Forged in Ash (A Red-Hot SEALs Novel) Page 9

  Just what the hell did the woman have planned for Simcosky?

  Cosky watched the sexy sway of Kait’s ass as she stalked across the living room.

  Long after she disappeared down the hallway, he continued standing there, his dick at full mast, the smell of sex, sweat, and roses heavy in the air. His heart raced as though he were caught in an Op gone south, sprinting five klicks to the evac chopper while live rounds and mortar shells lit the hills around him.

  He felt off balance. Changed. Different in a way that couldn’t be seen, only sensed. Because of her. Because of what they’d shared on that damn couch.

  Because he wanted her again. Already. Only worse, much worse than he had before.

  This raw urgency wasn’t like any kind of need he’d experienced before. He was thirty-five years old for Christ’s sake. He’d wanted women before. But not like this. Not with such primal craving. This urgency pushed past lust into obsession.

  “Fuck.” He breathed the word more than spoke it and scrubbed his palms down his face.

  He was almost afraid to take a step, afraid his legs would just keep walking and follow her into the shower, where his hands would take over, exploring that wet, lush body with soapy fervor. Afraid his brain would give leave to his body’s insistence and he’d pin her to the shower wall, hammering into her until they were both spent and sated. Until the need was assuaged.

  If it could be assuaged.

  And that question—whether this obsession could even be satisfied—was what kept his feet planted. What kept his dick in the living room when every muscle in his body ached to follow her into that shower.

  His first taste of her hadn’t eased the need. It had only made the craving worse. Showed him what he was missing. How much worse would that craving be after a second taste? A third? If he followed her into that shower, would he ever make it out again, at least without her by his side?

  The last thing he could afford was a second obsession. The teams were enough.

  Besides, there were other considerations.

  She was Aiden’s sister, Commander Winchester’s daughter. She was one of their own, which made her off limits to drive-bys.

  And he wasn’t willing to offer anything more.

  Sure as hell not now, while his life was in the shitter and he had a big red DOJ bull’s-eye taped to his back.

  She’d grown up in the shadow of team life. His mind flashed back to the drawn mask of her face at Winchester’s funeral, to the worry and exhaustion in her eyes when she’d visited Aiden in the hospital. She’d lost her father to a mission gone wrong. Almost lost her brother. Could still lose her brother. He wasn’t going to give her another person to spend her life worrying over.

  Memory after memory flashed through his mind. Of his mother. Of her tight, tense silences every time Dad was on duty. Of the fear in her eyes the two times somber-eyed police officials had rung their doorbell. He’d spent his childhood watching constant worry drain the exuberance from someone he loved. No way in hell was he spending his adulthood knowing he was doing the same to some other unlucky woman.

  The teams had been his choice. His alone. He’d known the sacrifices they’d require. It was bad enough knowing his mother feared every deployment. He wasn’t going to commit to a woman, knowing she’d spend more of her life with him in fear than in ecstasy.

  Kait already had Aiden to fret over. One was enough.

  Of course from the way she’d stomped out of the room, she sure as hell wouldn’t be worrying over him anytime soon. Cosky grimaced as he headed for his clothes. She hadn’t deserved that nasty crack. He needed to apologize. But he’d do so at a distance, through a text message, where he couldn’t see her or smell her or touch her…

  It didn’t occur to him until he was tying his shoelaces that his knee wasn’t aching. He rose slowly to his feet, surprised to find it stable beneath him. None of that chronic stabbing pain, or frustrating wobble. After a few tentative steps, he stared down at it in disbelief.

  Hell, it felt downright normal.

  Preapocalypse.

  He turned slowly, staring at the hall that led to the bathroom.

  Was it possible…no, she’d barely massaged it. Hell, she’d spent ten times as much time on his back. It was after he’d turned over and she’d started working on his knee that things had gone south. She’d spent maybe two or three minutes tops massaging the joint before they’d completely lost track of why he was stretched across her couch.

  Another step and still no pain.

  Maybe the massage had simply loosened the muscles, so the joint wasn’t as tight and thus less achy. After all, Aiden claimed it had taken weeks of massages for his back to heal. Weeks.

  Except, it was more than the absence of that constant throbbing ache. It was the absence of that piercing, molten agony and the leg’s sudden stability. Neither of which could be explained by loosened muscles since they’d had nothing to do with musculature.

  Jesus Christ.

  Was it possible?

  He turned to stare across the room. He could hardly ask her if this was normal. At least not now. Not with the way things stood between them. Wouldn’t that be just his luck, to drive away the only person who might be able to set his life back on course?

  Fate definitely wasn’t done fucking with him.

  The smartest course of action would be to vacate her apartment and let things settle down. He’d call her in a couple days, apologize, and feel her out about getting another massage. Maybe he wouldn’t even need another. Maybe this first one had fixed him up just fine.

  It sure felt great at the moment. He’d forgotten what it felt like to take a step without that debilitating pain, to put his foot down and trust it was going to stay there and prop him up.

  He was almost to her apartment door when it occurred to him that he had no idea if she expected payment. And if so, how much. He froze with his hand on the apartment’s doorknob. After that crack of his, leaving her cash was likely to be misconstrued. He made a mental note to broach this subject too—later, from a safe distance. Or better yet, he would ask Aiden when he got home. Assuming his new roommate wasn’t already wheels up.

  It seemed to take forever for the elevator to reach the lobby. By the time it arrived the interior smelled like roses. The damn smell was so strong his eyes watered, not that the two young women who smiled at him and giggled as he walked through the door seemed to mind.

  One sniffed the air and smiled to her friend. “Don’t you love the new air freshener they’re using?”

  The honeymoon stage with his knee lasted all the way through the lobby. There was no doubt Kait had helped his leg, it hadn’t felt this good since before he’d awoken in Sacred Heart’s intensive care unit.

  If it felt this much better after one massage, how would it feel after two? Three? Half a dozen?

  Assuming—after what had happened between them, which was followed by his asinine comment—she’d be willing to give him another massage. He sure as hell wouldn’t blame her if she slapped him silly and told him to stay the hell away. And if, by some chance, she was more forgiving than most women would be under the circumstances; what were the odds they could keep their clothes on once those hot, sexy hands of hers touched down? Judging by what had happened today, not very good. There was a damn good chance he’d end up on top and inside her again.

  Which would pretty much negate any chance of avoiding this growing obsession.

  Bloody hell.

  Talk about damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

  The heat hit him like a hook to the jaw the moment he stepped through the lobby doors. Either he was getting soft, or the temperature had skyrocketed since he’d parked his truck.

  He grunted in response to the coffee girl’s breathy good-bye and strode—strode, by God, instead of limped, or hobbled—down the hot pavement while the sun baked the top of his head. The first twinge struck as he stepped off the curb into the parking lot. But even then, as twinges went it was l
ight. Okay, so her massage hadn’t had a lasting effect. It was already regressing. But from Aiden’s account, this was normal. It took multiple massages to heal the injury completely.

  He’d almost reached his truck and was craving air-conditioning and a cold beer, when quick, soft footsteps sounded behind him. A woman. Closing fast. Probably Kait determined to give him some well-deserved hell. But when he turned, he found the strange, unkempt woman from the Coronado Ferry Landing’s mall.

  What the hell?

  How had she even found him?

  She was headed directly for him; there was no question of that. He dug in his pocket for his keys, and backed slowly toward his truck.

  On his second step, his foot landed on a rock and his knee buckled. That familiar stabbing agony pierced the joint, and his knee wobbled beneath him. Apparently the honeymoon was over and at the worst possible time.

  He glanced at her hands, or at least where her hands should have been, as he worked his keys loose and hobbled back another couple steps. They were stuffed inside that oddball cloak she wore, which set his instincts humming.

  It was pure insanity to wear a wool garment in the middle of a heat wave. But her face wasn’t red or sweating. It was white, drawn, and resolute.

  Unlike his face, which was sweating like hell. He ignored the urge to swipe at his stinging eyes and glanced at her hands again, his danger sense screaming as the wool garment tented slightly above her waist, as though she’d raised the hand in her pocket.

  She had something in that pocket.

  And it was pointed at him.

  Without taking his eyes off her, he slid the key into the driver’s door of his truck by touch and eased the door open. He’d locked his Glock in the glove box before heading up to Kait’s, so the gun was out of play—unless he wanted to turn his back on this strange woman and lean across the seat.

  She stepped closer as he opened the door farther.

  “Lieutenant Simcosky?” There was a dark, ugly rasp to her voice.

  He stepped behind the open door. Every nerve on alert, he watched her. “You are?”

  The tented portion of her cape rose again.

  In the old days he would have rushed her, taken her to the ground, and pinned her there while he searched those woolen pockets. Frustration surged, throbbing in his head. He would have chanced such an offense earlier, too, before he stepped on that rock. But damn it, his knee was too unstable at the moment. It could collapse on him any moment, leaving him vulnerable to attack. Focusing on the woman, he shoved the frustration of what he couldn’t do aside and concentrated on what he could do.

  A gust of wind brought the stench of unwashed clothes and flesh.

  Her brown eyes were fixed on his face—livid with something close to rage, or maybe hatred. Or maybe both.

  This was personal. But why?

  “I don’t know you,” he said slowly, afraid the slightest thing could set her off. The door was little protection against a bullet and he’d bet his trident she had a gun in that pocket.

  “I know you. I know what you are. A lying, murdering bastard.” Her voice thickened, deepening with rage as she took a giant step toward him. “This is for my babies.”

  That last step had brought her within range of the truck’s door. The thick metal would act as both shield and weapon. He shifted his weight over to his good leg, and dropped as low as he could, watching the tension grip her shoulders. As the hem of her poncho lifted, he slammed the car door into her.

  “And for Russ,” she added just before the door rammed into her, eliciting a breathless oomph.

  A shot rang out along with the simultaneous plunk of a round striking the car door. Cosky drew the door back and drove it into her again, as hard as he could. If he could break an arm or shoulder she wouldn’t be able to lift that gun.

  Another muffled gunshot. The metallic plunk as the bullet hit the door. Burning cloth scorched the air.

  From the report, and the lack of penetrating power, the weapon sounded like a .22. But Christ only knew how many rounds she had left. If she went for a head shot, or stepped around the door he was fucked.

  She must have read his mind. With another ragged scream, she took a couple of steps back and sidled toward the front of the door.

  Son of a bitch. Cosky shifted to meet her. No choice now, he’d have to take a leap of faith and hope he took her down before he took a round. He gathered himself and lunged as she cleared the door.

  His knee chose that moment to buckle, throwing him off balance.

  Goddamn it!

  As he went down, he made a mad grab for the door handle. The gun coughed. Glass exploded above and behind him.

  Across the parking lot, toward the tennis courts, someone shouted. The woman started violently and turned. Cosky got his good leg under him, shoved himself up, and gathered himself to take her down.

  Suddenly she backed up fast, hustling out of his range. Still staring across the parking lot, she shrieked. It was a scream unlike anything he’d heard before. A wild, raw cry of primal agony and sheer, vicious rage. She raised the gun, pointing it toward the tennis courts. Shot after shot rang out.

  The scream died. In its wake came the hollow clicks of an empty barrel, as she continued pulling the trigger.

  Bracing himself against the door, Cosky hobbled forward, swearing when he stepped on another pebble and his leg twisted beneath him. The woman started and spun to face him.

  Her face was twisted, lips slightly apart. Huge, wild eyes locked on him. Her mouth opened wide, but nothing emerged but a hoarse, ragged puff of breath. The gun rose, centered on his chest.

  Click.

  Click.

  Click.

  Cosky let go of the door and lurched forward. She jumped back. Click. Click. He chanced another wobbling step. With another of those soundless, breathless screams, she threw the gun at his head. He ducked, and it whistled harmlessly overhead.

  By the time he straightened, she’d taken flight. Horns blared, tires squealing as she dodged traffic and sprinted across the boulevard in front of the apartment complex. She entered the park across the street at a dead run, her woolen cape, or cloak, or whatever it was, flapping behind her like a muddy flag.

  Bending over, he kneaded his screaming knee. That freakishly strange episode had just unraveled every damn bit of good Kait’s healing had done. He was back to stage one again: throbbing, stabbing, and unstable.

  As helpless as an infant.

  He watched her cut across the park and disappear down a side street. Frustration joined the furnace billowing away inside him, until he felt like he might explode from the pressure.

  “Hey, Mister,” a weedy voice yelled from his right. “Are you okay?”

  Cosky lifted his forearm to swipe the sweat from his forehead and eyes. A tall, gangly kid barely out of high school jogged up to him, and skidded to a stop in front of the pickup.

  “I’m fine.” Cosky scanned the side street the woman had disappeared down. She was probably long gone by now. This time he didn’t bother to shove the irritation aside. It solidified across his chest, in a seething quagmire that threatened to suffocate him.

  Damn it, he should have had her. She’d been an amateur. Bum knee or not, he should have been able to subdue her.

  Scowling, he flapped his shirt a couple of times to try to cool his overheated body. “Who was she?” Mr. Chatty bounced from foot to foot, excitement boiling off him. The heat didn’t seem to affect him in the slightest. “Why was she shooting at us?”

  Us? Cosky gave the kid a quick once-over. This was who his mystery attacker had turned her rage on? Why? The kid was as harmless.

  “You see her before?” Cosky asked.

  “No. You?”

  “No.” As he dug in the pocket of his sweats for his cell phone, he ran through the encounter in his head. She sure as hell seemed to know him, though. Or thought she had. She’d called him by name, accused him of being a lying, murdering bastard. She’d said the attac
k was for her babies.

  What the hell did he have to do with her babies?

  He frowned, absently rubbing his temple against his shoulder to wipe away an annoying trickle of sweat.

  She’d mentioned another name too. She’d said Russ.

  He froze as the name finally registered. Russ?

  Had she been talking about Branson? Russ Branson was the only person he knew who went by that first name. Could this strange woman be connected to Branson?

  “This is for my babies.”

  Her voice rang in his head. The livid rage. The echo of loss. Of grief. Had Branson been the father of her children?

  He mulled her words over as he dialed nine-one-one and reported the shooting. Another question occurred to him as he disconnected the call and settled against his truck, waiting for the cops to arrive.

  Why hadn’t she attacked in the mall’s parking lot? Maybe the delay had to do with her approach. At the mall they’d been face-to-face. Here, she’d been closing on his back. Maybe she’d wanted the advantage of his vulnerable position, so she’d eighty-sixed the first attack and redeployed when the circumstances were more advantageous for her.

  “I’ve never been shot at before,” the kid said, exhilaration lighting his face and shining in his eyes.

  He was so bouncy it made Cosky’s knee ache just watching him. Christ, he couldn’t remember ever feeling this euphoric because someone had painted a big red bull’s-eye on his back—not even in the old days when he’d been the greenest banana in the skiff.

  “No kidding,” Cosky said, giving his shirt a couple more cooling flaps.

  From the quick look the kid shot him and the sudden stillness to his feet, he must have picked up on the dryness in Cosky’s voice. Suddenly he felt about as jaded as a man could feel.

  “Hey,” the kid took a step and bent. “She dropped her gun.”

  “Leave it.” His voice must have emerged sharper than he’d realized, because the kid jumped back. He tempered his tone. “The cops will want to pull prints. We don’t want to smear them or add our own.”

  “Oh, okay. Why do you think she shot at us? Just crazy?”