by Ronie Kendig
PRAISE FOR THE DISCARDED HEROES SERIES
Nightshade kept me up all night! A tight plot, heartthrob heroes, and description so rich I could hear the jungle noise, feel the heat slide down my back. I’ll be clearing out a shelf to make room for Ronie’s books!
—Susan May Warren, RITA award-winning
author of Nothing But Trouble
VALOR, ACTION, ROMANCE, HEART … Nightshade is the perfect blend of everything I like best in a story. I can’t recommend it enough!
—John B. Olson, author of Powers
In Digitalis, Ronie Kendig again displays her superb ability to reach from the page and pull the reader into a world of heart thumping espionage and richly flawed characters. Her heroes are some of the best I’ve read, and they are so unforgettable.
—Dineen Miller, author of Winning Him Without Words:
10 Keys to Thriving in Your Spiritually Mismatched Marriage
Balancing a story of high action and deep emotions isn’t easy, but with Digitalis, author Ronie Kendig pulls it off with the casual grace of a truly talented storyteller. I don’t know what kept me on the edge of my seat more, the fast-paced military intrigue or the powerful tugs on my heart. Doesn’t matter: This is one pulse-pounding adventure you don’t want to miss.
—Robert Liparulo, author of Comes a Horseman,
Germ, and the Dreamhouse Kings
Digitalis kept pace with thrilling suspense and strong characters that will live long past the last page. None of us realize the dedication of those who keep our world safe.
—DiAnn Mills, author of the Call of Duty series
An action-packed thrill ride from start to finish … if you liked CBS’s long running hit series The Unit you’re going to love Ronie Kendig’s Digitalis. Enjoy the ride and the read. I only have one question … where do I sign up for Nightshade?
—Bob Hamer, veteran FBI undercover agent
and the author of Enemies Among Us
OTHER BOOKS BY
RONIE KENDIG
Nightshade (Discarded Heroes #1)
© 2011 by Ronie Kendig
ISBN 978-1-60260-783-5
Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. NO part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
For more information about Ronie Kendig, please access the author’s Web site at the following Internet address: www.roniekendig.com
Cover design: Müllerhaus Publishing Arts, Inc., www.Mullerhaus.net
Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. BOX 719, Uhrichsville, OH 44683, www.barbourbooks.com
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.
Printed in the United states of America.
DEDICATION
Major Loren D. Kendig (Ret.)
Humble. Honorable. Patriot. Hero.
THANK YOU for your admirable and distinguished service
to our great country, at war and at home.
I am proud to be a part of your family!
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
Special thanks to:
My husband, Brian, and my amazing children for your patience, understanding, and excitement. I love you all so very much! I couldn’t do it without you!
Steve Laube—my agent, for believing, understanding, and accepting me.
The Barbour Staff—y’all rock! Special thanks to Rebecca Germany, Mary Burns, Shalyn Sattler.
Andrew Kendall – for the amazing Nightshade insignia!
Chuck Holton – for being part of my “arsenal” for military advice/direction. (Any mistakes in the Discarded Heroes books are purely mine.)
Yitshak Kugler, Eva Marie Everson, and Dr. Heater—for extensive help on Israel.
Critique Partners, Readers, & Endorsers: Dineen Miller, Kimberley Woodhouse, Robin Miller, Jim Rubart, Rel Mollet, Sara Mills-Mills, Shannon McNear, Bob Hamer, DiAnn Mills, Lori Twichell, Lisa Harris
Candace Calvert for help with trauma and medical questions. You’re a gem—thank you!!
Chaplain Carlton D. Hall—for your encouragement and help regarding our veterans and PTSD.
Wes & Jane Thornton for sharing from your hearts and lives.
MARINE PRAYER
Almighty Father, whose command is over all and whose love never fails, make me aware of Thy presence and obedient to Thy will. Keep me true to my best self, guarding me against dishonesty in purpose and deed and helping me to live so that I can face my fellow Marines, my loved ones, and Thee without shame or fear. Protect my family.
Give me the will to do the work of a Marine and to accept my share of responsibilities with vigor and enthusiasm. Grant me the courage to be proficient in my daily performance. Keep me loyal and faithful to my superiors and to the duties my Country and the Marine Corps have entrusted to me. Help me to wear my uniform with dignity, and let it remind me daily of the traditions which I must uphold.
If I am inclined to doubt, steady my faith; if I am tempted, make me strong to resist; if I should miss the mark, give me courage to try again. Guide me with the light of truth and grant me wisdom by which I may understand the answer to my prayer.
MARSOC— Silent Warriors. Always Faithful. Always Forward.
THE INVITATION
Invaluable skills came with bloody faces and dead objectives that left Colton Neeley wishing he could rub his eyes raw. Those same skills were the reason Uncle Sam had denied his request for an early exit from his commitment with the Marine Special Operations Command/Team. And the same reason he couldn’t muster enthusiasm for his friend who’d been granted his freedom.
“Never thought you’d get out.” Colton slumped back against the wood slats of the lawn chair, watching his four-year-old daughter, McKenna. She sat on the fifty-foot dock that stretched over the private pond. She tossed a pink lure-tipped line into the water as his dad helped.
“You and me both.” Beside him, his partner and MARSOC buddy Griffin Riddell sat with his elbows propped on his knees. “What about you? Thought you wanted out.”
“Denied.” The word felt like a weight around his gut. Colton shifted his gaze to the water rippling around Mickey’s bobber. “Eleven years wasn’t enough for Uncle Sam. Said my sniping and recon skills were too invaluable.”
Griffin whistled. “Man, after what you went through in Fallujah, I half expected them to toss you without so much as a thank-you-very-much.” His grunted. “How you doing with that?”
Colton picked up his soda and took a swig. “S’pose I’ll be all right.” He glanced over at the grill. Probably should get up and flip the meat in a few.
“Two months as a hostage. That don’t just disappear, know what I’m saying?”
Oh he knew all right. More than knew. Though Colton didn’t want to remember, the mention of that city and what happened snapped faces into his mind like a flickering silent movie, bringing with it phantom pains in his spine and legs.
“What about the flashbacks?”
“Daddy, look!” McKenna’s mouse-like voice squeaked as she giggled. With his father next to her, she held up the end of her fishing line. “I caught a seaweed.” Another giggle.
“Save it, Mickey,” he called toward the pond, where his daughter sat between his mom and dad on the short pier. “We’ll grill it.”
She batted white-blond h
air from her face as her papa took the rod. “Daddy.” The cutest scowl tugged at her fair features and blue eyes as she planted her hands on her hips and turned to him. “You can’t eat it, silly. It’s a weed.”
He chuckled as she and his mother baited the line, while his father pointed out that if they’d use real worms, they’d catch something besides weeds. Naturally, Mickey and his mom ewwed out the option.
Though Colton’s attention never left his family, the patient, waiting gaze of his buddy burned through Colton’s resolve. He shook his head, knowing he wouldn’t get out of answering that question. About the flashbacks. Fallujah. The girl … “I see that kid’s face every day and every time I look at Mickey.” The brown eyes. The misinterpreted trust.
Clearing his throat, he sat up straighter. “Started therapy last week.” He shrugged, scrounging for hope that this would be over soon. “Like the counselor. Joined an experimental group for a new med—seems to be working.”
“Going all the way, huh?”
“I want to be whole. Get out there and play with Mickey and forget that two months of captivity almost paralyzed me, that the hum of a light isn’t my brain getting fried.” He roughed a hand over his face. “Forget it, man. This is the Fourth. We have a barbecue.”
Colton pushed out of his chair and strode to the covered patio, where plumes of heat rose from the gas grill. As he worked the steaks and burgers over the cast-iron grate, he let the tendrils of smoke carry off the depression and haunting images. As the meat finished cooking, he stood in silence, soaking up the laughter of his family and guests, Griffin and his ten-year-old nephew.
Ten minutes later, they gathered under the covered porch to munch on the cooked-to-perfection corn on the cob and meat. Once their bellies were full, they leaned back and sighed as the fans circled lazily overhead.
“Now, that was a meal,” Griffin said as he clamped a hand on Dante’s shoulder. “You need to learn to cook like that.”
Dante grinned. “Yes, sir. Grandpapa would love it.”
Gathering plates and dishes, Colton’s mother waved them off. “Y’all go on and enjoy your time. Colton, get the sparklers for McKenna and Dante while I clean up.”
The blond wonder jumped up and down, squealing. “Yes, Daddy! I love them! Please—please—please?” She threaded her hands in mock prayer.
“All right, darlin’.” He rustled her hair. “I’ll be right back.” He stepped into the dark night and headed to his truck, where he’d left the small bag of sparklers. Reaching behind the front seat, he cocked his head and groped for the fireworks. As his fingers grazed the bag, which scooted farther out of reach, he spotted his Remington 700.
Regret choked him. He paused and leaned against the seat. Hung his head. God …. please. I just want a clear mind. With a final grunt, he snatched the bag and slammed the door shut on the truck and on his shaky thoughts. “All right, Mickey, here we go.”
Bouncing from the back porch toward him, she squealed. “Dante, look, look! Daddy got sparklers and poppers—my favorite.”
A noise screeched through the night.
His heart jack-hammered at the familiar sound.
Crack! Boom!
He dove to the side. Hearing hollowed out, he blinked. A dusty road spread before him. Shouts pervaded the Iraqi street. Men darted for cover. Colton scrambled, feeling the weight of his gear on his back.
“Take cover,” he shouted to his team as he rushed up against a building. Spine pressed to the wood, he reached for his radio. Gone. He cursed. Under attack and no backup, no airstrike. He searched the street, his mind pinging.
Movement to the side flared into his awareness. Instincts blazed. He grabbed his weapon—but it wasn’t there. Oh God, no! He patted the ground, his hearing still muffled by the first IED detonation. Where’s my rifle? Where’d it go?
“Cowboy?”
“What?” he shouted, searching for his weapon.
“What’re—”
Kaboom! Pop-pop-pop. Multi-colored flashes lit the bloody day. Colton scrambled for cover beside the Humvee. He scoured the dust and smoke for his team. Where were they? He glanced over his shoulder—then remembered the Remington.
As he rushed to the back door of the Humvee, another blast shoved him against the steel. Oof!
“Cowboy!”
Yanking open the door, he noted civilians on the other side of the Humvee and hoped they stayed clear of the violence erupting around them. He didn’t need to find another foot—or any other body part—during cleanup. He lifted his weapon and only then realized it was empty.
Sound from behind yanked him around.
A white-haired man rushed toward him.
“Get back!” Without his weapon ready, it’d be hand-to-hand. But he wasn’t letting his weapon go. No way would someone find him with his pants down. Not here. He wasn’t going to die in Iraq because he didn’t have his gun. They did that to the civilian contractors. But not to him, not to a MARSOC sniper.
“What are you doing? Don’t do this.”
When the haggard man rushed him again, Colton drove a hard right into his face. The old man flew back and slid across the hard-packed earth. Colton quickly eased a slug in and chambered the round.
Crack! Boom! Pop-pop!
He ducked, and when he came up, a girl with wide brown eyes appeared out of the dust. His heart rapid-fired. No. Couldn’t be. He’d killed her already. The villagers had used her as a suicide bomber—then captured him and nearly killed him. No way, no how was he going back there so they could drive a thousand volts through his body.
He dropped to a knee and lined up the sights.
The girl drew back and yelped. “I’m scared.”
Why was she speaking English? He shrugged. They’d trained the children to gain confidence and intelligence. He’d fallen prey once. Won’t happen again.
“Maa-i-khussni, not my problem,” he said, all too familiar with the way the radicals worked the American soldiers. Soldiers who were here trying to help.
“Cowboy, it’s”—Boom! Crack-crack-pop!—”girl.”
“Don’t care, man. I’m not letting them take me again.” Sweat slid down his temple into his eye. He blinked—
Wait! Her eyes. How had they changed from brown to blue? He shook his head to dislodge the disparity. The heat. Had to be the heat. Using his upper arm, he swiped away the sweat. Realigned the sights. His heart rate ratcheted when more civilians emerged around the girl.
“Ambush!” He lowered his head and peered through the scope. Focused on nailing the shot, holding his position. Considered the elements.
“Colton! No!” a familiar voice shouted.
But they didn’t know. Hadn’t been there.
“Marine, stand down! Stand down! “
His finger slid into the trigger well.
It’s a girl. A little girl.
And they’d used her to get to him, to extract information and kill him. Never again.
Target acquired.
Why are her eyes blue? No, not blue. He was seeing things. They were brown, and he wasn’t letting this happen again. No remorse. Gently, he let his finger ease back on the trigger.
Forgive me, Father, he prayed silently, as he did with every kill.
A tremendous weight slammed into him and knocked him sideways. Crack! As the weapon’s recoil registered, so did the fact that he’d lost his gun. He went flying. Hit the ground—hard. Thud! Stars sprinkled through his eyes. The edges of his vision ghosted. His ears popped. He howled at the pain. Blinked.
Night? Why was it night?
“Colton!”
Again, he blinked. A man almost as dark as the sky behind him loomed over him. “Legend?” Aches radiated through Colton’s body, leaving him disoriented. “What …?”
Screams and cries suffused the night.
Something ominous clouded Legend’s face. He straddled Colton, pinning his arms to the sides. “You with me, Cowboy? You here?”
“What are—get off!”
“Where are we?”
“What do you mean?”
“Where are we? Answer me, Marine!”
Qualms squelched by Legend’s drill sergeant voice, Colton paused. “My ranch.” A horrible, horrible feeling slithered into his gut. The events crashed in on him. The screaming. The little girl in Fallujah. Blue eyes. “No!” Everything in him went cold. For a split second, he locked gazes with Griffin, then jerked his head to the side. Strained to see.
A half-dozen feet away lay his Remington 700. Beyond, his mother and father huddled over—
“McKenna!” The pounding roar of his pulse deafened him.
The small huddle shifted. His parents parted, and Mickey sat up.
Colton squirmed, but Griffin held him down. “Get off me now, or so help me God—”
His buddy shoved off and cleared the path.
Scrabbling over the dirt drive, Colton pushed the weapon out of reach and dove toward his daughter. When she saw him coming, Mickey screamed—and lunged for his mother.
Her rejection punched him in the gut. He sat, stunned. “Mickey.” His voice cracked. He reached for his beautiful, precious four-year-old with a trembling hand.
Liquid blue eyes came to his as his mother let out a sob again, pushed to her feet, and rushed up the steps into the house with McKenna.
Colton dropped back, numb. I almost killed my daughter. A half moan trapped the air in his throat.
“Son?” Blood dribbled down his father’s chin.
Did I … punch him? Appalled at himself, Colton pushed his father away. Stumbled to his feet. Staggered to the barn. I almost killed my daughter. Arms and legs felt as heavy as cannons. He couldn’t tell between reality and the nightmare of captivity. Couldn’t tell the difference—he gasped for air—between his own daughter and an insurgent’s pawn.
He swayed. The heady scent of the barn lured him inside. How … how could he do that? Lose grasp on reality like that? He gripped the half wall of a stall. Gripped it tight. Wood dug into his hands. What’s wrong with me? He shook the wall. Shuffled back—and drove his heel through the wood. It splintered and swung inward.