Forged in Fire

by Trish McCallan

  Mackenzie had always been a lethal son of a bitch, but lately his aggression had been building, seething just below the surface, a volcano ready to blow. If it blew in that house, it would take them all with it.

  The car slowed, then stopped. Zane heard the garage door rolling up. The sedan inched forward again. The garage door rumbled back down. He tensed, his weapon aimed at the trunk hatch. With a metallic click, the latch popped. He erupted up and out, but by the time his boots hit the pavement, Rawls already had their driver on the cement. Mac had a second guy shoved up against the passenger door.

  Zane grabbed the duct tape. It took seconds to bind ankles, wrists, and mouths. After collecting a 9mm off their second captive, they dragged the pair behind an upright freezer.

  Three down, five to go.

  After a few moments of whispered strategy, they were ready to rock and roll. As they passed the sedan, they each grabbed a bottle rocket, stuck it beneath their armpit and positioned themselves on either side of the entrance leading into the house.

  Mac, his shoulders flush with the wall, turned the knob. A sliver of space opened between door and frame. Mac stretched forward, took a look, then pulled back and swung the door toward Rawls, who caught it and eased it back against the sheetrock paneling.

  The next time Mac leaned forward, he kept going. Hunched over, his weapon extended, he disappeared into the laundry room. Zane swung in behind him. The space was narrow; a washer and dryer to the left, a wall to the right. Floor to ceiling cupboards sandwiching the machines. No door ahead. Just an open, airy archway.

  No cover anywhere.

  They glided up the hall, feet silent on yellowing linoleum. Directly across from them sat a horseshoe-shaped kitchen. A sink, stove and refrigerator were positioned against the back, with counters curving to the right and left.

  “Start dinner,” a harsh male voice said from somewhere to the right. “You’ve been screwing around long enough.”

  Mac and Zane froze.

  “What would you like?” a voice asked. Female. Calm. Controlled.

  “Something high in energy. You girls are going to be busy tonight, wouldn’t want you to fall asleep on us.” His tone shifted from taunting, to loud and irritated. “Hey, Joey. What the fuck’s keeping you?”

  “You want I should go for look?” a gravelly voice, thick with a German accent asked from the left of the door.

  “You bet, Colonel Klink. Why don’t you go for look? And while you’re back there, have Joey teach you some English.”

  Shit.

  Spinning around, Mac hard on his heels, Zane warped back down the hall. Cosky and Rawls had already disappeared into the garage. Zane and Mac followed suit, taking position to the left of the door.

  Heavy footsteps drew closer. Cosky passed his Molotov cocktail to Rawls, who knelt and set it against the wall. As Cosky tensed, Mac shifted into position opposite him.

  “Joey?” A bulky shadow filled the doorframe. Light spilled down from a bare bulb, flickering off wheat-blond hair.

  Suddenly, the guy’s head swung in Mac’s direction. Cosky sprang. Before the target had a chance to shout a warning, an arm coiled around his bullish neck, crushing the carotid artery. Cosky clamped his left hand over the bastard’s mouth and dragged the struggling German into the garage.

  Muffled shouts were crushed beneath Simcosky’s punishing grip. The tango twisted, his boots scraping concrete. Mac slid over to the open door and took a quick look only to freeze for a split second, before jerking out of sight.

  Son of a bitch.Someone must be in the laundry room.

  Zane waited for the alarm to sound. Instead, there was a metallic pop and light footsteps padded away. A flapping sound echoed down the hall.

  What the hell?

  Colonel Klink’s struggles weakened.

  Zane caught Mac’s gaze, jerked his chin toward the open door and arched his eyebrows. Mac signed the letters for FBI and wife. Amy Chastain then. So she knew they were in the house. As ex-FBI, she’d be invaluable on the inside.

  The German slumped, his body limp. Cosky continued the compression hold until the barrel chest stuttered and stilled, then dragged him behind the freezer, dumping him against the wall. They didn’t bother binding or gagging this one, he wouldn’t be getting back up.

  Zane rubbed his tight chest and forced himself to take a couple of deep breaths. Tension flickered through his bloodstream, lit a bonfire in his gut.

  They’d neutralized four. The odds had shifted in their favor, but the memory of Cosky’s dead face kept flashing through his mind.

  * * *

  Russ settled into the plastic chair and studied the drawn face opposite.

  John Chastain.

  His ace in the hole. Even if the bastard hadn’t returned one of Russ’s phone calls in the last hour.

  He looked like hell. Deep grooves sectioned his face, his auburn hair hung limp, and thick wrist bones punched up against his sallow skin. He looked like a skeleton in an expensive suit.

  No doubt the video had etched some of those furrows in the man’s face. Had he figured out yet he wouldn’t be getting his family back? At least not alive? Had that knowledge carved the rest of those deep, raw trenches?

  It was too bad about the boys. He hated killing kids, but they could identify his men. He couldn’t afford to lose his crew this early in the game, which meant none of the hostages could survive. Including the kids.

  He’d do them quick, though. Take care of it personally. Make sure they didn’t feel a thing. Hell, he’d even take them someplace special beforehand— maybe to Chuck E. Cheese. Jilly’s kids loved that damn place.

  “Did Ms. Brown’s attacker say anything before you hit him?” Chastain glanced up from the file folder and studied Russ’s face. “Give any indication why he attacked her?”

  Russ shook his head. Since the situation called for concern, he allowed a frown to form. “He was going to break her neck. Hey, I’m not in any trouble, am I? Do I need a lawyer or something?”

  Chastain cocked his head and stared back. “Why would you need a lawyer?”

  “Well, I did kill someone. I didn’t mean to, but I did.”

  “We’re still assessing the situation. However, eyewitness accounts support your statement. It’s doubtful charges will be filed.”

  “Good. That’s good.” Russ gusted out a relieved breath, even though the response was nothing less than he’d expected. “Hey, when do I get my laptop back?”

  “We’ll need to hold onto it. As evidence. I’m sure you understand.”

  Russ didn’t give a shit what happened to the laptop. He’d wiped the hard drive. He’d be long gone before they managed to salvage anything.

  However, an insurance adjustor whose entire professional life was in that hard drive would have a different reaction. “I don’t think you understand!” Russ raised his voice. “I need that laptop. It has all my client files. All of my pending cases. My schedule for the conference.”

  A frown pulled at Chastain’s eyebrows. “You don’t have your files backed up?”

  Russ threw up his hands. “Well, sure, but not on me!”

  “You need these files for your conference?” After a quick glance at his wristwatch, Chastain ran a tense hand over his limp hair.

  “Not the files, but the conference schedule.”

  “You can pick up another schedule on-site.” Chastain dropped his head to scan the neatly printed notes. “You’re headed to Minneapolis, is that correct?”

  “Yes. To the National Insurance Adjustors convention.”

  “What hotel are you booked at?”

  Russ thought the question was filler until Chastain looked up. Beneath bloodshot lids, his brown eyes were sharp and searching.

  “At the Marriott. It’s the host hotel.” He held that demanding gaze, surprised to find his agent in charge hadn’t checked out of the game after all. “I’m reserved through Sunday.”

  If Chastain bothered to look, he’d find a Russ Bran
son registered at the conference and reserved at the Marriott. If he opted to dig deeper, he’d find a handful of credit cards, a valid Social Security card and a driver’s license that expired on his next birthday—which was coming up fast.

  Or at least the real Russ Branson was about to hit the big four-zero. Not that he’d be doing much celebrating, being dead and all.

  “You met Beth Brown earlier this morning, is that correct?” Chastain suddenly asked.

  Russ eyed him curiously. Where was he going with this line of questioning? No sense in lying about it. The lady herself would have told them he’d approached her earlier. “Yes, this morning. At the gate area.”

  “What brought her to your attention?”

  With a shrug, Russ stroked his chin. “I felt sorry for her, I suppose. She looked scared. Shaken. She’s an attractive woman.” He offered an embarrassed, can’t-really-blame-me-for-trying grin.

  His gaze sharpened as Chastain’s attention drifted back to his wrist. This made the second time he’d checked his watch since he’d sat down at the table. “How is she?”

  The real question was where the hell was she? Beth Brown, along with her SEAL contingent, had inconveniently vanished.

  “She’s fine.” Chastain straightened his sheaf of papers and closed the folder.

  “Do you know where she is? I’d like to see how she’s doing.”

  Which was a bucket of bullshit, but Chastain didn’t know that. And he did need to find the damn woman. Lure her out of the fucking airport and find out how she’d found out about his crew.

  Sure as hell the bosses were going to want to know.

  Maybe Todd Clancy had told her about the guns. According to Chastain’s underling, not only were the two coworkers, but good friends. So Clancy could have told her about the MP5s he’d smuggled on board. However, the engineer hadn’t known what his D-Day crew looked like.

  Chastain picked the folder up, tapped the corner against the surface of the desk and pushed back his chair. “I believe her fiancé took her to the hospital,” he said once he gained his feet.

  “She must have been hurt worse than I realized.” Frustration tightened his throat.

  “He was worried about her breathing. No doubt he overreacted.”

  Russ forced a tight smile. “No doubt.”

  The lying sack of excrement.

  Beth Brown had not been taken to the emergency room. He’d already checked with the local hospitals. She hadn’t been admitted to any of them. Nor did his contacts amid the various departments know what had happened to the woman. Or to the SEALs accompanying her.

  He took a hard look at Chastain. As the Special Agent in Charge, he wasn’t the slightest bit concerned that four individuals intrinsically linked to his investigation had vanished? Not fucking likely. He wouldn’t be so lackadaisical about their whereabouts … unless he knew where to find them.

  “If you think of anything else, please give me a call.” Chastain reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a business card and dropped it on the table.

  “Sure. Anything to help.”

  Chastain offered another of those bland, annoying smiles. “We appreciate your cooperation, but you’re free to leave. PacAtlantic will arrange a seat for you on the next flight to the Twin Cities. If further questions arise, we’ll contact you.”

  And just like that the bastard ripped away Russ’s excuse for sticking around.

  A different FBI team escorted him to a PacAtlantic’s ticket counter. After politely thanking him, they turned away. Russ’s cell phone started vibrating as the team faded into the distance. Unknown caller flashed across the screen. One of his crew. He summoned a casual expression, stepped out of the ticket line and flipped the phone open. “Hey. What’s up?”

  Tyler Carey, one of the men assigned to guard duty, cut loose with an urgent stream of updates. Russ’s hand tightened so violently around the phone, his fingers cramped. Goddamn it. He knew where those fucking SEALs were now. They were trying to free his hostages. But how the fuck—how the goddamn fuck—had they found them? He flashed back to Chastain. To those quick glances at his watch.

  The fucking asshole. He was behind this. He must have provided the location.

  But how—

  Russ froze. The video. There must have been something on the video, something Chino had missed. A clue. One leading to the location of the safe house.

  Tyler’s voice rose as he described finding Chino bound, gagged and covered in blood. Russ allowed himself one moment of vicious satisfaction. If Chino had been standing in front of him, he’d have castrated the fuckup himself.

  With a tight breath, he shoved the rage back. Forced himself to think. To do what he did best. Evaluate. React. Strategize. He couldn’t afford to lose Chastain’s family. If he lost the hostages, he lost his leverage over the FBI. If he lost control of the FBI, he lost access to those first class passengers. If he lost those passengers, he lost his life. Jilly and the kids could very well lose theirs too.

  As Tyler stuttered out urgent questions about doctors and hospitals and Chino—Russ ran prognosis simulations. One thing became urgently clear.

  He could not lose those hostages.

  The men funding this operation did not accept excuses… or failure.

  “No.” He forced calm into his voice. “Head over to the house and help with the remodeling. It’s essential that we retain as much of the furnishings as possible. Remind our work crew of that.”

  Russ ended the call on another round of questions concerning Chino. The fuckup’s dick could rot for all he cared. It served the bastard right.

  He dialed Jilly’s home number as he headed for the escalator to the parking garage. There was a stash of cash in the safe at his apartment. His sister knew the combination. It would give her and the kids the means to vanish. At least until this damn thing was over and they weren’t caught in the crosshairs of this fucking disaster.

  Her voicemail picked up.

  Swearing, he punched in a second number and started talking the moment the call was picked up. “Are you in position? Good. Move on the house. Meet me at M67 when you’re done.”

  He hung up without waiting for a response. If those bastards defeated his crew and released his hostages, he had one last shot of getting them back before he lost control of the FBI.

  If Marcus Simcosky wanted to see his dear old mom again, he’d betray his teammates and turn over Chastain’s family. By the time the bastard realized his mother had already paid the price for SEAL interference, it would be too late. The hostages would be back under his thumb. And Marion Simcosky would be dead.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The snap of wet fabric echoed down the laundry room.

  Mac peered around the edge of the doorjamb. Amy Chastain had planted herself just past the open archway, in the middle of the hallway between the laundry room and the kitchen. She shook the child-sized t-shirt she held and another damp snap sounded.

  The living room with its guards would be down the hall to her left. The dining room, with its guard, to her right.

  There were no cupboards above the east kitchen counter, which allowed whoever was cooking to interact with guests in the dining room. An open floor plan, which meant the kitchen would be visible from the dining room.

  Mac swore beneath his breath. The laundry room walls would provide some cover, but that open archway limited their options. Only one man could take position at a time. The entry way was too narrow and visible to support a second man.

  A second female joined Chastain’s wife in the hall. Both were redheads, but the shade and cut varied. Amy Chastain was shorter in height, with hair more strawberry than auburn and cut no-nonsense short. Ginny Clancy—who towered above her siege-mate—was willow-thin, with long auburn hair.

  Fucking beautiful. As of now, the success of this operation revolved around two traumatized women keeping their mouths shut.

  “Joey? What the hell you doing back there, boy?” a voice said from somewhere
to the right.

  “He can’t hear you.” Amy glanced in the direction of the voice. “Neither of them can. They’re in the garage with your buddy. It looks like they could use your help.”

  Surprised, Mac scrubbed a hand down his face. Her response had been damn close to clever. If the asshole took her advice and headed back, it would give them a chance to grab him. If he remained at his post, he’d likely relax. She had, after all, just encouraged him to check out the garage. Nor was she attempting to escape.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” the guard asked, and sure enough the tension had drained from his voice. “Bet you’re hoping you can get this door open and escape the party we have planned for you tonight.” His voice hardened, sharpened to a jeer. “Start dinner. We want your brats in bed early.”

  Mac stiffened, waiting for the feminine meltdown. The tall, willowy female flinched, which sparked an ugly laugh from the guard. Mac’s fingers tightened around his weapon. Christ, he’d love to plug that bastard’s mouth.

  To his surprise, other than the flinch, the women ignored the taunt. Which would have been admirable—if they’d fucking move. They stood directly in the line of fire.

  “If you want to start dinner, I’ll finish the laundry,” Amy told Ginny.

  Unfuckingbelievable. They were turning all domestic.

  “What should I make?” Ginny asked, a distinct tremor in her voice.

  “Something with lots of protein,” the target in the dining room drawled. “For stamina.”

  Amy Chastain turned to her taller siege-mate and reached out to squeeze her arm, then stretched up on her toes to whisper in her ear. Ginny’s eyes widened. She turned her head, glancing toward the laundry room, eyes widening even further as she caught sight of Mac. When Amy’s hand clamped down hard on her arm, the woman wrenched her gaze away.

  “What the fuck are you two whispering about?” the guard snapped.

  Amy lowered her heels to the ground and glanced toward the dining room. “Just girl talk.”