Forged in Fire Page 18

  As everyone piled out of the sedan, the entry door swung open. The woman who stepped onto the raised landing sported a cloud of silver hair and a sweat suit of peach.

  Beth liked her on sight, which was somewhat of a surprise considering she was Mr. Chilly’s mother, but Mrs. Simcosky radiated warmth. Even from a distance, her face glowed in welcome. Cosky, Beth discovered as she climbed the steps, had inherited his gray eyes from the woman above.

  “Mom.” Cosky bent to kiss her cheek. His accompanying hug lifted her off the porch.

  The move was so natural, Beth didn’t doubt it was habit, which forced a reassessment of Zane’s buddy. Any man who loved his mother enough to show his affection with a kiss and hug couldn’t be as unemotional as he wanted the world to believe.

  Straightening, Cosky set his mother back on her feet and nodded toward the men who’d followed him onto the landing. “You remember Zane? Rawls?”

  “Of course, dear.” She swatted his arm. “I haven’t gone senile yet.” And with that, she headed for Rawls.

  Beth choked back a giggle as Rawls shot a panicked glance in Cosky’s direction and froze, submitting to the hug with a deer-in-the-headlights glaze to his blue eyes.

  “I just pulled some brownies out of the oven,” Mrs. Simcosky said as she released him. “You go right in and help yourself.” She moved on to Zane.

  Her curiosity rising, Beth watched the woman approach. How would Zane handle the display of warmth? But he not only accepted the affection, he returned it with another hug that cleared Mrs. Simcosky’s feet from the porch. Zane, apparently, was a man well used to female attention. The realization gave her pause, reminding her how little she knew about him. He’d said his mother was still alive, and he didn’t have any sisters, so was his ease with women due to motherly affection or a girlfriend in every port?

  SEALs, she suspected, visited a lot of ports.

  A sharp spurt of irritation pierced her, followed by an equally sharp spurt of dismay. Good Lord, she was jealous. She was actually jealous over a man she hadn’t even known a full day.

  “This is Mac, Mom. Commander Jace Mackenzie.” Cosky watched with a gleam in his eyes as his mother headed across the porch.

  Mac’s eyebrows slashed into a scowl and a furious glare lit his dark eyes. As she drew closer, his shoulders pulled back—his posture and expression clearly warning her against trying any of those nefarious hugs on him.

  The threatening stance had the same effect on Cosky’s mom as Rawls’ panicked one had had—which was to say, none at all. With determined cheerfulness she reached up and grabbed hold of his shoulders, tugging him down. After one long moment of pulling back, Mac finally conceded—grudgingly. With his arms stiff at his sides, he bent at the waist and submitted to her hug.

  From the contorted expression on his face, you’d think the effort was killing him.

  Cosky’s hard lips quirked.

  “This is Beth Brown, Zane’s fiancée,” Cosky introduced smoothly as his mother turned in Beth’s direction.

  “You’re engaged? Congratulations. You couldn’t ask for a better man.” She wrapped Beth in a surprisingly hard hug. “Except for my Marcus, of course.”

  They followed Mrs. Simcosky into the house. Their hostess led them down a bright hall lined with family photos—where Cosky aged from infant to adult—and into a travertine-tiled kitchen. An oak table was positioned in an alcove beneath a huge window dripping with sunlight. Directly in the middle of the table was a platter stacked high with brownies.

  “We need to borrow Dad’s guns,” Cosky told his mother as he crossed to the table and snatched up a brownie. “Zane, you know where the garage is, how ‘bout you start on the bottles. There’s some paint thinner on the counter from when we painted the house last fall. The rest of us will sort through the weapons.”

  “It’s your collection now, dear.” A shadow slipped through his mother’s eyes. “Why do you need guns?”

  Cosky made a beeline toward a narrow door at the back of the kitchen, Rawls and Mac hard on his heels. “We have a situation,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll explain later. There isn’t time now.”

  Putting together the Molotov cocktails sounded fairly easy from Zane’s description, something she could handle, while the men concentrated on the weapons.

  “If you’ll show me how to do the first bottle, I’ll do the rest,” she told Zane, who’d grabbed a brownie and was headed directly toward her, no doubt in search of the tampons. “It would give your friends another pair of hands sorting through the guns.”

  Zane eyes softened. “Good plan.”

  He led her out of the kitchen, and into an attached two-car garage. A Chrysler SUV sat squarely in the middle of the space. The interior of the garage was spotless. Tools neatly fixed to white pegboard, garden and yard tools hanging from the walls. A waist-high counter ran the length of the back and left walls.

  “You’ll need wire and wire clippers,” Zane said, as he headed toward a recycle bin. “There’s a coffee can and paint thinner on the counter. Dump the paint thinner into the coffee can. Drop the tampons inside. I’ll find four beer bottles.”

  Beth found both the can and paint thinner. The turpentine filled the coffee tin a third of the way up. She quickly rummaged through her purse, removed the tampons and dropped them inside the can.

  “You painted this house?” She spotted the wire and wire clippers hanging from the pegboard and reached up to release them.

  “Rawls and I gave Cosky a hand.”

  Painting a house was tremendous work. He must have given up an entire leave to help Cosky out. The realization warmed her. He was a good friend. A good man.

  A red plastic gas can sat in the far corner. She lugged it over to the counter, arriving as Zane lined up the beer bottles in a neat row on the cement.

  “Fill them with gasoline. I’ll start sealing them with duct tape.”

  While Beth filled the bottles with fuel, Zane rummaged through the drawers running the length of the counter. He hit paydirt on his second try and returned with a roll of duct tape. Ripping a chunk off, he slapped it over the mouth of the bottle and pressed it tight, smoothing the edges down the neck. Once the liquid was sealed inside, he set the bottle on the counter and went to work on the second cocktail.

  “I thought the tampons were taking the place of rags,” Beth said as she filled the last bottle. Setting the gas can down, she confiscated the tape from him and went to work sealing the last two.

  “The paint thinner and cotton will act as a wick. The minute the glass breaks, the burning tampon will detonate the gasoline. The tape prevents fumes, spillage and premature detonation.”

  He picked up the wire cutters, clipped off six inches of wire, plucked a drenched tampon out of the coffee can and attached it to the neck of the bottle by winding the wire repeatedly around the two. When he was done, the wire strapped the tampon to the neck of the bottle.

  Simple enough.

  When Zane stepped away from the counter, Beth slid over to take his place. But instead of heading back to the kitchen, he moved in behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist and nuzzled the hollow between her neck and collarbone.

  “How are you holding up?” He dropped a whisper-soft kiss on the side of her neck.

  A shiver skated through her as his cheek rasped against her neck, his day-old bristles scratchy, yet strangely erotic.

  “I’m okay.” The shiver turned to a quiver as he pressed another light kiss to the sensitive skin.

  “We’ll find your friends.” His arms tightened around her waist, his breath a sensual tickle against her heating skin. “We’ll bring them back to you.”

  He wasn’t promising they’d be alive, but then how could he promise something like that? Something he had no control over?

  He must have sensed the tension that suddenly gripped her, because his arms tightened even more. “Beth—”

  “I can finish the rest of the bottles. You should go help your friends.
” She broke in.

  With a sighed, his arms loosened and he stepped back. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  She listened to his footsteps cross the garage, the opening and closing of the door, and found herself surrounded by silence. She was used to being alone, but somehow the emptiness surrounding her felt more intense without Zane’s larger-than-life presence beside her. Warning bells rang. If her life already felt emptier without him beside her, and she’d only known him a handful of hours, how much worse would the loneliness be after days, weeks, even months?

  It didn’t take long to finish the last Molotov cocktail. She hunted down a plastic bucket, and packed the bottles in tight, using wadded-up newspaper to brace the glass.

  She reentered the kitchen to the rise and fall of calm voices discussing insertion points, fallback positions, and other tactical strategies she didn’t understand. An arsenal lay strewn across the table. Rifles and shotguns to the right and left, and an assortment of handguns in the middle. All four men were sprawled out in oak chairs, dismantling or assembling the weapons.

  The brownie platter had been pushed to the back, where it sat empty and forgotten.

  Zane shifted in his chair and scanned her face as she crossed the kitchen toward their hostess, and she gave him a quick smile.

  “I saved you a brownie, dear.” Mrs. Simcosky gestured toward the counter, where a huge brownie swallowed a saucer.

  The rich, fudgy scent drew Beth like a hummingbird to nectar. It wasn’t until Cosky’s mother picked up a saucer and moved toward the sink that Beth noticed the book lying open—face down—on the tile counter. She recognized the green and gold cover immediately. Patti O’Shea’s In The Darkest Night. Both author and title were among her favorites.

  “Do you read?” Mrs. Simcosky asked, catching Beth’s glance toward the novel.

  “My favorite pastime.” Beth nodded toward the book. “It’s one of her best.”

  “I’m rather partial to her first.” She sent Beth a wicked smile. “That Alex, he curled my toes. Such a shame he didn’t get his own book.”

  “Have you read Simona Taylor or Roslyn Carrington?” Beth asked, marveling at how easy it was to fall into book discussions with complete strangers when both parties shared a love of romances. “They’re wonderful—”

  She broke off as Rawls approached, and set the empty platter on the counter beside the book.

  “Could you hand that over, sweetie? I’ll put it in the sink.”

  As Rawls picked the platter up again, the edge caught the corner of the book and flipped it off the counter.

  With a murmured apology, Rawls handed the platter off and bent, picking the book up. As he straightened, he absently scanned the text. His movements slowed. His head bent. Slowly, his ears turned pink. A hint of red frosted his cheekbones.

  Beth glanced toward Cosky’s mother, who winked.

  “Love scene,” she mouthed.

  Oh. Ohhhhhhhhh. Beth grinned. If memory served, that particular book had been smoking hot.

  “Rawls,” Cosky’s dry voice broke over the silent corner. “If you’re done checking out my mom’s porn, maybe you’d like to join us in discussing strategy?”

  Rawls dropped the book like he’d been caught digging through a bag of crack.

  “You can take it with you,” Mrs. Simcosky offered.

  “That’s okay.” Rawls sidled toward the table, his ears getting pinker by the moment.

  “Are you certain? Because—”

  “He’s sure.” Cosky nailed his buddy with a derisive look that clearly warned if he responded with anything but no, he’d never hear the end of it.

  The wicked smile on Mrs. Simcosky’s face collapsed into a frown. With a disgusted huff, she crossed her arms and glared at her unrepentant son.

  “Believe me, the four of you would benefit from reading some of my romance novels. They’d give you a better idea of what women are looking for in a relationship.”

  Cosky snorted, reassembling a shotgun with quick, sure movements. “We’re doing just fine on our own.”

  “Then why don’t I have grandchildren?”

  Ignoring the question, Cosky concentrated on wiping down the shotgun he’d reassembled.

  Before long, they were loading the guns with various rounds of ammunition, and distributing the weapons among themselves; all four men took a shotgun or rifle, as well as a pair of handguns.

  The sheer volume of weapons they were stuffing beneath waistbands or belts sent ice coursing through Beth. They were preparing for war.

  “We need two cars,” Mac said as Cosky spread a map across the table. “There isn’t enough room in Chastain’s for the four of us, two women and three kids—assuming they’re there.”

  “Mom—”

  “Of course, dear. You know where the keys are.”

  “I can drive one of the cars,” Beth said, taking a step toward the table.

  “Cosky can drive one. I’ll drive the other.” Zane didn’t look up.

  Beth took another step forward. “They’re my friends. They might need me. Besides, if the women have been… abused… they’ll need another woman on scene. Not a bunch of strange men.”

  Zane straightened from the table, regarding her with an implacable expression. “We’re trained for this. You’re not. You’d be a liability.”

  “I’m not stupid,” Beth snapped. “I’m not saying I want to go in with you. I’ll wait in the car, a couple of blocks away. You can call me once it’s safe.”

  Zane shook his head, his implacable expression unbudging. “At best, you’d be a distraction. At worst, someone could grab you and use you against us. You don’t know who might see you.”

  “Then I’ll wait in a place full of people. A store or something.”

  “We’d have to wait for your arrival before we could leave. Your friends might not have those minutes to spare. We might not have those minutes.”

  “We’re wasting time.” Mac shot Beth a glance full of disgust. “Lock her in the fucking closet if you have to. Let’s move.”

  He was right. She was being selfish and foolish and risking everyone’s lives, and for what? Because she wanted to do something?

  Sometimes the best way to help was by doing nothing at all.

  “Beth.” Zane headed toward her, his face tight. “You can’t—”

  “I know.” She released a long sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m being foolish. Where will you take them?”

  “To the closest E.R. They’ll need to be checked out.” His gaze dark, he searched her face.

  With a wobbly smile, she reached up to stroke his cheek. It was warm and bristly beneath her fingertips.

  “You don’t need to lock me in the closet. I promise I’m not going to turn stupid. I won’t go anywhere.” She ignored Mac’s disbelieving snort. “Just promise you’ll call as soon as you have them. I’ll catch a cab and meet you at the hospital.”

  He gave a slow nod and reached up to take her hand, holding it against his face in an iron grip.

  After a moment, he glanced over at Mrs. Simcosky. “You don’t mind if Beth hangs out here?”

  Cosky’s mom patted his arm and smiled at Beth. “Of course not. She’ll be good company while you boys are working.”

  Working. Quite the euphemism.

  Zane snatched a pen off the counter, tore off the bottom of a grocery list and jotted something down. He handed the slip of paper to her.

  “My cell.”

  After Beth stuffed the scrap of paper into the pocket of her slacks, he took her hand again.

  She followed Zane toward the front door. By the time they reached the porch, Cosky had the garage door open and was backing out his mom’s SUV. He tooted the horn impatiently.

  “Don’t forget the bottles. I put them next to the garage door.”

  Beth watched as Mac and Rawls loped down the path, rifles in hand, splitting at the driveway with Rawls headed toward Cosky and Mac toward Chastain’s sedan.

  “You’ll be saf
e here. I need to know you’re safe.” Zane stopped, turned toward her and hauled her into his arms, his shotgun hard against her back. With a soft sound, he took her lips in an urgent kiss.

  A kiss full of promise.

  The promise that he’d be back. That there would be more kisses. More time.

  And then he was gone.

  With her fingers pressed against her lips, Beth watched him climb into the driver’s seat, back down the driveway and out into the street. Watched as his taillights bled into a single crimson eye.

  Her lips still throbbed. Ached for his touch.

  Her mind flashed to the dream—to his body crumpling beneath a hammering spray of bullets. To the thick, red spread of blood and the milky sheen of death filming those gleaming emerald eyes. In the nightmare, he’d died in the air.

  In reality, it could take place in some crappy little house across town.

  Panic rose, clogging her chest and paralyzing her. She couldn’t breathe.

  Mrs. Simcosky, her eyes a rich turbulent gray, reached out to grab Beth’s hand. She gave it a hard squeeze. “Try not to worry, dear.” She cast one last look down the empty street, and then led the way back to the kitchen. “Now, why don’t we make another batch of brownies? The boys will be hungry when they return.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Son of a bitch,” Zane said beneath his breath as he lowered the binoculars they’d liberated from the gun safe.

  Taking care not to disturb the drooping boughs, he sank to his knees. The cushion of pine needles matting the ground gave beneath his weight, releasing an alpine-scented perfume of such strength it smelled like someone had spritzed the place with air freshener. He aimed the binoculars through a break in the dense foliage and studied the football-field expanse of lawn stretching from the edge of the forest to the concrete path leading up to the front of the house.

  The situation didn’t look any better on the second scan.

  With a frustrated grunt, he passed the binoculars to Cosky, who crouched beside him.

  “We’re good and fucked.” Zane kept his voice low, barely above a whisper. Sound traveled, even within the confines of heavy vegetation.