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

by Trish McCallan

  Dear Reader,

  I hope you enjoyed Forged in Smoke, the third installment in my Red-Hot SEALs series.

  If you’d like to read more books set in my Red-Hot SEALs world, or sign up for my newsletter, please visit my website at www.trishmccallan.com.

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  For a full list of my available books, you can visit my website or my Amazon author page: http://www.amazon.com/Trish-McCallan/e/B006GHSSI2/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

  If you enjoyed Forged in Smoke, I’d appreciate it if you’d help other readers find this book by sharing the title and book description with your friends, reading groups, book clubs, and online reading forums.

  Additionally, leaving an honest review on Goodreads, Amazon, or any other retail site would be appreciated. Reviews help clue other readers in to what they might like or dislike about a book and enhance book discovery.

  I love to hear from my readers and make a point of answering every email I receive. If you have any questions or comments, feel free to email me at trish@trishmccallan.com.

  As always, thanks for reading!

  Best wishes,

  Trish McCallan

  Another Red-Hot SEALs novel by Trish McCallan

  Forged in Ember

  coming soon

  Editor’s Note: This is an early excerpt and may not reflect the finished book.

  EXHAUSTION DRAGGING AT every synapse in her brain and sinew in her body, Amy Chastain paused in the doorway. The hall lamp burned bright and harsh behind her, casting a thin wedge of light to the right and left of her body, which illuminated her two bundles of blanket-wrapped boys.

  The small apartment the Shadow Mountain housing committee had assigned her boasted two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small living area with an attached kitchenette. The larger of the two bedrooms barely accommodated two narrow, cot-like beds, which had been pushed against the walls in an L formation. At the foot of each bed was a four-drawer dresser. At best, the small closet behind the door held a coat or two. Her room was even smaller, with a single bed and a built-in wardrobe. Combined, the entire space occupied around four hundred square feet—maybe.

  But the rooms were safe. Secure. Private.

  Qualities that were much more important than space these days.

  Upon reaching the bed to the right, she leaned over and straightened the collection of blankets before tugging them over Benji’s shoulders. It wouldn’t be long before the covers were tossed aside again. Her youngest had always been a restless sleeper—thrashing around in bed as though sleep couldn’t contain his enthusiasm or exuberant personality.

  Straightening, she arched her achy back, kneading the tight, throbbing muscles above her hips. At least the events over the past few days—or even months—hadn’t impacted her youngest. While his father’s death had dimmed his sunny personality for a while, he’d treated everything else—from their kidnapping to the flight through the tunnels with the compound exploding overhead—with uncontained excitement. Not even the battery of medical tests he’d endured over the past four days had squelched his spirits for long. But then, unlike Brendan, his older brother, Benji had no idea what the test results had yielded.

  Brendan knew, even though she hadn’t told him—yet. Although only four years separated her two sons, her oldest was a millennium older in maturity and perception.

  Turning, Amy headed toward the bed on the left and found Brendan watching her. It didn’t surprise her. She suspected that he hadn’t been sleeping any better than she was herself.

  Unlike Benji’s trashed cot, Brendan’s covers were neatly folded at his chest, the blankets smooth and straight, as though he hadn’t moved a fraction of an inch since he’d climbed into bed.

  She settled beside him, and reached out to stroke his cheek. “Couldn’t sleep?”

  He studied her face before answering, as though trying to judge what she needed to hear. Such a subtle, heartbreaking response to a simple question.

  “It’s going to be okay, Mom,” he finally said, his calm, quiet voice filling the darkness.

  And yeah, he’d found it. He’d pinpointed exactly what she needed to hear, even if she didn’t believe him.

  His hand rose, caught hers, and held tight.

  Something else she’d needed, without realizing it.

  A wave of intense sorrow broke over her—raw and suffocating—it threatened to swallow her whole. Sorrow for John, for the life that had been taken that could never be returned, for all the things she wouldn’t be able to share with him through the coming years. For Benji, whose losses were still to come, when he slowed down enough to realize how much had been stolen from him. But most of all, for this child lying so still and silent beside her. This boy holding her hand.

  This adult in a child’s body.

  Brendan had lost everything. He’d lost his father and the close, exceptional relationship they’d shared. He’d lost his school and his friends and his sports teams—which he’d excelled at.

  But most of all he’d lost his innocence.

  Through their kidnapping and her rape, he’d learned that sex could be used as a weapon—leaving bruises and blood and invisible wounds that cut to the soul. Through his father’s death, he’d learned that you could do everything right, everything possible, and still pay the ultimate price. Through this awful, high-tech biological shit those bastards had shot into his veins, he’d learned that there were people out there capable of the most invasive, horrific acts to achieve their own goals.

  While Brendan’s quiet, deliberate nature had always been the core of his personality, these past four and a half months had tempered his natural demeanor into something harder, darker—heartbreaking in a child.

  Unlike Benji, nothing had gone over Brendan’s head. Although he hadn’t said anything, he’d understood what those bastards had done to her four and a half months ago while they’d been helpless and trapped beneath their care.

  She shied away from the memories, entombing them deep within her, where they smoldered and swelled and pressed outward like a pus-filled abscess ready to burst forth, spewing its rot.

  But there wasn’t time to deal with what had happened to her, or work through the aftermath. She couldn’t afford to wallow in her own personal tragedy.

  “There was something in that shot, wasn’t there?”

  Brendan’s voice dragged her from the crumbling abyss of her own thoughts.

  “Something that let them track us.” While he’d framed it as a question, the certainty already sat flat and hard in his voice and the dark eyes watching her.

  She swallowed and tightened her hand around his, before forcing the admission through her tight, aching throat. “It appears so.”

  “They can’t get it out of us?” His knowing gaze didn’t budge from her face, and acceptance resonated in his voice.

  The dark brown of his eyes didn’t match hers, or John’s, neither did the color of his hair. Both were throwbacks to her father. Her biological father, not the man she’d called Dad for the past thirty-odd years. She didn’t remember much of the man who’d fathered her, besides a quiet voice and strong arms. But she’d seen enough pictures to know where her sons’ dark hair and eyes came from. Sometimes she wondered whether Brendan’s temperament had skipped a generation too . . . but then there was Benji’s hypercuriosity—neither she nor John had ever been so full of life and innocence, so where had that trait come from?

  “Dr. Kerry is working on it, but they aren’t sure what we’re dealing with yet. In the meantime, we’re safe here. The signal is blocked by Shadow Mountain.” She paused to instill confidence in her voice. “They can’t find us here.”

  He didn’t look surprised. She hoped he hadn’t figured out the rest of it. If Dr. Kerry couldn’t figure out a way to neutralize the compound that those bastards had injected into her children, Brendan and Benji would never be able to ste
p foot outside of Shadow Mountain again. Not without the risk of being scooped up and used in this deadly conspiracy Eric Manheim and his cronies had embroiled them in.

  A beat of silence followed. A moment throbbing with unasked questions.

  “Commander Mackenzie thinks Clay did this to us,” Brendan suddenly said, a cold front in his voice.

  She flinched, denial instinctively rising—her dad and Clay, they couldn’t have had anything to do with what had happened. They couldn’t . . .

  “Commander Mackenzie is suspicious of everyone.” Which was nothing less than the truth and had nothing to do with what her son was trying to tell her. “Mackenzie doesn’t even know your uncle Clay.”

  Mackenzie’s suspicious face rose in her mind.

  Brendan was right. Mac did think Clay had been behind the injection given to her sons. But if he was right, that meant Clay was behind the rest of it too. John’s murder and her, Benji’s, and Brendan’s kidnapping—culminating in what those bastards had done to her. If Mac was right . . . Clay was responsible for every single horrific, devastating blow since March.

  It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t. She’d known Clay practically her entire life. They’d shared a home and an idyllic childhood. He’d been John’s best friend, best man at their wedding. He was Brendan and Benji’s godfather. For him to be capable of such evil, without either her or John recognizing it? No . . . it couldn’t be true.

  Chills swept her. She shook her head. “Clay has nothing to do with any of this.”

  He couldn’t have. He couldn’t.

  Brendan just stared at her. “He was there, Mom. He brought the doctor. He’s the one who told us we had to have the shot.”

  “Because someone else convinced him you needed the shots to get back into school. He didn’t realize what you were being given.” She forced conviction into her voice.

  “He’s FBI, like Dad—and he didn’t check with the school? Have the shot tested? Dad would have.” Reservation and something . . . darker . . . burned in her son’s grim eyes.

  “That’s why your dad was senior agent in charge, and your uncle Clay isn’t,” Amy said. “Clay misses things sometimes.”

  “Commander Mackenzie would have checked.” There was no give in Brendan’s voice.

  “We’ve already established that Commander Mackenzie has a suspicious nature,” Amy said, exhaustion crashing over her in an emotionally draining wave. Not that she’d sleep, or at least for very long, if she headed back to her bed.

  “I think Commander Mackenzie is right. I think Clay knew what was in that shot. I think he gave it to us on purpose.”

  “Oh, Brendan . . .” Amy’s voice failed.

  Another wave of sorrow washed over her, only this time it was tinged with rage. Apparently they’d taken even more from her son than she’d realized—they’d stolen his trust in family too, the surety that those closest to you had your back.

  “He’s never liked us, Mom.” Brendan tilted his head slightly and set his jaw.

  That gave her pause.

  Never?

  Never spoke of long- rather than short-term. Never referenced a lengthier pattern than four and a half months.

  Brendan had stopped calling her brother Uncle Clay years before. When she’d questioned him about it, he’d just said that calling him uncle was a baby thing and he was too old for that now. She’d hadn’t thought much of it at the time, assuming it was something he’d heard at school or through his friends. Had it been more than that? Had he been certain even back then that Clay didn’t like him?

  “Clay might not always show it, sweetheart, but he loves us.” The reassurance sent déjà vu crashing through her. She’d said the exact same thing to Mackenzie in the tunnels.

  Suddenly she felt mired in a case of she-who-doth-protest-too-much.

  “He smiled when Benji cried,” Brendan said, a flat sheen glossing his brown eyes.

  Startled, Amy straightened. “When was this?”

  “When Clay’s doctor gave us the shot. It hurt pretty bad, and Benji started crying. Clay smiled. He liked seeing Benji hurt.”

  She wanted to protest, tell him he was imagining things, but she couldn’t. Brendan didn’t imagine things, not ever. If he said Clay had smiled when Benji cried—then Clay had smiled.

  Nausea rolled up her throat. “Could he have been thinking about something else?”

  Brendan’s dark brows knitted, but then he slowly shook his head. “I don’t think so. He was looking right at Benji, and he didn’t smile until Benji started crying.”

  Amy sat there frozen, a dark, cold shadow settling over her.

  “I know you think of him as a brother, Mom.” Brendan sat up and scooted back until his shoulders were braced against the headrest. “But he’s never liked us. He might smile with his mouth, but his eyes are mean. He’s been like that as long as I can remember.”

  “Your grandpa’s always been hard on him . . .” She paused, shook her head. She was making excuses. But nothing excused this if Brendan was right. If Mackenzie was right. “Why didn’t you ever mention this before?”

  “Because it never mattered until now.”

  She nodded absently. “You really, truly think Clay knew what he was doing? That he injected you on purpose.”

  This time he didn’t pause to think about it. He nodded solemnly.

  If Brendan was right, then what Clay felt for them went a lot deeper than dislike. This skated right into hatred.

  Maybe Brendan was picking up on something that wasn’t there. Maybe the past four and a half months had hardwired his natural suspicion and he was seeing monsters in familiar faces.

  Had that been what happened to Mackenzie? Had he lost his childhood innocence too early? Had that hardened him into a suspicious adult?

  God help her, she didn’t want Brendan turning into another Mackenzie.

  She needed to get hold of Clay and feel him out—assess him for herself—without the blinders. Find out whether she’d let childhood memories blind her to the monster her brother had become.

  About the Author

  Photo © 2013 JK Steele

  Trish McCallan was born in Oregon and raised in Washington State, where as a child she sold her first crayon-illustrated books for a nickel. This love of writing led her to study the craft at Western Washington University. She worked as a bookkeeper and a human-resource specialist before trading in her day job for a full-time writing career. Her debut novel, Forged in Fire, and its sequel, Forged in Ash, were both finalists for prestigious Romance Writers of America RITA Awards. Forged in Smoke is her third book, and she currently resides in eastern Washington with her three golden retrievers, a black Lab mix, and a cat.