Forged in Ash (A Red-Hot SEALs Novel)

by Trish McCallan

  Lifting her hands, Jillian stared at her ragged, filthy fingernails and smiled. The whispering had nothing to do with recognition or fear. It was simple cliquishness and bitchery.

  The trio ignored her for the rest of the baseball game, which was fine with Jillian. She had the information she wanted. Now she needed the opportunity to put the information to use. That opportunity came sooner than expected. When the game ended, the Barbies hooked up with a couple of the baseball players. Amid flirting, teasing, and some shoving among the guys, the group meandered across the park toward the apartment complex.

  Jillian followed them. From the group’s backward glances and snide laughter, there was little doubt they knew she was behind them. Just before they crossed the street, Jillian closed on them, trailing so closely she hoped it looked like she was with their group.

  The glass in the entrance doors and side windows was still missing, thanks to her grand opening with the van. A blue-suited security guard stood against the wall inside the lobby. He glanced at the chattering group as they passed and nodded politely. Jillian forced herself to smile back and held her breath as she followed her adopted herd across the lobby.

  Any minute someone was going to recognize her and scream.

  Any minute the guard would rush her.

  But with the exception of snide laughter and snarky sotto voce comments about Jillian’s clothes, hands, hair, and parentage, the lobby remained quiet. As her group approached the elevators, one of the doors opened, and the Barbies, along with their entourage, piled inside.

  When Jillian tried to follow, Blondie blocked the entrance. “We’re full.” She cast her friends an exaggerated eye roll and laughter lit the elevator.

  Jillian silently stepped back. Their laughter rang in her ears long after the doors closed. Four months ago that level of bitchiness would have infuriated her. But her priorities had shifted since then. She’d discovered what was worth investing energy and emotion into—and it wasn’t Barbie dolls.

  What mattered were the people you loved.

  What mattered was vengeance when they were stolen from you.

  What mattered was getting to Marcus Simcosky’s girlfriend, who lived in apartment 607.

  * * *

  Chapter Eleven

  * * *

  EXHAUSTION WEIGHED ON Kait the following morning. The simple task of grocery shopping had wiped her out completely. Giving into her craving for Butter Brickle ice cream may not have been the brightest thing she’d ever done. She should have rested a couple more hours at home, after being released from transitory care, before heading to the store—although how she could still be tired after sleeping for eighteen hours straight…

  She’d never had such an extreme reaction to a healing before. But then again, she’d never done such an extreme healing before. Her lobster-red, blistered hands flashed through her mind. The memory felt like a dream, which had a lot to do with the lack of evidence to back up the memory. Her hands looked picture-perfect this morning. According to Rawls, so did Cosky’s knee, which brought another surge of disbelief.

  How was that possible?

  It had taken six months for Aiden’s back to fuse.

  A constant stream of people interrupted her journey from the parking lot to the lobby, so it took twice as long to reach the elevator. In between visits with her neighbors, she compulsively checked her caller ID and voice mail, even though she would have heard her cell phone ringing.

  Wolf hadn’t called, neither had Cosky or Rawls.

  Cosky’s silence was understandable. As was Rawls’s. Before she’d checked herself out of transitory care, Rawls had stopped by her room to tell her Cosky’s orthopedic surgeon had admitted him for a boatload of tests: X-rays, MRIs, CAT scans. The sudden improved condition of the knee had raised all sorts of speculation.

  Since they didn’t want to drive the speculation her way, they felt it was safer to avoid her—at least at the hospital. Rawls had only stayed a moment and limited his questions, simply telling her they’d be in contact after Cosky was released. Kait had no doubt Rawls had an enormous list of questions he intended to ask her then.

  Questions she wouldn’t be able to answer. She had no idea what had happened in the parking lot and no idea how that one enormously freaky session could have improved Cosky’s leg to the extent his orthopedic surgeon had actually noticed. She was as puzzled by the whole thing as the doctors were.

  She glanced at the clock between the elevators. It was just after eleven a.m. How long would it take them to run all those tests? Had Cosky been released yet?

  God, she hoped not. Facing him in the parking lot had been one thing. Adrenaline and concern had overpowered the awkwardness, and then that freaky healing had hijacked the moment. There hadn’t been time to think about the last time they’d been together, aka their naked, sweaty, passionate encounter on the couch.

  But the memory of that encounter had haunted her the moment she’d returned home. Even with the windows open, the place still reeked of roses and sex, courtesy of the sheet she’d left tucked into the cushions of the couch the day before. That sex-stained sheet was the reason she’d clandestinely checked herself out of the hospital rather than accepting Demi’s offer to drive her home—Demi would have insisted on seeing her settled.

  Dealing with that sheet, and the memories surrounding it, had launched her craving for Butter Brickle ice cream too.

  One more grievance to toss at Cosky’s feet.

  In the elevator, she checked her voice mail again, just in case she’d gone inexplicably deaf and hadn’t heard the phone ring. Still no message. Cosky would call before coming over, wouldn’t he? It was common courtesy. But something told her the man didn’t put much stock in courtesy, especially if he wanted something—like answers.

  She swore and glared down at her phone. Maybe it was broken. She punched the talk button and frowned at the resulting dial tone. It sounded like it was working, just like it had the other dozen times she’d checked it. Plus it had connected just fine with her home phone the last time she’d tested it.

  So why hadn’t Wolf called?

  Kait sighed, nudging the plastic bags with her toe. Wolf’s silence was causing her heart palpitations on two levels. He’d known about the first attack on Cosky within the hour. Within half an hour was more like it. He should have heard about the second attack by now. He should have heard about her trip to the ER too. Considering how overprotective the man was, he should have been burning his way through her minutes as he charged to her rescue. If he’d decided to forgo calling, and simply headed down to Coronado, he should have arrived by now.

  Unless he’d been reeled in for deployment.

  God knows the SEAL teams could be called into rotation at a moment’s notice. If Wolf was part of a covert ops team too, which seemed pretty obvious, he could have been called out. He could be in the heat of battle in some godforsaken country—or something could have gone wrong with Aiden’s deployment and Wolf was on his way to the rescue…again. Which meant both of them could be in danger.

  Considering what her brothers did for a living, they were always in danger.

  She should have learned by now that worrying accomplished nothing, well, besides giving her an ulcer. With a deep breath, she concentrated on the image of a colorful, cartoonish dodo bird. She painted the creature so clearly in her mind it pushed everything else out. Soon she could see it with total clarity, smell the burnt metal of blown glass. Her mind emptied of everything but her creation.

  It was a trick she’d learned years ago. If she concentrated hard enough on her craft, filled her mind with her creations, she could push aside the worry, the fear, the uncertainty that went hand in hand with life on the edge of the teams.

  By the time the bell to the elevator dinged, the exhaustion had given way to a burst of creativity, and Kait was itching to get started on the image in her mind. She glanced down at the plastic bags at her feet, swore softly, and bent to pick them up. The glass would have
to wait until she put the groceries away.

  Her purse dragged at her left shoulder and the two bags felt like they weighed a ton a piece as she stepped out of the elevator and headed toward her apartment. A slender figure down the hall, next to Martha Chamber’s door, caught her attention, and she swallowed a groan. Martha was an absolute sweetheart, but by God, the woman liked to talk. And talk. And talk.

  If she got waylaid by the woman, she’d never get to her studio. But as she drew closer, she realized the person in front of Martha’s door was too thin and too tall to be her next-door neighbor. In fact, she wasn’t even sure the figure was a she. Anorexic-thin, with shorn hair, sunglasses, and a baseball cap, the figure was the very definition of androgynous.

  She smiled absently at Martha’s visitor as she approached her door. The smile faded when the figure suddenly headed toward her.

  “Kaity?”

  Her smile fell away completely. The woman—or at least the voice sounded like a woman’s—obviously knew her. She smothered a sigh and turned to face the stranger. There was something vaguely familiar about the pitch of the cheekbones and shape of her chin, but Kait couldn’t quite place her.

  “Yes?” Kait summoned another smile.

  The woman came closer, her right hand tucked inside the center pocket of her sweatshirt. The cocked tension of that arm caught Kait’s attention, and a sliver of ice pierced her. There was something off about that arm. Something strange about the way her hand was tucked inside the pocket.

  “You’ll have to forgive me,” Kait said, widening her smile, which had no effect on the tight-lipped woman across from her. “I’m afraid I don’t remember you.”

  “Why should you?” There was an ugly vibration to the question.

  Kait took a cautious step back, which was useless since the woman took two steps forward. “Do I know you?”

  “No. But you will.” The cold edge to the stranger’s voice was so sharp it echoed down the hall.

  Kait’s gaze flew up; she studied the steep cheekbones and sallow skin, the narrow pointed chin.

  The sense of familiarity sank deeper. Set off alarm bells.

  She’d seen this woman, and recently.

  “What can I do for you?” Kait asked, working hard to keep the unease from her voice. She lifted her shoulder slightly and felt her purse slide down to the crook of her elbow. If she needed it, there was Mace in her purse.

  “You can call your boyfriend and tell him you need to see him.” The woman’s inflection of the word boyfriend was infused with something stronger than contempt, closer to hatred.

  What the heck?

  “I don’t have a boyfriend,” Kait said, losing the smile. She held her ground as the woman took another step forward.

  “Liar!” A hiss replaced the cold snap in the woman’s voice.

  As Kait stared at the face across from her, the sense of familiarity clicked into place. An avalanche of ice hit the pit of her belly.

  Was it possible?

  She scanned the woman’s face again. The long ratty brown hair was gone. Either cut off or stuffed inside the hat. But the shape of the face was the same, so were the cheekbones and the chin.

  Wasn’t this just perfect? Cosky’s crazy stalker was after her now.

  “I know Marcus Simcosky is your boyfriend,” the woman said, her voice so thick with rage it didn’t sound human.

  “You’re misinformed. He’s not my boyfriend.” Kait’s gaze dropped to that red sweatshirt with its open pocket.

  “Liar!” The woman’s voice climbed. “I know you’re involved with that lying, murdering bastard. I know he was visiting you yesterday. I know you’re important to him.”

  A bulge formed, pressing against the fabric of the woman’s pocket, like she’d clenched her hand around something. A gun? She’d had a gun the first time she’d gone after Cosky.

  “What’s in your pocket?” Kait asked. She had Mace, but it was zipped inside her purse and her hands were full. If the woman had a gun, by the time Kait dropped the right bag, unzipped the purse, and retrieved the Mace, she’d be dead.

  “A knife.” The woman’s voice was insanely calm. “Which I am going to use on you unless you convince your boyfriend to come over.”

  A dozen self-defense moves her brothers had drilled into her spun through her mind. Not one of them was applicable under these circumstances.

  “Call him. Now.” The woman bobbed her head for emphasis and her sunglasses slid down her nose and hit the floor.

  The wild brown eyes locked on Kait’s face, and the hair on Kait’s arms rose. The woman was completely batshit crazy, as Aiden would say.

  As though she’d conjured him up, Aiden’s calm voice whispered through her mind. “Use whatever weapons you have on hand. Strike fast. Strike hard.”

  On pure instinct, she stepped forward and swung the bag of groceries in her right hand as hard as she could at the woman’s head. Luckily, it was the bag with the carton of ice cream and bottle of Miracle Whip.

  The woman wasn’t expecting the attack. She didn’t have time to field the blow or shield her head, and while the carton of ice cream might have softened on the trip home, the bottle of sandwich spread still packed quite a punch. A dull crack sounded as the bag connected with the woman’s temple.

  The plastic bag split. The ice cream and Miracle Whip hit the floor with a muffled thud.

  The woman just stood there, her eyes wild, her hand still clenched inside that huge open pocket. And then her eyes rolled back until the pupils were gone and all that was left was white. She tilted back and just kept going, falling to the floor with a thud that oddly enough didn’t sound any louder than the ice cream or sandwich dressing.

  Without taking her eyes off her fallen adversary, Kait unzipped her purse and found the Mace. The woman didn’t stir.

  A frizzle of concern went through her. Maybe she shouldn’t have swung so hard, what if she’d killed her?

  The memory of countless horror films, where the supposedly dead monster suddenly got all grabby, reeled through her mind as she crept forward. With her Mace aimed at her stalker’s closed eyes, she bent down, took hold of the woman’s wrist, and carefully eased it out of the pocket.

  A huge butcher knife followed.

  Holy crap, the crazy lady hadn’t been lying. And that knife was huge. She could have done some major damage with that sucker.

  She pried rigid fingers lose from the knife’s handle and tossed the weapon toward her apartment’s door. The slow but steady rise and fall of the woman’s chest assured her the woman was still alive.

  Thank God.

  Common sense dictated that Kait lock herself in her apartment and call the police. But what if the woman awoke before the police showed up. What if she disappeared? What if she killed someone before she was captured again?

  She was unconscious for the moment—begging to be tied up.

  Kait snatched up her purse, found her keys, and unlocked her apartment. After a quick peek behind her to make sure the woman wasn’t stirring, she grabbed the butcher knife and raced for her kitchen. She dropped her purse and the knife on the kitchen counter, grabbed her cell phone from her purse and a roll of duct tape from the kitchen drawer, spun around, and headed for the hall. She wheezed with relief on finding her would-be attacker still prone and unconscious.

  She’d bound the woman’s hands and feet with duct tape before it occurred to her that she should have called for help. She could have stood guard over her captive with the Mace, while her neighbor went for the duct tape. Obviously, she hadn’t been thinking as clearly as she’d thought.

  The woman still hadn’t stirred by the time Kait punched in nine-one-one. Kait hovered over her, worry stirring again as she reported the incident to the dispatcher. She winced as she got a look at the damage she’d inflicted. The bag must have caught the woman’s left eye, along with her temple. It was already swelling and turning red. Ice would slow the swelling and with the crazy lady’s feet bound, she didn’t
have to worry about her taking off while Kait was grabbing an ice pack.

  She answered the dispatcher’s questions as she returned to the kitchen and pulled a bag of mixed vegetables from the freezer. Her stalker was still out cold when she returned to her side and carefully laid the frozen vegetables across the woman’s eye, which was already showing light streaks of blue.

  The dispatcher gave her an ETA of five minutes for the nearest cruiser and asked Kait to remain on the line until the officer’s arrival. Seconds later, her call waiting buzzed. She checked the window for the incoming call. Cosky.

  Perfect timing.

  She could thank him for dragging his mess to her door.

  Cosky held off the impulse to call Kait and make sure she was “just hunky-dory”—as Rawls claimed—until he was settled in Zane’s van, safe from unwelcome eyes and eyes. Or at least ears and eyes that weren’t privy to the explanation behind the inexplicable complete recovery his knee had undergone. His orthopedic and emergency room doctors were still scrambling to figure that one out.

  While the original damage to the tibial plateau hadn’t healed to the same degree as his injury from the parking lot—hell, if you could even call it an injury since there was no evidence of recent trauma according to his X-rays—there had been significant evidence of boney bridging between the bone grafts.

  The surgeon had used words like significant and excellent, even unbelievable a time or two. He’d gone on to say that he would have expected the volume of boney bridging on the X-rays to coincide with the seven- or eight-month post-surgery mark. Not the four-month mark, and certainly not three days after the last set of X-rays, which had indicated nonhealing.

  Rawls had calmly questioned the accuracy of the X-rays from three days earlier, suggesting that the quality of the machine or staging of the leg explained the discrepancy. While the orthopedic surgeon had conceded that Rawls’s suggestion was a possibility, he hadn’t looked convinced.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Rawls said in a thoughtful voice. He twisted to stare at Cosky, who was stretched across the bench seat behind him. “Perhaps the injury in the parking lot was easier to heal because it was fresh. There was no scar tissue that had to be reversed. The fracture to your tibial plateau, however, is four months old. There’s scar tissue, advanced trauma to the muscles, nerves, ligaments, tendons, and bone.” He paused and ran a hand through his hair. “Not to mention all the hardware they added during surgery. Maybe that’s why she wasn’t able to heal it.”