Firethorn (Discarded Heroes)

by Kendig, Ronie

  A siren rent the air. Then more…and more, until the whole of his hearing seemed devoured by emergency howlers.

  “They comin’.” Mario pointed to the idling plane. “You’d better go.”

  “The women…”

  “No time, man. We’ll barely get you off the ground—“

  “Look!” Rel shouted, jogging out into the open.

  There, a black SUV barreled down the road, hot-tailed by a dozen or more cops and unmarked vehicles.

  “It’s them.”

  Oh God, help me… No way they could get on the plane without intervention.

  A blaring horn broke through the din, snagging his attention on a train barreling down the tracks. His heart dove into his throat. The train wasn’t slowing…and neither was the SUV.

  “Get in the plane,” Mario hollered, dragging Marshall by the sleeve across the open area.

  He stumbled up the five steps into the plane, crouching to watch through the portal windows at the chaos unfolding. He gripped the leather seatback. “No…no, no…they won’t make it.” Pulse thumping, he leaned closer. “No, stop! Don’t do it. No!” he shouted. Begging angels, God, anyone to stop them.

  The train lurched from between two buildings into the intersection.

  Boom!

  Black metal twisted and hurtled through the air. Flipped once…twice…three times.

  Bread & Butter Club, London

  Hands grabbed her. Kazi used the chest of the man behind her as a counterbalance and whipped her legs up and shoved her feet into the chest of the nearest man. She snapped her head backward.

  Crack.

  “Augh!” Hands freed her, and she dropped to the grate with a thud—the sound masked thanks to the throbbing music and deafening din of the crowd almost a hundred feet below them.

  When she started to straighten, Kazi found herself staring into the muzzle of a Beretta M93. She followed the arm up as she pulled herself straight. Disbelief churned in the wake of her fury. “Roman.”

  “Little sister.” His blond hair was cut short against his broad skull. The shoulders had widened right along with the insipid calloused nature he’d developed. He motioned the barrel at her. “Hands.”

  Obeying, she raised her arms out to the side and pushed her gaze to Carrick—gloating, sickening Carrick—who stood behind Roman with a sneer. “I see you let one rat get away.”

  Though she saw him laugh, the throbbing rhythm vibrating the walls and floors swallowed it. It sickened her that he found pleasure in dismantling her life. Ruining all that she had built. He knew her weaknesses and exploited them all to his benefit. Quite the contrary to Griffin. He’d discovered her weaknesses, but rather than pushing them in her face, he gave her room to figure things out.

  “Move,” Roman shouted over the noise.

  Kazi looked to the side. Noticed a pipe. Then another across…her gaze hopscotched over and over the club, her pulse ramping as her gaze took her lower. Would they support her weight? If she dropped on one too heavy or hit it wrong? She might be able to…

  “Kazimiera.” Carrick stepped forward.

  She moved her right foot back a step. Drew her arms to her side.

  Roman angled the gun at her again. Motioned with a bob of his head toward the small hall where she’d last seen Griffin. To her left a possible escape—which could also kill her if those pipes didn’t hold—to her right, Carrick’s lair.

  Inside the twelve-by-twenty area, Kazi stopped just over the threshold and took up a defensive position with her back to the wall and her hand within reach of the door. “I thought you said my family was dead.”

  Carrick laughed. “You told me years ago he wasn’t your brother anymore.”

  To her surprise, Roman shifted. His eyes bounced around. Avoiding me. What, did the truth hurt? Did he expect her to still care about him after all he’d done?

  Arm around him, Carrick squeezed her brother’s shoulder. “Roman and I are partners.”

  Brown eyes so like their father’s met hers, then darted away. Roman lowered the Beretta, but just as quickly, Carrick leaned in and nudged it back up.

  Thudding drew her around, heart in her throat—had they captured Griffin and Colton again? Two guards, sweat sliding down their temples, shook their heads.

  Amusement gone, Carrick glowered at her. “Where are they? I want those men.”

  “On the roof.”

  Carrick scowled. “My men just searched it—they’re not there.”

  She shrugged. “I told them to go to the roof.”

  He checked with Roman. “Is she telling the truth?”

  “Like he would know.” Calm down. Don’t let him get to you. “He hasn’t seen me since he handed you the thirty pieces of silver.”

  “Tsk tsk, Kazimiera. Religious overtones have never been your forte.”

  “Still fitting, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Carrick’s hand encircled her arm. “Where are they?”

  She wanted to fight him. Kick his slick backside off the rooftop, the same one that had ferried Griffin and Colton to safety—she hoped.

  He yanked her to himself, his grip burning. “Where?”

  “Not. Here.” Grinding her teeth radiated aches through her jaw and neck, but it was of little concern anymore.

  Carrick shoved her toward Roman, who clamped his meaty paws on her forearms. “Take her down and lock her up. I’ll deal with her after the premiere.” With Hickson, his personal guard, Carrick strode down the hall and disappeared through a door that led to an elevator, which would dump him into the main lobby—right into the lap of his loyal dogs below.

  Nostrils flaring, Kazi struggled against her brother’s hold as he wrangled her toward the rear entrance. “You are a coward, Roman.”

  “Don’t waste your breath, little sister. I’ve heard it all before.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I forgot you were the only Faronski born without a heart.” She wrested free and jumped back. She knew better than to run—the armed guards were her reminders.

  Roman’s eyes blazed. “We had Kazpar; there was no need for you—it only meant more mouths to feed.”

  “Dad would—“

  “He’s dead, Kazimiera!”

  “And you’re nothing like him.”

  His face reddened. “I did what I had to.”

  “Easy money. Judas said the same thing, I bet.” She hauled composure back into line. “Tell me, will you hang yourself when it’s over?

  He surged forward. “Do you know why I went to Carrick?” His blond brows creased over his brown eyes.

  Her stomach swirled. “He had a thing for young girls.”

  “No, not used-up little girls.”

  His words seared what was left of her heart, her hope that Roman’s actions would somehow make sense, that someone held a gun to his head or some—

  “I went to Carrick because I hated myself since the day Boucher took you. Because I wanted a life for you, a chance for you to—“

  “To what? Be someone else’s property? Do you realize what he’s made me do?”

  “When Carrick learned that Boucher was going to burn the farm and have Mamo thrown in jail, he offered to settle the bill because he had seen what you could do. It wasn’t a bad thing—it was the answer!”

  Kazi struck his groin with her foot. When he doubled over, she drove her hand toward his face, determined to push that lying tongue through his throat.

  Somehow, Griffin’s face flashed into her mind. And she knew…knew he’d be disappointed if she killed Roman. She whirled around, swept her palms over the dirty floor, and drove her heel into the chin of the other guard. As he fell, she jumped through the opening. Sprinting down the catwalk, she eyed the first bar. Please hold…

  She jumped to the right, toed off the wall, and hurled herself over the flimsy barrier.

  “Kazimiera!” Roman’s shout chased her into the air.

  Dread iced her veins as she sailed down through the chilled, smoky atmosphere. Above the
lights, above the chaos, nobody would even notice if she fell to her death. Freedom clutched at her as she dropped. Gaze locked on the pipe below, she prayed there was enough dirt on her hands to coat them so she didn’t slip from slick palms.

  Thump! Her fingers coiled around the bar. Tingling wove through them. Hot! It was a hot-water pipe. She ground her teeth as she swung around for a front-hip circle, using the momentum to gain her balance on the pipe. She straddled it, then rose up, ignoring the heat radiating through her shoes. Arms out for balance, she gauged the distance to the next one.

  “Kazimiera!” Roman shouted again. “Stop!”

  She thrust herself into the air again. Down…down…As gravity yanked her to the next bar, she begged for a cool pipe. Thump! Relief chugged through her veins—not hot. She swung.

  Grrooan!

  Her breath hitched as she swung.

  Pop!

  The right side dropped. So did she.

  But in a full arc, she twisted her body in a roll, searching…The other bar. Where was it? She was off balance now.

  Shouts drowned out her fears.

  A blur of white.

  The bar! Kazi snapped her hand out. Caught it. The jerk rammed through her body. She reached up with her other hand, only to feel the slipping—her palms were sweaty. Adrenaline had coated her skin. She would fall to her death.

  Quickly, she wiped her hand on her pants. Switched hands, her legs dangling fifty feet above the crowds—the shouting, chanting crowds. She looked straight down, past her feet, to the sea of bodies. All still. All watching.

  Which meant Carrick had probably spotted her, too.

  And he’d catch her. Stop her.

  As she drew her attention back to her plight, Kazi spotted another pipe. Bigger, stronger. It’d be harder to swing around, but it would hold. And it was farther down. Which was both a danger—she couldn’t get her fingers around it to aid in her movement—and a blessing, she’d be closer to the ground. To escaping. Below it and behind but directly under her position now was another bar. She’d have to swing around, crisscross, and do a three-quarter giant to launch to the other one. A lot of moves. On untested pipes. Over a crowd of hundreds, if not thousands.

  What if she didn’t make it? What if she died? Griffin would be on his own. But if she didn’t make it out of here, he was on his own either way.

  Do it.

  “Imagine what it’ll be like to stop running.” His words on the plane snaked down through the thick smoke and strobe lights, coiling around her dead dreams and soul.

  She leapt.

  “No!”

  Midair, she heard Carrick’s shout through the speakers, over the din, over the simultaneous screams. She hoped beyond hope that she didn’t fall to her death. Although…it’d be better than having his noose around her neck for the rest of her life.

  First bar. Clear. Crisscrossed her wrists and swung in the opposite direction. Completed a three-quarter giant and launched through the air. Her fingers hit steel. Slipped. Down…down…

  Screams blended—hers, the crowd’s.

  Groan! Crack!

  Falling, she thought only of Griffin. Of the fact he’d never know what she felt. That she would never have the chance to tell him he made her want to be That Girl.

  Arms and bodies buckled beneath her.

  Blinding pain shot through her ankle.

  Acholi, Uganda

  Brilliance pierced Scott’s corneas. He moaned and squeezed his eyes tighter.

  “Finally, the mighty warrior wakes.”

  Scott moaned again, suddenly remembering…everything. “You shouldn’t have come.”

  “Trust me, I’ve already had that conversation with myself a thousand times over.” Delicate fingers plucked open his eyes. A brighter light erupted.

  He flinched.

  “Don’t be a baby, Callaghan.”

  His siphoned-off energy slowly returned. As did his mental faculties. “I need a phone.”

  “A brain is more like it, but you can’t have either.”

  He pulled himself up, blinking through the blinding sun streaming into the…building. He froze his upward movement and jerked his head around. “Where are we?”

  “My clinic. I’d think you would remember after all the time you spent here.”

  Her clinic. A day’s journey…“How?” He shifted thoughts because asking how he got here was stupid. “How long was I out?”

  “Just long enough to get you and others here to safety, get briefed on what happened, and for me to cut up your back and leave my mark.”

  If he had any doubt that she hated him, she’d just erased it.

  “I removed two bullets from your back. Ojore said you found something at the mines. Want to fill me in?”

  Bullets?

  Shoulder-length brown hair framed one of the prettiest faces he’d ever encountered. Don’t let it fool you. Yeah, he did that once. Regretted it till…well, forever.

  “Dembe—“

  “No.” She shook a dainty finger at him. “You’re not allowed to call me that anymore.”

  He hung his head, too tired to fight her. Not this time. “I just need to use the phone.”

  “Scott?”

  That she’d called him by his right name, that her tone wasn’t laden with venom and hatred, drew his gaze to her blue eyes.

  “What happened back there?”

  He traced the cracks in the cement floor. All those years of work down the drain. Had he been idealistic and stupid to think it’d work? That he could rescue the unrescuable? He’d been a killer and hired gun—employed by the U.S. government—for years. He’d wanted to make a change for the better. As he stared down, the dried blood on his knuckles caught his eyes.

  He’d never be anything but a killing machine. It kicked in without compunction.

  Graceful fingers curled around his.

  Scott clenched her hand in his, unwilling to speak or move. Not trusting himself to do so without falling apart.

  Demb—Marie…sweet Marie…touched his face. Crouched to look in his eyes. “Scott?”

  I must look stupid.

  He swallowed and shook off the misery still unwilling to meet her gaze. “I just need a phone.”

  She cupped his face with both hands. “Who are you calling? Last I knew, you had nobody Stateside.”

  He dragged his gaze to hers. “My brother.”

  Faith is the evidence of things not seen…

  And he hadn’t seen his brother in more than fifteen years—and even then, the encounter had been brief.

  An hour later, Scott sat alone in the communications closet, agitated by the mocking cursor. The one that said he didn’t have the courage to send the e-mail. To reach beyond animosity and hatred.

  No, not hatred. Intense hurt.

  His brother rejected him. For reasons Scott had no power to affect or change. Yeah, he got it. Were their positions reversed, he’d probably do the same thing. Then again, he wanted someone to identify with. Someone to make proud. And his half brother was the only one who’d been a role model to him. Well, except the anger part.

  Roughing a hand over his stubbled jaw, Scott heaved a sigh.

  He had to get help. Had to talk to someone who would understand the situation, know what to do. And the only person he could trust right now…

  Scott hit SEND.

  “Thought you’d never do that.”

  He gave a soft snort as his brain chugged into the present and noticed the tawny figure leaning against the doorjamb. Should’ve known she was watching him. “I told you I’m not stealing anything.”

  “So you said.” She ambled to his side and set down a cup of coffee. “Think he’ll come?”

  That was what hurt the worst. “Probably not.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Somewhere in Miranda, Venezuela

  A shock of light blasted through Range’s vision.

  He jerked and groaned, tucking his chin to shield his eyes from the intensity as it registered
that straps around his chest, waist, and legs bound him to a wood chair.

  “Why are you here?” a voice boomed through a speaker, warping the sound and thudding into Range’s chest.

  Shifting in the chair, he tensed, expecting the injury in his leg to pull against the material. When it didn’t, his gaze shifted downward, but the light devouring every particle of darkness worked against him. Where am I? His mind backtracked to the village, to being taken captive. Driving through the night. Being roughed up. Pushed around. Punched. Shouted at. Then the darkness of exhaustion and blood loss gulped him down its greedy gullet.

  “Why are you here?” the voice repeated.

  Answering them would only give them information, and he certainly wasn’t about to do that. They’d caught him, and he’d end up dead. He’d been a Coastie long enough to know what guerillas like this did to prisoners held for ransom—they demanded more ransom, often got it, but never produced the prisoner. Besides, his family didn’t have money, nothing that would satisfy these types. And the government would disavow his presence here. So Range would just make sure he went down in honor, protecting his country.

  “Norteamericano, why are you here?”

  “Like the location,” Range muttered.

  Whack!

  He flew backward, the chair tipping over. Pain fired through his jaw and neck seconds before his head thudded against the ground.

  “What is your purpose here, Coast Guard spy?”

  Range blinked, his heart skidding through the revelation that they knew he was a Coastie. That wasn’t possible. He brought nothing with him that indicated his service with the USCG.

  “I’m just visiting,” he said, louder, clearer.

  A figure loomed over him as a boot drove down onto his throat. “I don’t think so,” the man hissed in Spanish. “Now, answer me, and I might let you breathe. Why are you here?”

  Straining against the pressure, Range grunted. Outting his real purpose would just get him—and Canyon—killed faster. “Just…visiting.”

  More pressure.

  He could take it. Had to. If he couldn’t get past the first barrier of defense, he had no hope of finding his brother.