waited to see what the satellites showed. Humming monitors and whirring cooling fans competed against the quiet.

  “Okay,” the Kid said. “The place looks like it has a mine.” His blue-gray eyes bounced to a wall monitor, which flicked to show a grainy resolution. At the wall, he pointed. “You can see the mine here.” He traced a square, then stood staring at the screen. “That…” He wagged a finger at a circular machine. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  The Kid rushed back to his computer, scanned, zoomed. “No.”

  “What’re you seeing?” Neely asked, joining Griffin, the two giants considering the data.

  “They’re intake and exit systems—ventilation fans, essentially.” The Kid swept his hand through his hair, which stuck up over his head. “Unbelievable.”

  “The point?” Irritation seeped into Griffin’s voice and stance.

  “It’s supposed to be a diamond mine.” Marshall came up out of his seat. “They don’t need ventilation like that. I mean”—he shrugged—“sure, it’d be nice, protect the people working. But the cost for that is astounding.” He snorted. “My dad likes his money too much to throw it out on something not mandatory, especially in a third world country.”

  Griffin looked up at the screen, his brow contorted.

  “The only reason to have fans is to remove noxious fumes.” Aladdin walked to the monitor. “Those fumes are the product of diesel fumes, blasting explosives, or the ore.”

  “What ore?” Neeley looked to the Kid. “What’s there? What are they mining?”

  “Whatever it is,” the Kid muttered as he worked on the keyboard, “you can bet my dad’s getting rich off it.”

  A quibble erupted from one end of the table. Golding emerged from a cluster of men, their expressions taut. “Legend, our men believe the perimeter of that mine may be…mined.”

  “Mined?” Griffin growled. “Land mines?” He roughed a hand over his face and bald head.

  “Okay.” The Kid sighed. “There’s no telling what’s down there—it could be a ton of elements. What we know, what we’ll need to plan for, is that it’s toxic.” He pointed to the wall monitor. “And the mine is a day’s walk from the compound where Max was—is.” He cringed at his mistake and looked across the room.

  “It’ll take more than an ex
plosion to kill my husband, Marshall,” Sydney said. “He’s too bullheaded to die easily.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” the Kid said, laughing.

  Griffin smacked the back of the Kid’s head. “I’ll be sure to tell Frogman that one.”

  The PDF article was a blazing trail, a homing beacon straight to her. Kazi glanced down at her screen. She clicked out, cleared the history, added a few other security protocols to ensure nobody followed her journey, then logged off.

  Regardless of how the assassin stumbled upon the same page—she didn’t buy “coincidence”—she had her answer. If she could zoom in on the satellite image on the wall, she’d probably find Carrick’s slick smile gleaming in the Ugandan sun. No doubt he’d try to buy out Green World. If he couldn’t do that, he’d destroy them. It was just the way he worked. Didn’t want some other world power interrupting his trip to godhood.

  Which meant if she was going to get out alive, she knew what she had to do. On the chair, she lifted the laptop, logged back in, and dug through the normal channels to a ghosted site. There, she sent an e-mail, her stomach churning.

  Don’t do this.

  There wasn’t a choice. Not if she intended to write her own ending. Holding her breath, she hit SEND. As a dog returns to his vomit… Doing this put her in the hands of Carrick. Posed the greatest risk to her freedom. But if she didn’t…she’d never know for sure.

  “So be it,” she whispered.

  Bang!

  The noise snapped the room into silence as they turned toward the hall. Griffin appeared, a storm raging in his face. Kazi felt as if a javelin had speared her heart as she met his cauldronlike glare for several long, painful seconds. He knows. He knows!

  CHAPTER 32

  Nkooye Green World Mine, Uganda

  Buttoning his suit, Carrick stepped over a board and carried himself up three wobbling, creaking steps into the trailer office. He tried to keep the sneer from his face, but in deplorable conditions such as these, he couldn’t help it. Honestly, it’d take all of ten minutes to stabilize the rickety makeshift porch that made it possible to enter the dank environment.

  Swiping a finger over his nose did little to ease the smell of sweat and body odor inside. A window, partially propped open by a groaning air-conditioning unit, pumped stale but somewhat cooler air into the trailer.

  “Welcome,” a native said as he stood from behind a desk, perspiration dotting his brow and ringing his brown cotton shirt. The chair behind him creaked, the back slowly tilting to the side until—

  Clank! It rammed against the copier stuffed in a corner.

  The native jerked upright, then nudged it against the desk. Nervously, he turned back, hands dangling from his almost-emaciated sides. “Welcome.” He motioned to a door to his left. “You see senator?”

  Carrick nodded. “I do.”

  The man smiled—yellow, stained, missing teeth peeking out from his almost black-as-night skin. “Come. He wait for you.”

  Carrick peeked out the filmy window to the Uganda landscape, across the way where his private helicopter had landed. Two armed men stood watch. Not that anyone around here knew how to fly a helicopter, but it was better to be prepared than screwed.

  He squeezed past the native and the doorjamb. Inside, cleaner, colder, stronger air accosted him and forced him to take record of the difference—in fact, all the differences. Expensive furniture consumed the office, a large rug spread over tiled floor. Pristinely kept windows. Shiny surfaces—no dust. How often did the native who’d just escorted him into the room have to clean to keep it so pristine?

  “They treat me like a god.”

  Carrick met the brown eyes that he’d studied through photographs and videos en route. The American sought not only riches but power—visceral, tangible power that made his ego as bloated as the starved bellies that surrounded the senator.

  “I was told you had an offer for me.” Chin raised, he looked down his perfectly straight nose—most likely never broken. Probably not even bruised. The man wasn’t the type to get his hands dirty or engage in hard work.

  This will be easier than I thought.

  “Indeed.” Carrick lowered himself into a leather chair and stared up at the man. Some thought that standing over another person gave them power. But Carrick knew that sort of power was illusory and merely psychological. He could cripple this man with a few well-chosen words. Maybe later.

  “You have a problem you want to go away.”

  The senator chuckled. “We all have those kinds of problems—families can be so troubling, work can be demanding, and friends—“

  “Play your ignorance as long as it comforts you, Senator, but we both know you’ve tried to eliminate this problem.” He wanted to smirk, but he mustn’t show control too quickly. Carrick stood and ambled to the window, looking down at the mine. “But you’ve failed.” Slowly, he turned back to the tailored suit. “And the only reason you’re here instead of back home tending the garden of constituents is that”—Carrick slid his hands in his pockets, tilted his head, then shrugged—“quite simply, Senator, you need my help.”

  “Oh?” Bravado drifted away on the conditioned air. “What help is that, Mr. Burgess?”

  “I can take care of this problem, but it will cost you.” This time, he allowed the smirk. “Dearly.”

  “Not interested.” Somehow, the air must’ve recirculated, because the bravado seemed to be making a nasty reappearance. “I’m doing fine on my own.”

  Carrick arched his eyebrow in a practiced, knowing arc. “Are you?” He smoothed his suit jacket. “Well, then. I’ll inform the Ugandan Defense Ministry that the bombing at the Green World Health Compound truly was an accident. But let’s hope for your sake, nobody survived to contradict your story.”

  At the door, he looked back to the man who probably held sway over a lot of American policy. Did the poor sap realize he held no power here? That with one twitch of Carrick’s little finger, he could completely alter the man’s destiny, fortune, and viability?

  “You should know, Senator, that I am intimately acquainted with the woman who took Colton Neeley from you. She is a lethal force.” His heart still hiccupped at the thought of the data and the damage she could do to him—if she truly had it. If she chose to do something with it. But he’d also employed a little blowback for her. She played her card, they’d all scatter. Wipe out her credibility. But she’d reacted strongly to the news of her family, and that was what he needed. “And I happen to know she’s plotting to return here, with the entire team you have been trying to dismantle, and blow your operation completely and utterly out of your hands.” He checked his watch and smiled. “Ah, time for tea. Cheers.” He turned the knob and drew open the door.

  “What do you want?”

  Golding Residence, Cyprus

  Rumbling outside was slowly followed by the creak and pop of old axles. Griffin snatched a weapon from the table and slipped up next to the door. Behind him, he heard the Kid at the windows. “Beat-up truck. Two—no, three occupants.”

  “ID?” Griffin nodded to Aladdin who took up position on the other side of the door.

  Whoever was coming wasn’t invited or expected.

  “Negative. Too dark.”

  Outside, doors creaked, followed by muttering. Then steps. A groan.

  Aladdin gave the signal. Three…

  Griffin placed his right foot slightly back. Brought his weapon to the ready and stared down the sights, past it, to the door.

  Two…

  A whistle sailed through the night.

  Griffin lifted his head. Frowned at Aladdin. The Nightshade signal? How was that—?

  “Open it, open it!” Marshall growled. “Midas!”

  Aladdin ripped open the door.

  Griffin, weapon down, met a bludgeoned face. He lunged and caught the man who tumbled across the threshold, one arm hooked over another man’s shoulders.

  “In the bedroom,” Aladdin shouted.

  Marshall
and the Kid hoisted Midas from the ground. The man groaned and muttered something about not being an invalid.

  As they scurried through the room, Griffin heard the gasp from Midas’s wife. They set him on the bed, and Midas rolled onto his back. “Man, it’s good to be home,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

  “Good to have you back, Golden Boy,” Aladdin said as he probed injuries, especially a really bad one in his side.

  Midas stilled, his gaze locked on something behind them. “Cover me up,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Aladdin snapped the blanket over him, then straightened.

  “Roark.” Midas’s hand wavered as it stretched toward the door.

  Danielle rushed to his side, sans children, and dropped onto the mattress, tears streaming down her face. She kissed him, then buried her face in his shoulder.

  Griffin stood back, knowing…knowing he’d never have that. Never have a woman who loved him no matter what he looked like, no matter what.

  “The baby,” Midas said, coughing. “Is he okay? Tala?”

  A bloodied, scratched, and burned hand cupped her face, and she pressed it between her cheek and shoulder. “They’re here…good. I love you.” She sobbed. “Love you so much. We were so scared…”

  Aladdin eased into the situation. “We need to get him cleaned up.”

  Danielle looked at them, then back to her husband. “I’ll be right outside.”

  Canyon pulled her down to him and kissed her.

  Once outside, Aladdin drew back the shirt. “Ask Evram for the kit. We need to patch this up.”

  “We’re gearing up to head out in ten,” Griffin said. “Someone else will have to take care of him. We got to go.”

  “No,” Midas grunted as he pulled up off the mattress. “I’m going with you.”

  Griffin would’ve laughed if he didn’t see the dark stain on the mattress. “Why aren’t you at the hospital?”