Forged in Smoke (A Red-Hot SEALs Novel Book 3) (29 page)

Faith stretched and sent him another of those judicious looks. “Too bad Kait wasn’t on that yacht, or in my lab.”

The casualness didn’t fool him. Cocking his head, he studied her face.

“With Kait’s incredible gift, she could have healed them, like she healed you
. . .
like she healed me.” She paused, stared at him steadily. “Think how welcome such a gift would be on one of your missions.”

His scowl started back up now that he saw what tree she was headed up. “There’s no way Cosky is gonna let Kait come along on the rescue mission.”

She smiled back at him, amusement swimming in her dark eyes. “Do you really think Cosky is going to be able to stop her when there’s the possibility that he’ll be the one in need of her gift? Besides, this obviously isn’t your team’s call, and my guess is Wolf will want her on board.”

He stirred at that, a hand absently rising to drag the blanket back over her bare back. She was right. About all of it. But even having Kait on the team didn’t negate the danger to Faith, although perhaps it did lessen it.

“If Cosky is injured and unable to supply Kait with whatever it is he contributes to the healin’, her ability will be cut in half. Maybe even in quarter. We can’t count on her,” he told her.

“True.” Faith pressed a kiss to his shoulder, and Rawls felt his cock stir. “But remember this morning? Dr. Kelly mentioned two other healers. Kait obviously isn’t an anomaly among their people.”

“Maybe,” Rawls admitted, his hand sliding under the blanket for another round of stroking. “But judgin’ from what the good doctor said, it doesn’t sound like they’re nearly as strong as Kait.”

“Singularly, sure.” Her voice grew breathless as his hand grew bolder. “But it would be interesting to see what would happen if they pooled their— ah
. . .
”

She quivered against him, abruptly losing interest in the conversation. A damn fine thing, since his interest had shifted to other pursuits as well.

“Are you up for a round two?” he whispered in her ear before the perfect little shell distracted him and he circled the edge with his tongue.

He shuddered as her taste exploded in his mouth. Salty and sweet, it sank into his blood and set it on fire like the purest of drugs.

“Definitely,” she said, her voice raspy. A soft hand grasped his cock and gave it one firm pump. “I see you’re up for it too.”

He groaned at the pun, and pulled her down so he could steal a kiss from her lips.

And then his arms wrapped around her, locking her against his chest, until he could feel the strong, steady thump of her like-new heart against his.

Exactly where it belonged.

Chapter Nineteen

E
RIC MANHEIM PAUSED
in front of the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows to stare absently down at the emerald sprawl of Central Park. “What do you mean the signal’s disappeared?”

“I mean the signal is gone. One minute it was broadcasting as it has been for weeks, the next second it vanished.” James Link’s voice rasped through Eric’s cell phone.

Forcing himself to turn away from the window for fear he might give in to his impulse to drive his fist into the glass, Eric paced back to his executive desk, which overlooked the huge bank of windows.

The desk had been a surprise gift from Esme on his thirty-sixth birthday. Custom-built to her specifications from Parnian’s exotic-woods collection—with each choice of wood embodying an element of their love and life together—he prized the desk as much for its sentimental value, as its half-a-million-dollar price tag.

It was a rare day that the desk’s stunning visual artistry and hidden symbolism couldn’t soothe his irritation.

Today was proving to be such a day.

“Could they be dead? You said the signal would cease once the cellular structure broke down.” Which was a fancy way of saying once the Chastain boys had ceased to exist.

“Highly unlikely.” Link’s throaty rasp turned into heavy breathing. “If the cells were deteriorating, the signal would have gradually weakened. It wouldn’t just disappear. This appears to be something else.”

“What then?” Eric locked his snarl behind his teeth as he stalked behind the desk.

“If I had to guess—”

“You do.” Some of the growl escaped as Eric’s hand tightened around his cell phone. Silence pulsed down the line.

“Then
. . .
I’d
. . .
say
. . .
the signal’s being blocked.” The last four words came out in a spurt.

“How is that possible? You said the compound was unremovable. That the signal would be trackable from anywhere in the world, under any conditions.” Eric’s throat tightened against the desire to yell.

He pulled back the Ares line Xten chair—another gift from Esme. Only for no special occasion this time, other than the fact that the chair—which had been designed by Pininfarina, the same company responsible for Ferraris—was considered to be the most comfortable chair in the world.

Link coughed. “Which is what our testing indicated. But our testing was limited. It’s impossible to test it against every condition. I would guess the boys have arrived someplace that blocks the signal.”

Slowly Eric sat, relaxing as the Technogel cushions conformed to his frame, cradling him. If what Link had said was true, the signal would resume once the children left the area interfering with the signal. Since Link had been tracking them right up until the signal disappeared, he must know the approximate location they’d gone to ground.

“Where did the signal disappear?” he asked. At the last check-in, the signal had been approaching the Alaska state line.

“In the vicinity of Mount McKinley.”

McKinley? The mountain was—he ran a quick Google search on his phone—at least 1500 miles from Seattle. Which meant the aircraft the SEALs and their charges had appropriated was flying at speeds of three hundred miles an hour. At least—he googled typical helicopter speeds—twice as fast as any chopper currently in use by the military.

“Who in the hell are they working with?” he muttered beneath his breath. “They didn’t get that helicopter from Coronado.”

“Maybe it was a plane. A private jet can fly over six hundred miles an hour.”

Eric shook his head. His last team leader had specifically mentioned a helicopter taking out their Jayhawk—the second bloody one he’d lost to those navy bastards, mind you. Too bad he hadn’t gotten a description of the aircraft before his spineless, incompetent asshole of a team leader had fucked everything up and then gotten himself killed.

He grimaced and got back down to business. “If there’s something blocking the signal, it should resume once they start moving again. Correct?”

A pause echoed through his phone. And then Link cleared his throat. “Assuming they haven’t arrived at their destination, or that they haven’t transferred to another vehicle that is blocking the signal. If the latter is the case, they could be anywhere.”

Bloody hell. Eric scrubbed at the headache behind his eyes. He needed another team. Someone to send up to Alaska and do some poking around, but the fuckup in the Cascades had deprived him of choices. He thought about asking Link if he had anyone they could send, but he swallowed the question at the last moment.

It was pretty much guaranteed that anyone Link recommended would lack the sociopathic, cold-blooded killer instinct the job required. If you wanted to hire an assassin, your best bet was to ask a killer for recommendations.

“Let me know immediately if the signal comes back online.” He didn’t wait for an agreement. He simply ended the call and dialed David Coulson.

“Thoughts?” Mac asked, looking back and forth between his two officers. The two men in front of him were Rawlings’s best friends. Hell, they’d been roommates for years. If anyone knew how bad off the poor bastard was, it would be them.

“At least we know what’s going on with him now,” Cosky pointed out, lifting the tumbler of whiskey to his lips and taking a healthy swallow.

Zane rolled his shoulders in what might—or might not—have been agreement as a hard knock sounded on the door.

Pushing back the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and then his chair, Mac climbed to his feet. He studied the grim faces across the table before silently turning and heading for the entrance to his quarters.

Since Rawls had been the one to call the meeting, his face on the other side of the door was expected. Mac stepped back, allowing him entry.

“You want a shot?” Mac asked, following Rawls back to the table. He lifted the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. When Rawls waved the offer aside, he refilled three of the four empty glasses spread across the Formica surface.

“I have some information y’all need to know,” Rawls said, jumping into the subject immediately.

Stiffening, Mac held up a palm, halting the flow of words. “We can’t assume this is a private conversation.”

It was a safe bet that the quarters he’d been given had come with an extra set of ears. Of course, it was an equally safe bet that they’d have someone listening in on their discussion no matter where they had it.

Rawls’s tight grin looked more like a grimace. He shifted from foot to foot, shoving tense fingers through his hair. “Trust me, Wolf and his people are fully aware of everythin’ I’m about to tell y’all.”

Cosky and Zane exchanged guarded looks.

“Okay,” Mac said, and waited.

“All the intel at the strategy session yesterday came from Pachico.”

Stunned silence rocked the room, thickening the air until every rustle of clothing or shuffle of feet sounded muffled and languid.

“Pachico,” Cosky finally said, his voice neutral. “As in our dead cop impersonator?”

The operative word being
dead
.

“That’s the one,” Rawls said in an equally flat voice.

Giving himself time to batten down his immediate, explosive burst of disbelief, Mac picked up his tumbler and drained it, concentrating on the furious burn traveling down his throat. He wasn’t certain what he’d expected, but it sure as hell hadn’t been this.

While the tunnels had brought to light the fact that Rawls was convinced he was seeing ghosts, who’d have guessed he intended to interrogate the damn things?

“I assume this information was collected after Pachico died?” Cosky asked dryly.

“How much of the intel from yesterday are we talking about?” Zane asked, sharp intelligence glittering in his eyes.

“All of it,” Rawls said.

“Where the scientists are being held? Who’s holding them? Who’s behind this whole damn operation?” Mac asked, shooting the questions out like rapid gunfire.

Rawls lifted his shoulders into an exaggerated shrug. “Yes, yes, and yes.”

More silence.

Eventually Mac stirred. “You’re telling me these morons are gearing up for a major operation off intel provided by a ghost?”

“That they are,” Rawls said quietly. “They know exactly where the information came from.”

“And they believe it? They’re acting on it?” Mac didn’t bother hiding his disbelief.

Intel from a ghost, for Christ’s sake. What the hell are they thinking?

“Look,” Rawls said, staring them one by one in the eye. “I know y’all don’t believe me. That’s plenty fine. I just thought y’all should know before signin’ on board.”

Another long, awkward pause and then Zane lifted his glass in a toast. “Appreciate it.” He brought the glass to his lips, tilted back his head, and poured the shot down his throat before turning the tumbler upside down and placing it with deliberation on the table. “So let’s say Pachico did supply this information
. . .
can you trust it? Hell, the guy was less than cooperative when alive. You telling us death has opened his mouth?”

Rawls barked out a laugh. “Hardly. But he didn’t have a choice.” He paused for a moment and frowned, as though not sure how much to admit. “Wolf and his people are much more attuned to this shit than we are. They have a ceremony that forces ghosts to tell the truth.”

“Really.” The very neutrality in Cosky’s voice shouted his skepticism. “They use a ceremony to force truth from ghosts?”

“Yep. As well as to exorcise them,” Rawls said, his voice getting progressively tighter.

Mac couldn’t help it. A snort escaped. “So you performed an exorcism too?”

For the first time, an honest-to-god emotion flickered across Rawls’s face. Pure irritation.

“I don’t give a shit if y’all believe me. Just thought you should know.” He pivoted and took a step toward the door.

“Are you headed down with them?” Zane asked, his voice flat, but concern tightening the skin around his eyes.

Rawls stopped walking. “Yeah, they got Faith convinced they’ll die without her help.” Frustrated anger sharpened his vowels. “I’m goin’ to keep an eye on her.”

“Then I’m in,” Zane said simply.

“Me too,” Cosky agreed.

“What the hell. Can’t let you bastards have all the fun.” Mac shrugged. “I’m on board.”

“Appreciate it,” Rawls said after a moment.

Throats cleared. Mac broke the moment by picking up the half-empty bottle of JD and filling the glasses again. He kicked an empty chair toward Rawls. “How about you get the fuck over here and sit down? We’ve got other shit to talk about besides ghosts.”

Once Rawls had taken a seat, Mac sat down himself. The whole damn ghost thing was a useless distraction.

“Wolf claimed he’d have visuals on the building by tomorrow. Schematics. Head counts, blueprints,” Mac reminded everyone absently. “So we’ll know soon enough whether they’re targeting the right place and people.” He didn’t question how Wolf would acquire the information. Shadow Mountain obviously had some pretty kick-ass contacts.

“So this Eric Manheim and James Link, those names come through your ghost too?” Mac asked abruptly.

“Yeah.” Rawls reached for the bottle of whiskey and poured half a finger into the fourth tumbler on the table.

When he sat back, he jabbed Zane in the side with his elbow. With a grunt, Zane pushed his chair, loosening up some room. The table was so small the four of them were packed around it like sardines in a round tin.

“But Wolf and his boys recognized the names. Apparently they’ve run into this New Ruling Order before. Wolf didn’t say much, but I get the impression the NRO is a major threat,” Rawls added quietly.

Zane nodded absently, staring thoughtfully into the amber liquid in his glass. “I did some checking last night. If your ghost isn’t fucking with you, we’ve got a serious problem. Eric Manheim heads up the Manheim-Clifton financial coalition. They own hundreds of banks and financial institutions throughout the world. Hell, as the only child of the Manheim family dynasty and husband to the only child of the Clifton family dynasty, Eric Manheim controls the national banks of virtually every country in existence—including the Bank of England, the United States Federal Reserve, the Bank of Japan, the Central Bank of Jordan, the Bank of France, and the Central Bank of Austria. He’s arguably the most powerful man in existence—untouchable.”

Mac frowned. “Nobody’s untouchable.”

Although it would be much, much harder to level accusations at someone with such an elite stature. And that was assuming Rawls’s damn ghost, or more likely their corpsman’s fertile imagination, produced anything substantial linking Eric Manheim to anything.

But Manheim wasn’t the person he wanted to focus on.

“James Link is the name that interests me,” Mac said, leaning far enough back in his chair to bring the front two legs off the ground. “Ghost interrogation aside, with Embray out of commission, Link heads up Dynamic Solutions’ experimental department. That shit swimming in Brendan’s and Benji’s cells is as experimental as fuck, right up Dynamic Solutions’ alley. James Link has to know what the hell was injected into Amy’s kids. That’s where we start looking.”