The moment he stepped through the gym door, his image was reflected from mirror to mirror; he appeared to be everywhere. He skirted clusters of machines and scattered benches where men were working legs and arms or various other body parts. The place smelled like sweat, dirty socks, and multiple jocks in need of a shower.
He breathed deeply . . . grimaced.
Ah, all the feel of home.
In the far corner were the free weights—and three familiar faces.
Eyebrows arched, he approached the three men who’d staked out a six-by-six-foot matted section. The spot included a bench with a standing rack and a set of weights. Rawls was currently on his back on the bench, working a loaded barbell that weighed as much as he did.
Cosky spotted him first. “You look like hell.”
Mac grunted, too tired to work up a snappy rejoinder.
As Rawls completed his set and shoved the barbell on its rack, Zane straightened from his position as spotter and studied Mac. “Cos is right. You look like shit.”
Mac flipped the pair a double bird.
Rawls sat up. After using the bottom of his T-shirt to mop his sweaty face, he cocked his head toward Mac. “No offense, Commander, but maybe you should sit down. You’re wobbling around like a babe taking its first step.”
Mac knew Rawls meant the dig as a joke. Problem was there was enough truth to the taunt that it stung.
Zane shoved Rawls off the bench and took a seat himself. Cosky moved into the spotter’s position.
“You should leave the big-boy stuff to us,” Rawls drawled as he stretched an arm above his head.
“Really?” Mac snorted. “You haven’t kicked the bucket enough already? You looking for another shot at it?”
“Only if Kaity’s around with those hot hands of hers.” He batted his eyes and directed kissing sounds in Cosky’s direction.
Cosky ignored the comment. Even if Rawls had been unattached, he wouldn’t move on Kait. Everyone knew that. Rawls lived by the code. You didn’t poach a teammate’s girl. Ever. Too bad Martinez hadn’t figured out that core principle.
“You talk to Wolf yet?” Cosky asked, watching as Zane lifted the barbell and started doing reps.
Mac smothered another yawn. “Just now. He’s taking our request to their council.”
“You want in on reps?” Cosky asked.
Mac shrugged. “Might as well.”
“You’re next then.”
Silence fell as they watched Zane work the weights. When he finally settled the barbell on the rack, sweat stained his chest and armpits. Mac took Zane’s place on the bench.
The weight of the barbell when he took it solo almost drove Mac’s arms into their sockets. “What you got on this thing?”
“One-eighty. Why? You want to downgrade?” A definite taunt lingered in Cosky’s voice.
Asshole.
“Surprised. That’s all,” Mac said, lowering the bar to his chest. The motion burned all the way down his arms and into his shoulders. “Thought you pussies could handle more than that.”
“This is just warm-up,” Zane said dryly.
Greaaaaat.
The second rep burned even worse than the first. By the fifth, his arms didn’t burn anymore; they were numb. He held his breath as he settled the bar in its cradle and sat up.
Cosky and Zane added a twenty-pound weight to each end of the barbell.
Two hundred and twenty pounds.
Mac scowled. His arms might just shrink during this next set.
While Cosky stretched out on the bench and Zane moved behind to spot, Mac turned to Rawls. “Has Faith figured out how these bastards are hiding that airstrip up there?”
The question had been bugging the hell out of him since they’d arrived. True, choppers wouldn’t need much runway since they could lift and hover. But there were several jets in the hangar, and those suckers needed space for liftoff. Hell, the fucking Grizzly Airbus they had tucked in the corner of the hangar needed a good ten thousand feet of flat, even asphalt.
How in the hell were they hiding three klicks of runway?
Rawls shook his head. “They ain’t talkin’. The Shadow Mountain tech guys are mighty partial to their secrets. She’s feelin’ lucky they let her in on their newest baby. Sweetest little EMP cannon you’ve ever seen. Once it’s operational it’ll fry all electronics within a thousand feet.”
“That’ll come in handy.” Mac watched absently as Rawls traded places with Cosky and started lifting and lowering.
After finishing his reps, Rawls thrust the barbell onto the rack with a crash. After a couple of deep breaths, he sat up and turned to Mac. “How’s Amy doing?”
“How the fuck should I know? I’m not her therapist,” Mac snapped, but the memory of cool hands and a hot tongue followed him onto the bench.
The burn wasn’t as bad this time. Maybe because he was distracted. Halfway through the repetitions, the memory of terrified hazel eyes slipped into his mind, interfering with his breathing and his count.
Twenty more pounds were added to each end of the bar. This time Cosky hunched over the bench, ready to catch the bar if Zane’s strength gave out. Not that his LC’s steady reps and intent expression gave any indication of stalling.
Rawls frowned as he watched Zane work. “Faith says the airstrip ain’t even the real mystery about this place. She reckons Shadow Mountain is using a ton of energy, enough to power a major city. If they’re pullin’ the juice from the outside, someone must have noticed. Shit like that’s hard to hide. Yet the base remains hidden . . .”
Cosky took Zane’s place on the bench but paused before lying down. “No fuck? Where does she think they’re pulling the energy from?”
“Hell, she don’t know. Lots of questions, not much in the way of answers.” Rawls watched Cosky finish his set, then moved over to spot for Mac.
Mac locked down his misgivings as he took his turn on the bench. Two hundred and sixty pounds sat on that bar. All three of his men had managed the weight with no apparent struggle. If Rawls had to rescue him . . . He grimaced as he lifted the bar. He’d never hear the end of it.
Maybe if he got lucky, a heart attack would put an end to his stupid-ass pride and this moronic competition.
Chapter Eight
AMY AWOKE WITH the taste of bacon on her lips, the feel of hard muscles beneath her palms, and the memory of a hot tongue stroking the inside of her mouth. Flutters spread through her belly, her nipples were peaked, and the flesh between her legs was throbbing and damp. Eyes closed, she stretched languidly, the sheets sliding erotically against her hot, sensitive skin. It felt sweet to awake to arousal rather than terror, to memories of pleasure rather than nightmares of pain.
Too bad she hadn’t maintained this languid sensuality while she’d been lost in Mac’s arms.
She frowned, going over the incident in her mind. She didn’t understand why she’d reacted so negatively the night before, yet not on Clay’s patio. She’d been trapped beneath Mac’s body by the barbecue, his hard, heavy weight pressing her down, and she’d felt just fine. Protected, even. There had been no urgency to flee, no terror. So why last night? What had been the difference?
Adrenaline? Rage? Fear?
She shook her head and sighed. The real question was: How was she going to face him?
With a soft groan, she stretched again. She’d have to summon the courage to apologize. She could hardly avoid him. Of course, after shifting their relationship from platonic to sexual, getting him all hot and hungry and then tearing herself from his arms and running away . . . he probably wasn’t in any hurry to see her again.
Not cool, Amy. The very definition of not cool.
“Mom?”
Amy bolted up in bed, her son’s voice ripping her from that hazy border between sleep and consciousness. Her gaze scanned the dark bedroom. “Brendan?”
“Benji’s sick.” Brendan’s worried voice drifted through the darkness.
Throwing back the sheet, she slid
out of bed. The floor was icy against her bare feet, the air cold against the legs her sleep shorts exposed.
“What’s wrong with him?” Amy asked as she headed across the room toward the child-size gray blur lurking in the doorway.
“He’s hot and he’s crying.” Brendan stepped back from the doorway, allowing her to pass through.
Hot? Like a fever? Worry dug in. Benji was never sick. There was a running joke between her and his pediatrician—that her son bolted through each day in hyperdrive, moving so fast germs and viruses couldn’t keep up.
When Amy flipped on the light switch in the boys’ room, a whimper came from the bed to her left.
“Turn it off! It hurts.” Benji’s face turned toward her. Even from the doorway she could see the dull redness in his cheeks along with the drying tracks of tears.
“What hurts, baby?” She rushed to the bed and knelt on the floor beside him. His forehead felt blistering hot beneath her palm; so did his cheek.
“I’m hot.” His voice was fractious as he rolled his head away from her touch and hunched into the wall.
“I can see that.” She forced a calm tone even while anxiety took hold.
After seven years of never having a fever, why now? Had the isotope started to affect him? Or was the timing coincidental?
“Brendan?” She partially turned to scan her oldest son’s face. Unlike her youngest, he wasn’t flushed. No obvious signs of a fever. “How do you feel?”
“I’m fine,” he assured her. “I’m not hot.”
Brendan wasn’t sick, so maybe Benji’s sudden fever didn’t have anything to do with the isotope. She forced the worry and questions aside and concentrated on comforting her son.
“Brendan, get a washcloth and soak it with cold water.” She listened to his footsteps cross the room.
“You hang in there, baby. We’re going to make you feel better, okay?” She kept her voice soothing and her touch light. But even that was too much. He whimpered and jerked away from her hand.
She glanced at the clock beside Brendan’s bed. It was 5:00 a.m. Too early for doctor’s hours, but the base clinic was open twenty-four-seven. She scanned Benji’s flushed face. He was obviously running a fever, but she didn’t have a thermometer to check how high. Nor did she have any aspirin to bring it down. If it was a case of the flu, the clinic could treat him. If it was something else entirely, they’d reach out to Dr. Zapa regardless of how early it was.
She rose to her feet and stripped off the sheet and blanket he’d kicked aside.
“Brendan,” she yelled. “I’m taking Benji to the clinic.”
She backtracked to her room to shove her feet into her sneakers and debated about changing her clothes. She opted for speed rather than presentation. Her sleep shorts and top covered everything that needed covering.
“I have the washcloth,” Brendan said when she returned to Benji’s bed.
“Hang on to it.” She leaned over and slid her arms beneath Benji’s chunky frame. The muscles in her back protested as she straightened. He radiated heat like a small furnace, instantly warming her. The fear intensified, tightening her belly and skin. Exactly how high was his temperature?
“Drape the cloth across his forehead.”
Benji sighed as soon as the cloth touched his skin. His eyes fluttered closed. “Whatcha doing?”
“Taking you to the clinic.” She kept her tone soothing.
“I don’t wanna go.” His voice warped straight to querulous, and he thrashed weakly in her arms.
She tightened her hold and made shushing sounds. “They’ll make you feel better, Benj. They’ll take the heat away.”
“Uh-uh.” He thrashed again, the cranky tone giving way to a sob. “They’ll poke me with needles.”
Her heart squeezed. She couldn’t deny that assertion, since there was a good chance Dr. Zapa would want to draw blood. “But you’ll get another dinosaur bandage or maybe even a spaceship.”
“I don’t care. I don’t wanna go. I wanna stay here.” His voice started out low and whimpering before escalating to a shriek.
She almost dropped him when he started struggling in earnest. Benji was a solid sixty pounds and difficult to hold when he wasn’t cooperating.
“Do you want me to get Commander Mackenzie?” Brendan bent and caught the washcloth as it went flying.
Surprised, she shot a quick look at her oldest. Mackenzie? That was the first name that jumped into Brendan’s mind when they needed help. Not Zane or Rawls, but Mackenzie? When had that happened?
“We don’t need to bother the commander.” Amy injected confidence into her tone. “Between the two of us, we can take care of Benji just fine.”
Which was easier said than done when her youngest started writhing like a fish on a line.
“Benjamin Jonathan Chastain.” She sharpened her voice. “That’s quite enough. You have two choices. I can carry you, or you can walk. Either way you’re going to the clinic.”
Another sob was followed by a muttered, “I hate you.” But he stopped twisting.
I hate you.
She masked a flinch, her heart contracting again. Of course he didn’t mean it, wouldn’t even remember saying it, but if this sudden fever had anything to do with the isotope . . . Panic tried to break through. She forced it aside by focusing on the child in her arms.
The trip to the main corridor seemed to take forever with Benji’s burning weight getting heavier and heavier with each step. They lucked out when they reached the throughway. One of the base’s motorized carts was charging along the wall. She lifted Benji inside, recoiled the electrical charger, and pushed the button to start the vehicle. After a tight U-turn, they were on their way.
The sight of the clinic’s bright lights brought an avalanche of relief, an easing to the tension cinched around her chest. “We’re almost there, baby. Just hang on a little longer.”
His weak chuff of pain as she carried him from the cart through the sliding doors slashed at her heart. Was he hotter? Or had the stress and his hot body increased her own temperature?
She was still several steps from the receptionist’s counter when a woman dressed in green scrubs appeared in the doorway next to the desk. Her sharp gaze scanned Amy and then dropped to Benji’s nodding head.
“Fever?”
“Yes. I don’t have a thermometer or aspirin.” Or the slightest idea of how serious this fever was.
“Let’s get him into an exam room.” The woman turned and led the way down the hall.
Amy carefully settled Benji onto the exam table, wincing as he sobbed and curled into a tight ball.
“Doctor Pauli to room B.” After waiting a few seconds, the nurse pushed the button again, repeating the message, before crossing to Benji. “Hi there, Benji—isn’t it?” At her son’s truculent nod, the nurse smiled cheerfully. “Well, Benji, my name’s Danielle, and I’m going to take really good care of you.”
Amy retreated slightly to give the nurse room to work.
“When did the fever start?” Danielle asked softly. She crossed to the counter next to the exam table and opened a middle drawer. When she turned back, she had a digital thermometer in hand.
“He was fine when he went to bed at nine. I’m not sure when it started. Brendan woke me up, and I brought him right over,” Amy said tightly, watching Danielle slide the thermometer between his lips.
“Have you noticed any other symptoms?” the nurse asked as she scribbled on a sheet of paper attached to a clipboard. “Aches? Pains?”
“No, but I didn’t spend much time asking him questions. I brought him straight over.”
When the thermometer beeped, Danielle pulled it from Benji’s mouth.
“What was it?” Amy asked, leaning in for a closer look.
“One hundred three point nine,” the nurse said, neither her expression nor tone giving anything away.
Amy’s chest tightened. Was a temperature of 104 considered dangerously high? Her boys had rarely been sick and n
ever with a fever this high. Could the isotope be causing it? If so, why wasn’t Brendan sick? But then maybe his temperature was elevated too, just not as high or as noticeable.
“Nurse?” Amy waited for the woman to look at her. “Could you take Brendan’s temperature too?”
The woman’s smile was understanding. “Certainly.”
“I’m fine, Mom,” Brendan said, although he obediently opened his mouth and accepted the thermometer.
When the instrument beeped, and was removed with a 98.8 reading, Brendan shot her an I-told-you look.
Relieved that Brendan didn’t appear to be sick, Amy looked again at her youngest son. Benji still lay curled on the exam table, lethargically enduring the stethoscope and the blood pressure cuff. His lack of response was a clear indication of how sick he felt. His prior exams had been an exercise in patience followed by explicit threats.
This was not normal. Not for Benji. Her son threw himself through life with every fiber in his body. He didn’t just lie there and let people do things to him.
A sense of foreboding mushroomed through her until it choked out any sense of optimism. Benji’s life was in danger. She could sense it. Every maternal instinct she possessed screamed it.
There was something very, very wrong with her son.
The knock that struck Mac’s door was demanding, far too forceful to have come from Amy.
Thank you, Jesus.
Not that she had any interest in pounding on his door, anyway—at least not anytime soon . . . probably.
His scowl as he rose from his seat at the table had more to do with the shredded, aching muscles of his chest, shoulders, and arms than thoughts of Amy. A spasm ripped through his back. He froze, his breath catching as the muscles clenched into a charley horse.
Jesus fucking Christ!
He gritted his teeth and rode out the spasm. He could add his back to the litany of body parts he’d fucked over the day before that were returning the favor today. He had to stop letting those bastards he called friends goad him into paralyzing himself.
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