Forged in Ember

by Trish McCallan

  “Hey, Woof Boy. Hold up.”

  A sizzle of irritation crackling through him, Wolf paused, one thick black boot inches from the cement. With slow deliberation, he placed his foot on the ground, schooled his face to tolerance, and pivoted.

  It came as no surprise to find Commander Mackenzie’s harsh face and toxic personality barreling down on him. But then he’d recognized the heebii3soo’s voice immediately. Well, that and the accompanying flash of annoyance. Mackenzie was one of the few men in existence who could shatter a good morning simply by opening his mouth.

  And today was no good morning.

  Jude, Wolf’s uncle and the leader of the Eagle Clan, paused beside him on the ramp to headquarters. After glancing over his shoulder, he grunted, his shoulders flexing slightly. Without looking at Wolf, he headed toward the looming door of their destination.

  “Bawk, bawk, bawk,” Wolf clucked beneath his breath.

  “Better to run like nih’oo3ounii’ehiiho’ than drown beneath Black Cloud’s noo’uusooo’,” Jude responded dryly, his boot steps a steady beat against the concrete. The heavy steel-and-glass door opened and closed with a sibilant hiss.

  Wolf grimaced as he watched Mackenzie approach. Storm . . .

  A fair description of the obnoxious SEAL’s abrasive personality. Mackenzie’s perennial dour mood had earned him the Black Cloud handle, which fit him all too well, considering how often he shed the emotional equivalence of lightning bolts and gale-force winds.

  “Commander.” Wolf inclined his head as Mackenzie stopped before him, leaning in just enough to invade Wolf’s personal space.

  “I need access to that nifty experimental chopper you boys like to show off.” Mackenzie leaned forward even farther.

  “Indeed.” Wolf crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to ease away from the not-so-subtle challenge. Only Mackenzie could turn a request into a demand. However, to give the man credit, his demands usually came with valid reasons. “Why?”

  Thick black brows beetled over Mackenzie’s hawkish nose. Rocking back on his heels, Mackenzie shoved a blunt hand through his short graying hair. “The doc says the isotope those bastards injected into Amy’s kids was delivered through the flu shot—which Clay Purcell, her fucktard of a brother, arranged. We need to talk to the asshole, force him to give up the doctor who administered the shot. It’s the best lead we have so far. But he’s down in Seattle.”

  Wolf nodded, a scowl quickly following. The ineffectiveness of the combined healing had been a blow. To Amy most of all, but to Kait as well. His sister refused to accept the limitations of her gift.

  A wave of fury tinged with disgust rolled through him. The New Ruling Order had much to answer for. They’d proved their willingness to sacrifice their own people through the years, but to endanger the lives of those so young went against everything his people stood for. During the Old Time, they’d lost many of their children to war and disease. After they’d been forced onto the reservation, their children had been taken and sent hundreds of miles away to schools meant to purge their customs and culture. Too many of them had never returned home.

  Generations of his people had fought for their children. It was a pity the outside world did not do the same for theirs.

  He shook the disgust aside and concentrated on the man practically vibrating with impatience in front of him. Mackenzie had a point. Although Eve maintained that the boys were handling the isotope well, it was uncertain how long the status quo would last. Without intervention, the two boys could very well be the latest casualties in their war against the NRO.

  It was of the utmost priority that an antidote be found. Amy’s brother was the obvious starting point, as Mackenzie insisted. The timing, unfortunately, was a complete hoxhisei.

  “Three days. I have no team available until then.” Wolf turned back toward headquarters.

  “I’m not asking for a team. I’m asking for a bird. Fuck, it doesn’t even have to be one of those black op specials. I’ll take the Jayhawk.”

  Wolf halted but didn’t turn around. “I can give you the bird and a team in three days.”

  Mackenzie’s voice hardened behind him. “We don’t know if those boys have three days. We don’t have a clue what that toxic shit is doing to their insides.”

  The commander spoke the truth. If the boys’ health deteriorated, Benji and Brendan might need these three days’ head start. Turning again, Wolf breathed deeply, burying the frustration and rage. The need to join Mackenzie on his mission and track down the men who’d thrown two tei’yoonoh’o’ beneath the hooves of their greed exploded inside him like thunder.

  But he had other obligations. Sacred responsibilities. Not just to his living warriors but to his dead brethren as well. Grief unfurled and pressed hard against his chest, dampening the frustrated rage. To assure his dead warriors connected with Shining Man above, the smudging ceremony had to proceed. He needed these three days.

  But Amy and her tei’yoonoh’o’ should not have to wait. “You’ll take your men?”

  Mackenzie’s snort and eye roll expressed his opinion of that question. Wolf simply nodded.

  “I’ll arrange it.” Before he could retreat into headquarters, Mackenzie grabbed his arm.

  “What the hell’s going on with Faith’s doomsday device?”

  Locking down another spike of irritation, Wolf calmly shook his bicep free. Apparently his capitulation had emboldened the man to demand even more time and answers. Typical.

  “Classified,” he drawled, knowing the answer would stir the storm clouds again.

  Mackenzie’s description of Ansell’s clean energy generator fit well. Doomsday device, indeed. If Manheim and his cronies activated the machine and managed to mentally link with it, if it augmented their brains’ patterns as the machine had done to Dr. Ansell, and if it allowed them to blow up something with a mere thought or kill with a single word . . . yes, the world would suffer unholy consequences.

  How did one fight such enemies?

  That was if they didn’t simply rewire it and turn it into some kind of bomb. His mouth tightened. They needed to find the damn thing. Destroy it. Destroy every schematic associated with it. Which was easier said than done when they didn’t have a location on the device or the man who currently possessed it.

  But perhaps Neniiseti’s spirit walking would change that. If Shining Man was willing and the cedar smoke smudged in the right direction, the device’s location would be theirs. He forced back a chill of unease. Neniiseti’ had plenty of experience navigating the shadow world, but the spirits were capricious and not always to be trusted. They had no way of knowing whether such a journey would prove victorious and give them the location of the device or send them down a rabbit’s warren and lure Neniiseti’ too deep into Shining Man’s web.

  “I must go.” Before Wolf had a chance to turn, Mackenzie started talking.

  “Cos says you lost everyone on that second chopper when it went down.” A mix of grimness and sympathy rasped through his voice. “Just wanted you to know how sorry I am—we all are—about that.”

  Wolf inhaled deeply, breathing through the grief. For a second the agony of dozens of lives ended raged through him again. Although mental linking gave them major advantages during insertions, it carried serious consequences as well. The worst of which was experiencing your brothers’ hiihooteet through the link, their pain and fear, the sudden absence of their mind followed by that vast emptiness where vibrant personalities had once dwelled. But to lose twelve within seconds . . . the gray, wintery plains of grief sucked at him, tried to pull him under. He shook off the tide. The vigil would soon begin, followed by the freeing ceremony. Neither would be open to outsiders.

  “Appreciate it.” Wolf rolled his shoulders, trying to release the tension. Just when he thought he had Mackenzie figured out, the man turned all human on him.

  “I know what it feels like to lose men. Good men. Me and the boys, we’d like to pay our respects if you’ll let us know when
and where.”

  The mental screams and prayers of a dozen minds as their lives ended echoed through Wolf’s mind in a chaotic jumble. The cold, impersonal loss of life in Mackenzie’s world was worlds apart from the immediate, agonizing loss of life in his.

  “Appreciate it,” he said again without extending an offer to Mackenzie or his team. The smudging ceremony would be held in private, void of curious eyes—as such matters always were.

  To Wolf’s relief Mackenzie’s face shifted from sympathy to calculation. “When can I get the chopper?”

  “Soon.” Which was the best he could do until he spoke to Neniiseti’.

  “Soon as in today? Tomorrow? Or three days from now?” Mackenzie demanded, his face collapsing into a scowl.

  “You’ll be the second to know.” To Wolf’s surprise, Mackenzie backed up a few paces. But he didn’t turn to go. Clearly he had another subject on his mind. He waited a few moments for the man to spit it out, and when the commander’s mouth remained shut, he cocked his head. “And?”

  “Hell.” A grumbling curse shook the air. Mackenzie took a deep breath before continuing with obvious reluctance. “My men’s womenfolk are asking about Jillian. They’re concerned about her.”

  Wolf tensed and crossed his arms. “I am aware.”

  His sister had turned into a veritable shrew on the subject. However, he found it unlikely that Mackenzie shared their worry. Black Cloud was not one to engage in concern for those outside his command. This topic read more like a ruse, perhaps to gain access to Jillian for further interrogation. Mackenzie had made it bluntly clear he still had questions for his heneeceine3 and didn’t believe she’d told them everything she knew about her brother’s movements or her kidnappers’ agenda. But the last thing Jillian needed was a reminder that her beloved twin brother had been a sociopathic murderer and the mastermind behind the attempted hijacking of flight 2077.

  “It is not my call on whom or when Jillian visits. She will step out when she is ready.”

  Except she showed no interest in leaving her room or in eating, drinking, even showering. He shook the worry aside and refocused.

  Everyone needed to practice patience when it came to his lioness. He most of all. He’d known from the moment of their meeting that she wasn’t mentally or emotionally stable—in no shape to give him what he needed from her. Understandable, given the circumstances of her children’s murders and her brother’s betrayal. But the question that haunted him was whether she would ever be ready.

  Whether she would ever heal enough to start a new life or take on a new love, even a new family.

  Or whether he was doomed to spend his days walking the earth, craving that which could never be his.

  Chapter Four

  FIGHTING A SCOWL, Mac shifted uncomfortably against the wood backrest. The chair he occupied had come with his quarters, as had the Formica table, couch, television, and double bed.

  The bed was tucked into the corner next to the head, partially concealed behind a four-foot privacy wall that separated the sleeping and living areas. The cramped space and bare walls resembled the dozen or so military barracks he’d lived in through the years—confined quarters that he’d never felt self-conscious about, or uncomfortable in, or any of the other annoying emotions currently squirming through him.

  It was just a bed, for fuck’s sake. Nothing he hadn’t completely ignored while entertaining guests in his small, one-room quarters in the past. Hell, the three huge, battle-hardened men hunkered around the Formica table with their glass tumblers glowing amber beneath their load of Jack Daniel’s could have been a replay of that night a week ago, just before the botched rescue attempt of Faith’s boss and lab mates. He sure as hell hadn’t been focused on his bed back then.

  Of course, the light scent of something sweet and fresh hadn’t ransacked the air back then either. Nor had the petite, athletic figure of Amy Chastain occupied a fifth chair. Too bad he hadn’t considered their meeting place more carefully. If he’d realized her presence in his quarters, so close to his bed, would hype up his imagination and hormones, he’d have chosen other accommodations.

  Like the chapel.

  He took a deep, careful breath and tried to avoid looking at the woman across the table or the bed across the room. Except that damn fresh scent of hers, which had been driving him crazy for months, snuck into his mouth and down his throat.

  His chest seized. A storm of coughing erupted, evicting the air from his lungs.

  Christ . . .

  It took him forever to get the coughing under control. When he locked the spasms down and turned watering eyes on the faces surrounding him, he found every gaze fixed on him with varying degrees of concern.

  Fuck.

  He waved a dismissive hand and worked to smooth the roughness from his voice. “Swallowed wrong.”

  Which would have been an excellent excuse if his lungs had tried to kill him a minute earlier, like immediately after his last upload of JD. Luckily, none of the people circling his table were mind readers.

  “As I was saying.” He cleared his throat, only to freeze as a tickle dug in, threatening to set off another fit of coughing. Once the tickle faded, he continued. “We’ve got our bird. The Jayhawk, not their black ops special. But it will get us down there and back in good time.”

  Concern faded in the eyes surrounding him.

  “Where we settin’ down?” Rawls leaned so far back in his chair, the front two legs left the laminate floor. “We’ll need to file a flight plan. No sense in goin’ in dark and raisin’ questions.”

  Nods traveled the table.

  “We’ll need to arrange a ride from drop-off too,” Cosky pointed out slowly. Judging from the distant look in his eyes, he was ticking off items in his head.

  “No need.” Mac relaxed as his throat and lungs behaved. “Wolf said he’d handle all that once we settled on location.” Which had been magnanimous of the big bastard. “Best bet’s inserting at 0-dark-100. Let’s not give the asshole a chance to arrange a welcome squad.”

  He forced himself not to glance in Amy’s direction. Her brother was an asshole, a first-class one. He wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know.

  Still . . . a tinge of shame whipped through him.

  “Clay lives on Mercer Island.” Her voice was matter-of-fact.

  An even stronger flicker of shame zipped through him. Regardless of whether the fuckwad deserved it, Amy loved her brother. It wouldn’t kill him to be a bit more circumspect.

  Zane picked up his phone and tapped on the screen for a few seconds. “Closest airport that allows private aircraft is King County International Airport.” He lifted his head. “That’s our set down.” As he twisted to look at Amy, the wood feet of his chair squawked against the flooring. “What about your brother? Will he be home? How much traveling does he do for the feds?”

  “Not much.” Her answer was slow, precise, as though she were measuring each word before she released it. “Most of his assignments keep him close to home.” She paused, her forehead knitted. “I still have contacts in the Seattle field office. I can ask around—”

  “Fuck, no,” Mac broke in. Every muscle in his body tightened at her suggestion.

  She had no clue who she could trust and who’d sell her out for a pile of money or a favor down the road. “We know there’s a leak in the Seattle field office. We can’t afford you contacting the leak.”

  Amy folded her arms across her breasts. Her chin tilted up.

  “What would you suggest? It’s not like I can call him and ask if he’ll be home, can I? That wouldn’t be suspicious at all.” She shook her head, sending her short red hair fluttering, a combative gleam glittering in her eyes.

  Mac scowled. The woman sure had a sassy mouth on her. It was a source of constant consternation that he found that fault so fucking appealing.

  Cosky glanced between Amy and Mac. Slowly, his thick black eyebrows rose. His gaze shifted from cool to amused and knowing.
r />   Fuck.

  “Wolf’s got impressive connections,” Cosky reminded them. “He can probably hook us up with SAT surveillance.”

  True. Shadow Mountain was remarkably well funded. Hell, maybe they’d hung their own satellite up there in the thermosphere, which would explain how they’d gotten the intel on the lab so fast last week.

  “We can use thermal optics on-site as well. Check for a heat signature before inserting,” Zane pointed out, his expression as calm as ever. He hit Mac with a dry look. “We’re not bananas. We know what we’re doing.”

  With a grimace, Mac let the rebuke slide. Letting his aggravation with himself lead him into stupid territory had been a plebe mistake. Damn it, he needed to get his fucking mind back in the game. Or sit this op out.

  “I’ll talk to Wolf.” He leaned across the table, snagged the bottle of Jack, and dumped two inches of glowing liquid into his tumbler. “I don’t suppose you have a key to his place?” He slid a questioning glance in Amy’s direction, grimacing when his chest and lungs turned all squirrelly again.

  “No. Clay’s never been the trusting sort.” She reached over and drew the fifth tumbler toward her, nodding when Mac lifted the bottle of Jack. When the whiskey hit the two-finger mark, she waved off the bottle and absently rotated the glass over and over again. “Mom and Dad don’t even have a key. I assume that’s not a problem?”

  Her voice and expression were so calm you’d never know she was discussing breaking into her brother’s house.

  Rawls snorted and held up his drink to peer into the amber depths. “Nothing an unseasoned plebe couldn’t take care of.”

  Mac eyed his corpsman’s glass.

  At least Rawls hadn’t hit the bottle after that near-death experience had fucked up his head. Too many good men turned to the temporary solace of alcohol, only to drown beneath the constant craving. A face took shape in his mind. Dark hair, haunted eyes, a face far too similar to his for comfort.

  But then he wouldn’t call his old man a good man. Love had turned him too fucking weak for that description.