Forged in Fire (19 page)

Zane rubbed his tight chest and forced himself to take a couple of deep breaths. Tension flickered through his bloodstream, lit a bonfire in his gut.

They’d neutralized four. The odds had shifted in their favor, but the memory of Cosky’s dead face kept flashing through his mind.

* * *

Russ settled into the plastic chair and studied the drawn face opposite.

John Chastain.

His ace in the hole. Even if the bastard hadn’t returned one of Russ’s phone calls in the last hour.

He looked like hell. Deep grooves sectioned his face, his auburn hair hung limp, and thick wrist bones punched up against his sallow skin. He looked like a skeleton in an expensive suit.

No doubt the video had etched some of those furrows in the man’s face. Had he figured out yet he wouldn’t be getting his family back? At least not alive? Had that knowledge carved the rest of those deep, raw trenches?

It was too bad about the boys. He hated killing kids, but they could identify his men. He couldn’t afford to lose his crew this early in the game, which meant none of the hostages could survive. Including the kids.

He’d do them quick, though. Take care of it personally. Make sure they didn’t feel a thing. Hell, he’d even take them someplace special beforehand— maybe to Chuck E. Cheese. Jilly’s kids loved that damn place.

“Did Ms. Brown’s attacker say anything before you hit him?” Chastain glanced up from the file folder and studied Russ’s face. “Give any indication why he attacked her?”

Russ shook his head. Since the situation called for concern, he allowed a frown to form. “He was going to break her neck. Hey, I’m not in any trouble, am I? Do I need a lawyer or something?”

Chastain cocked his head and stared back. “Why would you need a lawyer?”

“Well, I did kill someone. I didn’t mean to, but I did.”

“We’re still assessing the situation. However, eyewitness accounts support your statement. It’s doubtful charges will be filed.”

“Good. That’s good.” Russ gusted out a relieved breath, even though the response was nothing less than he’d expected. “Hey, when do I get my laptop back?”

“We’ll need to hold onto it. As evidence. I’m sure you understand.”

Russ didn’t give a shit what happened to the laptop. He’d wiped the hard drive. He’d be long gone before they managed to salvage anything.

However, an insurance adjustor whose entire professional life was in that hard drive would have a different reaction. “I don’t think
you
understand!” Russ raised his voice. “I need that laptop. It has all my client files. All of my pending cases. My schedule for the conference.”

A frown pulled at Chastain’s eyebrows. “You don’t have your files backed up?”

Russ threw up his hands. “Well, sure, but not on me!”

“You need these files for your conference?” After a quick glance at his wristwatch, Chastain ran a tense hand over his limp hair.

“Not the files, but the conference schedule.”

“You can pick up another schedule on-site.” Chastain dropped his head to scan the neatly printed notes. “You’re headed to Minneapolis, is that correct?”

“Yes. To the National Insurance Adjustors convention.”

“What hotel are you booked at?”

Russ thought the question was filler until Chastain looked up. Beneath bloodshot lids, his brown eyes were sharp and searching.

“At the Marriott. It’s the host hotel.” He held that demanding gaze, surprised to find his agent in charge hadn’t checked out of the game after all. “I’m reserved through Sunday.”

If Chastain bothered to look, he’d find a Russ Branson registered at the conference and reserved at the Marriott. If he opted to dig deeper, he’d find a handful of credit cards, a valid Social Security card and a driver’s license that expired on his next birthday—which was coming up fast.

Or at least the real Russ Branson was about to hit the big four-zero. Not that he’d be doing much celebrating, being dead and all.

“You met Beth Brown earlier this morning, is that correct?” Chastain suddenly asked.

Russ eyed him curiously. Where was he going with this line of questioning? No sense in lying about it. The lady herself would have told them he’d approached her earlier. “Yes, this morning. At the gate area.”

“What brought her to your attention?”

With a shrug, Russ stroked his chin. “I felt sorry for her, I suppose. She looked scared. Shaken. She’s an attractive woman.” He offered an embarrassed, can’t-really-blame-me-for-trying grin.

His gaze sharpened as Chastain’s attention drifted back to his wrist. This made the second time he’d checked his watch since he’d sat down at the table. “How is she?”

The real question was where the hell was she? Beth Brown, along with her SEAL contingent, had inconveniently vanished.

“She’s fine.” Chastain straightened his sheaf of papers and closed the folder.

“Do you know where she is? I’d like to see how she’s doing.”

Which was a bucket of bullshit, but Chastain didn’t know that. And he did need to find the damn woman. Lure her out of the fucking airport and find out how she’d found out about his crew.

Sure as hell the bosses were going to want to know.

Maybe Todd Clancy had told her about the guns. According to Chastain’s underling, not only were the two coworkers, but good friends. So Clancy could have told her about the MP5s he’d smuggled on board. However, the engineer hadn’t known what his D-Day crew looked like.

Chastain picked the folder up, tapped the corner against the surface of the desk and pushed back his chair. “I believe her fiancé took her to the hospital,” he said once he gained his feet.

“She must have been hurt worse than I realized.” Frustration tightened his throat.

“He was worried about her breathing. No doubt he overreacted.”

Russ forced a tight smile. “No doubt.”

The lying sack of excrement.

Beth Brown had
not
been taken to the emergency room. He’d already checked with the local hospitals. She hadn’t been admitted to any of them. Nor did his contacts amid the various departments know what had happened to the woman. Or to the SEALs accompanying her.

He took a hard look at Chastain. As the Special Agent in Charge, he wasn’t the slightest bit concerned that four individuals intrinsically linked to his investigation had vanished? Not fucking likely. He wouldn’t be so lackadaisical about their whereabouts … unless he knew where to find them.

“If you think of anything else, please give me a call.” Chastain reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a business card and dropped it on the table.

“Sure. Anything to help.”

Chastain offered another of those bland, annoying smiles. “We appreciate your cooperation, but you’re free to leave. PacAtlantic will arrange a seat for you on the next flight to the Twin Cities. If further questions arise, we’ll contact you.”

And just like that the bastard ripped away Russ’s excuse for sticking around.

A different FBI team escorted him to a PacAtlantic’s ticket counter. After politely thanking him, they turned away. Russ’s cell phone started vibrating as the team faded into the distance. Unknown caller flashed across the screen. One of his crew. He summoned a casual expression, stepped out of the ticket line and flipped the phone open. “Hey. What’s up?”

Tyler Carey, one of the men assigned to guard duty, cut loose with an urgent stream of updates. Russ’s hand tightened so violently around the phone, his fingers cramped.
Goddamn it.
He knew where those fucking SEALs were now. They were trying to free his hostages. But how the fuck—
how the goddamn fuck
—had they found them? He flashed back to Chastain. To those quick glances at his watch.

The fucking asshole. He was behind this. He must have provided the location.

But how
—

Russ froze. The video. There must have been something on the video, something Chino had missed. A clue. One leading to the location of the safe house.

Tyler’s voice rose as he described finding Chino bound, gagged and covered in blood. Russ allowed himself one moment of vicious satisfaction. If Chino had been standing in front of him, he’d have castrated the fuckup himself.

With a tight breath, he shoved the rage back. Forced himself to think. To do what he did best. Evaluate. React. Strategize. He couldn’t afford to lose Chastain’s family. If he lost the hostages, he lost his leverage over the FBI. If he lost control of the FBI, he lost access to those first class passengers. If he lost those passengers, he lost his life. Jilly and the kids could very well lose theirs too.

As Tyler stuttered out urgent questions about doctors and hospitals and Chino—Russ ran prognosis simulations. One thing became urgently clear.

He could not lose those hostages.

The men funding this operation did not accept excuses… or failure.

“No.” He forced calm into his voice. “Head over to the house and help with the remodeling. It’s essential that we retain as much of the furnishings as possible. Remind our work crew of that.”

Russ ended the call on another round of questions concerning Chino. The fuckup’s dick could rot for all he cared. It served the bastard right.

He dialed Jilly’s home number as he headed for the escalator to the parking garage. There was a stash of cash in the safe at his apartment. His sister knew the combination. It would give her and the kids the means to vanish. At least until this damn thing was over and they weren’t caught in the crosshairs of this fucking disaster.

Her voicemail picked up.

Swearing, he punched in a second number and started talking the moment the call was picked up. “Are you in position? Good. Move on the house. Meet me at M67 when you’re done.”

He hung up without waiting for a response. If those bastards defeated his crew and released his hostages, he had one last shot of getting them back before he lost control of the FBI.

If Marcus Simcosky wanted to see his dear old mom again, he’d betray his teammates and turn over Chastain’s family. By the time the bastard realized his mother had already paid the price for SEAL interference, it would be too late. The hostages would be back under his thumb. And Marion Simcosky would be dead.

Chapter Fourteen

The snap of wet fabric echoed down the laundry room.

Mac peered around the edge of the doorjamb. Amy Chastain had planted herself just past the open archway, in the middle of the hallway between the laundry room and the kitchen. She shook the child-sized t-shirt she held and another damp snap sounded.

The living room with its guards would be down the hall to her left. The dining room, with its guard, to her right.

There were no cupboards above the east kitchen counter, which allowed whoever was cooking to interact with guests in the dining room. An open floor plan, which meant the kitchen would be visible from the dining room.

Mac swore beneath his breath. The laundry room walls would provide some cover, but that open archway limited their options. Only one man could take position at a time. The entry way was too narrow and visible to support a second man.

A second female joined Chastain’s wife in the hall. Both were redheads, but the shade and cut varied. Amy Chastain was shorter in height, with hair more strawberry than auburn and cut no-nonsense short. Ginny Clancy—who towered above her siege-mate—was willow-thin, with long auburn hair.

Fucking beautiful
. As of now, the success of this operation revolved around two traumatized women keeping their mouths shut.

“Joey? What the hell you doing back there, boy?” a voice said from somewhere to the right.

“He can’t hear you.” Amy glanced in the direction of the voice. “Neither of them can. They’re in the garage with your buddy. It looks like they could use your help.”

Surprised, Mac scrubbed a hand down his face. Her response had been damn close to clever. If the asshole took her advice and headed back, it would give them a chance to grab him. If he remained at his post, he’d likely relax. She had, after all, just encouraged him to check out the garage. Nor was she attempting to escape.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” the guard asked, and sure enough the tension had drained from his voice. “Bet you’re hoping you can get this door open and escape the party we have planned for you tonight.” His voice hardened, sharpened to a jeer. “Start dinner. We want your brats in bed early.”

Mac stiffened, waiting for the feminine meltdown. The tall, willowy female flinched, which sparked an ugly laugh from the guard. Mac’s fingers tightened around his weapon. Christ, he’d love to plug that bastard’s mouth.

To his surprise, other than the flinch, the women ignored the taunt. Which would have been admirable—if they’d fucking move. They stood directly in the line of fire.

“If you want to start dinner, I’ll finish the laundry,” Amy told Ginny.

Unfuckingbelievable
. They were turning all domestic.

“What should I make?” Ginny asked, a distinct tremor in her voice.

“Something with lots of protein,” the target in the dining room drawled. “For stamina.”

Amy Chastain turned to her taller siege-mate and reached out to squeeze her arm, then stretched up on her toes to whisper in her ear. Ginny’s eyes widened. She turned her head, glancing toward the laundry room, eyes widening even further as she caught sight of Mac. When Amy’s hand clamped down hard on her arm, the woman wrenched her gaze away.

“What the fuck are you two whispering about?” the guard snapped.

Amy lowered her heels to the ground and glanced toward the dining room. “Just girl talk.”

She turned back to Ginny. “Why don’t you check the fridge, see what we have. I’ll help as soon as I’ve finished folding the boys’ clothes.”

With that, she pivoted and headed straight for the laundry room. Mac stepped out from behind the doorjamb to meet her.

Once she was hidden from view, her pace picked up. She dumped the t-shirt on top of the dryer and punched the button to start the machine. The rhythmic rumble of tumbling clothes filled the air. The sound would mask any talking and the excuse of folding laundry had bought her some time.

Maybe not such a nitwit after all.

He crossed his arms, rocked back on his heels and watched her approach, his gaze lingering on the bruise shadowing one cheekbone and her raw, swollen lips. Something tightened inside him. Shook with rage. He battened it down.

She halted maybe a foot from him, pointed at the gun in his hand and wiggled her fingers.

“Where are the kids?” He kept his voice low voice, ignoring her silent demand.

“Locked in the bedroom.” Her gaze didn’t budge from his .357 SIG. “I need a gun.”

“What kind of weapons are the guards carrying?” Little Mike had told them the guards were all equipped with submachine guns. Joey, unfortunately, had been carrying a 9mm. They sure could have used one of those MP5s.

“Submachines,” she said in a flat voice. “Now give me the damn gun.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Give it to her,” Cosky whispered from behind.

That bright head of hers snapped up. Mac wasn’t sure what he’d find in her eyes. Maybe shame. She had to know they’d found her through the video. Maybe rage; a burning need for revenge. And while she had every right to blow that motherfucker straight to hell, if he handed the gun over and she used it on the target in the dining room, they’d lose any chance they had of getting those kids out alive.

But when her hazel eyes locked on his, he found calmness. Resolve. Cool intelligence.

She stepped closer, so close her body heat registered against the bare skin of his arms. The hair at the back of his neck lifted. His scalp tingled. Something stirred inside him. Something ravenous. Shaken, Mac jerked back and stomped on Cosky’s foot.

A curse echoed behind him.

Her gaze narrowed and an unfamiliar heat exploded in his face.
Jesus fucking Christ.
What the
hell
was the matter with him?

She stepped forward again, her heat burning down the entire length of his body. A chain reaction started deep within him. A loosening. A thick, raw prickle. This time Mac forced himself to remain still.

“The boys aren’t allowed out of the bedrooms, which are on the opposite end of the house,” she told them in a low voice. “There’s a hall between us and them. Guards at the end of the hall. Guards on the bedrooms. The moment you move, they’ll kill the kids. You won’t have time to stop them, but I can get into that bedroom. With the gun, I can protect them. It’s the only shot we have of getting them out alive.”

Mac scowled down at his weapon.

“You give me a gun and three minutes and I’ll get the kids into a defendable position.”

Mac transferred his scowl to her face and tried to think past the completely irrational—not to mention inappropriate—changes taking place under his skin.

“You did bring a backup weapon?” she asked dryly, one ember-red eyebrow arching.

He searched her eyes, and found no hint that she sensed the implosion taking place inside him.
Thank God.
Instead, calm focus filled her gaze. Intelligence.

She was right. The best shot they had of getting everyone out alive was by planting someone in the bedroom to protect those kids. She’d been FBI before her marriage. She knew how to handle a weapon, knew when to turn off emotion and focus on the situation. She’d also be able to enter the room, no questions asked.

With a quick motion, he thumbed on the safety, reversed the gun and handed it to her butt first, making sure they didn’t brush skin as the weapon changed hands.

She accepted the SIG without a word, lifted the hem of her navy blue turtleneck, and shoved the weapon into the waistband of her jeans. He caught a glimpse of luminescent skin marred by ugly brackish bruises.

Ice swamped the heat churning through him. That fucking video flashed through his mind, her eyes locked on the white ceiling. The fixed set to her face.

Endurance. Silent courage.

Rage stirred, coiled around his chest.

“You’ve got a guard to your right, in the dining room,” she whispered, adjusting her shirt until the soft fall of cotton hid the slight bulge against her waist.

The neck of her turtleneck dipped and row of dark smudges caught Mac’s eye. Fingerprints. A fucking choke chain of fingerprints. Fury ignited in his gut, rolled out in waves. He’d see every last one of those motherfuckers dead.

She caught and held his gaze. “You’ve got one guy in the wind, though. He left an hour ago to hit the store. Should be back any minute.”

The news cleared Mac’s mind like a face full of pepper spray. “How will he access the house?”

“He’ll call Joey.”

Mac swore silently. Joey wouldn’t be answering.

“Give me three minutes to get the kids covered.” Beneath the whisper, her voice remained cool. Collected.

Admiration tugged. He scrubbed a hand down his face and watched her pivot. She headed back down the laundry room with a no-nonsense stride.

“You might want to arm yourself and move into position,” Cosky hissed behind him. “Or better yet, trade places with me.”

Fuck
. He yanked his backup piece out of his waistband, clicked off the safety and moved up, taking position next to the entrance to the hallway.

Amy joined Ginny in front of the sink. He waited for the women to offer some excuse that would get them out of the kitchen and into the boys’ bedroom. Instead, Amy glanced at the food sitting on the kitchen counter and turned toward the refrigerator. “You forgot the ketchup. Brendan won’t eat anything unless it’s drenched in ketchup.”

“Maybe if you stopped spoiling the little brat, he’d eat what he was told,” their guard said, the edge back in his voice.

Mac frowned as she opened the refrigerator. What the hell was the woman up to?

Once the door blocked the guard’s view, she lifted her shirt and yanked out the SIG.

Ah, hell. Fuck no
.

“Hey,” she said to Ginny. “Can you come grab this for me?”

Ginny hesitated, and then stepped forward, joining her housemate behind the cover of the refrigerator’s door. Chastain’s wife yanked up the woman’s sweater and shoved the gun into the waistband of her slacks.

“Son of a bitch,” Cosky whispered. The words sounded like they’d been forced through his teeth. “What the
fuck
does she think she’s doing?”

Mac shook his head.
What
she was doing was pretty obvious.
Why
was the question.

You didn’t arm civilians and send them into battle. He’d passed the gun to Chastain’s wife because she had the training and expertise.

Of course, he’d based that decision on the assumption that she wasn’t batshit crazy. Ginny slowly bent and listened as Amy whispered in her ear. The two straightened. In unison, they backed out of the refrigerator.

“Why don’t you get the boys ready for dinner? I’ll finish up here,” Amy said, her voice the epitome of casual.

“Sure.” Ginny placed the ketchup on the counter and smoothed a strand of sleek red hair behind her ear. Mac watched those slender fingers quake, and shook his head in disgust.

“Make sure Brendan washes his hands.” Amy closed the fridge door and slid over to the sink.

“You better not make grilled cheese again,” the voice in the dining room said. “I don’t give a shit if it is the only thing those spoiled brats of yours will eat. Make some adult food for a change.”

Clancy’s wife passed so close on her way down the hall, Mac could have snagged her elbow and dragged her to safety. At least they’d have one of the damn fools safe. But they’d lose the kids.

She hurried past, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. A minute ticked by. Amy fussed with various jars. Unscrewed lids. Picked up a butter knife. Another minute ticked by.

“Where the fuck’s Joey? And Gustav?” The guard suddenly snapped, tension sharpening his voice. “It shouldn’t take this long to get Chino out of the car.”

Amy put down the knife and turned. “I can check, if you want.”

“You stay put.”

Shrugging, she bent and pulled open the bottom cupboard.

“What the fuck are you doing?” the guy snapped.

When she straightened, her right hand grasped a cast iron skillet. She arched a slender eyebrow.

“Cooking dinner,” she said in a non-confrontational tone, “like you told me to.”

“Go back to the bedroom. You can finish dinner after I’ve checked the garage.”

A hiss of static echoed down the hall and then the guard was speaking again, his voice flat. Professional. “I’m sending the second bitch back. I need to check the garage. Gustav and Joey have been gone too long. Copy?”

Another burst of static, followed by a distant, metallic voice. “Copy.”

They were officially out of time. If they launched an attack, they’d face immediate fatalities. The target was suspicious, his eyes likely fixed on the laundry room. To line up a shot, they’d have to expose themselves long enough to sight on the target. An MP5 held dozens of rounds. They’d be riddled with bullets in seconds.

There wasn’t room for Cosky to slide up beside him and provide cover. Amy Chastain no longer had a gun. They could toss one to her, but the bastard would see it. Nor would she be able to get her head above the counter to line up a shot.

Fuck. If they moved now, they’d be dead the moment they left the protection of the laundry room wall. They needed a distraction. He looked down at the bottle tucked beneath his armpit. Throwing the Molotov cocktail would prove useless since he couldn’t sight on the target.

He glanced at Chastain’s wife, waiting for her to follow the guard’s order and split for the bedroom. This time he’d snag her as she passed.

Instead of leaving, she grabbed hold of the skillet with her left hand, wrapping her fingers around the handle just above the grip her right hand held. Instantly, Mac knew what she had in mind. He flowed in sync with her movements, so even as she rocked back, and then forward and sailed that skillet across the room like a fucking Frisbee, he rolled up, exposing just enough of his face to line up his shot.

“What the—” The guard’s attention was completely focused on the skillet. He jumped to the side, just before the cast-iron pan slammed into the wall inches from his face.