Forged in Smoke (A Red-Hot SEALs Novel Book 3)

by Trish McCallan

  Although Faith had drawn a sketch of her Thrive generator, several of the machines in the lab fit her depiction of it. They’d need her to identify the actual machine.

  Cosky joined him and took a long, grim look around. “Faith doesn’t need to see this. There’s not much we can do about the blood. But we can move the bodies.”

  For a moment, barely more than a blink, an irritated expression flickered across Wolf’s face. And then he went all stoic again. “Already being done.”

  As though to reinforce his statement, several of his warriors came through a large sliding door at the opposite end of the lab, grabbed a pair of limp bodies, hoisted them up, and dragged them away.

  Mac shrugged. How the hell were they supposed to know what the taciturn agent had planned? He wasn’t exactly Mr. Chatty, now was he?

  “Wait a few minutes before calling Rawls in,” Mac told Cosky. “By the time he gets here with Faith, the dead should be cleared away.” He took a step farther into the lab, his attention on a bank of computer terminals pushed up against the left wall. “Looks like the computer system is still intact.”

  Which was a stroke of luck. They could pull hard drives and access the data back at Shadow Mountain. If Faith didn’t find her Thrive generator in the building, they could check the computer logs and—

  Bomb!

  The word suddenly exploded in Mac’s head. He winced, unsure of who’d shouted it, or if anyone had shouted it at all. The warning was just suddenly there in his head. Filling his mind. Jettisoning his heart into his throat and his pulse into his ears.

  “Out. Everyone. Now.”

  This time he recognized Wolf’s voice, although his mind was messing with him, because the bastard was standing directly across from him, and hell, his mouth hadn’t moved.

  “Out!” Wolf roared. And this time Mac saw his mouth open wide, expelling the order forcefully. He must have imagined that earlier idiocy.

  Spinning, he bolted for the stairs behind them. He could feel the moist heat of Cosky’s breath on the back of his neck. The pounding of boots filled his ears.

  “Zane,” he yelled into his mouthpiece as he hit the first landing. “Get out. The place is rigged.”

  He didn’t hear his second in command’s response, not surprising considering the heavy breathing and hammering feet filling the stairwell. They’d pass right by his LC, though. If Zane was still there, he’d drag him out.

  He leapt over Benton’s body and hit the first-floor landing at a dead run. Zane was gone—thank Christ. The adrenaline coursed through him in hot fluid waves. He jerked the stairwell door open, scrambled around the corner, and shot down the hall.

  Twenty feet to the front entrance.

  How much time had been left on the timer? Not much, judging by Wolf’s urgency-infused warning.

  Fuck—he was in front. Cosky, Wolf, and Wolf’s entire team charging after him. There wasn’t enough room for anyone to pass him. Not enough time for him to stop and let Cosky and Wolf’s team by. Which meant everyone’s fucking survival hinged on how fast Mac’s out-of-shape, desk-jockey body could get out that door.

  The realization seized up his lungs. Not a reaction he could afford.

  Ten feet to go.

  Gunfire erupted outside. An assault rifle from the sound of it. A quick succession of shots.

  What the fuck is going on out there?

  Nothing he could do from here. He tucked his elbows and put every ounce of strength he had into his legs and lungs.

  The front door stood partially open, hanging crookedly from its gaping top hinge. Mac leaned forward, increasing his stride, milking every kernel of speed possible from his adrenaline-charged muscles, praying that it would be enough.

  Three feet.

  He hit the crooked front door like an anvil, slamming it against the wall and bolting through the door. The night sky spun overhead—black velvet, brilliant with stars. Spongy grass and mud tried to grab his boots, slow him down. But there was room now, room to his right and left. Room for his team to get past him—get out of harm’s—

  Suddenly he was lifted up and thrown forward by what felt like a giant vibrating hand slamming into his back, shoulder, and thighs. A sonic pressure penetrated his back, squeezed through flesh and bone, numbing every cell.

  Boom! Boom! Boom.

  The explosions ripped overhead in quick succession—each detonation less violent.

  Mac hit the ground hard, his body and mind numb, that black-velvet, diamond-studded sky still spinning lazily overhead.

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-One

  * * *

  RAWLS SQUEEZED OFF his first shot, followed by a second and third in quick succession. Simultaneously the Tango, highlighted in bright green by his NVD, dropped his arm, targeting Rawls’s position on the ground. The crack-crack-crack from Rawls’s SCAR-L assault rifle masked the pistol’s suppressed report, but Rawls knew the bastard was firing by the kickback of the Tango’s hand. The acrid bite of spent gunpowder coincided with a sharp pinch in his right side. Rawls kept firing.

  The luminous figure dropped to his knees, his hand with the weapon dipping toward the forest floor. Rawls fired again, relief whooshing through him as the target slowly collapsed backward.

  “Faith?” He spun on his knees to check behind him.

  “I-I’m . . . I’m okay.”

  Her shaky voice was the sweetest music to his ears. Launching himself up and across the forest floor, he kicked the pistol from the Tango’s hand. The green blob didn’t move. But before he had a chance to bend down and check for a pulse, an explosion sounded behind him. The pressure wave struck a heartbeat later, knocking him off his feet.

  As the pressure wave rolled over and through him, he scrambled to his knees and rotated to check on Faith. She was curled up at the foot of the tree trunk, her arms wrapped around her head as chunks of brick, wood, and Formica rained down from above.

  Sweet Jesus! The blast had come from the direction of the building. His chest tightened until he could barely breathe, until his exhale sounded like a whistle rather than a breath.

  Cosky and Zane. Mac. Wolf. Sweet Christ—Wolf’s entire team—they’d inserted into that building. Had they been in it when it blew?

  His ears ringing, he dug his toes into the ground and booked toward Faith on his hands and knees. He needed a sitrep on Faith’s condition first, after which he’d head toward the explosion. Assess the situation over there.

  The icy, hot rush of fear swelled. Zane. Cosky. Mac. He forced it back down.

  Faith stirred when he reached her. Since her ears would be ringing as badly as his, he abandoned language in favor of pantomime and observation. Her pulse thumped urgently against his fingers, but it was strong and steady. Her breathing was unobstructed. No sign of pain when he moved her limbs or palpated her abdomen. She’d escaped remarkably unscathed.

  The relief was almost dizzying, until the memory of his teammates bled it dry and urged him to his feet.

  He yanked his backpack up by its shoulder strap as he rose. The rain of debris had slowed, but an orange burn painted the sky to the north. Should he take Faith with him or hide her in the woods? Neither option gave him peace of mind, more like turbulent foreboding, but she took the decision out of his hands by rising to her feet beside him with a wobbly smile.

  They pushed through the shivering foliage and emerged on the lawn circling the building. A cloud of dark green obscured his vision through the NVD, so he tore it off and handed it to Faith. It took a good ten seconds for his eyes to adjust, but even then he could see the eerie burn of the shuttered building. It glowed like a square jack-o-lantern with malevolent orange eyes.

  He headed for the building at a run, the backpack bumping along behind him, ignoring the stitch in his side. Faith kept pace beside him.

  Amid the flickering red-orange wash bathing the front lawn, shadows stirred, sat up, climbed to their feet.

  Upon reaching the first hulking shadow sitting on the
ground, he released the backpack and dropped to his knees. He didn’t realize his patient was Zane until the dark head lifted and a lean hand waved him off. Relief hit hard but disappeared almost instantly. Cosky and Mac had been in that building too.

  “I’m good,” Zane said, his voice so loud Rawls actually heard it through the ringing in his ears. “Find Cos. Mac.”

  Since his LC was coherent and mobile—or as mobile as one could get while stiffly climbing to their feet—Rawls snatched up his backpack and raced farther in field. The stitch started up again, only to suddenly vanish. He found Cosky shaking his head and stumbling to his feet. The heady blast of relief lasted a few seconds before it evaporated.

  Where, sweet Christ, is Mac?

  In the distance, above the trees, chopper blades beat the air.

  Wolf suddenly appeared before him, his rigid face streaked with dirt and blood, his braid partially free and streaming down his broad shoulders. Rage, along with other dark emotions, sizzled in the air surrounding him.

  Burnished by the fiery haze of the fire, he looked like an omen of death and destruction.

  “Get everyone on the bird,” Wolf said tersely.

  “Mac?” Rawls caught his elbow before he could turn away.

  “To the right. Your buddies are with him.” Wolf shook Rawls’s hand loose and started to walk away.

  “Gilbert and the rest of . . .” Faith’s voice trailed off entreatingly.

  From the expression of dawning grief on her face, she already suspected the answer.

  Wolf stopped and swung back to face her with a silent shake of his head. “I’m sorry, Dr. Ansell, they’d cleaned the building before we arrived. There were no survivors.” Without waiting for her response, he walked away.

  “Cleaned?”

  The ringing in his ears had subsided, but her question was so low he read it on her lips, rather than heard it. Sliding an arm around her waist, he leaned in to brush a kiss across her forehead.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered against her ear.

  She slumped into him for a moment, pressing her face into his neck. The warm wetness of tears trickled down his neck and then she straightened.

  Scrubbing her eyes, she shook herself. “We should see to the injured.”

  He nodded, frowning in annoyance as that damnable stitch in his side returned.

  “Zane and Cosky are over there,” Faith said, pointing to the right.

  Rawls followed the direction of her finger and instantly recognized Zane and Cosky’s lean frames clustered around Mac’s stocky one. The commander was up, and without support—both good signs.

  Thank Christ.

  This time the relief was a sustained, steady burn—at least until he bent down to pick up the backpack, and the low-grade pinch in his right side morphed into a sharp, stabbing pain.

  What the hell?

  He straightened carefully, and reached down to probe his wet side . . . wet? When his fingers gently pressed the soaked area, a greasy wave of agony just about knocked him on his ass. He broke out in an icy, breathless sweat.

  Well, hell. This he didn’t need.

  Raising his hand, he shifted until he faced the fiery-orange jack-o-lantern burning across the lawn. Even through the ruddy glow glossing his hand, he could see the wet sheen of blood.

  Faith studied Rawls’s face through the night vision goggles. The fluorescent glow that rinsed everything from trees to skin the same shade of crisp green made it possible to pick out facial features, but not expressions. But there was something troublesome about his stillness as he stared at his hand. Something worrisome about the sudden clench of his muscles.

  Grief over the deaths of her coworkers gave way to concern. She stepped closer to Rawls, angling her head to get a better look at his hand since it seemed to have transfixed him. But the goggles she wore presented his flesh in shades of luminous green.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, but her words were drowned beneath the whop-whop-whop of the approaching helicopter.

  To get his attention, she reached out to touch his arm, surprised to find his jacket damp and cold against her fingertips. His clothing shouldn’t be wet. It hadn’t been raining. The forest had been dry. They hadn’t even pulled the water bottles out of his backpack. There was absolutely no reason for wet clothes . . . unless . . .

  The snap of a twig. Rawls spinning, shoving her to the ground, and crouching in front of her. The muffled crack of a gunshot. The thunk of bullets in the tree trunk above them.

  Had one of the bullets penetrated his backpack and hit a water bottle? But he’d been facing the shooter with his pack on the ground behind him. For a bullet to hit a water bottle, it would have had to go through him.

  Or . . . her stomach rolled and bile climbed her throat.

  Had he been shot?

  No, he couldn’t have been. They’d been attacked over five minutes ago. If he’d been shot, she would have known. He would have shown signs of trauma.

  “Rawls.” Her voice emerged sharper this time and much louder. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothin’.”

  She barely heard his response through the helicopter overhead. He dropped his hand and turned, swaying slightly.

  Bull crap. Rawls was never unsteady on his feet. Never.

  Ripping off her goggles, she caught his hand. The light from the burning building highlighted his palm, illuminating its wet gloss.

  He was bleeding.

  “You’ve been shot. Haven’t you?” Her voice was remarkably cool considering she was practically yelling. They both were.

  “Maybe.”

  There was a hint of irritated disbelief in his Southern twang. As though he couldn’t believe his bad luck. That, more than anything, banked her panic. He wouldn’t be annoyed if the injury had been serious . . . would he?

  “Where?” she asked, already leaning down to check his arm. Through the darkness and reddish-orange miasma she could clearly see a large wet patch on his bicep.

  “Right side.” He gingerly poked at the indicated area, only to freeze with a hiss.

  His side?

  She glanced down . . . okay, his side did look wet. Her eyes darted back up, settling on his arm. So did his arm. She swiped her fingers across the wet patch and angled it toward the burning building.

  Blood.

  He’d been shot. Twice!

  “You realize your arm’s bleeding too. You’ve been shot twice.” Once again her voice emerged cool, in control.

  In contrast, her heart was pounding so hard it knocked the breath from her lungs. With her medical history, the sudden, uncontrolled urgency of her heartbeat should have launched a major panic attack. But all she could think about was Rawls, and that he was losing more blood with each beat of his heart.

  “You should sit down,” she said, catching his left, uninjured hand and tugging.

  “There’s time enough to patch me up once we board the bird,” he said impatiently, glancing over to the far left where the helicopter was settling on the grass. “Right now I need to check on Mac and Cosky, and Wolf’s team—make sure we don’t have any serious injuries.”

  “We do have someone with serious injuries.” Faith’s voice rose with each word. “You! You’ve been shot! Twice!”

  He glanced down, his face softening. “It’s—”

  “If you say it’s just a scratch—or just a flesh wound—I’m going to smack you,” she interrupted him with a scowl.

  He had the good sense to close his mouth after that warning. But not the good sense to sit down. Fine, there was more than one way to accomplish her goal.

  “Mac,” she yelled at the top of her lungs. When all three of Rawls’s teammates looked in their direction, she beckoned them over.

  “Ah for—” Rawls locked the rest of the complaint behind his teeth.

  Smart call. At least he didn’t try to scurry off. Instead he watched his buddies converge on them with frustrated acceptance.

  “Problem?” Zane ask
ed, scanning Faith from head to toe.

  “Not with me,” she said, with a flapping motion toward the silent man beside her. She could practically feel the irritation rolling off him. Too bad. “It’s Rawls. He’s been shot. At least twice.”

  Three intense pairs of male eyes shifted to her left and locked on Rawls.

  “How bad?” Zane asked, this time he scanned Rawls from head to boot.

  “I haven’t checked yet. But it feels like a graze.”

  A graze? Really? She rolled her eyes at his macho posturing. Still, he’d managed to avoid describing the injury as just a scratch or just a flesh wound as she’d requested. Why in the world that warmed her belly and made her smile even in the midst of her worry—she had absolutely no idea.

  “He’s bleeding,” she stressed. “In my book, that’s bad enough.”

  Cosky shrugged out of his backpack, opened it up, and pulled out a flashlight, along with a plastic white box with a red cross taped across the lid. “It won’t hurt to check you out. Wolf’s crew is just starting to load up.”

  “And some of them may need my help,” Rawls said, that earlier irritation sharpening his tone.

  Zane shook his head. Shifting, he scanned the lawn. “Wolf’s got his own medics on the wounded. And something tells me your westernized medical approach wouldn’t be nearly as effective as their native one.”

  She’d known that Wolf had healers on his team, their inclusion was one of the reasons he’d refused to allow Kait on the mission. Both Wolf and Cosky had claimed they didn’t need her services with the other healers on board.

  Faith’s attention didn’t budge from Rawls’s face, even though she was curious as to whether these other healers conducted their healings the same way Kait did. He flinched a couple of times when Zane and Cosky removed his jacket and T-shirt, but stood stoically beneath their ministrations as they poured water onto gauze pads and wiped the wounds clean.

  His shoulders, chest, and abdomen rippled with sleek, lean muscles in the flickering firelight. In fact, he looked like a piece of art, something Michelangelo might have sculpted in bronze or burnished copper. His sheer beauty took her breath away and sent tingles up and down her spine.