Forged in Ember

by Trish McCallan

  Sympathy stirred. The circumstances had to be unbearable for her. Christ only knew what that toxic shit inside her kids was doing to their bodies or how long they’d survive if the isotope wasn’t neutralized soon.

  “What’s the next step?”

  “There isn’t one.” For a second her voice went breathless and high. She stopped talking to clear her throat.

  That earlier insane impulse to wrap her in his arms struck again. His arms twitched. His fingers flexed. He held his breath and took a careful step backward, relaxing as her breathing stabilized.

  “They’ve explored every avenue available to them. Until they identify the compound, there isn’t much they can do.” Resolve hardened her face again. “Dr. Zapa believes the compound was delivered through the flu shot, as you suspected.” She held Mac’s gaze unflinchingly. “That gives me a place to start looking for answers.”

  She meant Clay Purcell, her brother. He’d been the one to arrange the flu shot. Mac cocked his head, studying her face. She’d been damn resistant to that possibility earlier.

  If they were to believe Pachico, the tracking isotope had been developed by Dynamic Solutions and given to the NRO by James Link, the company’s interim CEO. Of course, the information had come courtesy of a fucking ghost, since Pachico had been dead at the time of his interrogation. Considering the circumstances, it was kinda hard to put much faith in the information. Hell, Pachico had been sketchy with the truth when he’d been alive, and they’d gone and questioned his ghost?

  Yeah, right. He shook his head in disbelief. It would be nice to get some collaborative evidence that Link and Dynamic Solutions were behind the isotope.

  “You’re going after your brother?”

  Her eyebrows pulled together. “I’m going to ask Clay to put me in touch with the physician who administered the shot. Whoever gave the boys the vaccine knows where it came from, which makes them my best chance of tracking the compound back to its source.” She paused to take a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and then slowly released it. “Clay would never endanger the boys on purpose. He loves us. I have absolutely no doubt about that. However, I do recognize his weaknesses. Clay can be short-sighted and impatient. It’s quite possible he listened to the wrong people, which opened up the opportunity for someone to inject the isotope.”

  Mac grunted, locking his instant disagreement down. His bullshit meter—which had served him well throughout his life—had warped into the red zone during the rendezvous to pick up Brendan and Benji. The moment Purcell had opened his mouth and started needling Amy about her kidnapping and subsequent rape, he’d known the bastard was involved. The verbal attacks hadn’t been those of a devoted, protective brother, but rather a narcissistic blowhard. The woman was too loyal to see what was right in front of her nose.

  How fucking ironic. He’d finally found a woman who was loyal to her core, and that integrity could easily get her killed.

  “What’s your plan?” It would accomplish nothing to confront her about Clay . . . again. Besides, she was on the right track.

  Her asshole of a brother was involved in this whole mess. If they could force him to give up who’d administered the vaccine, they’d have a starting place, someone to point them toward the entity behind the isotope. Knowing who developed it was crucial in their efforts to neutralize it.

  “You calling him?” Mac prodded. They’d have to play the conversation on speaker so he could listen in.

  “No,” she said slowly, a distant look on her face. “I need to see him. Face to face.”

  Mac’s forehead wrinkled. Why face to face? Maybe she wasn’t so certain of Clay’s innocence after all. Her questions could be asked and answered over the phone. To insist on a physical conversation almost had to mean she wanted to see his expressions, judge his truthfulness. Which indicated her family loyalty might be wearing thin.

  Scrubbing his hand over his head, Mac simply nodded, more than happy to play nice with her plan. He too wanted to see the bastard’s face when they interrogated him. Amy might believe her brother had been tricked into betraying her, but he was equally certain the sadistic bastard had been in on everything from the very beginning.

  “I’ll get hold of Wolf.” Mac pivoted, suddenly energized. “See what he can do about getting us down to Seattle.”

  Amy matched his pace. “Normally I’d point out that you should remain here since you have a price on your head. But you’ll just ignore the warning, so I’ll refrain from pointing out the sheer foolishness of you accompanying me.”

  Mac slid her a quick sideways glance. “A warrant, not a price.”

  Shrugging, Amy walked through the clinic door beside him. “Do you honestly think that the NRO hasn’t put a contract out on you and your men? They can’t afford to have you taken into custody.”

  Yeah . . . Mac frowned. She had a point there. Manheim and his buddies at the New Ruling Order probably did want him out of the way. But then the same could be said about Amy. The NRO couldn’t afford her account of events any more than they could afford his. Hell, she was much more dangerous to them. They’d managed to thoroughly discredit him and his boys. But Amy was still a media darling, a victim of flight 2077, the grieving widow of a bona-fide hero. Her account would be credible. She’d be believed.

  Adrenaline suddenly surged through him.

  Over his dead body would anyone touch a hair on this woman’s head. And that included her fucking brother.

  His stride increased as boredom fell away and plans took shape. Finally he had something to strategize, something to do. They needed a team, backup. Men he could trust.

  Luckily he had the perfect trio in mind.

  Chapter Three

  EXHAUSTION DRAGGING AT every synapse in her brain and sinew in her body, Amy Chastain paused in the doorway. The hall lamp burned bright and harsh behind her, casting a thin wedge of light to the right and left of her body and illuminating two bundles of blanket-wrapped boys.

  The small apartment the Shadow Mountain housing committee had assigned her boasted two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small living area with an attached kitchenette. The larger of the two bedrooms barely accommodated the two narrow beds, which had been pushed against the walls in an L formation. At the foot of each bed was a four-drawer dresser. At best, the small closet behind the door held a coat or two. Her room was even smaller, with a single bed and a built-in wardrobe. Combined, the entire space occupied around four hundred square feet.

  But the rooms were safe. Secure. Private.

  Qualities that were much more important than space these days.

  Upon reaching the bed to the right, she leaned over and straightened the collection of blankets before tugging them over Benji’s shoulders. It wouldn’t be long before the covers were tossed aside again. Her youngest had always been a restless sleeper, thrashing around in bed as though sleep couldn’t contain his enthusiasm or exuberant personality.

  She straightened then arched her spine, kneading the tight muscles in her lower back. At least the events over the past few days—or even months—hadn’t impacted her youngest. While his father’s death had dimmed his sunny personality for a while, he’d treated everything else—from their kidnapping to the flight through the tunnels with the compound exploding overhead—with uncontained excitement. Not even the battery of medical tests he’d endured over the past week had squelched his spirit for long. But then, unlike Brendan, Benji had no idea what the test results had yielded.

  Brendan knew even though she hadn’t told him. Her oldest took after his father when it came to intuition and rock-solid temperament. Although only four years separated her two sons, Brendan was a millennium older in maturity and perception.

  Amy turned to the bed on the left and found Brendan watching her. It didn’t surprise her. She suspected he hadn’t been sleeping any better than she had.

  Unlike Benji’s trashed cot, Brendan’s covers were neatly folded at his chest, the blankets smooth and straight, as though he hadn
’t moved a fraction of an inch since he’d climbed into bed.

  She settled beside him and reached out to stroke his cheek. “Couldn’t sleep?”

  He studied her face before answering, as though trying to judge what she needed to hear. Such a subtle, heartbreaking response to a simple question.

  “It’s going to be okay, Mom,” he finally said, his calm, quiet voice filling the darkness.

  Yep, he’d found it. He’d pinpointed exactly what she needed to hear. His hand rose, caught hers, and held tight. Something else she’d needed without realizing it.

  A wave of sorrow—raw and suffocating—broke over her and threatened to rupture her composure. Sorrow for John, for the life that had been taken that could never be returned, for all the things she wouldn’t be able to share with him through the coming years. For Benji, whose losses were still to come when he slowed down enough to realize how much had been stolen from him. But most of all for this child lying so still and silent beside her. This adult in a child’s body.

  Brendan had lost everything. He’d lost his father and the exceptionally close relationship they’d shared. He’d lost his school, his friends, and his sports teams—which he’d excelled at.

  But most of all he’d lost his innocence.

  Through their kidnapping and her rape, he’d learned that sex could be used as a weapon, leaving bruises and blood and invisible wounds that cut to the soul. Through his father’s death, he’d learned that you could do everything right, everything possible, and still pay the ultimate price. Through this awful high-tech shit those monsters had shot into his veins, he’d learned that there were people out there capable of the most invasive, horrific acts to achieve their own agendas.

  While Brendan’s quiet, deliberate nature had always been the core of his personality, these past five months had tempered his natural demeanor into something harder, darker—heartbreaking in a child.

  Nothing had gone over Brendan’s head. Although he hadn’t said anything, he understood what those bastards had done to her four and a half months ago while they’d been helpless and trapped.

  She shied away from the memories, entombing them deep within her, where they smoldered and swelled and pressed outward like a pus-filled abscess ready to burst forth and spew its rot.

  There wasn’t time to deal with what had happened to her or work through the aftermath. She couldn’t afford to wallow in her own personal tragedy, not when there was another catastrophe looming—one that could swallow her children.

  “There was something in that shot, wasn’t there?”

  Brendan’s voice dragged her from the crumbling abyss of her own thoughts.

  “Something that lets them track us?” While he’d framed it as a question, the certainty sat flat and hard in his voice as well as in the dark eyes watching her.

  She swallowed and tightened her hand around his before forcing the admission through her tight, aching throat. “It appears so.”

  “They can’t get it out of us?” His knowing gaze didn’t budge from her face, and acceptance resonated in his voice.

  The dark brown of his eyes didn’t match hers, or John’s either, but then neither did the color of his hair. Both were throwbacks to her father. Her biological father, not the man she’d called Dad for the past thirty-odd years. She didn’t remember much of the man who’d fathered her besides a quiet voice and strong arms. But she’d seen enough pictures to know where her sons’ dark hair and eyes came from.

  “Dr. Zapa is working on it, but they aren’t sure what we’re dealing with yet. In the meantime we’re safe here. The signal is blocked by Shadow Mountain.” She paused to instill confidence in her voice. “They can’t find us here.”

  “The healing Kait and the others did didn’t work?”

  Amy silently shook her head, a lump clogging her throat.

  Brendan didn’t look surprised. She hoped he hadn’t figured out the rest of it. If Eve couldn’t find out a way to neutralize the compound, her children would never be able to step foot outside Shadow Mountain again. Not without the risk of being scooped up and used in this deadly conspiracy Eric Manheim and his cronies had embroiled them in.

  A beat of silence followed.

  “Commander Mackenzie thinks Clay did this to us,” Brendan suddenly said, a cold edge chilling his voice.

  She flinched, denial instinctively rising. Her dad and mom—and Clay—couldn’t have had anything to do with what happened.

  They couldn’t.

  “Commander Mackenzie is suspicious of everyone.” Which was nothing less than the truth and had nothing to do with what her son was trying to tell her. She backtracked and tried again. “Mac doesn’t even know your uncle Clay.”

  Mackenzie’s suspicious face rose in her mind.

  Brendan was right, though. Mac did think Clay was behind the injection given to her sons. But if he was right, that meant Clay was behind the rest of it too. John’s murder. Her, Benji, and Brendan’s kidnapping. What those bastards had done to her. If Mac was right, Clay was responsible for every single horrific blow since late March.

  It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t. She’d known Clay since the age of five. They’d shared a home and an idyllic childhood. He’d been John’s best friend and best man at their wedding. He was Brendan’s godfather. For him to be capable of such evil without her or John recognizing it? No. It simply wasn’t possible.

  Straightening her shoulders, she shook her head. “Clay has nothing to do with any of this.”

  Brendan just stared at her. “He was there, Mom. He brought the doctor. He’s the one who told us we had to have the shot.”

  “Because someone convinced him you needed the shots to get back into school. He didn’t realize what you were being given.” She forced conviction into her voice.

  “He’s FBI, like Dad—and he didn’t check with the school? Have the shot tested? Dad would have.” Reservation and something darker burned in her son’s grim eyes.

  “That’s why your dad was senior agent in charge, and your uncle Clay isn’t,” Amy said. “Clay misses things sometimes.”

  “Commander Mackenzie would have checked.” There was no give in Brendan’s voice.

  Yes, Mac would have. The man never took things for granted.

  “We’ve already established that Commander Mackenzie has a suspicious nature,” Amy said, exhaustion crashing over her in an emotionally draining wave. Not that she’d sleep, or at least not for very long, if she headed to her bed.

  “I think Commander Mackenzie is right. I think Clay knew what was in that shot. I think he gave it to us on purpose.”

  “Oh, Brendan . . .” Amy’s voice failed.

  Another wave of sorrow washed over her, only this time it was tinged with rage. Apparently they’d taken even more from her son than she’d realized—they’d stolen his trust in family too, the security of knowing that those closest to you had your back.

  “He’s never liked us, Mom.” Brendan tilted his chin and set his jaw.

  That gave her pause.

  Never?

  Never spoke of long rather than short term. Never referenced a lengthier pattern than five months.

  Brendan had stopped calling her brother Uncle Clay years ago. When she’d questioned him, he’d told her calling him uncle was a baby thing and he was too old for that now. She hadn’t thought much of it at the time, assuming it was something he’d heard at school or through his friends. Had it been more than that? Had he been certain even back then that Clay didn’t like him?

  “Clay might not always show it, sweetheart, but he loves us.” The reassurance sent déjà vu crashing through her. She’d said the exact same thing to Mackenzie—twice now.

  Suddenly she felt mired in a case of she-who-doth-protest-too-much.

  “He smiled when Benji cried,” Brendan said, a flat sheen glossing his brown eyes.

  Startled, Amy straightened. “When was this?”

  “When the doctor gave us the shot. It hurt bad, and Be
nji started crying. Clay smiled. He liked seeing Benji hurt. He liked seeing him cry.”

  She wanted to protest, tell him he was imagining things, but she couldn’t. Brendan didn’t imagine things, not ever. If he said Clay had smiled when Benji cried—then Clay had smiled.

  Nausea rolled up her throat. “Could he have been thinking about something else?”

  Brendan’s dark brows knitted, but then he slowly shook his head. “I don’t think so. He was looking right at Benji, and he didn’t smile until Benji started crying.”

  Amy sat there frozen, a dark, cold shadow pressing into her.

  “I know you think of him as a brother, Mom.” Brendan sat up and scooted back until his shoulders were braced against the headboard. “But he’s never liked us. He might smile with his mouth, but his eyes are mean. He’s been like that as long as I can remember.”

  “Your grandpa’s always been hard on him.” She paused, shook her head. She was making excuses. But nothing excused this if Brendan was right. If Mackenzie was right. “Why didn’t you ever mention this before?”

  “Because it didn’t matter before.”

  She thought about that, the cold sinking into her like a thick frost. Even her bones ached. “You really think Clay knew what he was doing? That he injected you on purpose?”

  This time he didn’t pause to think about it. He nodded solemnly.

  If Brendan was right, then what Clay felt for them went deeper than dislike. This rammed right into hatred.

  Maybe Brendan was picking up on something that wasn’t there. Maybe the past five months had hardwired his natural suspicion, and he was seeing monsters in familiar faces.

  Was that what had happened to Mackenzie? Had he lost his innocence during childhood? Had that hardened him into the suspicious adult he was today?

  She rubbed at the ache throbbing behind her eyes. She couldn’t dismiss Brendan’s comments no matter how much she wanted to. Her son was intuitive for his age, with killer instincts. She needed to get hold of Clay and find out. She needed to rid herself of the sisterly bias and discover whether family loyalty had blinded her to the monster her brother had become.