by Ronie Kendig
“Too much ego.” Azzan wanted to laugh at the man’s feeble attempts to extract information, but the uncertainty lingering in the guard’s words made him turn the conversation from himself. “You are the lucky one, stuck out here guarding”—Azzan waved his hand over the sea of fiberglass and metal—”the cars.” He tsked and nodded at the man. “A waste of such a fine soldier.”
The guard’s shoulders squared.
“Maasalaamah,” Azzan said, hoping the good-bye would give him a clear exit.
“Fi aman allah. “
The conciliatory farewell blended with the gravel crunching beneath Azzan’s Versace shoes as he strode toward the Hummer. Lousy shoes were as uncomfortable as they were ugly, but the mission demanded the price tag. He climbed into the vehicle and stuffed the key in the ignition. As the engine turned over, several thoughts assailed him. The throaty rumble as the vehicle roared to life. The guards and soldiers rushing from the front entrance, shouting. The odd reflection of blue glinting off the front windshield. And the soft rustle of fabric in the seat behind him.
Azzan whipped his weapon to the back. What registered in his mind almost made him hesitate. A white hijab draped her head and framed her oval face. Thick dark hair curled at the temples. Terror-stricken eyes.
“Out!” He stared hard at her, the tip of her nose almost touching the steel barrel. The darkness pulled at him again, plunging him into the despair that had wrapped its tendrils around his soul. No, he must do this. With the weapon, he motioned her out. “Get out, or I will kill you.”
The girl cowered and drew back as tears pooled in her eyes. She glanced at the palace, then met his gaze and gave a small but frantic shake of her head.
He jabbed the muzzle against her cheek and nudged so that her head tipped back. “You think because you are young and beautiful, I care? Your brains look the same as anyone else’s splattered over the seats.” Words like that usually had their effect on weak-minded females.
She whimpered as her attention darted toward the royal palace again. “They’re coming,” she whispered, her Arabic quick and nervous.
A flurry of movement reflecting against the heavily tinted windows affirmed her words. The men rushing toward them were too close. He didn’t have time to drag her out of the car. He’d have to kill her.
Dod would tell him to reach for the light in his soul, avoid the darkness.
No time. Azzan grasped the threads of reason his sage uncle’s voice offered. He reared his arm back and slammed the butt of the weapon against her temple.
CHAPTER 4
Heat swirled through his gut, matching the temperature in the first level of the brownstone. Colton sat on the edge of the flowery couch, arms propped on his knees, turning the Resistol Cattle Baron in his hands. Smoothed a hand over the black felt. Ground his teeth and felt the tension radiate across his jaw, down his neck, and into his knotted shoulder muscles.
Why? Why did Lambert have to require a monthly meeting with a shrink?
He wiped the sweat from his brow. Max had just about erupted when the general informed the team they each would be required to meet with this Dr. Avery or resign their positions on the team. Although Colton had calmed down his friend, he sure understood the reticence. He’d rather—
“Well, he was certainly accurate.” The woman’s voice snapped Colton to his feet.
“Pardon me, ma’am?” Who was accurate? What was she talking about?
A smile filled her smallish face as brown eyes sparkled back at him. “Why are you here?”
He handed her a slip of paper. “I have an appointment with Dr. Avery.” He glanced toward the stairs, wondering how the woman had approached without him hearing. Had he been that wound up in his own thoughts that he’d not heard her coming down the steps?
“Dr. Avery is ready to see you. Follow me.”
Colton had to temper his large strides as she led him around the stairs and through a small door at the back of the hall. There, she opened a larger door to the right, stepped in, and waited for him to enter.
Feeling closed in and cramped in the small office, he focused on the window. He shifted and turned around.
The woman shut the door and moved to a small cabinet. “Would you like a bottled water or a soft drink?”
“Um,” he glanced at the door again, wondering where the doctor was. “No, I’m good. Thank you.”
“Well, have a seat, please.” She motioned to two large, overstuffed chairs opposite the desk. One with its back to the door.
Colton tugged the hard, wooden chair next to the bookcase closer and sat. If the doctor was late, did the time spent waiting count toward his sixty-minute requirement?
Armed with a bottled water, the woman reclined against the credenza stretching the length of the suffocating office. She took a sip, her gaze never leaving his.
With the Resistol balanced on his knee, he peeked at the door again. “Did he get lost?”
“No, Dr. Avery is right here.”
He felt the color drain from his face. “Oh. You’re …?”
“Dr. Katherine Avery, at your service.” She tilted her head to the side. “I can see why you’ve been given the nickname Cowboy—which, as you know, is the only name provided to me by General Lambert.” She drew in a slow breath, then leveled a steady gaze at him. “You’re nervous. Can you explain why?” She kept her distance, but eased into one of the two chairs. “Do you find me threatening?”
“No, ma’am.” Had it gotten hotter in here? What was Lambert thinking, putting the team in the hands of a woman who seemed fragile enough to break if you looked at her wrong? It was hard enough to talk to Max and the guys—but an attractive woman who was disarming and intelligent? Not that she had anything on Piper. She didn’t. But still … “I meant no disrespect. I was … well, fact is, I assumed I’d be seeing a male doctor.”
She smiled. “Most men do.”
He nodded, more unnerved and agitated than ever.
“Tell you what. Why don’t we take a walk? I’m hungry, what little air is seeping through the windows isn’t enough to keep me breathing, and there’s a fabulous hot-dog vendor down the street.” She stood and grabbed her keys and small wallet. “Come on, Cowboy.”
When they strode down the hall, she explained to her receptionist that they’d be back in thirty minutes, then stepped out into the bright afternoon. But Colton couldn’t shake the humiliation of getting mixed up.
Donning his Resistol, Colton fell into step with her. A breeze wafted over the cement, and he took a deep breath, ready to savor being out of that confining office. But instead of clean air, he inhaled her floral perfume.
Okay, see? There. That there was a problem. It was distracting. A guy doctor wouldn’t be wearing something to make Jell-O out of a man’s mind.
“So,” she said as she peeked up at him. “Tell me your thoughts on the military.”
“It’s necessary.”
She arched her eyebrow at him as they rounded the corner. Shade draped over them instantly, bathing them in coolness. “That’s a convenient answer. Going to the bathroom is necessary, too.”
“Do you want to know my feelings on that, too?”
She laughed. “Fair enough. I asked for that one.”
Colton felt the first smile tug at his wound-up mood.
Thud!
He flinched and whipped toward the noise, his senses buzzing. A guy in a blue uniform pushed an upright dolly away from the back of a large, white delivery truck. Heart chugging, Colton tried to refocus on the doctor. He could see her lips moving, but the sound didn’t reach his ears.
She pointed to the side. He followed her finger and saw the hot-dog vendor. As she gave her order, he eased back and stretched his jaw.
“You want anything?”
Besides leaving? Colton eyed her, then shook his head.
His gaze roamed the busy street until it hooked on the small park that sat adjacent to a school.
“Mmm,” she said as she brandish
ed a dog laden with sauerkraut and mustard. “Nothing like it.”
“Ma’am, no disrespect, but that’s just wrong. A hot dog should have ketchup and relish, maybe a bit of mustard, but sauerkraut?”
She shrugged. “Raised in New York. You should be thankful it’s not onions; we still have thirty minutes.”
“Now, see, that’s why I stay south of the Mason-Dixon.”
Dr. Avery laughed but then took a bite. They quietly walked, and Colton found a bit of comfort in the fact she was leading him to the small park. At least there, they’d be far enough from sudden noises and sounds. He wouldn’t make an idiot of himself.
They sat on a bench that straddled the space under a shade tree while she finished off her lunch. He stifled a yawn as he monitored the foot traffic. The office building across the street with its two-story parking garage.
A chill scampered over his shoulders. It seemed familiar—but he knew it wasn’t. He’d never been here before. But the tall building, the quiet section of street … watching his kid sister get blown to bits.
Colton lowered his gaze and shut out the memory. Couldn’t think about that.
In his mental memory banks, the sound of dribbling concrete raining down on him pulled his mind into another scenario—when he’d been ambushed and taken captive.
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
“How bad are the flashbacks?”
Despite the gentle, caring tone, Colton snapped his gaze to hers.
Steady brown eyes held his. She sat attentive, positioned toward him. Nothing threatening in her posture.
His attention drifted back to the ground. To his booted feet. “Bad.” He drew in a ragged breath. “I can go months without one, but then—”
“A simple slamming door triggers one.”
Surprise lit through him, but he offered only a slow nod.
“You aren’t sleeping.”
He felt his brow tense and forced it to relax. “How …?”
“I can see the circles under your eyes, and you’ve yawned four times since we stepped into the sunlight.” She leaned forward, matching his posture. “Cowboy, we have a lot of restrictions on our meetings, compliments of the good general. I will do my best to not ask too much, but I do believe I can help you.”
“I can’t say much. Can’t talk about what happened.” Well, maybe he could talk about Emelie. “But I want this to go away. I just want things to be the way they were.”
“That’s not going to happen.” Something akin to grief washed over her face. “I’m sorry, but it won’t. You’re a changed man. Now, my job is to help you reintegrate, to work through the nightmares and flashbacks.”
Maybe … maybe if this worked, he’d have a chance with Piper. “Don’t do this for a girlfriend or a loved one, Cowboy. Do it for yourself. You’ve sacrificed everything for your country. Now, it’s time to sacrifice for yourself.”
Plausible deniability. They’d demanded it of him, his Joint Chiefs brethren and the president.
So Olin Lambert delivered.
Right down to the last bullet.
Warm lamplight spilled over the litter of pages. Angling the light for a better position, he let his dry eyes rake the information. The death of Oscar Reyes put Nightshade one member short. Desperately short in a six-man team. But measuring up candidates against the perfection of this black ops machine made it nigh impossible to find the right match. Especially with those photographs they’d discovered in the Philippines. Who’d taken them? That alone made Olin leery of recruiting. But the team couldn’t go forward without another team member.
Even now, a year after constructing the team, he’d kept their identities a secret. Each of the six-man—-five-man, he corrected himself—unit was a virtual ghost. An analyst might detect personality traits or flaws, but that’d be it. Someone desperate enough might be able to guess the team’s movements, but they could never pin down the individual identities of Nightshade. He’d made sure.
Fingering one profile sheet filled with mind-numbing data—sans biographical information—drew a smile out of his unwilling face. The composite of the team leader with the designation of Nightshade Alpha. Max Jacobs. The man’s wife had tracked down the team six months ago, which warned Olin to take this process slow, be meticulous. He couldn’t afford any mistakes. Nightshade couldn’t afford any mistakes. He would endure painstaking precautions in recruiting a replacement.
Sifting through the pile, he dragged another profile closer. A chuckle drifted up his throat. Digitalis. The Cowboy. Never met a man he liked more. Calm, easy personality, and the former Marine dug into the trenches for the long haul, stuck it out, no complaints.
Now Wolfsbane had a killer instinct and efficiency, which is why
Canyon Metcalfe had received the code name of the man hidden within the wolf-like persona. The man was as loyal to the team as he was to the beach. He also had an ocean full of dark secrets.
Much like Griffin Riddell—Firethorn. The only member of the team Olin had consulted on the initial selection process. A man wanting to do his job and be respected, only to end up unjustly accused and pushed to the point of breaking—or killing, as the case was.
The Kid. Olin clenched his hands as he thought of the young man. The Kid had so much potential bunched up inside him but had no idea of the greatness within himself. One day, he’d see it, and exploit it for the benefit of everyone. That’s why Olin had code named him Bloodroot … some day, maybe he’d find out what blood coursed through his veins.
Glorious. Ingenious. No recorded Christian names. A giddiness soaked Olin’s old muscles. He slumped into the leather office chair that creaked and tilted to the right—his wife had always said he leaned to the right, toward conservatism. To Olin, the leadership placed on him by the United States government could only have happened because God gifted him with the fortitude to speak sensibly and plainly in the face of certain opposition. Because of his reputation, his dream had come to fruition: a deadly, stealthy team moving in the shadows of night with the skill that left the uninitiated blinking and their tongues hanging out.
Yet with the brilliance of the team, the delicate nature of the missions, and the absolute demand for anonymity, adding one member, bringing on a newb, put every one of them in jeopardy.
Every. Bloody. One.
Until the team had its sixth body, Olin would have to pray they weren’t called upon. Being one man down—
“Lambert?”
Olin looked up from the chaos spread before him.
The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs stood in the doorway, worry gouged into his weathered face. “Been to the carnival lately?”
At hearing the code phrase and with his spine vertical, Olin tugged his jacket straight. So much for laying low. “Love the cotton candy.” Hot and cold swirled in Olin’s gut as he gathered the documents into the file and stored them in the safe. He couldn’t tell the chairman they’d lost a man. The information would be a blinking, neon-lit trail straight to the team.
The chairman pivoted and left—and with him went Olin’s hope. He’d wanted time to let the team heal and fill in the missing man. But tonight’s venture to the carnival would launch one more mission.
They’ll never make it out alive.
No. He’d assembled that team. Men with brutal dedication and loyalty. A group that functioned with the perfection and beauty of a stealth bomber. And they’d better.
Or he’d be looking for more than one replacement.
CHAPTER 5
Dark brown eyes. Curly hair. Blood dripping down the face.
Colton shifted, ran a hand over his stubbled jaw, and readjusted on the chair that felt like a rock. Pressing his head back, he fought for another measure of sleep.
Almost instantly, more eyes. This time, caramel. Haunting.
They swam through his mind amid screams. Amid rapid-fire. As a sniper, he came eye to eye with every one of his victims. Faces of those he’d killed. Neutralized was the sanitary term that made p
oliticians feel better. To him, that was only a Band-Aid on a gaping wound. He’d killed. Yes, each had been mission-integral, but the faces still haunted him.
He sat up and leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees. Covering a fisted hand, he pressed his knuckles to his lips and looked out the window of the private plane. And closed his eyes. Prayed once again that God would forgive him and allow a good night’s sleep. Save him from the dark cloud that invariably descended and devoured his soul, tempting him to end it all, give up on the emptiness that left him thinking life would be better off without him.
It was foolish to focus on those thoughts. A slap to the face of a God who’d created him and loved him. He knew that. He did. But … the thoughts were still there, battling him. Weighting him.
Something hit his shoulder and snapped him out of the private moment. He yanked toward the aisle seat.
Max dropped into the chair. “Take a look,” he said, handing him a phone. “Syd sent photos of Dillon’s first tooth.”
The chubby face drew a smile into Colton’s face. “Good thing he looks like his mother.”
“Amen.” Max laughed but grew serious as he eyed his son’s image. “So what’s eating you?”
Colton glanced down. “Nothin’.”
“Come on, man.” Max shifted to face him better. “We’ve done enough time in the bush for me to know something’s off.” He nudged him with an elbow. “Besides, we’re friends. You saw me through a lot. I’m going to do the same for you. Now, cough it up.”
With a ragged breath, Colton supposed the guy was right. He studied the industrial-grade blue carpet below his feet. Talking about this could get him yanked from the team. But what could he do? He’d tried everything else. “Each hit is getting harder … after.”
“You’re getting old.”
“True.” He’d be thirty-seven in a few months. But it was more than that. “I see them. In my dreams. In the day.” The only other image that even remotely countered the oppression of the dead was a beautiful, caramel-eyed woman. He hadn’t talked to Piper since she’d jumped into his arms after Firefox foaled. She’d been so excited about the foal, and he loved that she seemed at ease with animals the way he was.