Forged in Ember (A Red-Hot SEALs Novel Book 4)

by Trish McCallan

  A pause followed and then, “Damn. He found what he’s looking for.”

  Whoever had spoken was right. He’d stopped going through the rack of vials. Her fingers fumbled on the intercom button as he carefully scooted the first rack of vials into the tabletop refrigerator.

  “Brendan.” She held her finger down on the intercom button. “You can’t do this.”

  The only indication that he’d heard her was the slight hesitation that coincided with her voice as he picked up the second rack of vials.

  “Brendan.” She paused to steady her voice. “You can’t do this. Leonard says that the wrong dose will kill you.”

  That at least caught his attention. He frowned at her and then came over to the door. He punched something on the wall next to it, and his voice came through the intercom.

  “Can you get Dr. Embray for me?”

  “He’s on his way.” At least she thought he was. Some of her panic eased. He’d stopped what he’d been doing. Maybe Leonard could change his mind.

  “Move back. Move back. I have the keys,” someone among the pack of people yelled.

  Amy’s finger was still pressing the intercom when the shout came. Brendan must have heard it because he turned and rushed back to the stainless-steel counter.

  “Brendan, wait. Wait!”

  Ignoring her, he scrabbled through a drawer below the tabletop fridge and pulled out a hypodermic needle and syringe. As Sally pushed her way to the door, he fitted the needle to the syringe, inserted it into the vial through the lid, and turned both upside down.

  “No. You can’t do this. You can’t.” Amy’s voice rose to a scream as Sally inserted her key in the door and Brendan pulled the syringe from the vial and poised the needle near his arm.

  “Back off,” Brendan said as the door opened. “I can inject this before you can reach me.”

  With the door still open, Sally hesitated.

  Amy turned to her, the nausea churning hot and furious in her belly. “Leonard says the wrong dose will kill him.”

  Conflict swam across the woman’s face, but she eased back slightly. Amy stepped through the open door, partly to talk to her son and partly to block anyone else from making any disastrous moves.

  “Look, Brendan. I know you think you’re doing the right thing. But you’re not thinking this through clearly.” Echoes of Mac’s voice rang in her mind. “This isn’t the answer.”

  He gave her a get-real look. “Yeah? And what is? You doing something stupid and convincing Dr. Embray to give you the compound so you can test the antidote?”

  Either her son knew her better than she’d realized, or he’d eavesdropped on her conversation with Mac. Either way, she wasn’t going to convince him not to inject himself. Her safest bet was to get him to delay.

  “At least wait until Leonard gets here. He’ll tell you the right dose and give you instructions on how to inject it.”

  “Okay.” But he didn’t lower the syringe or take his eyes off the door.

  By the time Leonard Embray wheeled up to the lab door, Amy’s nerves were stretched to the breaking point. She stepped up and to the side and he joined her in the enclosed space.

  “The syringe is full,” she told him without taking her eyes off her son.

  “Damn.” The word was muttered under his breath. “Son, it’s very, very important—essential, really—that the dosage is correct. How much do you weigh?”

  “One hundred and five pounds,” Amy and Brendan said in unison. “At least that’s what he weighed at his last checkup,” Amy added.

  “We need an exact current weight.” Leonard’s tone was absent, like he was doing mathematics in his mind.

  Amy relaxed. If they could convince Brendan to come out to be weighed, maybe they could grab him before he had a chance to inject himself.

  “There’s a steel platform to your right about six feet. Do you see it?” Embray asked, craning his neck to the left like he was looking at something.

  Amy shot Embray a confused look. What was the man doing?

  Brendan glanced to his right and then back to the door. “I see it.”

  “That’s a scale. Step on it. Tell me what the display on the counter says.”

  “What are you doing?” Amy hissed, nailing him with a glare. “We don’t want him injecting himself.”

  “Relax,” he soothed. “He’s not going to give that syringe over easily, so we need to at least make sure the dosage is correct. That way, if things go bad and he injects himself, it’s not with the full syringe.” He gave her a reassuring glance. “I’m still going to try to talk him into giving it up. But after the dosage is correct.”

  She nodded, swallowed hard. That made sense. But, damn . . . once he had the correct dosage, what was to stop him from just injecting it?

  Silence reigned as Brendan shuffled to the platform, his gaze constantly on the door. “It says one hundred and two pounds.”

  “One-oh-two,” Leonard repeated slowly. He went silent and still for a moment, his gaze narrow and sightless. “Okay. You need three CCs. Bring the syringe to me, and I’ll make sure it has the correct dosage.”

  Amy held her breath.

  Her son was too smart to fall for Leonard’s ploy. He shot the man a disgusted look. “I don’t think so. Do you think I’m stupid? Tell me how to do it.”

  Leonard gave her a shrug and an I-tried look and then turned back to her son. “On the syringe is a series of lines. Each line has a corresponding number. Do you see them?”

  Brendan moved the syringe closer to his eyes. “Yeah. I see them.”

  “Find the line that says three.”

  Amy measured the distance between her son and the entry. He was distracted but even farther from the door. He’d still have plenty of time to inject himself before she could reach him and grab the syringe.

  “Okay. Turn the syringe so the needle is facing up, and press the stopper until the liquid level inside the syringe is even with the line that says three.”

  Brendan’s eyes flitted from the side of the syringe to the door and back again. “Okay. They’re even now.”

  “That’s great, Brendan.” Leonard slumped down in the wheelchair-as though, now that his adrenaline rush had subsided, his weakness was catching up with him. “Let’s talk about how to inject yourself now.”

  “You said it needs to be injected just like the first one was.”

  “Well, certainly. But in that first shot, the N2FP isotope was injected into the flu vaccine and—”

  “Because they were trying to hide what they were giving us,” Brendan interrupted. He was far too intelligent for Amy’s comfort. “You said the antidote was ready to go, so if it needed to be in the flu shot, you’d already have put it in there, right?”

  “Well, that’s rather simplistic,” Embray mumbled, clearly stalling.

  “That’s what I thought.” In a move that caught everyone by surprise, Brendan lifted the needle and plunged it into his bicep.

  “No!” Amy screamed as he thumbed in the stopper.

  Only it was too late.

  Just like that, her eleven-year-old son took the decision away from her.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  WOLF ADDED ANOTHER bundle of chokecherry branches to the fire and sat back on his blanket, listening to Neniiseti’s prayers. The old man’s voice was weak and tattered, ravaged by the hours of chanting. Breathing deeply and rhythmically, Wolf tried not to think. When attending a vision quest, one sought to quiet one’s thoughts, lest they draw the attention of the spirits that are being sought.

  There was too much at stake to chance wicking the spirits away from Neniiseti’. They needed the information the old man sought. They needed a location for this upcoming meeting.

  Suddenly Neniiseti’ stopped rocking. The elder’s muffled, frayed voice stopped midchant, and he collapsed onto the dirt. The spirits had released him.

  Wolf climbed to his feet. His aching muscles punishing him with each step, he hauled the elder up a
nd helped him out of the chamber. He didn’t ask what the spirits had revealed. Such questions could wait until the beesnenitee had replenished his body and rested his mind.

  Upon driving Neniiseti’ to his quarters and half carrying him to the narrow cot he called a bed, Wolf made himself at home on the floor. Vision quests took monitoring—both before and after the spirits released the seeker.

  By the time Wolf awoke, hunger coiled in his belly, vibrating like a rattlesnake. He called the cafeteria and ordered two breakfast specials. Neniiseti’ stumbled into the bathroom as the food arrived. Upon his return, the spirit walker’s eyes were red-rimmed and vague, filled with dreams and visions.

  “Were the spirits forthcoming, Grandfather?” Wolf finally asked, rising from the table to retrieve the coffeepot. He filled both their cups.

  “As much as spirits are wont to be,” Neniiseti’ murmured, staring into the cup Wolf had just poured.

  Wolf simply nodded. The beesnenitee was still processing the visions. He would share only when what the spirits had revealed was understood.

  As it turned out, the spirit walker’s sharing came early. “The spirits showed me a white mansion floating on a sea of blue, the word Princess on her creamy flesh.”

  Judging by Link’s list of earlier meeting locations, the NRO utilized boats quite often.

  But Princess?

  Wolf cleansed any indication of frustration from his face and eyes. A yacht called Princess? Yeah, that wouldn’t be hard to locate at all. The spirits could have been a little more forthcoming. Like giving an identification number.

  As he rose to his feet to begin the impossible task of locating this yacht on a sea of blue, Neniiseti’s scratchy voice stopped him.

  “Hooxei, send the healers to Black Cloud. He must be ready.”

  Ready?

  A terrible premonition struck. He turned stiffly to face the elder. “For what, Grandfather?”

  “Black Cloud and his beniiinenno will fight beside you.” The beesnenitee must have seen the resistance on Wolf’s face, because his red-rimmed eyes narrowed and finality rang in his voice. “The spirits have spoken. It will be so.”

  Without a word Wolf stalked from the room to arrange the healing as he’d been directed. But the thought of working with Mackenzie on another mission had turned the promise of the new day sour.

  During the last quarter mile of his workout with Rawls, Mac kicked his legs into high gear. He still didn’t overtake his lieutenant. But, hell—he’d managed to keep up with the bastard without hacking up a lung, which was good enough for Mac considering the circumstances.

  Rawls jogged back to him. “Not bad, Commander. Not bad at all.”

  Mac slowed to a jog and then a walk. “Beats the hell out of a hospital bed.”

  It was almost impossible to believe that he’d been camped out in said hospital bed less than twenty-four hours earlier. There was sure as hell some nuclear power in Kait Winchester’s hands.

  “How’s Brendan doing?” Rawls fell into step beside him.

  “So far, so good.” Mac frowned uneasily. Christ, the kid had about given Amy a heart attack. Hell, his own heart might have stuttered there for a moment or two as well. “He hasn’t gotten sick, anyway. Embray says it will take a few days before we’ll know if the reversal drug is working.”

  “Sweet Jesus.” Rawls shook his head. “That kid’s got some balls on him. Glad to hear that little stunt didn’t do him any extra harm.” He shot Mac a sideways glance. “Cos talking to you yet?”

  Mac’s jaw clenched. “Not yet.”

  Frowning, Rawls rubbed a palm down his face. “Give him time. He’ll come around.”

  Yeah. Mac swallowed a curse. He probably shouldn’t have gone off on the poor bastard like that. “Got plenty of that.”

  Silence fell between them for a moment, and then Rawls gave Mac a light shoulder shove.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask.” Rawls paused. The faux innocence glittering in his baby-blue eyes held no innocence whatsoever. “Any particular reason you’re suddenly so determined to turn that flabby desk-jockey body of yours into six-pack abs and steel thighs?”

  Flabby?

  Mac instinctively looked down. Fuck . . . he’d never gotten that bad. He gave his corpsman the middle finger. Rawls laughed and laid into his shoulder with a couple of quick jabs. Mac fought back a wince. No way was he giving the asshole another opening to denigrate his desk-jockey body.

  After a few minutes of cooling down and getting their breathing under control, Rawls turned the conversation to Kait’s unexpected healing.

  “Did the big bad Wolf ever get around to telling you why he sent Kait to heal you?”

  “Hell, no.” Mac suspected Wolf had done it for the sheer joy of fucking with Mac’s mind.

  Wolf must have known that Mac would refuse the healing. Why else send Kait to heal him while he was out like a light thanks to too many pain pills and too much exertion? The struggle to the lab when Brendan held the whole clinic hostage had been bad enough. But that solo return trip had damn near killed him. By the time the heat from Kait’s hands had penetrated enough to wake him from his stupor, she was done, and he’d been miraculously healed.

  A fact he should have shown some gratitude for, according to Cosky and Zane and . . . hell, pretty much fucking everybody. Okay, maybe he’d bellowed like an enraged buffalo, as Amy put it. But he hadn’t needed the healing. He’d been healing just fine on his own. True, he’d been in pain and slow to get around—but he had been healing. They would have been better served to conserve Kait’s strength in case Benji took a turn for the worse or Brendan crashed.

  Something he’d almost pointed out to Amy when she’d lit into him for his volcanic reaction. But Amy had looked so exhausted and drained he hadn’t wanted to remind her of the danger her boys were in.

  She needed some sleep and a real meal, and now was the time for both. Benji’s condition hadn’t changed. Neither had Brendan’s, for that matter—although adverse effects wouldn’t show up for another day or so. Which meant this might be the only time Amy had available to catch up on her sleep.

  Kidnapping the woman and forcing her to bed—only to sleep—was the top ticket on his mind when he walked into the clinic an hour later.

  Embray pounced on him before he made it to Benji’s cubicle. “The script’s finished. We have a list of possible locations.”

  The news stopped Mac cold. He hadn’t expected the computer program to produce results so quickly, but the accelerated timetable was a godsend. The quarterly meeting Link had mentioned was only three days away.

  “How many locations did it give us?”

  “Too many.” Embray’s voice was grim. “We need to narrow it down.”

  Mac took the printout Embray handed him, scanned it, and scowled. Too many didn’t come close to describing the sheer volume of properties listed. The computer had split the list into planes, yachts, and estates, but there were dozens listed in each category.

  “Can you program the computer to narrow this down any further?” Mac asked, although with only three days to work with, they didn’t have much time for another script run.

  “Not without stronger data.”

  Which they didn’t have. Link had given them all the information he’d been aware of. Maybe seeing the list would remind Link of something he’d forgotten.

  “I’ll get hold of Wolf and ask to see Link, see if he can identify a best option from the list,” Mac said.

  Shadow Command had Link under twenty-four-hour security and locked away somewhere in the bowels of the mountain. So far they’d been good about letting Mac and his team have access to him whenever they needed.

  Since Mac didn’t have Wolf’s phone or pager number—or whatever the fuck people used around here—he borrowed the clinic’s phone to contact base headquarters.

  The plebe who answered the phone promised to relay the request to Wolf. Mac hung up. He’d give the guy thirty minutes to make good on his promise, a
nd then he’d head over to headquarters in person. Sometimes in-your-face cage rattling produced quicker results. Not in this case, however. With fifteen minutes to spare on Mac’s self-imposed timetable, Wolf walked into the clinic.

  “Where’s the printout?” Wolf asked, stopping in front of Mac.

  Mac passed the sheets over. “Where’s Link?”

  “I’ll take it to him,” Wolf said, bending his head and scanning the sheet. Suddenly he froze. With a slow shake of his head, he tapped one of the line items with his finger. “This one. Princess.”

  Mac leaned closer, peering at the listing Wolf indicated. It was a yacht owned by Coulson’s wife’s family. “What makes you think it’s gonna be held there?”

  “We received intel recently from . . . a trusted source. They said the meeting would be held on a boat called Princess,” Wolf said in a flat, don’t-ask-me-too-many-questions tone of voice.

  “You don’t say.” Mac eyed the big bastard suspiciously. “I don’t suppose you’re gonna share this source with us?”

  His question was ignored. No surprise there.

  “So why the hell didn’t you tell me this earlier, like when I gave you the damn list?”

  Wolf shrugged. “All we were given was a boat named Princess. No identification numbers. No owner. I asked Link. He wasn’t aware of any council member with a boat by that name. Your computer list provided the rest of the identification.”

  Wasn’t that just handy as fucking hell?

  “Assuming this is the same damn boat and not a fucking coincidence,” Mac said.

  “There is only one Princess on your list,” Wolf reminded him.

  True enough.

  Hell, Mac wasn’t even sure he wanted to know who Wolf’s source was. Last time it had been a fucking ghost. Besides, they didn’t have all that many options anyway. And so far Shadow Mountain’s intel had been right on target.

  He’d just pretend that Wolf’s current sources were human rather than wisps of ether.

  “We still need to find this boat,” Mac mused, but that was a minor detail and easily accomplished. With the resources Wolf and his buddies had, they should be able to acquire that information in no time.