Forged in Ember

by Trish McCallan

  “How many entrances are we looking at?” Mac asked.

  The skin around Amy’s eyes crinkled as she thought about it. “Three. Front, rear, and a door through the garage.”

  “The place has to be wired.” Rawls leaned forward, and the front legs of his chair fell back to the ground with a solid thud. “Considering his career choice, it would be plain foolishness if he didn’t have a security system in place.”

  Amy nodded. “He has an alarm.” She shrugged, then added before anyone had a chance to ask, “I have no idea what the disarm code is.”

  Zane pushed his chair back and climbed to his feet. “Doesn’t matter. It should be easy enough to disable from outside. Or, hell”—he stifled a yawn—“there are all sorts of electronics that can disarm with the touch of a button.”

  Rawls followed Zane’s lead and got up from the table. “I’ll ask Faith what electronics they have in that candy store of a lab she’s been playin’ about in.” He paused while a yawn elongated his face and squinted his eyes. “Bet she can hook us up with somethin’ sweet.”

  Mac grunted in acknowledgment as Cos pushed back his chair. Apparently the meeting was over. He scowled at Amy, urging her to follow his men to her feet and head for the door. The last fucking thing he needed was an after-meeting chat involving just the two of them.

  Not when his bed was all but waving its bedcovers and rocking its springs in an attempt to catch his attention and convince Amy to move the meeting into the bedroom.

  When his men moved across the room in a tight herd of big bodies and broad shoulders, and Amy didn’t try to join them, Mac jolted up from the table.

  “Think I’ll hit the gym,” he announced, grabbing the first excuse for leaving his quarters that popped into his mind.

  “The gym?” His men stopped in unison, but it was Rawls’s voice that climbed the air in disbelief. “When have you ever hit the gym?”

  Mac fought back a grimace. His corpsman had a point. He should have wrestled up a more realistic excuse. Time to get the cause of his current mental fugue out of the room. To his relief, she seemed to get the hint. With a subtle shimmy of shoulders and hips, she rose to her feet.

  Thank Christ.

  “This sudden interest in exercise might just throw your heart into revolt.” Rawls tossed him a wicked grin. “Wouldn’t hurt to have one of us spot you.”

  Jackass.

  “Pretty sure I can handle a couple of sets on my own.”

  Rawls snorted and shook his head. “I dunno, Commander. You ain’t getting any younger.”

  His corpsman opened the door and stepped into the hallway, flashing Mac a taunting smile before heading down the hall. Zane and Cosky were hard on his heels. As Amy converged on the door, his bed leered at Mac from six feet to the right, reminding him that it was big enough for two.

  She stopped for a moment at the open door and held Mac’s gaze. “Let me know as soon as you have the schedule. I’ll need to arrange for someone to watch the boys.”

  Mac grunted in acknowledgment. Maybe if his mother had exhibited even trace elements of Amy’s concern for her children, his own brother—Davey—would still be alive. But, no, Mommy Dearest had been all about instant gratification and pure selfishness, and Davey had paid the ultimate price.

  When Amy finally stepped into the hall, Mac instantly shut the door behind her. A deep, relieved breath lifted and expanded his chest. Big mistake. That fresh, clean scent of hers attacked his lungs again. Light-headed and hungry, he planted his feet and fought the urge to throw the door wide open, thrust out his head, and call her back into the room . . . and sure as hell not for a chat.

  Son of a bitch.

  A workout might be just the thing to beat his libido into submission. After another breath, shallower this time, he opened the door again.

  To the left, Amy’s figure was about a quarter the size of normal and quickly getting smaller.

  Thank you, Jesus.

  He stepped out as quietly as possible, pulled the door shut behind him, and beat a hasty retreat to the right. His route meant he’d have to cross over and then back down to the left. It would also take twice as long to reach his destination—but he wouldn’t run the risk of bumping into her in his current horny state.

  As it turned out, the exercise was exactly what he needed. An hour and a half later, when he stumbled into his quarters on legs the consistency of fresh cement, nothing was on his mind except a hot shower and some shut-eye. He stood beneath the steamy spray, letting it wash away the stink of exertion until the water lost its heat. After drying off, he collapsed into bed.

  Where an all-too-familiar clean scent wrapped around him, liquefying him from the inside out and then sneaking past his defenses to infiltrate his dreams.

  The acre of thick brush and towering maples that surrounded her brother’s property closed in around Amy, sheathing her in hushed stillness. During the day, with the sun illuminating the landscape, Clay’s driveway was long, damp, and thick with shadows. But at two hours past midnight, with night-vision goggles frosting everything an eerie green, the property got downright spooky. Add in the noxious combination of decomposition and dankness hanging in the air, and that creepiness tripled.

  Monster-movie creepy.

  She looked up when she reached a break in the vegetation. A stream of clouds laced the moon’s silver glow.

  A monster moon.

  Chills prickled her spine, tightening the knot of foreboding lurking beneath her skin.

  Not that she believed in monsters. At least not the paranormal kind. But then, according to psychologists, the rampaging creatures that terrified generation after generation across the pages of books and on movie screens were simply metaphors brought to life. Metaphors for the monstrosities that lurked within human nature.

  That she believed.

  Human nature was the real monster—capable of committing the most horrific acts in the name of greed, hate, fear, lust, or plain old boredom.

  A memory seared her mind: the burn of ropes binding wrists and ankles . . . the flash of a tattoo. With a shudder she forced the flashback aside, buried it deep within her mind.

  No time for that.

  Except she could sense the meltdown brewing. Sense the rage and grief and horror clawing their way to the surface. Sometimes the urge to throw back her head and scream was so strong, it was hard to hold back the shrieks. Anything to ease the pressure shredding her from the inside. Anything to let the grief flood free. Let her screams challenge the sky until her throat was raw and her voice was gone and the memories were . . . absent.

  Until the screams purified her.

  The sigh that shook her was part frustration and part acceptance. She couldn’t let go. Not yet. Not with the boys in danger. No way were those unconscionable bastards who’d orchestrated this nightmare and murdered her husband stealing her boys from her too.

  No way.

  Setting her jaw, she picked up her pace and focused on the pair of fluorescent-green shoulders fifteen feet ahead. The knot in her belly loosened. The four men fanned out in front of her were all business. They slipped through the brush and trees with tense muscles and fluid strides. One of the men halted for a moment. His torso twisted as his goggle-shrouded face looked over his shoulder, directly at her.

  Mackenzie.

  From this distance the four men looked identical. Lean, muscular bodies. Smooth, athletic strides. Helmets, with attached NVDs, shrouded their heads, so their hair was covered. Nothing about the man who’d turned pointed to Mackenzie.

  Yet she knew with absolute certainty that he’d been the one to check on her. She knew it was him by the way her muscles loosened and the churning in her belly stilled. By the calmness that fell over her, reining in her heart rate and respiration.

  The man had a soothing effect on her. His presence acted as a sedative, easing the sharp edges of memories and fears. He made her feel . . . indestructible. Safe. Capable of handling anything, including the men who’d pinned
targets on her children’s backs.

  She had no clue why Mackenzie had such a profound effect on her. It made no sense whatsoever. The commander was a foul-mouthed, misogynistic jerk with a short temper and a chip on his shoulder. Qualities she normally loathed in a man.

  In a world gone suddenly crazy, her reaction to such an alpha jackass was one of the craziest things of all.

  But then the few times he’d tried to pull that alpha jackassery on her, she’d shut him down fast. Oh, he’d been irritable about it, but she’d gotten her way. He might not bury her in compliments or seek out her counsel, but he listened to what she had to say and acted on it more often than not.

  For such a suspicious man, he’d made some pretty stunning concessions for her. This was the second mission he’d led that she’d been included in. And she’d been included in everything from planning to insertion. Which meant he trusted her in the field.

  Even back in the beginning, in that horrible house when Mac and his team had swept in to rescue them, he’d trusted her enough to pass her a gun . . . twice. He’d relied on her to protect herself and her boys. For a man like Mackenzie, that spoke volumes.

  John had trusted her too—to remain faithful, to take care of the boys and the house. To balance their checkbook. To pay the bills. He’d trusted her with the mundaneness of everyday life.

  But he’d shown no faith in her professional capabilities. He hadn’t believed she could take care of herself in dangerous situations or use her training and intelligence to return home safely each night. Instead, in the early days of their marriage, he’d worn her down with the constant drip, drip, drip of his passive-aggressive insistence that she take a break from active duty.

  She’d done so because she’d understood his fear. Understood that the ghosts of his first family, and their horrifying deaths as they burned inside their car, still haunted his dreams and pulled his strings. For their marriage to work, one of them would have to give in, and with John’s history, it wouldn’t be him.

  But giving up something she’d loved, something she’d excelled at, because the man she’d married couldn’t see her abilities or accept her for who she was . . . well, it had pinched something inside her.

  Then had come the kidnapping. John hadn’t trusted her then either—hadn’t believed she could free herself, that she could outwit or outmaneuver the men who’d held them captive. Instead he’d betrayed his office, his oath, and every passenger on that plane by yielding to the NRO. He’d let them use him to hijack that plane, following their directions in a desperate attempt to make sure she and their children survived.

  She hated the sense of betrayal and guilt that knowledge brought. Her reaction to his sacrifice made no sense; she knew that. She’d been helpless. Outnumbered. Outgunned. She hadn’t managed to free herself, let alone the boys, before Mackenzie had shown up. She had no right to feel so angry and let down by John’s actions. He’d given up everything to make sure she and the kids survived. Everything—his reputation, his career, even his life.

  But knowing this made no difference. It didn’t lessen the ugly mixture of rage and guilt swelling within her. It didn’t—

  At the sound of a low whistle, her head snapped up. Mackenzie and his men had halted amid the final tangle of brush pressing against her brother’s manicured lawn. She joined them.

  “Cos and Zane, take the front. Amy and I will take the back. Rawls, keep your eyes on the garage,” Mac whispered.

  Mac’s night-vision goggles swiveled her way again. “You ready?”

  She nodded.

  Mac swung his head in Zane’s direction. “Take out your lock in three. Rawls, hit the scrambler.”

  In unison, the men broke from the tree line and approached their targets in a truncated lope. Mac crossed the lawn at an angle, with Amy on his heels. She followed him to a spiky metal fence partially concealed by a neat row of eight-foot arborvitaes and waited for him to ease open the metal gate. The springs gave way with a protesting screech, and they slipped through.

  The pool looked putrid but luminous through the NVDs as the water reflected the moon’s iridescent glow. They flanked the edge of the house, ducking beneath windows and skirting the L-shaped state-of-the-art barbecue station that was Clay’s pride and joy.

  Mac closed in on the patio’s sliding-glass door. From the front of the house came the muffled report of a shotgun. Cosky had just unlocked the front door. Amy watched Mac raise his gun and winced. Clay would give her hell for the damage to his doors.

  Squaring her shoulders, she kicked up her chin. If Clay had tried to meet her halfway, this drastic step wouldn’t be necessary. Her brother knew who’d injected the boys; it was time he shared that information with her.

  “Drop your weapons.” Her brother’s flat, cool voice sounded from behind them.

  Mac froze, then slowly lifted the shotgun into the air.

  “I said, drop them.” Clay’s voice sharpened. “Both of you. Weapons on the ground. Nice and easy. Call your buddies over. I want everyone where I can see them.”

  She needed to identify herself before someone got shot.

  “Clay—it’s me. Amy.” She kept perfectly still, hands in the air, waiting for him to acknowledge her.

  “Amy?” His voice rose in disbelief and anger.

  Slowly turning, she watched him step out of the shadows and into her NVD’s green glow. His gun was pointed directly at her.

  “What the Goddamn fuck do you think you’re doing?” His voice climbed with each word.

  She kept her hands in the air and her voice calm. He sounded pissed enough to shoot her. “I need to talk to you.”

  “And you couldn’t call? Or knock on my door? Instead you show up in the middle of the night, with guns? Are you fucking crazy?” His voice rose even higher.

  Amy chose her words with care. “I needed to see you in person, but it isn’t safe to talk on the phone or come during the day.”

  “Isn’t safe?” Clay snorted, his pistol migrating in Mac’s direction. “Let me guess—Mackenzie, right? It’s safe to pair up with him? He’s wanted in a string of murders.” A flat, contemplative tone chilled his voice. “Hell, I could take the whole fucking lot of you out right now, and nobody would even blink.”

  The tiny hairs on the back of her neck lifted. His tone was calculating, like he was actually considering that action. No . . . he couldn’t possibly be thinking about cold-blooded murder. “Clay—”

  “Shut up.” The gun shifted back to her, and she saw his finger tense around the trigger. A flash of hatred flickered across his face.

  He’s never liked us, Mom. He might smile with his mouth, but his eyes are mean.

  Her stomach flipped and then contracted violently. Three dozen years of interactions flashed through her mind. His gaze seemed to get colder and flatter with each passing memory.

  “I’d rethink that threat if I were ya,” Rawls drawled from the huge azalea bush behind Clay. “While you’re at it, how ’bout you drop that gun before I fill you with holes I’ll just have to patch later?”

  Clay froze for a second, his gun still locked on Amy’s chest.

  The tight knot in Amy’s stomach soured. He wanted to pull the trigger. Even in the green glaze of the NVDs, she could see the ferociousness stamped on his face. Her brother, her only sibling, wanted to kill her.

  The acid in her stomach burned up her throat. How could she have missed this?

  “Take that fucking gun off her now.” Mac’s voice held a violent edge.

  Another long hesitation, and then Clay bent and set his pistol on the flagstone surrounding the pool. Two seconds later, Rawls shoved him to the ground and held him there with a hand on the back of his neck and a knee to his spine.

  “Congratulations, assholes.” Clay’s words were guttural, like they’d been forced through his teeth. “You’re just determined to add more charges to the ones pending, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Cosky said, his voice mocking. He stepped out
of the shrubbery, followed by Zane. The two men headed for Rawls, patted Clay down, and then zip-tied his wrists behind his back.

  “He’s all yours, darlin’,” Rawls told her. He and Cosky dragged Clay to his feet.

  Amy pulled off her helmet. Clay’s face looked statue cold in the moonlight.

  Her chest tightened until it hurt to breathe. He wanted her dead.

  “I hope you have a damn good reason for this insanity,” Clay said, icy malice shimmering in his eyes.

  “You gave me no choice. You wouldn’t listen to me.” She moved closer. Close enough to see every facial tic, every flicker of emotion, all the cues from his body language and posture. “There was something in that shot you gave the boys. I need to know what it was. Where you got it from. How to reverse it.”

  “You’re crazy.” While his tone was dismissive, an expression flared in his eyes. One that looked an awful lot like smugness. Satisfaction. The expression leaked across his face.

  He knows about the compound. He’s gloating about the ramifications.

  Shock detonated through her, held her immobile. And then betrayal twisted her belly, sent acid surging up her throat.

  He knew.

  Mac was right. Clay had been instrumental in injecting the boys.

  A flood of rage roared through her, cauterizing the shock.

  Suddenly she was in front of him, swinging her fist with all her strength.

  Thud.

  Clay’s head snapped back.

  A red-rinsed haze enveloped her mind. He knew.

  Thud.

  He did it on purpose.

  Thud . . . thud.

  Arms wrapped around her waist from behind, dragged her back.

  “That’s enough, slugger. You want him awake and his mouth working,” Mac said, his voice matter-of-fact, maybe even a bit impressed.

  Clay spit out a wad of blood and glared at her through a rapidly reddening eye. “Nice, Ames. My hands are tied. I can’t hit back.”

  This time she recognized the hatred twisting his face.

  “They’re children. Brendan’s your godchild. How could you? How could you do this to them?” It wasn’t what she meant to ask, but the words were out there now, hanging in the air. Too late to call back.