Digitalis (9 page)

“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.

D
ark 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 politicians 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.

“Uh-oh.”

Colton flinched.

“I know that look.”

“What look?”

A low laugh slowly worked its way through Max’s chest. He covered his mouth with his fist. “What’s her name, Cowboy?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Max pushed to the edge of his seat, his face alive. “Oh wait! It’s that girl, isn’t it?” He hooted, drawing the attention of the guys on the plane. “This girl you keep going into that store for—what’s it called?”

“Hastings,” Griffin said from across the aisle, his bald head resting against the seat and eyes closed.

“That’s it! You go in to Hastings.” Max’s eyes widened. “Wait, wait. I’m getting the picture now. You go in there not to buy stuff, but to see her.” His coal black eyes glistened with his bright idea. “Am I right?”

“What’s this about Cowboy and a girl?” Midas glanced back from his seat one row up.

The Kid rushed from the rear of the plane. “He’s got a girlfriend?”

“No, I ain’t got a girlfriend.” Colton felt the heat creeping up past his collar and hated himself for the way his drawl thickened and he reverted to his cowboyisms.

Max chortled. “You still haven’t asked her out?”

The heat blazed a trail up his neck, mingled with his frustration, and simmered into anger. Hatred. “I’ll do it when it’s the right time.” Why did he suddenly feel the need to run home and talk to his dad?

He pushed his gaze to the window, furious with Max’s jeering that drew the attention of the rest of the team.

“No way, man. You gotta ask her out,” the Kid prodded.

Colton glared at him.

With a staying hand to the Kid, Max looked at Colton. “What’s holding you back?” Max moved a seat closer, gaze on the floor. “The Cowboy I know is confident and assured.”

Besides the breakdowns and flashbacks? Besides wondering if he’d kill her in his sleep one night? Besides the niggling in his gut that something was …
off
about Piper? All the same, he hated talking about this. “I want to be sure.”

“Of what?” On his feet, Canyon folded his arms. “You’re MARSOC, recon—don’t you think you’d have the pieces put together by now?”

“It’s not that simple, and I don’t want to rush things.”

Max nodded. “But if you wait too long, it might never happen.”

“Could be better.”

When a chorus of mocking laughter and
aww mans
rang out, Max stilled the team again, this time telling them to back off and give him some room. Watching in the dingy reflection of the plane’s window, Colton waited till the others left before he looked at Max again.

“I could kill you for that.”

Max’s dark eyes held Colton’s with an intensity he’d seen many times in combat. “Colton,” he said—which was plain weird because Max had never called him anything but Cowboy. “If you really believe she’s not worth it, why are you still sitting here, tormenting yourself? Why did the guys’ reactions tick you off?”

Right as Max was, Colton didn’t have to admit anything. He stared at his hands, calloused hands stained with the blood of far too many people. If he took this road, he’d have to tell her about his past, what he did, what he was doing right now. And that brought up the bigger issue. “She could put everything at risk.” The team, their missions … his heart.

“Only if you’re serious about her.”

Colton cast him a firm glare. Would he be talking about this if he weren’t?

One side of Max’s mouth curved upward. “Thought so.” He lowered his head. “Yeah, we put the team at risk with anything new. Lambert’s looking to replace Reyes, so the dynamics will change, but I think each man on this team has your back if she’s important to you.”

It wasn’t easy to accept that his teammates would put themselves at risk for this. Granted, they did that every day in the field, but for a woman?