Forged in Fire Read online

  “They’re junipers, dear.” But Marion abruptly changed direction, and led Beth down a hall opposite the garage.

  Marion slowed as they neared the end of the hallway, and ducked into the last room on the left. Beth closed the door behind them. While her hostess ran to the huge window next to the bed and dragged the drapes out of the way, Beth glanced around for a phone. She could dial 911 and leave the receiver off the hook. It would bring the cops.

  Except there was no phone.

  Footsteps started down the corridor.

  They were slower, cautious. A door opened, a long pause. The door closed again.

  She looked for something to brace against the entrance, but the only thing heavy enough to act as a barricade was a thick dresser next to the door and by the time she shoved it into place, their attackers would be inside the room.

  Best to just get out of the house.

  She turned toward the window, which Marion was struggling to open. Beth leapt forward, adding her strength. It gave with a loud groan and squealed as they wrenched it up.

  The footsteps in the hall paused and then pounded closer.

  Beth bent, grabbed Marion’s ankles and boosted her up, throwing her out the window. As the door creaked behind her, she braced her hands on the window ledge, jumped up, and shimmied through the open square. The bedroom door slammed open, banging against the wall.

  She tucked her shoulders and rolled, the yard spinning wildly around her, and then bounced up. She stopped long enough to yank Marion to her feet. Together they dived into the juniper hedge. From behind came the unmistakable rat-tat-tat of her nightmare, and the vegetation surrounding them exploded into bright green confetti.

  * * *

  As Zane twisted, trying to line up a bead on the shooter behind him, a torrent of gunfire erupted from the hallway leading into the kitchen. The wet thwack, thwack, thwack of multiple strikes sounded. A grunt followed and a heavy thud hit the carpet behind him.

  Zane spun on his knees, but their shooter was already down. From the blood and brains decorating the wall, the bastard wouldn’t be getting up again. He spun back toward Cosky. Blood stained Cosky’s blue t-shirt. Tie-dyed it a strangely harmonic pattern of blue on crimson. He rolled the limp, heavy weight over. Worked the soaked cloth over the still head.

  Jesus. Ah, Jesus. There was blood everywhere.

  He pressed shaky fingers against Cosky’s neck. Found a thready pulse.

  “Rawls!” He bellowed, as he stripped off his shirt, wadded it up and pressed it against the worst of the wounds—a gaping hole to the left of the sternum, bubbling froth and blood. He leaned down hard in an effort to slow the bleeding. “Man down.”

  Rawls dropped to his knees, brushed Zane’s hands aside and lifted the edge of the make-shift pad. Instantly, he slapped it down again. Zane went back to leaning. Without saying a word, Rawls stripped his shirt over his head and unbuckled his belt, ripping it loose from the loops.

  “How bad?” Mac asked, looming overhead.

  “Bad,” Zane managed around the concrete block in his throat. Christ, he’d known this was coming. He should have stopped it.

  “We’ll have to risk moving him. This place is about to go up.” Grimness shadowed Mac’s face. He turned toward the cluster of women and children hovering a few feet away. “Everyone clear out.”

  Zane rose to a crouch, wrapped Cosky’s limp arm around his shoulder and lifted him into a fireman’s hold.

  “What about the guard on the kids?” Rawls kept pace with Zane as they headed for the front door.

  “Chastain’s son took him out.” Disbelief echoed in Mac’s voice.

  The sunshine burned so bright it watered Zane’s eyes. He carried Cosky’s limp body fifty feet from the house and eased it down on the lush grass. Squatting, he held his breath as he checked for a pulse.

  “He still with us?” Rawls pressed Zane’s bloody shirt back over the chest wound, adding his own to the compression pad.

  Zane found a pulse. Weak… so fucking weak. “Yeah.”

  For the moment.

  He pushed Rawls’ hands aside. “He took a couple of rounds to the leg.”

  Rawls grunted. As Zane went back to leaning on the chest pads, he moved down to Cosky’s blood-soaked thigh.

  Mac stuck his weapon into his waistband, fished his cell out of his jean pocket and hit 911.

  Zane watched as Rawls slipped the belt beneath Cosky’s thigh and cinched it tight.

  A red-headed child crept closer, stared at the blood welling between Zane’s fingers. “Is he going to die?”

  Yeah, he almost certainly would. Zane swallowed and forced the knowledge aside. He recognized the kid from the pictures—Kyle Clancy. At least Beth wouldn’t be losing any more people she loved.

  “Of course not, sweetheart, he’s going to be just fine.” But the gravity in Amy’s eyes undermined the reassurance.

  His throat so tight he couldn’t swallow, Zane leaned down harder, his fingers squishing into the blood-soaked shirts and reached out with his mind, trying to re-establish that fleeting connection with Beth.

  Nothing but emptiness greeted him. Her warm, bright presence was gone.

  But he’d know if she was hurt, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t he?

  With a snarl, Mac snapped his phone shut. “The birds are all taken. They’re sending an ambulance.”

  Zane shook his head, numbness creeping over him, watching his best friend’s life ooze out between his fingers. Cosky would bleed out before the ambulance arrived.

  His fault. He’d known, damn it. He should have stopped it.

  Mac spun, sprinting for the garage. He was going for the sedan, Zane realized. The Chrysler was their only shot at getting Cosky to the ambulance in time. Marion’s SUV and Chastain’s company car were a good five minutes out. Cos didn’t have five minutes.

  “Ginny and I can apply pressure,” Amy Chastain dropped to her knees beside him. “Your buddy’s going to need help in the garage.”

  As her hands replaced his, Zane pushed up and raced after Mac. Although no flames flickered in the interior of the garage, the space undulated like hot pavement on a scorching day.

  He shoved Mac away from the sedan’s open door and dove inside. The Chrysler roared to life with the first twist of the key. Thank Christ. Slamming the gear into reverse, he punched the accelerator and backed onto the lawn.

  As he parked the Chrysler next to Cosky’s limp body, Zane knew he’d have to drive. Mac couldn’t take the wheel, not with that fucking spike sticking out of his hand. They needed Rawls in back, keeping Cos alive.

  He cursed beneath his breath. His heart a cold weight in his chest. Beth was out there somewhere. In trouble. And he was as useless to her as he was Cos, who lay dying at his feet.

  * * *

  Mac watched the sedan fly down the driveway.

  The tourniquet had slowed the bleeding from Cosky’s leg, but the double tap to the chest… Christ, so much blood. Too bad they hadn’t been able to tourniquet that son of a bitch.

  He rubbed his abdomen, trying to ignore the raw burn, but his gut knotted with the knowledge he was about to lose a good friend.

  “I’m sorry about your teammate.” Amy Chastain’s tone was grave, thick with sympathy, as though Cos was already gone and they were just waiting on a casket draped in Uncle Sam to make it official.

  Which wasn’t far from the truth, considering the amount of blood he’d lost… was still losing. Ah, Christ. Not Cosky.

  With a shake of his head, Mac turned away, concentrating on the two bound and gagged kidnappers they’d dragged from the garage. What the hell was he supposed to do with those motherfuckers? He needed to get to the hospital, not play babysitter to the FBI’s fuckup.

  After a moment’s consideration, he headed for the woods and the two cars they’d stashed off the main drag. Their hostages weren’t going anywhere. Let Chastain deal with them.

  Amy fell into step beside him. “Maybe we should have waited for the amb
ulance.”Mac shot her an irritated glance. Weren’t women supposed to be the intuitive sex? Why the fuck couldn’t she intuit that he didn’t want to talk?

  “He’d be dead before they arrived.” He locked an upsurge of grief behind a kick of temper. Pointedly, he turned his back on her and picked up his pace.

  In all likelihood, Cosky would bleed out before they got him to the ambulance, but at least he had a chance. Zane would drive like a maniac. Rawls would work every trick in his not inconsiderable medical arsenal—hell, even Ginny would be contributing with her hands on those compression pads. He, on the other hand, was of absolutely no use to them. Not with this fucking spike sticking out of his hand.

  He concentrated on the screaming burn radiating from his palm down into his fingers. At least the physical pain pushed aside the numbing sense of loss, and that familiar storm of frustration. Once again, he was stuck on the outside: watching, arranging, ordering. Sending good men off to die, while he watched from afar.

  “You think that sliver’s going to jump out of your hand if you glare hard enough?”

  Mac turned his scowl on her. “Maybe you should call your husband. I don’t know—tell him you and your boys are alive.”

  Her eyes flew wide. Her mouth fell open. She brought her palms to her cheeks in an expression of exaggerated shock. “Why didn’t I think of that? Now if only….” She turned in a slow circle staring at the trees and shrubs surrounding them. “There was a phone….”

  With an audible snarl, Mac dug into the pocket of his jeans. He clamped onto his cell phone, yanked it out, and tossed it to her. “You couldn’t just fucking ask?”

  She snatched the phone mid-air and just stared at him. “You scared me, with all that scowling.”

  Smart-ass. He suspected nothing scared the damn woman. Mac tried to ignore the easy way she fell into step beside him as they started walking again. Her tight, compact body moved smoothly, not with grace, but with power. With fluid control. With supreme confidence.

  Would she move like that in bed? With power? Confidence? Supreme—Jesus. He picked up his pace, hoping she wouldn’t notice the sudden bulge pressing against his zipper. What the fuck was the matter with him? She was married, for Christ’s sake. About to be reunited with her husband.

  A blast of acid spiraled through him. He almost froze in shock. That acidic rush could not possibly be what he suspected. No way in hell. He didn’t even know the woman. Had no relationship with her what-so-ever. There was no fucking way he was jealous.

  As soon as they reached the hospital they’d go their separate ways. It couldn’t happen soon enough for his peace of mind.

  He deliberately eavesdropped when Chastain picked up the call.

  “We’re out,” she said, her voice brisk—all business. “I’m fine. The boys are fine.” Her voice suddenly softened, quavered. “We’re all going to be fine.”

  Something in his chest clenched, throbbed in time to his heart.

  She tipped her head away from him. Beneath a bright swath of red hair, slender fingers trembled.

  “I know. I know you did, but we’ll get through this.” Her voice thickened.

  Suddenly, that ugly video flashed through his mind. Those hazel eyes locked straight ahead. The corded muscles of her neck. Bright hair flaming against a white pillow. This time the red-hot acid that washed through him had nothing to do with jealousy.

  “The boys are on their way to the hospital with Ginny and Kyle. No. They’re not hurt. We wanted to get them somewhere safe, away from the house. There wasn’t enough room in the car for all of us.” She caught up with Mac and shot him a sympathetic glance. “One of the men you sent took several direct hits. They’re meeting the ambulance.”

  Mac’s jaw tightened. He increased his stride.

  She matched it easily.

  “I’m with Commander Mackenzie. We’re on our way to the car.” She stopped to listen. “I know. I know, John. Shsshhhhhhh. I know.”

  There was such gentleness in her voice. Such love.

  Mac’s fingers twitched. So did his heart. Because of his wound, he assured himself. His hand throbbed like a motherfucker.

  “We’re headed to Sacred Hearts in Enumclaw. I’ll see you there?” She released a long, slow breath. “I love you, too. Oh, and John?” Her tone turned professional. “We left two of those bastards bound and gagged outside on the ground.” She gave him the address. “And the house is on fire.” With a last goodbye, she snapped the phone closed.

  As Mac reached out to take it, a gunshot cracked. Something plowed into his left shoulder, spinning him around, sending him crashing—shoulder first—to the forest floor. His shoulder popped and searing agony engulfed him.

  He spit out a mouth full of grit, and forced his body to move. His left shoulder screamed in protest. Pine needles crunched beneath him as he flopped onto his back. Jesus, his entire left side was on fire.

  “Step away from him, you fucking cunt,” a raw, breathless voice said from above Mac’s prone form.

  His eyes wouldn’t focus. Mac blinked and tried to move his arm. Pain exploded, sucking him into a vortex of blackness and screeching agony.

  “You move one fucking inch and I won’t bother going for your crotch. I’ll go for your head.”

  Ah, hell. Mac blinked again and an image took shape.

  A wavering figure towered over him. Mac’s gaze skimmed up black combat boots, knees caked with mud, blood-soaked thighs—and an even more blood-soaked crotch.

  “Hey, Tattoo.” He tried for a snarky smile. “You find your dick anywhere in that mess?”

  With a hidden grimace, he ran a quick assessment. The Glock was still beneath his belt, to the left of his zipper. He tried to reach for it and agony engulfed him. Christ, his left arm wouldn’t budge. And the icepick through his palm made it impossible to grasp anything with his right hand.

  This time, when the pain receded and his vision cleared, Mac raised his gaze to Tattoo’s eyes. They were wide and bright, insane with rage and pain.

  Tattoo wavered, but the compact weapon he’d aimed at Mac’s chest remained steady. As the bastard’s hand tightened around the grip of the gun, Mac knew he’d run out of time, but damned if he was meeting his maker without at least trying to save his ass.

  Sliver be damned.

  The first shot rang out before his right hand cleared the forest floor.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “This way,” Marion hissed.

  Her pulse thundering in her ears, Beth tunneled through the thick vegetation toward her hostess’s voice.

  The whine of the bullets as they peppered the hedge, shredding the juniper branches, sent her adrenaline skyrocketing. For the love of God, they were shooting the hell out of the shrubs, in broad daylight, in the middle of a residential neighborhood. What were they thinking?

  Cold terror coalesced in her belly. If any of Marion’s neighbors came to investigate, they’d end up dead. Heading toward the nearest house for help was out.

  Marion apparently realized this as well. Instead of running for the house next door, she darted across the yard. Beth followed and they plunged into another thicket of shrubs, adding another layer of bloody scratches to their arms.

  Behind them, something heavy crashed through the junipers. They flew across the next yard at a dead run.

  This new property was ringed by lilac bushes. Marion took the yard at an angle, racing toward the back of the property. Beth realized why when a break in the vegetation showed a brief glimpse of wood. The property was fenced on the west side.

  They pushed through the bushes at the very back of the property, darted across a narrow alley and plunged into another yard. Somewhere to the left, a dog started barking. A deep, full-throated baying. Another dog took up the alarm. Then a third. They crossed several more yards and darted across a narrow residential street before they slowed down.

  “I think we’ve lost them,” Beth whispered as they stopped within the concealing branches of a weeping cherry t
o catch their breath.

  “The Bradleys live two doors down. They’re in Australia visiting their daughter. We can hide there.” Marion bent at the waist, braced her palms against her knees and puffed the words toward the ground.

  They reached the Bradley’s house with no sign of their pursuers.

  Marion led Beth through the overgrown backyard to a door behind the concrete patio. A key beneath a clay flowerpot provided access, and they let themselves inside.

  Beth found herself in a black-and-white checkered kitchen. The Bradley home shared a similar floor plan with Marion’s. The dining room and kitchen looked out over the backyard. Her gaze flew from window to window. Thank God all the drapes were drawn.

  She breathed a sigh of relief at the cordless phone mounted to the kitchen wall. Her cell was still in her purse, which was sitting on Marion’s kitchen counter. Crossing to the phone, she lifted the receiver, relaxing as the dial tone hummed in her ear.

  “We should call the police.” Marion said.

  Zane’s warning echoed in Beth’s mind. If he was right, if the hijackers had compromised someone in the local police department, calling 911 would give their pursuers a location.

  “We’re safe here. Zane suspected someone in the police department could be on the take. If we call in, they’ll have this address.”

  Marion digested the news and her gaze slowly swung toward a trio of white hooks next to the phone. One held a cluster of keys. “Leslie’s car’s in the garage.”

  The implication just hung there in the air between them.

  They had the means to get out of the house, out of the neighborhood, to find someplace safe. But what if the hijackers were patrolling the streets looking for them? Bullets would puncture tires, effectively stranding them. On the other hand, how safe was this house? What if they’d been followed? What if the bad guys were closing in?

  Should they stay, or should they go? Beth’s fingers tightened around the receiver.