Forged in Smoke (A Red-Hot SEALs Novel Book 3) (13 page)

Eric’s lips tightened. The federal agent had the foresight of a rhinoceros. “The helicopter they flew off with five days ago was a Bell Huey. Which means they are using a different machine, which means someone is arming them, which means they have supporters.” He paused, cocking his head to the side. “Could they have acquired it through their contacts in HQ1 or 2?”

A thoughtful pause hummed down the line.

“It’s doubtful,” the fed finally said, the earlier curtness absent from his tone. “Too much red tape. With the current allegations surrounding them, loaning them a twenty-five-million-dollar bird would be career suicide for anyone with access to such an aircraft.”

Exactly what Eric had been afraid of. “Which means they have some very well-heeled benefactors.”

Silence strummed down the line.

Eric glanced at the red dot on the laptop screen. It was traveling south by east. “Mackenzie was there?”

“Yeah. Along with Winters, Simcosky, and some Indian dude.”

Indian . . . ?

Eric’s fingers tensed around the plastic casing of his phone.
It wasn’t possible . . . no . . . it couldn’t be . . . there was no way those two factions could have linked up . . .

Except . . . a Jayhawk cost a pretty pound, and Mackenzie didn’t have that kind of cash or influence. On the other hand, those Goddamn interfering, basket-weaving—

He broke the thought off and took a careful calming breath. He almost asked the fed which kind of Indian had been with Mackenzie—a Native American or someone from New Delhi—but he hauled the question back before voicing it.

It would be a mistake to appear too interested in that question. A big mistake.

A couple of deep breaths later and he managed to force his unease aside. He was being foolish, jumping to conclusions. The addition of an Indian to their team, whether native or imported, was purely coincidence. Besides, according to the dossier they had on Kait Winchester, her father had been full Arapaho and her brother, Aiden, was the spitting image of their father. He relaxed. Of course Kait Winchester would recruit her brother to assist them. No doubt he’d been the Indian operative mentioned.

Nothing to get all wrung out over.

“My untrusting sis had the boys change clothes before hopping aboard the chopper,” Purcell said after a minute. “She brought a complete change for each of them, right down to their tighty whities.” He laughed, but an ugly shadow dampened the humor. “Ain’t she in for a surprise? You got the trace on her brats?”

Eric’s eyebrows bunched in distaste. The woman was his sister. The boys he’d so callously dismissed, his nephews. Didn’t he have even a modicum of regret?

“Is the tracer activated?” Purcell’s voice sharpened, but it wasn’t in repentance. Instead, anticipation thickened the raspy vowels.

“It’s active. We’re tracking them now,” Eric said.

“I want to know when it’s done.”

“Of course.” Eric jabbed the End Call button and tossed the phone on the table.

It had been quite clear from the beginning that Clay Purcell’s feelings for his sister were far from brotherly—rather, they verged on sociopathic.

But then according to the info he’d collected on the pair, the two weren’t actually siblings. They were the product of a blended family, courtesy of the marriage between Purcell’s father and Amy Chastain’s mother.

Still, the two had been raised as brother and sister from the age of seven—on Purcell’s part anyway, Amy Chastain had been a couple of years younger—but the point was, they’d been raised as family.

Purcell had been best man at John and Amy Chastain’s wedding. He was the godparent to their oldest child. How the bloody hell could the bastard play best man and best friend to John Chastain only to gut him in an airport closet? Or sign on as Brendan Chastain’s godfather, only to orchestrate the child’s murder?

Eric shook his head, staring at the red dot as it headed toward the Cascade mountain range. They’d never intended to extend their partnership with their FBI liaison after the hijacking. Agent Chastain’s death and the SEALs’ interference had bought Purcell a few additional months.

But once the SEALs were neutralized, it would be his pleasure to make sure the bastard didn’t waste any more of the planet’s resources.

If ever a man needed killing, it was that sociopathic, disloyal, two-faced weasel.

Chapter Eight

W
ITH A BEWILDERED
shake of her head, Faith stepped back and closed the door, blocking the swarm of bloodthirsty mosquitoes trying to squeeze through the thin netting of the screen. From the window, she studied Rawls. Or at least what she could see of him, which was the tense line of his back and even tenser set of his shoulders. He was headed across the compound at a swift clip, apparently determined to put as much distance between them in the shortest amount of time as possible.

She watched him for another second or so before dragging herself away. Her heartbeat was settling and with each second, the threat of tachycardia diminished. Time to turn her mind to other things, soothing things. Luckily she had plenty to keep her busy. The roast wouldn’t prepare itself. She needed to get it into the oven soon or chance the helicopter landing with a horde of hungry people and nothing to feed them—nothing substantial anyway. But as she went to work studding the roast with the rest of the garlic cloves, her mind circled back to those sensual moments on Rawls’s lap.

Hard to believe the man hotfooting it across the compound was the same man who’d kissed her silly only minutes before. Or if not silly, at least into mindlessness. Although, that term didn’t quite fit either, not when her brain had been fully engaged, every synapse aware and focused—on him. A more apt term might be lustfulness.

Maybe the whispers were true. Maybe the man was borderline crazy. His behavior had certainly indicated some kind of mental tic. There’d been that bizarre obsessive focus on the cookies, the way he’d thrown that cookie at the wall. The loud talking, like he was competing with some kind of noise even though there was no radio or television on the premises. There’d been no distractions in the kitchen
. . .
unless the noise was in his own mind
. . .

And then there’d been that final bit, his sudden premonition that something was about to happen to her. Because that’s what it had seemed like—an advance warning. He’d known something was about to happen several seconds before it did. Why else would alarm have descended on his face? Why else would he have shouted that peculiar warning and sprinted toward her? A person didn’t behave in such a manner unless they knew—or at least believed—something terrible was about to happen.

Acidic, all-consuming pain flashed through her mind.

She flinched from the memory. Never before had she experienced such agony, which said a lot considering her medical history. But that consuming volcanic burn had been new. Unexpected. And beneath the burn had been the strangest sensation of compression. Like something was squashing her bones and flesh and nerves together, squeezing her into a small ball of pure agony.

What had happened? Had that horrific, internal burn been a seizure? It was the only thing that made a modicum of sense, yet even that didn’t explain much. She’d coexisted with her medical conditions—not to mention all the medications she was taking—for fifteen years. In some cases, even longer, almost three decades. Seizures had never been a side effect or symptom she’d had to worry about. Could going off the suppressors have triggered something?

Except the burning hadn’t originated in her brain, and seizures were the result of electrical impulses misfiring in the synapses of the brain.

The sound of the front door opening pulled her from the chaotic circling of her thoughts. Expecting Rawls, she turned, only to find Kait stepping into the room. From the uncomfortable expression on her face, the other woman knew something.

“Rawls said you could use some company,” Kait said as she crossed the room.

“You saw him?” Faith glanced up, and then went back to inserting cloves of garlic into the roast.

“No. He called on the two-way radio.” Kait held the short, square radio up as though offering proof.

Since cell service didn’t work up here, everyone had been given a walkie-talkie, or two-way radios as the men called them. The devices operated from radio to radio on a fixed frequency and didn’t require cell tower service, so they’d proved remarkably handy for keeping everyone connected. While the range of the instruments was restricted—up to thirty miles according to Wolf—the limitations hadn’t had any effect on the radios’ reception, but then everyone was hanging out within shouting distance of each other.

“How did he sound?” Faith bent and slipped the roast into the oven, before crossing to the sink to wash the stink of garlic from her hands.

“Fine.” Kait closed in on the counter with its array of baked goods. After a quick glance at Faith, she lifted her shoulders and reached for a knife, slicing off a hunk of zucchini bread. “He didn’t say much, though. Just that you weren’t feeling well and could use some company.”

The cold knot inside her stomach she hadn’t even been aware of prior to this moment loosened and warmed. He’d been concerned for her. Still, she didn’t particularly want the companionship.

“I appreciate the thought, but I’m fine.” At the lift to Kait’s eyebrows, she forced a smile. “Honestly. I’m fine.”

Which was actually the truth. Her heart rate had slowed to normal, and the threat of a stress-induced attack of tachycardia was well behind her now.

And she suspected she’d remain that way as long as that strange malady didn’t strike again. Had that been Rawls’s reason for sending Kait over? To make sure she wasn’t alone if that awful burning agony struck again? Or had he hoped to facilitate a discussion between her and Kait on the supposed benefits of metaphysical healing?

When it came right down to it, it didn’t matter why Rawls had sent Kait over. The woman’s mere presence brought a distinct sense of discomfort now that she knew about Kait’s claims of hands-on healing, and the fact that Kait knew she knew added to the tension. If he’d just been concerned about her being alone, Beth would have been a better choice. The fact that he’d reached out to Kait, rather than Beth, indicated he’d had dual purposes when choosing his proxy.

“Did Rawls happen to tell you what’s going on with him?” Kait finally asked while slathering a thick gloss of butter on the bread. She set the knife down and inhaled the slice in three bites.

Some of Faith’s suspicion eased at the other woman’s obvious appreciation of the zucchini bread. It was difficult to remain distant when your adversary appreciated your baking.

“No. He’s been annoyingly closemouthed about everything,” Faith said.

“Too bad. He doesn’t say much, but I know Marcus is worried about him.”

It took a moment for Faith to remember that Cosky’s given name was Marcus.

“I’m sure he’ll talk to someone when he’s ready,” Faith said, uncomfortably aware her voice sounded wooden.

Kait simply nodded. “Well, if you’re okay with it, I’ll stick around for a while.”

Faith started to insist, again, that she was fine and didn’t need the company, when a third reason for Kait’s sudden presence occurred to her. Maybe Kait was the one in search of companionship. After all, her lover was one of the men on that helicopter, immersed in a dangerous situation and quite possibly under fire. Maybe Rawls had known Kait needed a distraction and provided her with one.

If that were the case, it was too bad he hadn’t run his plan by her first, because she sucked at providing emotional support. Invariably, she always said the worst possible thing and made the recipient of her ineptness feel even worse than they had before.

Or she fumbled about in uncomfortable silence without the first clue as to what to say
. . .
rather like she was doing at the moment.

“You know that no one expects you to do all the cooking, right?” Kait dragged one of the counter stools back and took a seat. “We could make up a schedule, give everyone a day, and take the pressure off you.”

Relieved that the conversation had drifted away from the missing men and their mission, thereby disrupting any feeble attempts at reassurance on her end, Faith smiled more naturally.

“I love cooking,” she admitted. “I find it quite soothing. Besides, can you imagine Commander Mackenzie cooking us dinner?”

They shared an amused smile at the thought. But soon the worried furrow returned to Kait’s forehead. Faith fussed with the dish towel, straightening it out and lying it across the edge of the sink with painstaking obsessiveness while the silence built.

“I’m confident the mission went as directed. They definitely planned for any contingency,” Faith finally mumbled, compelled to fill the weighty silence.

Kait’s smile looked forced. “I’m sure you’re right.” Except she sounded far more worried than certain. “Are you packed and ready for our new home away from home?”

Ahh
, Cosky must have told her about the safe haven they were sending all the civilians to. Maybe that news was partially responsible for her obvious misery.

“I haven’t even started,” Faith admitted. Not that she had much to pack anyway, just the two changes of clothing and other essentials Wolf had picked up for her. “When is this happening—do you know?”

While Mackenzie had informed her that she’d be accompanying the rest of the women and arriving children, he hadn’t bothered to tell her when that would be.

“Tomorrow sometime. Zane’s brother is meeting the chopper and escorting us to our new refuge, but he can’t make the drop-off point until early afternoon.” She sounded tense, but resigned.

Curiosity stirred. Faith had expected frustration and arguments from the other women, not grudging acceptance. “You seem okay with this
. . .
 ?”

Kait blew out a long breath, which must have released some of her tension because her face smoothed. “Not exactly okay with it, but I understand their reasoning. Civilians underfoot increase the danger significantly. If we’re attacked, the team’s focus is fractured. They have us to protect. They’ll be safer without us handicapping them.”

Faith nodded slightly. That made sense. No doubt things got even more tangled when emotions were involved, like the obvious love between Zane and Beth, and Cosky and Kait. The men would be focused on keeping their lovers safe. Still, it had to be hard for Kait knowing the departure was coming, since nobody could predict how long the separation would last.

Not that Kait needed to think about that right now; they needed a change in conversation. “If I timed this right, the roast should be out of the oven and cooling by the time the chopper arrives.”

“Just tell me what to do and I can help,” Kait said, with a subtle straightening of her shoulders.

“As of now, there isn’t much to do,” Faith said. “The potatoes don’t need to go on for hours yet.”

“Okay. I’ll go check on Beth, but I’ll be back in a bit.” After one last thorough scan of Faith from head to shoe, Kait headed off.

Faith got back to work as soon as the door closed, and silence descended on the room. While it was hours too early to cook the biscuits, she could make the dough and set it in the fridge to chill until the helicopter landed.

As always, the act of mixing and measuring calmed her mind, and it didn’t take long for questions about that frightening episode earlier to plague her.

How had Rawls known it was going to happen?

Had he sensed it somehow?

Certain animals could sense the advent of seizures. Indeed, several canine breeds were utilized as service dogs to warn their owners of impending attacks. Was that what had happened? Did Rawls have some extra sense that allowed him to predict the onset of seizures, or whatever that event had been?

Her hands stilling, Faith stared at the half-mixed contents in the bowl. If Rawls had the ability to foresee medical crises, as his behavior implied, why hadn’t he admitted it to her? She thought back over their previous conversation and her reluctance to buy into the possibility that Kait could heal with her hands. Had her disbelief about Kait’s “gift” prevented him from admitting to his own talent?

She nodded slightly, and went back to mixing. That made sense. And if she was brutally honest with herself, she wouldn’t have believed him—at least prior to her unwilling participation in the experience.

But the episode had convinced her to consider more unconventional possibilities with an open mind. If animals such as dogs and cats could sense looming medical crises, some people might have similar abilities. Humans were animals after all, and it was certainly possible that some people had more acute senses, thereby picking up fluctuation in body chemistry or electrical currents—minute fluctuations within the human body itself that signaled impending medical problems.

She glanced at the computer tucked in the corner at the back of the room. There was plenty of time to do some research before everyone descended on the lodge for dinner. If she could identify that crippling pain, maybe she could prevent it from happening again.

However, by the time the helicopter sounded overhead, she was more baffled than ever. While two of the symptoms she’d endured could indicate a heart attack, most of the common markers were missing. She’d experienced no nausea, no sweating, and no dizziness, none of the symptoms that had beset her previously when her heart had acted up.

And while the sense of compression, of her flesh and bones being squeezed out of her body, could indicate a heart attack—that symptom didn’t quite track either. The sensation hadn’t just struck her upper body, as was common. It had struck from her toes to her scalp. So had that acidic, overwhelming pain. Both symptoms had been diffused and uniform, rather than localized, which didn’t fit the markers for heart attacks at all.

Yet based on the symptoms associated with seizures, it was unlikely she’d had one of those, either. There had been no buzzing in her head, no strange smells or circling thoughts, no confusion and loss of short-term memory. Nor were the symptoms she had had associated with any of the case studies she’d found.

Apparently she hadn’t had a heart attack or a seizure. So what the hell had happened to her, and how likely was it to happen again?

She needed to see a doctor, but the closest substitute was currently hiding from her.

Migrating to the window, she watched the helicopter disgorge its passengers. The men were all tall, with wide shoulders and dark close-cropped hair, and dressed enough alike that from a distance she couldn’t tell who was who. At least until the two women, blond hair tangled and gleaming in the sunlight, pounced on their men.