Forged in Ash (A Red-Hot SEALs Novel)

by Trish McCallan

  “Hell, who knows?” Cosky said, although the question was plaguing him as well.

  The kid suddenly stopped moving long enough to sniff the air. “I wonder if she wore perfume. I keep getting this whiff of flowers.”

  Cosky eased a step away, heat touching his face. He needed a shower.

  In the distance the scream of a siren pierced the air.

  If she was connected to Branson, why go after him? He hadn’t been the one to kill Branson; Zane had. Maybe she’d gotten the two of them confused. They were the same size, the same build, the same dark hair. It would be easy to confuse them.

  Which would have made sense, except she’d called him by name. Obviously, she’d known who he was. The papers had identified Zane repeatedly as being the trigger man, so she must know Zane had taken the kill shot.

  Why hadn’t she gone after Zane?

  Probably because she’d known she had no chance of taking Zane down, so she’d gone after the easiest target, the gimp.

  He swore beneath his breath and glared down at his knee. If he’d grabbed her, he’d know the answers to all these damn questions.

  What a disaster.

  If she was connected to Branson, she was the first lead they’d had in months. Their one shot at tracking down Branson’s true identity. If they could identify the man, they could zero in on his movements, find his associates, and maybe even lock on the people who’d funded the Sea-Tac Airport operation.

  She just might be their only chance at clearing their names and exposing Chastain and McKay’s murderers.

  And he’d let her get away.

  * * *

  Chapter Six

  * * *

  THEY’D FOUND HER.

  Those bastards had found her again.

  A long face, with a gleaming dome of a head and muddy dead eyes swam across Jillian’s vision.

  He’d been one of them…one of the men who’d kicked in her door and kidnapped her family. One of the men who’d dragged them into the woods and turned the guns on them. One of the men who’d stolen her life from her, who’d left her empty and aching and zombified.

  Jillian darted across another street, ignoring the clash of horns and squeal of brakes, and fled down the adjacent alley. An army of green trash containers flew past her.

  She shied away from the images reeling through her mind.

  The cool dampness of the forest. The sharp scent of pine and decomposing vegetation. A huge, gold harvest moon gleaming overhead. The cough of guns. A child’s cutoff scream. Burning pain.

  She shook the memory aside and tucked her chin, coaxing another burst of speed from her exhausted legs.

  Was he behind her? Following? She strained to hear. Were those footsteps pounding behind her? Or her own heartbeat?

  But her own gasping breaths plugged her ears. The urge to glance over her shoulder was overwhelming. She ignored it, focused on her body, and forced more speed from her burning legs and laboring chest. Looking would slow her down. Slowing down would give him the opportunity to grab her; and if he caught her, she was dead.

  Which couldn’t happen.

  Not yet.

  Milking every ounce of strength she could muster, she raced across another street, flew down another alley. Another street. Another alley. Startled faces skidded past her peripheral view. She ran until her legs went numb and her heart threatened to explode. When she couldn’t run another step, she stumbled to a walk and glanced behind her.

  Nobody was behind her. The street was empty.

  To the west a siren started screaming.

  Jillian stopped and braced her palms on her knees, drawing great gusting breaths. It slowly occurred to her, as she fed her starving lungs, that the siren was getting louder. Closer. Straightening, she staggered toward the mouth of another alley. Halfway down the alley she spotted an industrial garbage bin bristling with broken-down cardboard boxes. She forced her numb legs toward it. The container was huge and positioned at a slight angle, which created a wedge of space between the back of the bin and the brick wall behind it. The space would provide plenty of cover, clean cover, since it was stuffed with cardboard rather than restaurant refuse.

  She took a second to shove broken boxes over the back of the container so they fell against the wall. Then she dropped to her knees and crawled into the space, pulling a couple of the loose boxes in behind her to close off the entrance. Once she was certain she couldn’t be seen from the alley or street, she rolled over onto her back, and dragged more cardboard over her prone body. Once she was settled, she fought to catch her breath.

  It wasn’t long before dampness chilled her back. She ignored the discomfort and worked on regulating her breathing. If someone had followed her, they could pinpoint her hiding place through her gasps. She needed to concentrate on calming herself and quieting down.

  A dozen deep steady breaths later, and the panic dissipated. She’d fled on instinct and taken streets and alleys without paying attention to where she was going, so she had no idea where she was. She hoped they wouldn’t know where she was either.

  She’d only seen the one killer, but the rest of them had to be near. They traveled in a pack, or at least they’d been together when they broke into her home, and…and…and…

  …crack after crack of gunfire. Her babies falling beside her. The smell of spent fireworks…

  No. No. No.

  She flinched, dragged her mind back from the abyss, focused on the here and now.

  The same five had staked out Russ’s condo, and swarmed the hospital looking for her. If the bald killer was in Coronado, the others must be too.

  She’d been lucky. Four times lucky. If she hadn’t given in to the nurses’ insistence and taken a lap around the ward, she would have been trapped in her room when those bastards showed up at the hospital. If she hadn’t knelt to tie her shoe next to the nurses’ station, they would have spotted her in the hall. If she hadn’t stopped to greet Russ’s elderly neighbor, she wouldn’t have known her brother’s condo was being watched, and she would have walked into their trap. If she hadn’t turned at that young boy’s shout, she wouldn’t have seen that bald monster skulking by her car.

  Yeah, she’d been lucky.

  If you could call living with this endless abyss swallowing her from the inside out, lucky.

  Wouldn’t lucky have been dying alongside her babies in that forest? Or drowning in the cold, murky depths of Lake Katcheca and sharing her children’s resting place?

  What was lucky about living, when all the people who made life worth living had been taken from her?

  If she were truly lucky, one of those bullets would have stopped Marcus Simcosky’s heart. And another would have killed that bastard next to her car. If she were truly lucky, they would both be dead now.

  She frowned at the icy bite sinking into her spine and rolled to face the brick wall. Once the gun ran out of bullets she should have looked for another weapon instead of running. There must have been something she could have used against those two bastards.

  The rumble of an engine entered the alley. She tensed and rolled to face it, peering beneath the bottom of the garbage bin. Had they found her?

  Tires stopped in the middle of the street, just down from her hiding place. But they looked too big to be a police car, maybe a van or some kind of truck. Simcosky had been driving a truck, but from what little she could see from beneath the garbage container, this vehicle was a rusting white; his had been black.

  Too bad she hadn’t had a bulky vehicle like this available to her in the parking lot. It would make a deadly weapon, and cause crushing, agonizing injury. They’d feel every second of the pain death dealt them. Like her babies had. Like Russ had.

  Like she was feeling now.

  Doors opened. She watched boots hit the pavement. But the engine continued purring.

  “After this haul, let’s hit Barney’s. This day deserves a beer,” a deep male voice said as he slammed the driver’s door and walked around the front
of the vehicle.

  She relaxed when she didn’t recognize it.

  “No shit,” another man responded. “What are we hauling, anyway?”

  “A freezer.”

  “You sure it’ll fit in the van?”

  “Piece of cake, we’ll just have to slide it in on its side.”

  The sound of a fist hammering against metal was followed by the creak of a door opening. Jillian stirred.

  “You’re late,” a woman snapped. “You were supposed to be here an hour ago.”

  Jillian cocked her head and smiled. So far there had only been the two voices, and both were going into the store. What were the chances the van was unattended? It was worth checking out; if someone else was in the van, she’d slink away. Pushing the cardboard aside, she backed out from behind the container.

  “We’re here now. You want it moved or not?”

  Keeping low to the ground, Jillian crept toward the running vehicle.

  “Just hurry it up.” The door creaked again. “I was supposed to be home thirty minutes ago.” The voices faded.

  Afraid to breathe, Jillian went up on her tiptoes and peered into the cab. Empty. Carefully she eased the driver’s door open, climbed inside, and gently closed it behind her. So far, so good. She stomped on the parking brake to release it and shoved the gear into drive. As she rolled down the alley, it occurred to her that she might not have lost her opportunity to take out Marcus Simcosky after all. From the volume of sirens, the police had been called. Which meant he could still be somewhere around that parking lot, answering their questions.

  As a bonus, he wouldn’t be expecting her to strike again, at least not so soon. Nor would he be on the lookout for a van. Maybe that bald bastard would still be there too.

  She hunched down in the seat to make herself less visible as she turned left at the end of the alley. The fact she’d found both Simcosky and her kidnapper in the same parking lot was proof the SEALs were involved in what had happened to her family. The men who’d killed her brother obviously knew the men who’d kidnapped and killed her babies. They’d probably been having a meeting. If she hadn’t rushed Marcus Simcosky, maybe she could have taken them both out at once.

  Not that it mattered. If they were still there, she’d take them both out this time.

  And if they weren’t, well, she knew where to find them now, which was more than she’d had when she’d awakened that morning.

  Cosky tuned out the gangly kid next to him. Mr. Chatty hadn’t stopped talking long enough to take a breath in over a minute. If luck was with him, which it sure as hell hadn’t been so far today—hell during the past four months—his new buddy would pass out from heat and asphyxiation and give him some damn peace.

  Not that the temperature seemed to be bothering the kid.

  “She sure did a number on your truck.”

  Cosky transferred his glare to the bench seat of his truck, which hosted half the glass from the windshield. The hood carried the rest. Damn it. He needed to call a tow truck.

  Almost afraid to see what damage his crazy stalker had done to his door, he pushed the sucker closed and winced at the collection of dents marring its previously pristine condition. Swearing softly, he ran his palm over the dimpled metal. He’d have to send it through the body shop too, which meant days, if not weeks before he got his ride back.

  Shaking his head in disgust, he shot a quick glance toward the back of the parking lot, where the monstrosity the crazy bitch had driven hid behind a cluster of trucks, Jeeps, and convertibles. He should put a couple bullets in it and see how she liked driving without a windshield and some new venting in the door. But then again…his gaze lingered on the rusting red paint; considering the vehicle’s condition, she probably wouldn’t care.

  He itched to check the car out. Maybe there was something there that would confirm his suspicion that she was connected to Branson. Worst case, they’d be able to pull prints from the steering column and her name from the registration. Find out who they were dealing with. Hell, maybe she was even stupid enough to circle back and try to claim the damn thing.

  If so, he’d be waiting.

  Assuming she didn’t try it after the cops showed up or before the new buddy he’d acquired crashed from his adrenaline rush and staggered home for a nap.

  He forced his attention away from the back of the lot. It was doubtful the kid would pick up on his interest, but there was no sense chancing it. He needed to search that vehicle before the cops impounded it, so he couldn’t afford Mr. Chatty mentioning it to the locals. He’d throw the cops off its scent by claiming the woman had been on foot. After they’d conducted their investigation and taken off, he’d check the car out. He just needed to be patient.

  And he hoped the cops didn’t discover it first.

  When the first responder to his nine-one-one call arrived, he parked in front of the entrance to the parking lot, partially blocking it off. Cosky waited for them to approach him, then identified himself by rank and name and alerted the flat-faced, tired-eyed officer of the Glock locked in his glove box. The cop didn’t blink, just took Cosky’s driver’s license and military ID and went back to his black and white. Cosky leaned against his truck’s bed, shifting his weight onto his good leg, and ignored the crowds of interested gawkers on the sidewalks ringing the apartment complex.

  What he wouldn’t give for an ice pack, a cold beer, and an even colder shower.

  The officer who’d taken his information returned as a second cruiser pulled into the parking lot, parking nose to nose with the first responder, which blocked the entrance completely. Cosky accepted his license and military ID back and took the cop through what had happened. Or at least most of what had happened. Certain tidbits he kept to himself—like the piece-of-crap sedan and the name she’d shouted at him. No sense in alerting them to his suspicion that she was connected to the events in Seattle. It was pretty obvious the men behind that clusterfuck had long arms. If word reached them that Branson’s wife was down in Coronado making trouble, they’d come looking for her.

  Cosky intended to track her down first.

  The kid actually made himself useful and unknowingly backed Cosky’s account. He’d apparently seen the woman following him down the sidewalk, which tailored with Cosky’s claim of her being on foot.

  He’d just finished giving his statement when Zane’s dark-blue minivan pulled around the back of the parking lot and headed toward him. A patrol officer stepped in front of it, waving it off.

  Groaning beneath his breath, he shot the apartment entrance a quick look, praying that Kait wouldn’t decide to check into all the commotion downstairs. But then again, he eyed the chattering crowds of people watching the police from the lawns and sidewalk; half the apartment building was already on scene. Maybe the boys wouldn’t notice Kait if she did put in an appearance. Assuming she didn’t duck under the crime-scene tape for a howdy-boys-let’s-make-Cosky’s-life-hell round of payback.

  And assuming the cop who’d taken his statement and her name didn’t decide to mention her.

  The groan deepening, he turned back to the van, watching it swerve into a parking space several spots down from the eyesore Cosky was trying to ignore. Three doors opened and three pairs of boots hit the ground. That’s when it occurred to him that his teammates had just given him the perfect excuse to get closer to his target, and get one of them inside the sedan for a quick look-see.

  He pushed away from the truck. “My Lieutenant Commander’s here,” he told the officer who’d taken his statement. He nodded toward the minivan. “I need to fill him in. If you have more questions you can catch me there.”

  He didn’t wait for the officer’s permission, simply started walking—or hobbling was more like it. Mr. Chatty’s verbosity worked in Cosky’s favor this time; the kid was so busy yakking at the officer taking his statement, he didn’t notice Cosky’s escape.

  If he’d suspected his teammates had warped to his rescue because they feared he couldn’t take
care of himself, he would have been pissed beyond endurance. But that wasn’t why they’d come. They’d hotfooted it over because they were his teammates and they had his back. Dry dock or not, whether he wanted the support or not. He would have done the same if the circumstances had been reversed.

  Such instant support was the plus and minus of team life.

  “How the hell did you hear about this so fast?” Cosky called as he limped over.

  “We would have been here ten minutes ago.” Rawls reached over to punch Zane’s shoulder. “If our pregnant mama here didn’t keep pulling over to hurl his lunch.” He paused and grinned. “Thank sweet Jesus, we’re not on deployment.”

  Zane grimaced, his face turning slightly green. “It was once, damn it.”

  Cosky fought a smile. There was no end to the entertainment value of watching Zane mirror Beth’s pregnancy. “Hell, she’s four months along. Isn’t morning sickness supposed to ease by this stage?”

  “Morning sickness?” Zane released a disgusted bark of laughter. “Try morning, noon, and night.”

  “Do you think we can stop talking about your delicate condition long enough to concentrate on why we’re here?” Mac snapped, with a glare at Zane. He transferred his scowl to Cosky. “Radar said shots were fired.” He gave Cosky a quick up and down before turning to survey the shattered windshield of the truck. “Glad to see your ride took the hit. What the fuck happened?”

  Cosky shrugged and limped closer. “Some crazy bitch walked up to me and started shooting.”

  Rawls quirked an eyebrow and grinned, although his eyes were shadowed and serious. “I keep tellin’ you, if you’d treat the little ladies right they’d leave their trigger fingers home.”

  Mac snorted and swung toward Rawls. “Cosky? Fuck no. He’s smart enough to avoid entanglements. If some pissed off ex-girlfriend is gonna start shooting, it’ll be at you.”

  Kait’s huge brown eyes, liquid with shock and hurt, flashed through Cosky’s mind. No doubt she’d disagree with Mac’s statement.