She studied the walls, floor, and ceiling of their current tunnel as they struck out for the rendezvous point. It looked like some kind of huge concrete pipe—the thick, round ones used for sewers or flash-flood drainage. It was tall enough for her to stand upright, although there wasn’t enough room for the two of them to walk side by side.
The cylinders must have been difficult to handle, considering how huge they were and the fact that they were buried so deep in the ground. Installing them would have required excavation equipment, which must have been brought in by helicopter since the camp was so removed.
“You okay back there?” Rawls’s voice broke into her thoughts.
“I’m fine,” she said, looking up. A metallic shimmer drew her attention toward his left hip.
She squinted to get a better look in the murky light.
That was odd . . . it almost looked like the rifle hanging from his shoulder beneath the duffle bag had drifted up and was pointing at her. It had to be a trick of the flashlight beam bouncing off the concrete at her feet. Lifting the torch, she aimed it toward his side and the offending rifle, which was quite visibly hovering there—in midair—pointing directly at her. With a stifled shriek she jerked hard to the right, colliding with the wall.
He stopped hard, and turned, the duffle bag scraping against the concrete. “What’s wrong?”
“That wasn’t funny!” she snapped, aiming the flashlight at his face. Her heart skipped a beat, only to take two in rapid succession. Groaning beneath her breath, she fought to get her breathing and heart rate back under control. “Is that thing loaded?”
Of course it isn’t loaded. There’s no way he’d point a loaded gun at you!
Then again, it wasn’t like him to point an unloaded gun at anyone either. What’s gotten into the man?
Her heart stuttered, then resumed business as usual.
With a deep, tension-releasing breath, she relaxed.
“What are you talkin’ about?” A scowl slammed down over his forehead, and his eyes looked burningly blue.
“The rifle,” she shot back. “I don’t appreciate the joke.”
“What joke?” His voice rose to as close to a shout as she’d ever heard from him.
“Pointing the rifle at me. It’s not funny. If anyone should know how dangerous aiming a gun at someone can be . . .” She trailed off to glare.
He froze, his expression falling perfectly still. A fraction of a second later an explosion of pure rage lit his face. The blue of his eyes burned so bright they looked almost incandescent.
“Pachico!” he roared, turning in a slow circle. “Goddamn you!”
Pachico?
The name—somehow she knew it was a name—echoed in the tight confines of the channel. She puckered her forehead, repeating the word beneath her breath. It was so familiar, lingering there at the back of her mind. She knew it from somewhere . . .
And then it burst into her head like the flashlight beam had illuminated a deep, dark, repressed memory.
Pachico . . .
A bald head wrapped in a bloody bandage . . . a long face . . . muddy brown, resigned eyes . . . a huge knife sticking out of a thin chest. A thin trail of crimson trickling down a white dress shirt . . .
Pachico.
The man Jillian had killed at Wolf’s Sierra Nevada home six days earlier. The man whose body had been cremated courtesy of a helicopter-to-house missile. Six days? Good lord, it felt like sixty.
She shook her head in disbelief. Pachico was dead. So why was Rawls bawling the man out. Because that’s what the tone of his voice sounded like. Not to mention he’d swung around as though searching for the culprit. He was reading someone the riot act. Only the man he was searching for was dead. Very, very dead.
A chill winnowed through her, and it had nothing to do with their current predicament—running for their lives, twenty feet beneath ground.
“Why are you shouting a dead man’s name?” The question tumbled out as her flashlight beam fluttered over his face.
It seemed to take a second for her query to register, and then his face went blank again. But she knew the answer.
“A ghost? You’re seeing ghosts?” It was the only thing that made sense. The only reason he’d be yelling a dead man’s name.
This was his problem? His hallucination? A ghost? He was seeing dead people? Every single comedic rip-off of The Sixth Sense reeled through her mind. Hysterical laughter bubbled up her throat and tried to escape out her mouth.
Except . . . there wasn’t an ounce of levity on his face. Instead, it looked frozen, almost fragile. Which was crazy when describing a six-foot-four hunk of muscle and strength. But yeah, he looked vulnerable, as though the wrong reaction from her could shatter him into a billion pieces and nothing would ever be right between them ever again.
The urge to laugh vanished.
“That’s what’s going on, isn’t it? You’re seeing ghosts.” She couldn’t quite bring herself to call them dead people—even though that was what they technically were. “Talk to me.”
Blue eyes scanned her face, lingered, and the intensity softened. “Ghost. Singular.”
She nodded, trying to maintain an open expression, even though every synapse in her brain had warped straight into denial. Ghosts? Seriously? “Pachico?”
It made sense that if he were suffering from a psychotic break, his delusions would center on the last person he’d tried to save, only to helplessly watch die.
“That would be the one.” He shot her a wry glance. “Relax. I don’t expect y’all to believe me.” He stared at the ground for a moment before running a tense hand through his hair. “Hell. I wouldn’t believe it myself if it wasn’t happenin’ to me.”
Okay, so her open expression must not be so open after all. “I’m sorry . . . it’s just . . . there’s no scientific evidence to support the existence of ghosts.”
His head pulled back. After a nanosecond, his eyebrows rose. “You don’t say. Well, I wasn’t touchin’ that rifle. So if it was pointin’ at you, as you claim, I reckon that’s about as scientific as it’ll get.” He stroked a palm down his lean face. “The bastar—” He caught himself with a grimace and shot her an apologetic glance. “Pachico has been manipulatin’ objects in the physical world, and he’s gettin’ better at it each time. We’re damn lucky he hasn’t pulled a trigger yet.”
“The physical world?”
A fleeting expression of annoyance touched his face, as though he’d said more than he’d intended.
“He’s incorporeal. A regular Casper. At first he just passed through everything. But now that he’s figured out how to manipulate physical objects—” He broke off with a shrug hard enough to lift the duffle bag up his back.
Manipulate physical objects . . .
His explanation echoed in her mind. Was he talking about the cookies? Or the cookie rack? Had he built a bunch of delusional scenarios around simple accidents? Or even unconscious actions on his own part?
The rifle had been pointing at her. She was certain of that. But his hand or elbow could have been manipulating it outside of her line of sight.
Another chill sliced through her. There were plenty of cases where people in the midst of a psychotic break experienced delusions, hallucinations, and memory lapses.
She jolted as he barked out an unamused laugh.
“And this is exactly why I haven’t told anyone. You’re afraid of me now.” Beneath the exasperation in his voice lurked that earlier vulnerability.
“I’m not afraid of you.” The reassurance came unbidden, but she realized it was true.
She wasn’t afraid of him. Looking back, he’d done everything possible to protect the camp from his perceived threat—even to the point of abandoning his comfy bed for the cold, damp forest.
Curiosity stirred as his actions started to make sense. “Was that why you left camp? Why you avoided everyone? To protect us from this ghost? How does that work? Why doesn’t it just harass us at will, wheth
er you’re there or not?”
“Because it’s tethered to me somehow,” he snapped, a harried expression settling over his face. “And we need to move. If the time frame holds true, it’ll be gone ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Time enough to reach the hub.”
“It’s gone?” What fascinating, intricate scenarios had his mind built around this delusion? “It just periodically disappears? Why?”
He ignored the question in favor of turning and stalking off. Faith followed, watching the stiff line of his spine, or at least what she could see of it below the canvas bag. He obviously didn’t want to talk about his ghost. But maybe that’s exactly what he needed. A chance to examine the inconsistencies inherent in his delusion through an outside perspective.
“So when did he appear?” she asked.
Although he didn’t respond, from the catch in his stride, he’d obviously heard her.
“We might as well talk about it,” she offered after a few minutes of pregnant silence. “It will give us something to concentrate on while we’re making our way to the hub.”
“We’re not on a damn nature hike, Faith.” The chill in his voice was enough to frost the air surrounding them. “Nor do we know what kind of listenin’ devices they have topside. Less chatter, more speed.”
Well that certainly shut down any chance of conversation. Although he did have a point. Maybe she had been a bit premature in her assessment of the danger facing them. Her heart jumped into double time, but quickly dropped down to normal again. Her hand reached for her pocket and the little white pill nestled within, but she hesitated. Normally she’d have taken an extra dose when her heart got this erratic. But this was her last pill. If she took it now, and later in the day things got worse . . . Scowling, she dropped her hand and increased her speed, paying close attention to her heartbeat.
They approached a section of the tunnel where the concrete walls and ceiling leaked dirt through thick cracks. Thick, fibrous roots squeezed through the fissures. They must have reached the tree line.
From above, a muffled explosion sounded. The ground rolled beneath Faith’s feet, and the concrete walls to her right and left shook. A low groan rumbled from the ceiling, and the trickle of dirt and crumbling concrete increased to a stream.
“Son of a— The ceiling’s giving,” Rawls yelled. Half turning, he reached out and snagged Faith’s arm. “Move!”
The deep moan above them shifted to a shriek and then a crack.
“Move! Move!” Rawls bolted forward, dragging her along.
Another crack. A chunk of concrete slammed into her shoulder. Rawls yanked her arm—hard—jerking her out of the sudden avalanche of dirt. She felt, rather than heard, the pop as her shoulder separated. Her heart jumped into rapid, irregular spasms. There was a second—maybe two—of gravid numbness from her chest into her shoulder and down her right arm. And then raw, burning agony swallowed her from the inside out.
Vaguely, she heard the scream break from her. Heard Rawls’s frantic swearing. Somehow his cursing was important, but her foggy mind couldn’t quite pinpoint why. Her vision blurred, black squiggles and pinpricks shrouding her sight.
The agony consumed her, restricted her chest until her lungs refused to draw breath. Turned her head heavy and thick. Incapable of thought or reason.
“Faith.” An urgent voice drew her back to consciousness. “Come on, baby. Stay with me.”
Baby?
Distantly she felt something thick and hard, driving into her pocket. His hand. In her pocket. Searching for the Cordarone.
Her heart. Ah this was bad . . . very bad.
Fear swelled.
She had to be awake to swallow the pill.
She tried to focus, to drag herself up from the whirlwind sucking her into the darkness. To remain awake long enough to swallow that one tiny pill. To swallow her one chance at life.
“Goddamn son of a motherfuckin’ bitch.”
She must have already lost the battle, because she was dreaming. They were Mac’s words, but Rawls’s raw voice.
And then that dusky whirlwind caught her, dragging her into the smooth, velvet blackness.
* * *
Chapter Eleven
* * *
THE FIRST MISSILE struck the compound within five minutes of them entering the tunnel, by Mac’s estimation. He spun to face Amy and her kids as the muffled explosion shook the terrain above their heads. The ground heaved beneath his feet.
At the youngest child’s shrill cry, he lunged forward, grabbed both boys, and pressed them to the ground. Crouching over their small bodies, he tensed—waiting. But the walls and ceiling held.
After the ground stopped shaking, he dragged the boys back up and tossed an urgent glance their mother’s way. “Let’s move.”
More detonations rocked them.
The kids must have been scared shitless as they didn’t even squeak. Even the youngest, and they all knew how much that kid liked his voice.
He didn’t have to tell Amy twice. As he hustled the boys forward, his flashlight beam illuminating their path, he heard her footsteps and heavy breathing behind him. At least she was keeping up.
On the one hand, it was reassuring to know that Rawls hadn’t hallucinated the attack force surrounding them. On the other hand, if the assholes above continued to hammer the compound with air-to-ground missiles, there was a good chance the tunnel would collapse before they could reach the hub. In which case, bye-bye to all of them.
Fuck . . . if those assholes’ intentions had been to incinerate the compound, why bother bringing in the ground crew?
The obvious answer was that they’d learned from their mistakes. This time around, survivors wouldn’t find refuge in the woods. Whoever escaped the missiles would be picked off by the snipers surrounding the camp. It would have worked too—if they’d taken to the woods.
Thank God—or in this case, Wolf—for the tunnels. His foresight had proved to be a lifesaver. Hell, multiple lifesavers.
Assuming his men and the civilians they protected had made it into the tunnels. And assuming the aforementioned tunnels hadn’t collapsed on anyone.
He scowled, tension locking his muscles tight. The cabins were gone. He had no doubt of that. From the sound of the fireworks overhead, those motherfuckers were blowing every fucking building in the compound. He could track the destruction by the location of the explosions. First the lodge, then Zane’s cabin, followed by the one he’d shared with Rawls.
Motherfucker.
If anyone had been stuck aboveground when those missiles hit, they’d be dead by now.
He shoved that worry aside and concentrated on their immediate predicament.
So far the tunnel they were in was holding up remarkably well. No doubt its stability had much to do with the fact that the concrete cylinder was buffered by twenty feet of soil. With luck, they would make it to the hub, and its natural rock protection, before the stress started to show.
Slowly the explosions above dwindled. Several minutes of heavy breathing and pounding feet followed. Christ, they were making more noise than a crowd of panicked civilians. He strained to hear anything from aboveground.
Had the chopper left yet?
“Do you think the helicopter left?” Amy rasped from behind him.
His skin tightened as an eerie chill worked its way through him. Her question was identical to his. Apparently they’d been wondering the same thing at exactly the same moment.
Doesn’t mean a damn thing.
A milky, wavering light down the tunnel brought a welcome distraction.
“Wait.” He slowed, easing his weapon from his waistband. “We’ve got company.”
“Our people?” Amy asked in a low voice from behind him.
“Probably.” But it never paid to take chances, and they couldn’t be a hundred percent certain the tunnel system had remained secret. He sighted his flashlight and Glock on the bouncing circle of light.
If the kids really had been physically tagged, and th
e tracking devices were still transmitting, then the bastards above them knew their targets were belowground. Hell, maybe someone had gotten lucky, stumbled across an outside entrance in the woods, and come looking for them.
In which case they were about to be welcomed with a couple rounds to the chest.
“Sweet Jesus.”
The horrified whisper leaked around the flashlight in his mouth as Rawls stared down at the fresh mound of dirt—the dirt that had buried Faith’s last dose of Cordarone. He’d had the pill out and on the way to her lips when a section of the ceiling had sheared off, dropping a fresh load of earth on top of them and knocking the capsule from his fingers.
Even if he had the time, sifting through that mound of dirt in the hope of finding one small pill was a useless endeavor. And he couldn’t afford the time.
Partially buried beneath the flash flood of soil and chunks of concrete, Faith released the softest of sighs and slumped against her makeshift bed. The sound jolted him from his disbelieving stupor. He lifted his chin until the beam of light caressed her face, and pressed his fingers against the side of her neck. Her pulse was thready. But she was alive. Thank Christ for that at least.
But they needed to get out of there. The crumbling concrete would weaken the ceiling even further—it wouldn’t be long before the whole damn thing came down.
He started to reach for the duffle bag beside him, when another series of detonations rocked the compound above. The tunnel rocked and rolled, and that ominous groan rumbled above.
There isn’t time to grab Faith and the bag.
He switched directions in midswoop and dragged Faith’s good arm over his shoulder. Lifting her into a fireman’s hold, he shot to his feet, flashlight still clenched between his teeth. Dirt cascaded down on him like a waterfall, burying his legs up to his thighs.
His muscles hot and fluid beneath a burst of adrenaline, he drove forward, pushing the earth to the sides and front, carrying Faith’s silent, still body along with him. He broke through the front of the dam as another explosion rocked the world above.
Forged in Smoke (A Red-Hot SEALs Novel Book 3) Page 17