Forged in Fire (22 page)

“Step away from him, you fucking cunt,” a raw, breathless voice said from above Mac’s prone form.

His eyes wouldn’t focus. Mac blinked and tried to move his arm. Pain exploded, sucking him into a vortex of blackness and screeching agony.

“You move one fucking inch and I won’t bother going for your crotch. I’ll go for your head.”

Ah, hell.
Mac blinked again and an image took shape.

A wavering figure towered over him. Mac’s gaze skimmed up black combat boots, knees caked with mud, blood-soaked thighs—and an even more blood-soaked crotch.

“Hey, Tattoo.” He tried for a snarky smile. “You find your dick anywhere in that mess?”

With a hidden grimace, he ran a quick assessment. The Glock was still beneath his belt, to the left of his zipper. He tried to reach for it and agony engulfed him. Christ, his left arm wouldn’t budge. And the icepick through his palm made it impossible to grasp anything with his right hand.

This time, when the pain receded and his vision cleared, Mac raised his gaze to Tattoo’s eyes. They were wide and bright, insane with rage and pain.

Tattoo wavered, but the compact weapon he’d aimed at Mac’s chest remained steady. As the bastard’s hand tightened around the grip of the gun, Mac knew he’d run out of time, but damned if he was meeting his maker without at least trying to save his ass.

Sliver be damned.

The first shot rang out before his right hand cleared the forest floor.

Chapter Sixteen

“This way,” Marion hissed.

Her pulse thundering in her ears, Beth tunneled through the thick vegetation toward her hostess’s voice.

The whine of the bullets as they peppered the hedge, shredding the juniper branches, sent her adrenaline skyrocketing. For the love of God, they were shooting the hell out of the shrubs, in broad daylight, in the middle of a residential neighborhood. What were they thinking?

Cold terror coalesced in her belly. If any of Marion’s neighbors came to investigate, they’d end up dead. Heading toward the nearest house for help was out.

Marion apparently realized this as well. Instead of running for the house next door, she darted across the yard. Beth followed and they plunged into another thicket of shrubs, adding another layer of bloody scratches to their arms.

Behind them, something heavy crashed through the junipers. They flew across the next yard at a dead run.

This new property was ringed by lilac bushes. Marion took the yard at an angle, racing toward the back of the property. Beth realized why when a break in the vegetation showed a brief glimpse of wood. The property was fenced on the west side.

They pushed through the bushes at the very back of the property, darted across a narrow alley and plunged into another yard. Somewhere to the left, a dog started barking. A deep, full-throated baying. Another dog took up the alarm. Then a third. They crossed several more yards and darted across a narrow residential street before they slowed down.

“I think we’ve lost them,” Beth whispered as they stopped within the concealing branches of a weeping cherry to catch their breath.

“The Bradleys live two doors down. They’re in Australia visiting their daughter. We can hide there.” Marion bent at the waist, braced her palms against her knees and puffed the words toward the ground.

They reached the Bradley’s house with no sign of their pursuers.

Marion led Beth through the overgrown backyard to a door behind the concrete patio. A key beneath a clay flowerpot provided access, and they let themselves inside.

Beth found herself in a black-and-white checkered kitchen. The Bradley home shared a similar floor plan with Marion’s. The dining room and kitchen looked out over the backyard. Her gaze flew from window to window. Thank God all the drapes were drawn.

She breathed a sigh of relief at the cordless phone mounted to the kitchen wall. Her cell was still in her purse, which was sitting on Marion’s kitchen counter. Crossing to the phone, she lifted the receiver, relaxing as the dial tone hummed in her ear.

“We should call the police.” Marion said.

Zane’s warning echoed in Beth’s mind. If he was right, if the hijackers had compromised someone in the local police department, calling 911 would give their pursuers a location.

“We’re safe here. Zane suspected someone in the police department could be on the take. If we call in, they’ll have this address.”

Marion digested the news and her gaze slowly swung toward a trio of white hooks next to the phone. One held a cluster of keys. “Leslie’s car’s in the garage.”

The implication just hung there in the air between them.

They had the means to get out of the house, out of the neighborhood, to find someplace safe. But what if the hijackers were patrolling the streets looking for them? Bullets would puncture tires, effectively stranding them. On the other hand, how safe was this house? What if they’d been followed? What if the bad guys were closing in?

Should they stay, or should they go? Beth’s fingers tightened around the receiver.

Zane would know what to do. She dug into the pocket of her slacks and pulled out the slip of paper with Zane’s cell phone number. According to the clock on the stove, it was after seven p.m. The rescue team had been gone for hours. Surely they’d rescued the hostages by now? But what if they hadn’t? What if ringing phone gave them away and got someone killed.

Or… what if he didn’t answer at all?

He could be lying dead somewhere. All four of them. Dead.

A cold, heavy weight numbed her chest.

She shook it off. Took a deep breath, uncurled her fingers, and started dialing. He was a SEAL for God’s sake. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave his cell phone on in the middle of battle.

He picked up on the first ring. “Beth?”

Her name was an urgent roar blasting down the line. The sound so welcome, she went limp and closed her eyes.

“Yes,” she managed around the lump in her throat.

“Where are you?” Rather than easing, his tone climbed. He must have tried calling. “We’re at some friends of Marion’s—” She started to explain, when something about his ragged breathing gave her pause. Her senses sharpened.

“You’re okay?” His voice leveled out. “I thought….”

“I’m fine,” she said slowly, her hand tightening around the receiver. There was more than worry in his tone. There was something rough and hurting as well. “Is it over?”

A long, raw silence crawled over the line. Ice prickled her spine.

“Yeah.” He sounded exhausted. Tense. Not the slightest bit relieved.

The ice spread from her spine across her chest and filled her heart with its cold, hard weight. “Ginny? Kyle? Chastain’s—”

“They’re fine.”

From the tightness to the words,
someone
wasn’t fine. She glanced up, caught Marion’s worried gaze. “Where are you?”

“The emergency room. At Sacred Hearts.” Another long, raw silence seethed down the line.

“Zane,” she dropped her voice and turned her back to the fear flooding Marion’s face. “Are
you
okay? Was anyone hurt?”

“Cosky—” His voice thickened and simply stopped.

Oh, God
. Beth squeezed her eyes shut. Poor Zane. It had been obvious how close the two were.

What was she going to tell Marion?
She took a shallow breath, so hypersensitive to the woman behind her; she could hear the catch in Marion’s breathing, followed by the lack of breathing all together.

“Is he alive?” Beth whispered.

“For now.” The words were dull, as though Cosky’s death was a foregone conclusion. Already accepted and grieved over.

“We’re on our way.”

“I’ll come get you,” he said, that thick tightness still roughening the syllables. “Marion’s car is—”

“We’re borrowing the Bradleys’. We’ll be there as soon as we can.” She hung up before the argument could start.

Turning to face Marion was one of the hardest things she’d done in her life, but she didn’t have to say the words. From the fear and pain burning in her eyes, Cosky’s mother already knew.

“Marion, I am so sorry.”

The phone started ringing. Beth ignored it.

“But he’s alive?” Fear and hope battled openly on her ashen face.

“He’s alive. But, it sounds pretty bad. You need to—” To what? Prepare herself? Was that even possible? “We need to get to the hospital.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Simcosky suddenly swayed and bent at the waist, cradling her abdomen, as though someone had kicked her in the belly.

Beth snatched the keychain off the hook, hurried over to take hold of Marion’s elbow and gently pulled her upright. “Where’s the garage?”

Mrs. Simcosky waved a shaking hand toward a door to right.

“Marcus is a strong one,” Marion said as they hurried through a well stocked pantry, and into a spacious garage. “He’ll pull through this. You’ll see.”

The car waiting for them was a metallic blue, four-door luxury sedan. Beth led Marion to the passenger door and helped the woman inside, then hurried over to the driver’s side. The key with the Lexus insignia slipped into the ignition and the engine roared to life. She hit the garage door opener, shifted the Lexus into reverse, and waited for the door to finish climbing; to expose them to whoever might be cruising the streets, looking for them; to hard-faced men with murder in their eyes and MP5s in hand.

* * *

Mac braced himself, and waited for a landslide of pain followed by lights-out Mackenzie.

Instead, another burst of gunfire sounded from his right and a quarter-sized bloom of red erupted in the middle of Tattoo’s chest. The red stain spread to the size of a dinner plate. Slowly, Tattoo’s legs folded. He dropped to the carpet of pine needles with a dull thud.

Groaning, and without the benefit of either arm, Mac struggled into a sitting position. Tattoo’s eyes were wide and glossy, staring at him from across the forest floor.

He turned his head, stared at the red-headed woman standing frozen and silent to his right. The Glock she held was still trained on Tattoo’s body. Even as he watched, she gave herself a hard shake and stepped forward. After kicking the gun away, she bent and placed two fingers against the side of Tattoo’s thick neck.

When Amy Chastain straightened, her gaze was locked on her attacker’s blood-soaked crotch. A hand slowly crept up to her cheek, stroked the bruised flesh, and just for a moment her fingers shook. And then she stiffened. He could actually see the cloak of composure come down. When she turned to him, there was nothing but cool confidence on her face.

“You should’ve gone with the double tap,” she said.

Un-fucking-believable.

“My hand slipped,” he snapped.

She lifted an eyebrow. “That’s quite a slip.”

Had it escaped her attention that he’d been shot? Or that he’d broken his fucking shoulder?

“He was bound and gagged.” Which wasn’t quite true, but close enough. He glared down at his legs, wondering if he could trust them to him get upright. “It hardly seemed sporting.”

“And shooting his dick off was?”

“Maybe not sporting, but sure as hell fitting.”

His answer hung—throbbing—in the air between them. Her eyes touched his, and he could see the haunted pain there. The horror. And then she looked away, broke the connection.

With her habitual smooth coordination, she swooped to pick up Tattoo’s gun and the abandoned cell phone. When she turned back, her mask was firmly in place.

“Let me take a look at your shoulder. How bad is it?”

It hurt like a motherfucker. “It’s fine. Let’s get to the damn car.”

Ignoring him, she dropped to her knees and grasped the hem of his t-shirt.

“I’m fine,” he grated out, punctuating each word with a hiss as she maneuvered his right arm out of its hole and then over his head. When she eased the shirt down his left shoulder, the agony rolled through him in a dense, black wave. Nausea twisted his belly, and started up his throat. Christ, he was about to vomit.

How fucking humiliating.

“Goddamn it! I
said
, I’m fine.”

He would have pushed her hands away, but his left arm wouldn’t work and he didn’t want to stab her with the piece of kindling sticking out of his right hand.

“Yeah,” she agreed, after examining his shoulder. “The bullet passed through. It’s barely even bleeding. You dislocated your shoulder when you fell.”

Well, hell… she could have shown a little concern

“Can you walk to the car, or should I call for an ambulance?” She rocked back on her heels and rose to her feet.

With a scowl, he fought to get his legs beneath him. “I can walk to the damn car.”

She grabbed his elbow and helped him to his feet, which stung his pride enough. But then she didn’t let go, as though afraid he’d fall flat on his face without her support He jerked his arm free. And stabbed himself in the thigh in the process.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

He bit back a howl of pain and fought to keep from blacking out.

“I should call for an ambulance.”

The hell she should
.

“I
said
, I’m
fine
.”

“Sure.” She agreed, dryly. “That pasty-green cast to your face is your natural skin tone?”

And he was attracted to this? What the fuck was wrong with him? She was the most aggravating, mouthy
….

“Just give me a fucking minute.”

After a couple of deep breaths, he felt comfortable chancing that first step. The second step was easier. Still, it was going to be a hell of a long hike to the car.

* * *

Russ’s Ford Expedition still sat where he’d parked it, stall F35 of SeaTac’s covered parking dome. As he unlocked the SUV and slid inside, he ignored the urge to drag the Smith & Wesson out from under the driver’s seat. He’d arm himself after he’d removed himself from the airport and the possibility of being picked up for another round of questioning.

He backed sedately out of his slot and exited the dome. After picking up his parking ticket, he pulled into the tollbooth with the shortest line. While he waited for his turn at the window, he tried Jilly’s number again. The call rang and rang, and the answering machine picked up. He tried her cell phone next. This time the call went straight to voice mail.

She was probably out with the kids. Shopping. Maybe taking in a movie. There was no sense in worrying. But his stomach churned and sweat glued his shirt to his spine.

He punched in Tyler Carey’s number next. What the hell was happening out in Enumclaw? But Carey’s phone just rang and rang too, eventually going to voicemail.

Didn’t anybody answer their damn phones?

He paid his toll and headed out of the airport, merging onto the highway to Burien. It would be a while before his team arrived at the rendezvous point with his new hostage so he exited the highway, pulled into a diner, and ordered some grub. He tried Jilly’s number again. Still no answer. An hour later, just before leaving, he tried her again. With the same result.

A cold, hard knot constricted his chest.
Damn it, where the fuck was she?

Several miles from Burien, he slowed and angled the SUV to the right, into an industrial section full of trucking companies, warehouses and automobile dealerships. A run-down storage facility came into view.

Stopping the SUV in front of a chain-link gate, he checked his cell’s caller ID. Yeah. Not one fucking call. Swearing, he dragged the Smith & Wesson from beneath the seat, checked the magazine, and shoved the gun beneath the waistband at the small of his back. Then he leaned out to punch his code into the security panel. The gate rattled to life, rolling off the driveway in jerky, uneven increments.