Firethorn (Discarded Heroes) (4 page)

Good thing SEALs are insulated against cold water.

Max vaulted toward the window, hurtling the computer through the window. The glass shattered as a violent force blasted through the air. It lifted him. Up…up…Flipped him. Searing pain sliced through his arm. Heat stroked his back and legs. Fire chased him out of the building. Into the night.

Boom!

Another wave slammed into him. Threw him backward. Toward the water.

Something punched his gut. Knocked the breath from his lungs.

Bright white lit the night. Blinded him. Then—almost instantaneously—black. Pure black. And he was falling…down…down.…

CHAPTER 2

Shanganagh Cemetery Shankill, Dublin Ireland

L
ife and death had much in common with the clump of dirt in her hand: They were cold and hard. What difference did it make to be alive? Other than the fact one could sense the hurt, the pain that infected this world. On the other side—if one believed that sort of thing—you didn’t care about those toiling through time. Pain was abandoned. Hardships forgotten. People loved a distant memory. Sorrow gone. Respite found.

You lucked out this time, Tina.

Squatting beside the mound of dirt, Kazi Faron rubbed the earthen material between her fingers. The pieces fell from her palm and were carried away by the wind. Just like life. Rubbed the wrong way, it vanished.

She stared down at the narrow angular box. A bitter wind swirled and nipped at her cheeks as she lingered, ignoring the shovel-wielding men huddled against the frigid weather, waiting to fill in the hole.

Waiting to fill the hole.

One that would never be filled.

Her breath puffed. Snowflakes danced and fluttered, a final peaceful adieu to the woman who would never draw another breath. Never feel the cold air. Never give another caustic laugh. Never…nothing.

Kazi closed her eyes and let out an agonizing breath.
It should have been me.
Molars clamped, she shoved down the torrent of emotions ready to regurgitate her fury. Her throat burned. Tears stung her eyes.

A blast of icy air whipped at her. Poking her, pointing out her guilt. White flakes, fat and plentiful, freezing her heart. Her soul.

A strange peace encompassed her, steeling her with purpose.

Another gust of wind, pushed up off the coast, whipped at the land on the other side of the tall hedgerow on the far end of the cemetery, hitting her. And with it came a laugh. Kazi blinked and looked around the rows of headstones, pulse hopscotching at the sound. “Tina?” The name was out before the idiocy of saying it registered.

The dead don’t talk.

But memories lived forever. And Tina’s laugh…Annoying and infectious, it’d rippled through the club on their first meeting, drawing Kazi to her. It’d been her luck to have to rout her accomplice from a steampunk club in the middle of London.

“And who are you to be tellin’ me what I’d be doing? The Queen Mum?” The girl’s shrill voice carried easily over the throbbing music. She leaned across a beefy man and grabbed a glass of white foam-topped black liquid and took a gulp.

“Shut up and move” had been the reply quickest on Kazi’s tongue. But she thought better of it, spotting the bulge under the arm of the oaf. A weapon.

“Her first cousin, twice removed, then added again.” Kazi had never taken cheek from anyone. She wouldn’t from this wiry girl with nose and eyebrow piercings. But she needed her for the gig. Carrick had insisted on them pairing to finish the job. “Her paramour, Lord Carrick himself, says we need to talk.”

Slowly as the girl’s gaze roamed Kazi’s conservative black jeans, black jacket, and cross-trainers, the smile and amusement drifted away on the thumping bass that vibrated the cement floor. Even amid the raucous noise of the nightlife, the sound of the girl’s glass slamming against the table drew the gazes of those around them. She pushed to her feet, albeit wobbly.

Great, a drunk.

She swallowed—hard. Leaned into Kazi, tucking her chin. “Carrick?”

So, the girl understood. Maybe this would work.

Kazi nodded.

“Well.” The girl smoothed down her bustier-styled top, her bosom heaving over the top, then adjusted her wildly absurd hat with a massive purple plume. “Can’t keep the good lover waiting, can we?” A shaky smile lit her eyes.

“Oy!” The beefy guy grabbed the girl’s shirt and yanked her down. “Who says you’re leaving?”

In the space of one strobe-light flash, a knife glinted in the girl’s hand as she pressed it to the man’s neck. “I’m thinking it’s me friend, Mr. Gerber, here that does.”

The guy raised his hands and eyebrows as he leaned away from the blade.

On her feet, the girl jerked her head to the left. “Let’s go, cousin.” Without missing a beat, she plunged through the pulsating club.

Kazi followed. What sort of crazy had Carrick linked her to this time? Names meant nothing, Kazi knew that. Or at least she should. But when she’d heard Kristina Kelley, she’d expected someone a bit more…tame. The vitals told her Kelley was a Dubliner. And in the minutes Kazi had been in the club, it was obvious the girl was at home in the throngs, in the chaos. Kazi could relate. Here one could find anonymity. A twisted but comforting security. Nobody knew your identity. Nobody could—

Wait.

They were going the wrong way. Kazi glanced back over her shoulder, over the bobbing heads, past the chandelier sparkling with red, blue, and yellow lights, to the towering arched double-doors and the envious eyes of those still trying to gain entrance peeking in past the bouncers.

She looked back to Kelley—enveloped by the dancing crowd. Her purple plume waved a good twenty feet ahead of Kazi.

“Hey!” She shoved through the bodies, hurrying after the girl. Kazi cursed herself for letting this much distance grow. Each foot gave the girl precious minutes to find a place to lay in wait. She’d been led into a trap before. And this felt a lot like one. Out in the warm London air, Kazi stopped short. A dark alley met her. Lamplight to her right, maybe fifty feet. A hiss of a cat to her left. A trash bin. But no Kristina Kelley.

The gentle rustle of a tulle skirt behind her.

Kazi spun, saw the blur of movement, and threw herself up into the air. Pulled her arms into her chest, rolled her shoulders, twisting up and out of reach with an aerial. She landed, hands up, ready to fight as she crouched.

Wide eyes held hers. Then…laughter. Annoying, infectious laughter. “That was brilliant!” Kristina launched at her—

Kazi readied for a fight.

Arms wrapped around her.

She tensed.

The girl squeezed, then released. Stepped back, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

A hug?

“I know I’m going to like you. I’m Tina.” The girl slapped Kazi’s shoulder. “What’s the gig?”

The clearing of a throat snapped Kazi from the past. A man in a wool coat and hat jerked his gaze from hers to the ground and coughed into his hand.

She grabbed a fistful of dirt and punched to her feet, gaze locked on the simple pine box. Kazi stood over the hole and extended her arm. “I’ll make him pay, Tina.” She let the earth slip from her fingers. She just needed one lucrative assignment to fund her retirement and revenge.

Thump.
The sound of the dirt hitting the box pounded into her chest, riveting the resolution to her heart.

“For every…”

Thump-thump.

“…single…”

Thump-thump. Thud.

“…drop of blood.”

Near the Shack

The burn radiated through every muscle in his chest as Max hovered fifteen feet below water. With a hand clamped over his right thigh, he focused not on the fire in his leg from the metal embedded there, or the fire in his chest from oxygen deprivation, but on the figures standing on the dock. Backlit by the raging inferno once called the Shack, the men were easily detectible in this murky water.

It’d been more than two minutes since he’d submerged. His best time in BUD/S was just shy of three. That was when he was in shape. He grimaced and trained his mind away from the throb in his skull that demanded he take a breath.

Finally, the figures faded.

Max eased himself to the surface, clinging to the wall of tires padding the cement wall. Though he wanted to haul in a deep breath, doing so could alert the tangos. Across the canal, his team was loaded into two vehicles. Four armed guards kept their weapons pointed at Cowboy and Midas as they carried a limp Aladdin between them.

Max flared his nostrils.
Gotta do something.
Max hustled up the tire wall and flopped onto the dock. He rolled, cringing as the metal chunk sticking out of his leg pressed against the ground. He stumbled to his feet and hobbled to an alcove that concealed a door.

Shouts and curses leaped into the night, snapping Max’s attention to a sleek black limo where three men wrestled the Kid into the back.

Water dripping down his face, he appraised his leg. The steel went deep. If it hit an artery and he pulled it out, he was as good as dead. Spine pressed into the corner, he wished for Midas’s quick healing touch.

Engines roared into the night. Once again, Max watched. Waited. He didn’t want to expose his location. Watching as the vehicles vanished in the night with his men, Max fisted a hand and pressed it to his lips. Whoever had done this, whoever attacked them, killed Dighton—they’d pay. Max hated not being with the guys, but not being captured improved the chances of stopping whatever was happening.

But right now he had to get word to Lambert. To do that, he had to get out of here and find a phone. Mode of transportation?

My bike.
Was it still stowed under the main bay? He’d always parked it there because it was a safe spot, tucked out of sight. Would it be that easy?

Probably not. But he’d be a fool not to check since he had no other way out of here.

First—he had to take care of the leg. He lowered himself to the ground, stretched out his leg, then tore off a stretch of his shirt. Once he wrapped the jagged piece with the shirt, he braced himself—and pulled.

“Augh!”
Max clamped his mouth shut. Warmth gushed down his thigh. Teeth clenched, he snapped out the strip of shirt, dislodging the metal, and quickly wrapped the shirt around his leg to stem the bleeding. He pulled it tight, again groaning through the searing fire that lit up and down his body. A metallic flavor glanced over his tongue. Blowing out a breath through his mouth, he ignored the heat flush that swept his body and climbed to his feet.

Smoke and ash filled the sky, burning his eyes. That was nothing on what looking at the Shack did to him. Years of camaraderie. Missions. It wasn’t the Hilton, but it was their five-star hotel after a mission. Nothing like coming home to familiar territory.

Now it was gone.

Since it’d take three times the energy to hobble around the pier to the burning Shack, Max opted to go to water. After all, he was a SEAL. At the edge of the pier, he considered the tires. And then his leg. No climbing. It’d be slow and messy.

Backward, he toed the edge—most of his balance on his left leg—and pinched his nostrils, the other arm crossed over his chest, and stepped off. He dropped. Water engulfed him. He launched toward the surface. Although he was sure the tangos were gone, he kept his movements fluid and quiet as he approached the dock nestled against the Shack’s burning frame.

Heat intensified as did the smoke. In the distance, he heard the sirens. He hauled himself up over the edge and rolled, coming up and into a clumsy jog. Avoiding the flames that punched out of the broken windows and now-missing walls, Max made his way to the parking bay.

Dripping wet, he should be okay against the flames as long as he avoided a personal encounter. He hoisted his shirt up over his nose. Glass and ash crunched beneath his boots as he made his way to the cementlike vault where he’d stowed the Hayabusa. He struck a hunk of twisted metal, pain darting up his throbbing leg. He bit down on the curse that wanted to leap out. Steadying his breathing, he eyed the area beneath the stairs, which had collapsed. But the hole looked intact. He hobbled closer.