Firethorn (Discarded Heroes)

by Kendig, Ronie

  Kazi remained standing. “If you can’t explain it to me, then I proceed with my plans.”

  “Then you’ll be two days too late and fail your mission,” the general said. “Please, sit and listen. This once.”

  Her heart plummeted to her toes. Failing meant he’d take the money back. Meant she’d never be free of Carrick. “Give yourself a chance to risk freedom.” Involuntarily, she swallowed. Pushing butter through ice would’ve been easier than yielding, but Kazi lowered herself to the sofa.

  “I have intel that says Cowboy is being transferred to American custody tomorrow morning. We must stop that from happening.” Lambert looked at her. “Since we can’t prove who did this to the team, we cannot risk Cowboy being remanded into American custody.”

  “Agreed.” Griffin came forward in his chair and assumed that standard pose of his—forearms on his legs, fingers steepled. A rippling in his jaw spoke of the muscle he worked, the tension she’d noted earlier. Finally, his mahogany eyes came to hers. “Are you with us, Kacie?”

  Curse the ground the man walked on. She had no choice before his question, but now, if she said yes, he would think she was doing it for him. “This is my gig. I’m getting paid. Of course I’m doing it.”

  Griffin’s gaze stayed on her, unchanged. No disappointment. No anger. No…nothing.

  Kazi shifted, then looked at Olin. “What’s the plan?”

  “Two CIA operatives are being sent in to retrieve Colton.”

  Spy against spy. Made things tougher, more adventurous. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  “We’ll delay them while you and Griffin pose as the agents, get Colton, and get out—“

  “Wait a minute!” Kazi took a step forward, tucking her hair behind her ear. “An operation like that requires fake IDs, countless hours of monitoring their movement to know the best place to hit, to have backup in place, coordinated efforts with other operatives to cover a trail….” She huffed. “No way that can be ready by morning.”

  “Things will be ready. I assure you.” Golding stared at her with unfazed, dark eyes. “But the question is, will you be ready?”

  “I don’t have weeks to prepare. And how are things ‘ready’?”

  “You are quite correct, there is little time to explain or prepare.”

  “Then—“

  He rose. Towering over her, Golding tapped her temple. “In here, Kazi. Will you be ready to save this man?”

  “You haven’t answered my question.” She leaned away from him and sought Lambert out. “How is this ready? How can you be ready when you hired me to do this mission?” A tsunami pummeling her wouldn’t have hurt as much as the revelation that assaulted her at that moment. “You never planned for me to extract him.”

  “That is where you are wrong.” Lambert stood. “It was my full intention for you to do this. But when I found out the Brits had Cowboy, I talked with Jacob shortly after hiring you. He has been working on a contingency plan.” He eyed the dark-skinned man. “Golding has some contacts in the UK.”

  “Contacts?” Her pulse sped. “How do you—?”

  “Kacie,” Griffin hissed as he came to her side. Voice lowered, he leaned in, his crisp, clean scent sailing through the one-foot space between his strong jawline and her nose. “Stop trying to control this thing. Work with us—with me.”

  The planet tilted another degree with him so close, so in her face.

  “I…”

  Golding went on. “There is a club in the South End of London called Bread & Butter.”

  Someone set her world to “spin.” “South…” The name died on her lips. “Bread—” She tucked her head, a flood of incongruent and throbbing images bombarding her mind. Strobe lights. Pulsating bodies. Thick air that wasn’t breathable let alone maneuverable. Screaming music and patrons. Annoying, infectious laughter…Tina. No.

  God…please, no. Not there.

  Warmth pressed against her back, soft and subtle. Yet strong.

  “Kacie?” Griffin whispered, touching the center of her back. “You with us?”

  Raising a hand to her forehead, she bought time. At the trembling in her fingers, she fisted her hand. “Ye…yeah.” She cleared her throat. Only then did she realize that less than two inches separated her from Griffin. When had he closed in? She looked up—straight into soul-stirring eyes that in an instant seemed to penetrate her every defense. Her every secret. Down, through the sod of her made-up strength. The dirt of her life. Past the lying worms, the slugs…straight to the va—

  Hands on his tight abs, she nudged him back. Took a draught of the cool air and inhaled Griffin’s crisp scent again. He’d gotten close that time. Too close. Seal it off. Push him away. Especially if they were headed to the B & B.

  She looked at Lambert. “Why are we changing plans again?”

  “The exchange is unexpected and quick—it wasn’t scheduled until next week. But something happened. We don’t know what, but they’re trading him tomorrow. We’re convinced if we don’t extract him now, we may never see Colton alive again.”

  Miranda, Venezuela

  “Agua, por favor.” Range eased onto the stool at the bar. Elbows on the counter, he pushed his hands through his hair. A week. Seven long days and he hadn’t gotten any closer to finding Canyon. It made no sense. Who would do this? And why? Granted, Canyon had a way of ticking people off. Range had a lifetime worth of experience.

  How many times did I swear I’d kill him?

  And now, if somehow by some miracle he didn’t find him, Canyon would be dead. Groaning, Range fisted his hands in his hair and tensed his muscles. This was asinine. He wasn’t a fighter, a warrior like his brother. That’s why he’d gone into the Coast Guard.

  Where was that water? He lifted his head and glanced around. The bartender leaned against the counter talking with another man.

  “Agua, por favor,” Range said, raising a finger.

  Eyes hooded with disgust, the bartender stomped to the sink, grabbed a glass, and flipped the tap. He swung around and planted the cloudy water on the counter. Water splashed over the rim as the Latino glared at him.

  Come to think of it, Range was probably safer drinking beer than water. But he wouldn’t compromise every moral fiber and the Metcalfe name—not that anyone here knew him. “Gracias,” he muttered as he set money on the counter and left without touching the drink. Even as he pushed his way out the door, he chided himself. Another hour in here, sitting, listening, and maybe he’d hear something. Or someone would walk up and say, “I hear you’re looking for a cocky, yellow-haired American.”

  Range snorted as he crossed the street and entered the motel. Exhaustion weighted his limbs as he trudged down the threadbare carpet to room 114. He passed a vending machine and eyed it wearily, patting down his pockets. Empty. He’d need to get some money from his duffel, so he pushed himself toward the room that lacked in every area imaginable. As he pointed the key toward the lock, he paused. His breath backed into his throat.

  The door stood ajar, the wood splintered.

  He took a step back and eyed the frame. Range reached behind and lifted his black sweatshirt. His hand closed around high-impact plastic, stippled grip. He eased the Glock from its holster at the small of his back. Toeing the door, he tilted his head and peeked into the darkened interior.

  Light from the hall stretched into the room. Farther…farther…A T-shirt lay strewn across the floor. His belt next to it. Pants. Coins. Toiletries.

  Weapon at the ready, he sidestepped into the room. The small bathroom—he’d never again complain about how Canyon left their bathroom—to the right. Keen senses alighted on the ghost of a shadow drifting across the carpet.

  A flash of movement to the left.

  Range swung toward the assailant. Too close, too fast. Light exposed the man as a hairy ape of a man. Ape’s shoulder rammed into his chest. Drove his spine into the wall. Ooph! Range jerked the Glock up and slammed it into the guy’s skull. A sickening thud echoed in the darken
ed room.

  Ape stumbled back, cupping his head.

  Range steeled himself against the warmth that slid down his head, mirroring the dark liquid dripping down the man’s face. Rage flooded the face. Eyebrows went down. Lips snarled. He hulked.

  If Range didn’t shoot him now, Ape would beat the life out of him. Range aimed and fired. The man still came. Stumbled. Crumbled.

  Adrenaline surged through Range’s body, but he had no time to catch his breath, his mind tripping over the earlier shadow he’d noted. Where—

  Air swirled near his face, a meaty fist narrowly missing his nose.

  He whipped around.

  A hand flew at him. Connected with his jaw. Range stumbled back. The weapon flipped backward, but he clung to it, refusing to yield his only defense. Knees wobbling, he forced himself to remain upright. To focus. To fight. These guys weren’t playing hide-and-seek. This was life or death.

  Another right hook came at him.

  He jerked back. The punch rammed into his shoulder, throwing him off balance. He hit the floor hard. The breath knocked from his lungs. He blinked. Saw the man looming over him. This was it.

  Gun!

  His fingers tightened around the stippled grip. He yanked it up and eased the trigger back. The report clapped through the night. Splat! Something wet and warm hit his face. The man fell on him with a wheezing groan as the air left his lungs. He was still. Dead still.

  Pulse hammering, Range lay there, gulping air. Shock pinned him to the floor.

  Shouts erupted from somewhere outside. The strengthening surge of adrenaline lit his veins afire. Would that be backup for the bad guys? Or the authorities? Either way, finding an American with two dead Venezuelans wouldn’t look good no matter how they cut it.

  He shoved the guy off and leapt to his feet. After bolting the door, he grabbed as much of his stuff as he could and stuffed it in the emptied duffel. At the window, he peeked around the curtain. The street lay empty and dark. Perfect. He freed the latch and tugged it back. Metal screeched against metal. Halfway open, it wouldn’t budge. Ramming his elbow against it didn’t help.

  Banging at the door made him jerk.

  Crack! The door flew open.

  CHAPTER 18

  Larnaca International Airport, Cyprus

  Clearing Cypriot security had been a lot easier than Griffin expected, especially with Golding’s powerful presence. The man walked them through the checkpoint without so much as one armed guard batting an eye. What was with that? Who was Golding?

  There was more to the man than being the friend of a Jew who saved Israel two years ago. He had influence, connections, and prestige. The way he’d stepped in, removed Aladdin from exposure, and hidden him in his home told Griffin something.

  He just wasn’t sure what that something was.

  Probably because Kacie had him distracted. She hadn’t been the same since Golding and Lambert mentioned that club. He’d seen the reaction, even if the others hadn’t. Her hands shook, and her breathing went low and deep. He expected her to fall out cold. But she hadn’t. She rallied. For the most part. The other part hadn’t recovered from whatever blow that news delivered.

  He’d find out. Everything instinctive and protective rose up as he watched the color drain from her face. He inched closer, ready to pull her into his arms, hold her tight—whatever it took to make that fear and panic go away. She wore attitude, spunk, and feistiness. That’s what he liked on her. Not this collapsed shell sitting across from him on the private jet—another of Golding’s benefits.

  “Nice digs,” he said as he smoothed a hand over the cream leather armrest.

  Kacie kept her gaze on the portal to the outside world. No recognition that he’d spoken registered in her eyes. Light stretched through the window and bathed her face in the orange glow of sunset as they streaked toward the UK. Halfway through the flight, a light meal was served along with drinks. She didn’t touch any of it.

  “Come on now, Baby Girl. You need to put some meat on those bones.”

  Elbow propped on the arm, she rested her lips on her knuckles, her gaze still on the great beyond. Griffin set aside his tray and slid across the small space into the seat beside her.

  Still no response.

  He angled toward her. “Kacie.”

  Though she didn’t look at him, her gaze drifted to the carpet of the plane.

  “I saw it, Baby Girl.” Take it slow, Legend. She’s spooked as it is. But he knew he had to call her on this.

  “What do you think you saw?” The seething tone warned him he was on the right path. But to be careful. Tread carefully.

  “Fear. Panic. At the mention of that club.”

  Her gaze flitted back to the window. Her milky-white throat rippled as she swallowed.

  “I’m going to be there with you. I got your back. Know what I’m saying?” He leaned down, trying to peer into her eyes. “But if I need to know something—“

  “You don’t.” She whipped toward him, her white-blond hair sparkling under the tease of a stray ray of sunlight.

  Mere inches separated their faces. Flecks of gold glimmered in her green eyes. The black circle that encompassed the irises. But he saw so much more. Pain. Crushed dreams. “A’right.” He nodded. “You’re right. I don’t need to know. But it doesn’t change that I’m going to be there for you.” He tucked his chin, meeting her eye to eye. “Whatever happens, I’m there.”

  “Your focus should be on getting your boy back.”

  He might not read people the way some could, but he didn’t need an interpreter for that one. “You’re a spy. I get that you might not understand a cooperative effort, but working together benefits me getting my boy back. I am not so narrowly focused that I can’t widen my scope.”

  Finally! She looked at him. “I don’t need your sympathy or your pity. I know my job. I’ll get it done. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Oh, I am.” More than he’d ever admit. Deep, grievous wounds had gouged hope from her heart.

  He’d give her some time to get her bearings, to reset her focus. Griffin eased back in the chair, intentionally not returning to his own seat. He folded his arms over his chest, fully aware that his elbows pressed into her space, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes.

  Funny how a week ago, he would’ve gnawed her backside for this attitude. A little time and an inadvertent glimpse into her life—that footwork on the wall at Golding’s he’d never forget—and Griffin knew there was more to Baby Girl than she’d ever open up about. If he’d figured one thing out about the spritelike girl, it was that talk was cheap. And apparently handed out with every male encounter she’d had, like pocket change for beggars. Bread for the homeless. Water for prisoners.

  Prisoners. She’d freed him from that prison. Granted, it hadn’t exactly been a legal act. Necessary, but highly illegal. What would happen when this mission was over? What penalty would he face back in the States? They’d already given him life for the congressman’s death. Which was messed up in every way the mind could drum up. He hadn’t been nowhere near that man’s home or life. Who cared if some rich white boy wanted to run the country but couldn’t even lead his own family? Not Griffin Riddell. He had family. Respect. Honor.

  Had. He had it. Not anymore. They’d destroyed his life. All he’d worked for flushed down the drain and straight into the sewers of failure. His life stunk.

  A sharp pinch on the soft flesh of his underarm snapped his eyes open. He jerked to Kacie.

  She stared back unrepentant. As if daring him to get angry or lash out.

  Intentionally, Griffin turned his attention to the galley. “Have they brought dessert yet?” With a half yawn, he resettled in the chair.

  “Are you comfortable?” Her tone was civil, but he heard the sarcasm, the aggravation behind it.

  “Yeah.” He lolled his head to the side and nodded. “I’m good.” Arms folded, he pressed his side into the arm that separated them, making sure to edge into her space more. E
yes closed, he yawned and let out a groan-moan.

  Aw man, he really shouldn’t mess with her like this. But the girl made it worth the guilt.

  Beside him, he heard the tinkling of ice in her water glass.

  She’d get along well with Phoenix. They both had that insane common sense and obsessive nature. Why can’t you act like a grown man, Griff? How many times had his sister shrieked that at him after he’d pulled some fool stunt?

  An ice-cold sensation stung his legs and thighs. Wet.

  Griffin leapt up. Out of the seat. On his toes as water ran down his legs. Mouth agape, he stared at the slick black spot on his black tactical pants.

  “Sorry,” Kacie said, her words completely void of regret. She locked eyes with him as she set the glass on the tray on the table between the two sets of seats. “I guess I bumped your arm.”

  Nostrils flaring, he fought for something to say—something civil. Not that words didn’t come to mind. But those weren’t words a good ol’ Southern boy said in front of a lady. “Are you out of your fool mind?”

  “What?” She sat back, playing the wide-eyed innocent. “Oh, did I spill?”

  Griffin gritted his teeth. An idea hit him. He stomped to the galley.

  Mustering all her skills not to laugh at the way Griffin Riddell exploded from his seat when she dumped her water in his lap had proven near impossible. But she’d done it. Played off the prank. Though ire screamed through his expression, he’d hidden it. She allowed herself another small laugh, watching as he disappeared into the rear of the plane. To the bathroom, most likely, trying to dry off his pants. She snickered.

  But really, what was his problem? That thick bicep had bulged into her personal space, right under her nose. Then after she reprimanded him, he’d gotten even closer. She never mentioned that for a split second she’d seen herself resting her cheek against his arm, relaxing. Ha. Like that’d ever happen.

  Griffin’s large frame emerged from the rear. Alarm spiraled through Kazi at his expression loaded with retribution. Shoulders taut, chin tucked ever so slightly, those deep, rich eyes pinned her. Then she saw it. The water decanter in his hand.