Nightshade (Discarded Heroes), page 1
part #1 of Discarded Heroes Series
© 2010 by Ronie Kendig
Print ISBN 978-1-60260-777-4
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.ePub) 978-1-60742-193-1
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-60742-194-8
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
To A.—whose story did not end happily.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
Special thanks to:
Brian Kendig—you are my hero. I love you!
My agent, Steve Laube—for sage advice, friendship, and Ledge Talk
John Olson—for believing in me and brainstorming this concept
Chuck Holton—for your invaluable advice on making this plausible among the military
Andrew Kendall—for the excellent Nightshade symbol design
Beloved friends: “Twin” Dineen Miller, Kimberley Woodhouse, Robin Miller, Sara Mills, and Lynn Dean. Love you ladies!
Brainstorm help: Camy Tang
Pre-readers: Colonel and Mrs. Thomas Dean, MSgt. and Mrs. Troy McNear, Brandt Dodson
Research help: Trish Perry, Sydney Wiley, MaryLu Tyndall, Steve Miller, Patricia Carroll, Victoria Kendig, and Mike and Deirdre Ramsey
CHARACTERS/GLOSSARY
NIGHTSHADE TEAM
Max “Frogman” Jacobs—former U.S. Navy SEAL
Colton “Cowboy” Neeley—former U.S. Marine Corps Special Operations Command, sniper
Griffin “Legend” Riddell—former U.S. Marine Corps Special Operations Command
Canyon “Midas” Metcalfe—former Army Special Forces Group
Marshall “the Kid” Vaughn—former U.S. Army Ranger
Oscar “Fix” Reyes—former U.S. Air Force Pararescue
General Olin Lambert, aka “The Old Man”—Chief of the Army, member of Joint Chiefs of Staff
GLOSSARY OF TERMS
Camelbak—a hydration system that allows the user to access/drink water without using their hands, accomplished via a plastic, pliable water bladder and a hose with a bite-valve.
MARSOC—Marines Special Operations Command. MARSOC is tasked to train, organize, equip, and, when directed, deploy task-organized, scalable, and responsive U.S. Marine Corps Special Operations Forces worldwide. (source: http://www.marines.mil/unit/marsoc/Pages/about/About-MARSOC.aspx)
PJ—Air Force Pararescue—Mission is to recover downed and injured aircrew members in hostile and denied environments; PJ term derived from pararescue jumpers.
Special Forces—U.S. Army forces organized, trained, and equipped to conduct special operations with an emphasis on unconventional warfare capabilities, often referred to as the Green Berets.
Special Operations—A broad term used across military branches to refer to operations conducted in hostile, denied, or politically sensitive environments to achieve military, diplomatic, informational, and/or economic objectives (Source: http://www.militarywords.com/result.aspx?term=special+operations)
SEAL—U.S. Navy SEAL—acronym for SEa, Air, Land
Sitrep—situation report; a report of the who, what, when, and/ or where, etc.
SEAL CREED
In times of war or uncertainty there is a special breed of warrior ready to answer our Nation’s call. A common man with uncommon desire to succeed. Forged by adversity, he stands alongside America’s finest special operations forces to serve his country, the American people, and protect their way of life. I am that man.
My Trident is a symbol of honor and heritage. Bestowed upon me by the heroes that have gone before, it embodies the trust of those I have sworn to protect. By wearing the Trident I accept the responsibility of my chosen profession and way of life. It is a privilege that I must earn every day.
My loyalty to Country and Team is beyond reproach. I humbly serve as a guardian to my fellow Americans, always ready to defend those who are unable to defend themselves. I do not advertise the nature of my work, nor seek recognition for my actions. I voluntarily accept the inherent hazards of my profession, placing the welfare and security of others before my own.
I serve with honor on and off the battlefield. The ability to control my emotions and my actions, regardless of circumstance, sets me apart from other men. Uncompromising integrity is my standard. My character and honor are steadfast. My word is my bond.
We expect to lead and be led. In the absence of orders I will take charge, lead my teammates, and accomplish the mission. I lead by example in all situations.
I will never quit. I persevere and thrive on adversity. My Nation expects me to be physically harder and mentally stronger than my enemies. If knocked down, I will get back up, every time. I will draw on every remaining ounce of strength to protect my teammates and to accomplish our mission. I am never out of the fight.
We demand discipline. We expect innovation. The lives of my teammates and the success of our mission depend on me—my technical skill, tactical proficiency, and attention to detail. My training is never complete.
We train for war and fight to win. I stand ready to bring the full spectrum of combat power to bear in order to achieve my mission and the goals established by my country. The execution of my duties will be swift and violent when required yet guided by the very principles that I serve to defend.
Brave men have fought and died building the proud tradition and feared reputation that I am bound to uphold. In the worst of conditions, the legacy of my teammates steadies my resolve and silently guides my every deed. I will not fail.
PROLOGUE
Crazy lights swirled against the evening sky. Day morphed into the merriment of night. Cotton candy and hot dogs. Teens decked out in goth gear contrasted sharply with young couples dragged from ride to ride by squealing offspring. White smeared over a man’s face as red encircled his mouth. Like a giant maraschino cherry, his nose squawked when a child squeezed it. He threw his head back and laughed. The little boy stood perplexed, as if uncertain whether to laugh or break into tears.
Olin Lambert shifted on the park bench as a parade of kids trailed the balloon-toting clown through the park. He glanced at his watch. His contact was la—
The boards under his legs creaked. A man dressed in a navy jogging suit joined him.
“You almost missed the fun.” Olin tossed a few kernels of popcorn into his mouth.
Rolling his shoulders, the man darted his gaze around the carnival insanity. “You know how dangerous this is? What it took for me to get out here without being seen?”
The danger and risk to his contact were no greater than what was stacked up against Olin. They both had a lot to lose—careers, reputations, families …. “We could leave now.”
“You know this has to happen.”
After a sip of his diet cola, Olin stuffed the half-full bag of popcorn on top of the overflowing trash bin. He wiped his hands and turned back to the man. “So, the body count’s finally high enough?”
Blue eyes narrowed. “I’m here. That should tell you something.”
“Indeed.” Olin waited as the ice cream vendor wheeled his musical cart past. “I need full autonomy for me and my team.”
Music burst forth as swings whirled occupants in a monotonous circle. A performer tossed flaming sticks and maneuvered one down his throat, swallowing the flames. Ohs wafted on the noisy, hot wind from the audience gathered around him. A scream pierced the night—a woman startled by another clown.
“Okay, fine. Just get on with this. I’m a sitting duck out here.” He rubbed his hands and glanced around.
Olin swiped his tongue along his teeth, took a draught of his soda, then slumped back against the slats. “I want it in writing. Two copies. Mine. Yours.”
The man shook his head. “No trails.”
The corner of Olin’s mouth quirked up. “You’ve already got one.” He nodded to the ice cream vendor, who reached over the register and tapped a sign with a hole in the center where a camera hid.
A curse hissed through the night. “You’d bleed me out if you could.”
“Whatever it takes to protect these men.”
Eyeing him, the man hesitated. “The men? Or you?”
“One and the same. If they’re protected, I’m protected. Whatever happens out there, we’re not going to take the fall for it.”
“If it goes bad, someone will get blamed.”
Olin pursed his lips and cocked his head to the side. “More dust has been swept under the proverbial Capitol Hill carpet than anyone will ever admit. You have to decide: Is the cost high enough? How many more lives are you willing to sacrifice?”
“Seven.”
On his feet, Olin tugged up the hood of his jacket. “Then we’re throu
The man caught his elbow. “Sit down.”
Teeth clamped, Olin returned to the bench. He bent forward and rubbed his hands together, more than ready to forget he’d ever tried to deal with this man, the only man with enough power on the Hill and the right connections to both fund and authorize black-ops missions. Missions nobody wanted to acknowledge.
The din of merriment swallowed the silence between them. A beat cop worked the scene, glancing their way as he walked, no doubt making a mental note to watch them.
“Get me their names. I’ll write a carte blanche.”
Olin’s gut twisted. “Not happening.” If he revealed the names of his elite, he would essentially place them on individual crosses to be crucified by some politician who got wind of this or by someone far more dangerous—media—if something went south. “Project Overlook happens under my guidance with all the freedom and resources I need, or it doesn’t happen and you have one heckuva mess to clean up.”
“If I do this, I could get put away for a long time, Lambert.”
“And a million people will die if you don’t.”
“We should sit back and let Congress grant the authorization to go in there.”
A deep-chested laugh wormed through Olin. “You’ve been around too long to believe that. Thick bellies and big heads crowd the halls of the Hill. They want the power and none of the responsibility.” Had he been wrong in talking to the man next to him? What if he went to the Hill and spilled the news about Project Overlook? They’d be dead before the elite soldiers he had in mind could get their feet wet.
He let out a long exhale. “If you aren’t going to pony up, this conversation is over. You contacted me because you knew I could take care of this little snafu. So let us go in and quell this before it destroys more and the body count rivals 9/11.”
He eyed Olin, a slow grin cracking his lips. “You’ve always impressed me, Lambert, even though you’re Army.”
“Navy lost the last game, Admiral.” Olin let his gaze rake the scene around him. “These men are fully capable, and the situation can be tamed before anyone is the wiser. We don’t have time to wrangle the pundits. Let’s get it done, Mr. Chairman, sir.”
Chairman Orr stood and zipped his jacket. “You’ll have it by morning.”
CHAPTER 1
Cracking open the throttle ignited a wild explosion of power and speed. Zero to sixty in less than three seconds left Max Jacobs breathless. Gut pressed to the spine of his Hayabusa, he bore down the mountainous two-lane road away from civilization, away from … everything. Here only pine trees, concrete, and speed were his friends.
His bike screamed as it ate up the road. The thrill burst through him. He needed the rush. Craved it. Stop running, Max. Her words stabbed his conscience. Made him mad.
Rounding a bend, he slowed and sighted the drop-off in the road—remembered a full 10 percent grade, straight down. His gaze bounced between the speedometer and the cement. Common sense told him to decelerate. The boiling in his veins said otherwise.
He twisted the throttle.
Eighty.
Max leaned into the bike and felt the surge.
Ninety.
He sucked in a breath as he sped toward the break.
The road dropped off. The Hayabusa roared as the wheels sailed out. He tried to grip the handlebars tighter as nothing but tingling Virginia oxygen enveloped him. Silence gaped.
This could be it. This could end it all. No more pain. No more life without Syd …
Take me. Just take me.
The Hayabusa plummeted.
Straight down. Concrete. Like a meteor slamming to earth.
The back tire hit. A jolt shot through the bike. Then the front tire bounced. Rattling carried through the handlebars and into his shoulders. He grabbed the brake—
Stupid! The brake locked. Rear tire went right. He tried to steer into the skid but momentum flipped him up. Over. Pops snapped through his back as he spiraled through the air. In the chaos his bike gave chase, kicking and screaming as it tore after him.
Crack! Pop! The sound of his crashing bike reverberated through the lonely country lane.
Scenery whirled. Pine trees whipped into a Christmas-color frosting. Tree bark blurred into a menagerie of browns, drawing closer and closer.
Thud! His head bounced off the cement. He flipped again.
Finally. It’d be over. He closed his eyes. No more—
Thud! “Oof.” The breath knocked from his lungs. Pain spiked his shoulders and spine. Fire lit across his limbs and back as he slid from one lane to another. Down the road, spinning. Straight toward the trees.
He winced, arched his back. Kicking, he tried to gain traction. If he wasn’t going to die, he didn’t want to end up paralyzed. Just like you not to think it through.
He dumped into a ditch.
Smack!
Everything went black.
He blinked. Pain shrieked through his body, his thighs and shoulders burning. “Argh!”
Max pried himself onto all fours, hanging his head. A crack rent the face shield. A wicked throb pulsed through his temples and … everywhere. He fought with the helmet. Growled as he freed the straps. He pawed it off, cursing at the thing for saving his life. Those head whacks as he somersaulted through the air should’ve punched a hole in his skull. Warmth dribbled down his brow. He pressed a palm against his forehead. Sticky and warm. Blood. He grunted and strained to look across the road. Mangled. Twisted. His bike. Him.
Why couldn’t God just let him die? Humanity would be one up, and he wouldn’t have to face his consummate failures in life. “Just let me go!” he growled and pounded a fist against the pavement. He’d do anything to go back to the Middle East, pump some radicals full of lead, and unleash the demon inside. Anything that told him he still had purpose in life.
But that wasn’t an option anymore. Another bad choice. Could he get anything right? Maybe his father had been right to up and leave them. Just like his mother.
A glimmer of light snagged his attention. Less than a mile down the road, a black SUV barreled up the road from town. Max tensed. He’d seen a vehicle like that three times in the last week. But out here? In the middle of nowhere, invading his self-inflicted punishment? This wasn’t a coincidence. And he didn’t like being hunted.
Max dragged himself into the trees, wincing. Using his forearm, he wiped the blood from his face. Why? Why couldn’t he just die? Nothing here for him. No reason.
Sydney …
He banged the back of his head against the tree. Pain drove through him like an iron rod. Good. It felt good to hurt. A relief to the agony inside.
