Forged in Fire (14 page)

Another flash of white. Another square box. The kind used to share videos.

Panic hit. His breath churned in and out, raw and boozy. He clenched his hands, and then stretched out his fingers—tried to convince them to click the play button, but terror caged him. It would be just like the bastard to hurt Amy or the boys and send him footage.

To kill them. And make him watch.

And he’d know John would watch. He’d have no choice. What if they weren’t dead? There might be something useful on the footage. A detail to help find them.

A clue to bandage his world together.

Closing his eyes, he reached past the shakes and clicked on the file, automatically checking the date stamp on the feed. It had been uploaded an hour earlier.

“See how well we’re taking care of them,” a synthesized voice said.

The video opened to blue skies. Cory walked on-screen, pink smears across his cheeks and chin. His rusty hair ruffled by an unseen breeze. A stick of cotton candy in one hand, the ears of a stuffed rabbit clenched in his other.

“Daddy!” He grinned into the camera and dragged the rabbit higher. “Look what Brendan won!”

John relaxed.

With a flash of static the screen went fuzzy.

Only to reopen in a bedroom. Focused on a bed. A woman.

A soft huff stirred the air. Like someone had kicked the air from his lungs.

Flash.

Corey skipped alongside Brendan, his stuffed prize bumping across the shorn grass. “Can we ride on the Ferris wheel? I love the Ferris wheel.”

Flash.

A naked woman, red hair blindingly bright against an ivory pillow. Wrists tied to the headboard. Legs spread, pillows thrust beneath her hips until her pelvis tilted up. Ankles tied to the corner posts.

No. Ah, God, no.

Ginny Clancy had red hair too. He prayed, prayed it was another woman’s red hair spread across that pillow. A different woman strung there helpless and waiting.

Flash.

Brendan cradling a BB gun, his lips split by a grin, but darkness seething in his eyes. “I bet I can hit them all.” The ping of BBs hitting metal. Little yellow ducks falling over.

Flash

The camera panned in, straight to that bright head. An arm reached out, a fist caught a handful of that soft, shiny hair and forced her face toward the camera.

Amy’s face. Amy’s dark, flat eyes.

Flash.

Brendan laughing into the camera, his teeth bared. The rifle thrust up toward the booth’s sign like a pointer. The booth operator smiling tightly behind him. “I shot just like you showed me, Dad. Just like you showed me. And I hit all
eight
of them.”

Flash
.

A naked male body crawling between pale, spread legs.

He sat there frozen. Silently screaming. While the film flashed from a perfect summer day with his two boys laughing and panning for the camera, to a shadowy bedroom where male bodies battered and rammed. Smearing bruises across soft, white skin. Leaving blood, semen, and the ashes of hope in their wake.

He sat there long after the video had trailed into nothing, his mind replaying every moan, every grunt, every laugh. Not one of them had come from Amy. Not one scream either. Not even a whimper. She’d locked every sound inside her tight, arched throat.

Years later, he clambered to his feet with the leaden weight of a five-hundred-pound, five-hundred-year-old man and lurched his way to the bathroom. His face was wet, he realized, as he stared in the mirror above the sink. Streaked with tears. They still leaked from his bloodshot eyes. He couldn’t feel them.

Couldn’t feel anything at all.

One of the men, by far the most brutal, had a tattoo—a harvest moon, pierced by a dagger. It dripped tears of blood. It was an unusual design, something he might be able to trace. If he had the manpower. If he had people he could trust. If Amy and the boys had the luxury of time.

There had been six of them.

Three with his boys at the fair. Three taking turns on his wife.

Not one had worn a mask.

Amy knew what that meant. She’d been with the agency before they’d married. She knew they weren’t getting out of there alive. The boys weren’t getting out of there alive.

Her grief and goodbye had been in her eyes.

* * *

Beth had withdrawn from him.

By the time they returned to the airport from their walk-through of the Clancy residence, the distance between them was noticeable. At least to Zane. They might have been sitting side-by-side, arms brushing, thighs touching, but an emotional vacuum separated them.

Her eyes were guarded. Her body stiff. She leaned away from him, rather than toward him. All subtle signs she’d pulled away. Yeah, she was worried about her friends, but he could pinpoint the exact moment the withdrawal had started—when Mac had launched the soul mate grenade.

They needed to find someplace quiet and private, where he could stoke those guttering flames back to life.

It was time for damage control.

But where the hell was he going to find a private place, in the middle of a fucking airport, in the middle of a multi-agency investigation?

If they took off, it would look suspicious, as if they were avoiding questions. At the moment, the FBI seemed more interested in tracking down Beth’s friends. But that could change in a heartbeat.

Still, it was damn hard to just sit there, sensing the distance expanding between.

By the time they reached the conference room, he was itchier than a cat with fleas and resisting the urge to drag Beth down the hall until he found an empty room with a sturdy lock.

Rawls and Cosky had joined Mac in the conference room. Zane studied their faces as he escorted Beth inside. No doubt some major discussion had taken place concerning Beth and him, and that damn lie. But at least Mac had chilled some. He no longer resonated with the intensity of a bomb about to detonate. In fact, he didn’t even glance her direction as they entered the room, just fixed those fierce black eyes on the agents hovering in the doorway.

“How much longer you jackasses planning on keeping my boys?” Mac demanded, bracing his hands on his hips. “They’ve got a damn wedding to attend.”

Zane’s lips twitched. The disgust in his commander’s voice as he said “wedding” mirrored the tone he’d used when discussing the hijackers, but then Mac viewed the female half of the population—at least from puberty on—as an army of domestic terrorists.

The agent in the doorway shrugged. “That’s Chastain’s call.”

Mac scowled. “I want to talk to him.”

“I’ll pass that along,” the fed said dryly.

“You do that.” It sounded like an order.

As soon at the door closed, Mac’s attention shifted to Zane. He cocked his head and lifted an eyebrow.

“It looks like they were taken. She found Ginny Clancy’s purse in the laundry room, and a toy the boy wouldn’t have left behind.”

“They may not have been the only ones.” Mac’s voice was grim.

“Who?”

“Our leak. Chastain.”

Zane frowned. “They grabbed his family? Forced his compliance?”

Mac ran an impatient hand over his close-cropped hair. “That’s my guess. He’s the perfect target. You control him, you control the investigation.”

“Have you looked at him?” Beth suddenly asked. “He’s lost weight. You can tell from the fit of his clothes. And he looks exhausted, like he hasn’t slept.” She turned to Zane, darkness stirring in her eyes. “He reminds me of Todd.”

The glance Mac shot her was a combination of suspicion and surprise. “She’s right. He looks like hell.”

Zane thought that over. Jesus, the ramifications were endless. If they could get to Chastain …. “Where’s this leave us?”

“In the shitcan,” Mac said. “If they can get to him, they can get to anyone.”

“Christ.” Zane swiped a hand down his face. This damn thing kept getting uglier and uglier. “He must think his team’s compromised.”

Mac’s jaw tightened. “Not just his team—the FBI itself. Otherwise he would have taken it up the ladder.”

Beth’s eyebrows knit. “Maybe they threatened to kill his family if he told anybody.”

Cosky shook his head. “His chances of getting them back alive are stronger with the full resources of the FBI behind him. The fact he’s made no effort to utilize those resources means he thinks the agency’s compromised.”

“We’re talking about hundreds of lives.” Beth frowned, looking unconvinced. “Would he really put his family’s welfare above all those passengers? Why wouldn’t he go to Homeland Security?”

“If they can infiltrate the FBI, they can infiltrate DHS.” Zane reached out to touch her cheek, his chest tightening when she shied away.

Cosky smoothly took over. “In an ideal world, he’d report what happened, but this is a guy who already lost one family….”

“The poor bastard’s hands are tied.” Rawls crossed his arms over his chest. “He doesn’t know who’s safe to approach. The wrong choice and his family’s dead.”

“He has to know the kind of bastards he’s dealing with,” Mac murmured, his gaze hard. “They showed no mercy in Argentina. Killed everyone. Including the kids. With the hijacking aborted, and the kidnappers scrambling, he’s got to be wondering what this means for his family.”

Beth flinched, her face haunted, and Zane knew she was wondering the same thing about her friends.

* * *

Russ shifted in his plastic chair, watching the restless, milling passengers of Flight 2077.

If he hadn’t been detained and questioned, he wouldn’t have had the opportunity to get up close and personal with his FBI moles. Agents, thus far, he’d only had contact with on the phone.

Well, admittedly, just one of the agents, since Chastain hadn’t bothered to show up yet.

Russ smiled toward the senior agent with the FBI’s Counterterrorism Unit who’d interviewed him earlier. Perfectly styled russet hair gleamed beneath the harsh florescent lights. Looking at the spit-polished, tailored and oh-so-polite senior agent, you’d have no clue how riddled with rot the man was inside.

Of all the buttons Russ had available for pushing, this particular FBI agent was by far his most volatile—and invaluable. They wouldn’t have gotten to Chastain without him, wouldn’t have been able to control Chastain once they’d grabbed his family, wouldn’t have had eyes and ears on the inside monitoring the situation.

It was too bad the guy was so fucking unstable. Never a healthy trait in someone you needed to rely on.

However, obsessive characteristics had one saving grace; if you played to that obsession, you controlled their actions. In this case, the obsession centered exclusively on Chastain. Their mole hated Special Agent in Charge John Chastain; detested him with vitriolic intensity. Indeed, he’d undertaken his end of this operation solely to destroy his superior—destroy his reputation, his career, his family, even take his life.

Russ didn’t know what Chastain had done, or what the SOB
perceived
Chastain had done. The bosses hadn’t bothered to share with him that information. And nothing—absolutely nothing—had turned up during the research he’d done on the pair. In fact, on paper, the two men appeared to be good friends. He’d been best man at Chastain’s first and second marriages. He was godfather to one of Chastain’s sons.

Their mole only had three conditions for setting Chastain up. He insisted on being the one to take Chastain out once they were done with him and that Chastain’s son’s bodies be delivered to their father before his death. But the third demand had raised the most eyebrows—Amy Chastain was to be released alive at the end of the operation.

One would think his concern for Chastain’s wife indicated a depth of feeling for her. But one would be mistaken. Whatever the guy felt for Amy Chastain, it had nothing to do with love. Revenge, perhaps.

He would have felt sorry for the woman; except she wouldn’t be alive long enough to suffer whatever the obsessed bastard had planned.

Amy Chastain had to die once the operation was concluded. It was a pity, but it couldn’t be helped. Like any good strategist, Russ had done extensive research on his targets. It had turned up a couple of pesky problems. She was smart, loyal and stubborn. She’d latch onto the investigation like a bulldog. She wouldn’t rest until she dug up why her family had been targeted and who was responsible for taking them from her.

Eventually, after a massive internal investigation into the aborted hijacking, and the events surrounding it, the FBI would shelve the case pending new evidence. They’d sweep it under the departmental rug, and try to pretend that one of their own hadn’t been integral in such a colossal fuckup.

If, that was, Amy Chastain wasn’t around to stir things. If the woman lived, she’d never let the investigation be swept aside, or let her dead husband be used as a scapegoat. She wouldn’t stop digging and badgering until she’d uncovered the truth and exposed everything.

So, regardless of their mole’s expectations, the woman had to die.

Chapter Ten

Zane watched Mac pace, understanding his commander’s frustration. They could hardly accuse a highly decorated FBI veteran of leaking classified intel. Not without hardcore proof.

Yet, they couldn’t let the situation stand either.

Regardless of the circumstances, if Chastain was feeding information to the assholes who’d intended to hijack Flight 2077, then his pipeline needed to be blocked.

But therein lie the crux of the problem—if.

They knew the leak was there, but they couldn’t be sure it was coming from Chastain. Yeah, the pieces fit and it made an ugly sort of sense, but they had no proof.

They were debating what to do, when the door opened and the very agent under discussion stepped inside. Without making a sound, he turned, and closed the door behind him. Then he just stood there, his hand resting on the knob, his head bent—frozen in place as though he’d forgotten where he was, or why he’d arrived.

Zane exchanged a grim glance with Cosky.

Christ, the guy looked like hell, like somebody had pounded the living shit out of him—but without leaving bruises. When he finally stepped back, he did so slowly, carefully, as if every bone in his body ached and every muscle burned.

New lines carved the face he turned toward them, some cutting so deep they looked anchored to the bone. Sunken brown eyes were rimmed with red. Vacant. Broken.

A soft curse echoed in the room. It could have come from any of them.

Chastain’s head turned toward Mac. “Your jammer still on?”

Mac raised his eyebrows. “What jammer?”

“If it’s not on, turn it on.” Chastain sounded more exhausted than irritated. “I know you have one. All we’ve been getting is static.”

“It’s on.” Mac’s attention didn’t budge from that wrecked face. “HQ1 doesn’t share sensitive information with other agencies, particularly when those agencies are compromised.” He paused, his gaze sharp. “Or at least some of their agents are.”

Chastain held the black burn of Mac’s stare. “I’m sure you’re aware you have one of those agents in front of you now.”

Surprised silence filtered through the room.

Zane glanced at Beth. She was watching Chastain, sympathy replacing the raw glaze of shock and worry that had been stamped across her face.

“How’d they turn you?” Mac’s expression remained blank.

“You must have figured that out for yourself.” A hint of hardness tightened Chastain’s voice. “How ‘bout we stop fucking around and get down to business?”

So, he wasn’t going to make excuses. No apologies, either. Zane wasn’t sure whether to applaud the man or deck him.

Chastain shoved trembling fingers through his hair. “I don’t know how deep they’ve infiltrated the agency, but they’ve got their claws into someone else on my team. No,” he added as Mac opened his mouth. “I don’t know who, or how many.”

A sharp silence fell.

“What did they want?” Mac finally asked.

“They wanted me to make sure the plane was given safe passage through U.S. airspace. I was to negotiate with the airline, government and families. To convince the President that the hijackers were not a threat to national security, and there was still a chance of getting the passengers back alive.”

Zane frowned. Since 9/11, if a flight seized by terrorists couldn’t be forced to the ground, it was subject to termination. To get the plane down to Puerta Jardin, it would have been crucial to have someone negotiating safe passage.

Chastain paused, shook his head. “However, their demands have changed since the flight’s been grounded.”

Mac rocked back on his heels, his eyes narrowing. “The plane’s grounded. Their crew’s in custody. An investigation’s underway. They’re missing a couple of propellers if they think they can grab that flight now.”

“They’re not after the flight. They gave me a list of names. Seven—from first class. I’m to make them available if I want to see my family again.”

Silence fell.

“You’re telling us this was never about the plane? It was about the passengers?” Zane finally asked, raking a hand through his hair.

Cosky frowned. “We can’t be sure of that. Could be they’re after ransom.”

Chastain shook his head. “The passengers they’re demanding aren’t among the wealthiest in first class. They aren’t even close.”

“So why them?” Zane cocked his head and studied the fed’s face. It made no sense. Why hijack a plane, just to grab seven people? There were easier ways to kidnapping someone. “What do those seven names have in common?”

“I don’t know, at least not yet.”

“When did they grab your family?” Cosky’s eyes flashed silver.

Chastain’s shoulders lifted beneath a tight breath. “Six days ago.”

Mac tilted his head. “Who’d you report it to?”

“I didn’t.” When Mac simply lifted an eyebrow and stared, Chastain bared his teeth. “I tried. Went to my director. He was un-fucking-available. Within minutes of being turned away, I get this phone call. On my agency cell, which is unlisted. The bastard chided me. Told me it was my only free pass. That if I tried again, I could expect a body bag. Asked me which son I’d
prefer
to see in it. “

“You try DHS?” Zane asked. He tried to imagine what he’d do if their positions were reversed, if it had been Beth taken… Beth’s life at stake.

Chastain’s head swung in his direction, his red-rimmed eyes exhausted. “No, I didn’t go to DHS. What if they’re compromised too? That asshole wasn’t joking. The wrong word to the wrong person….” He broke off, took a deep breath and held it, then exhaled in a soft hiss. “You four I can be certain haven’t been tapped. You’re of no use to them. You can’t even operate on U.S. soil.” He turned back to Mac. “When you called, warning me the plane was about to be taken, I knew you had to be clear.”

“What about the three we took down?” Zane asked. “Did you get anything from them?”

Chastain snapped off a derisive laugh. “Denials and counter-accusations against you three.”

“What of Clancy?” Mac shot an undecipherable glance in Beth’s direction.

With a tight shoulder roll, Chastain shook his head.

Ah, hell.

Zane turned, but from lack of shocked grief on Beth’s face, it was clear she hadn’t grasped what Chastain’s gesture indicated. He took hold of her hand. Her fingers tensed in his, and she started to pull away.

He tightened his grip. “How did he die?”

Beth’s hand froze, her sharp inhalation piercing the room.

“Gunshot to the back of the head. He was discovered an hour ago. In the parking lot. In his van. I’m sorry, Miss Brown. I know he was a friend of yours.”

When she flinched, Zane let go of her hand and wrapped her in his arms. She came docilely, underscoring the depth of her shock and pain.

Zane sighed. “They’re cleaning house.”

A tremor shook the slender frame cradled against him and he knew Beth was wondering where that left Ginny and Kyle. No doubt Chastain was wondering the same thing about his family, which explained his visit, along with the full reveal.

“You have any idea who’s pulling the strings?” Zane asked, burrowing his fingers into the hair at the back of Beth’s head and massaging her scalp. She leaned into his hand and slowly the tremors ceased.

“No clue. He’s smart. Communicates through prepaid cells and email.”

“We’ll assume you traced the email account.” Mac watched without expression as Chastain’s lips tightened. “What about the phone?”

“Nothing.”

Nobody in the room looked surprised.

“I told you. The bastard’s sharp.”

Beth stirred, and shifted to stare at the fed. “He can’t be that smart. He picked an engineer to hide his guns, rather than someone from maintenance. He was lucky Todd managed to find a parts crate.”

Chastain hesitated, and gave a what-the-hell shrug. “Your friend did double duty. They picked him because of his net worth. All those inventions paid off. He’s been liquefying assets for the last four days. This morning he transferred five million into a holding account.”

“Ransom,” Zane murmured.

When Beth stepped back, he forced himself to relax his hands and let her go, trying to ignore the feeling that she was slipping away from him as easily as those cool strands of hair were slipping through his fingers.

“What do you need from us?” Mac asked.

Chastain closed his eyes. When he opened them again they were hard with determination. “I need you to run down a clue.”

“We don’t have the authority to act within a law enforcement capacity,” Mac reminded him quietly.

“Are you saying no?”

“That’s not what he’s saying.” Cosky didn’t glance at Mac for confirmation. “We don’t have legal standing. If anything comes from this clue, you chance a good lawyer shredding the prosecution’s case.”

With a silent snarl, Chastain turned on Cosky. “I don’t give a fuck about the
prosecution
. You’re the best shot I have of getting Amy and the boys back alive. I can’t track this down myself. They’re watching me.” He paused, took a deep gulping breath. “You’ll be acting beneath my authority.”

Zane shot a quick glance at Mac and received an abbreviated nod. “What’s this clue?”

Chastain’s muscles loosened. “Earlier this morning those assholes took my boys to the carnival. I checked. It’s at the Puyallup Fairgrounds. Brendan, my eldest, tried his luck at the shooting booth. The vendor may remember him.” Desperation and hope warred in his eyes. “Brendan’s a sharp kid. He’ll have left a message. A clue. Something.”

Zane glanced at Cosky, saw the same doubt in his eyes. “How old’s your boy?”

“Ten.” Chastain’s mouth tightened at the glances traveling the room. His voice rose. “It’s the best fucking chance I’ve got.”

“The odds this vendor will remember your son are astronomical.” Zane kept his voice calm, reasonable, even as raw emotion flooded the haggard face across from him. “They must get hundreds of kids a day.”

“Brendan insisted they take footage of this booth. He’d have made sure the vendor remembered him. He’ll have left a clue behind to follow.”

Zane doubted it. Even the smartest of kids would find it difficult to leave a message with a watchdog on his tail. Nor would the kidnappers have sent the footage if there’d been a chance of it exposing them.

Mac glanced at the floor and shook his head slightly. When he looked back up his eyes were grim, but steady. “We need to see the film.”

Chastain twitched, his teeth clenching so hard they caught his bottom lip and drew blood. “I’ll give you a description of the vendor.”

Sourness crawled through Zane’s belly. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why Chastain didn’t want them to view the video footage. The kidnappers must have shot video of the wife too, and it was a damn safe bet it hadn’t been taken at the carnival.

“John,” Mac said, and with the transfer to first names, a corner was turned. “We need to see that tape. You’re too close to this. You’ll miss things. Details that might help find them.”

Chastain’s face twisted. For a moment only ragged breathing filled the room. After one last hard breath, he scrubbed his palms down his face and rocked back on his heels. “Fine.” He held Mac’s gaze without flinching. “But just you. We’ll need to access it from my laptop. Bring your jammer. The office may be bugged.”

“Was Kyle on the video? Ginny?” Beth asked hoarsely. From her ashen face and the horror swimming in her eyes, she’d figured out what was on that tape too and was wondering whether her friend had suffered the same fate.

“No.” Chastain’s voice smoothed as he pulled a shroud of composure into place.

“You said the footage was taken this morning?” Zane glanced at Cosky. From the grimness in his teammate’s eyes, they’d arrived at the same conclusion.

Chastain nodded. “Mid-morning.”

Which meant it had been taken before the hijacking had been aborted. The timing made sense. The terrorists had wanted to deliver a reminder of what was at stake before the investigation hit Chastain’s desk, but the footage had been taken before the plane had been searched, before they’d lost four of their crew, before they’d killed Todd Clancy and started severing loose ends.

At this point, they couldn’t be sure the hostages were still alive.

“Show me the video,” Mac said.

Without saying a word, Chastain headed for the door with Mac on his heels. Though nothing was said, everyone knew what they’d be watching. The knowledge permeated the room like a thick, ugly haze.

A half-hour later Mac returned, face rigid and skin pale. His hands clenched into fists. Fury and livid disgust burning in his eyes.

Chastain didn’t return with him.

“Let’s roll. McKay’s given the green light.” Mac said. “I’ve got pictures of the kids and Chastain’s loaning us his car.”

Zane frowned and glanced toward Beth. He wasn’t leaving her behind. There were two hijackers unaccounted for, and they had no idea who among the feds were compromised. She’d be safer with them at the carnival.

Mac followed Zane’s gaze. “She waits here.”

No way in hell. “She comes with us.”

Mac’s jaw set. “She’s a civilian. She waits here.”

In any other circumstances, he would have agreed. You didn’t bring civilians on missions. Period. But this was more recon, than a penetration, with no real danger attached. The kidnappers would be long gone by the time the team arrived at the fairgrounds.

“She’s not safe here,” Zane said flatly.

Beth stirred. “I can speak for myself and I’m going. I’ve got pictures of Kyle and Ginny in my wallet. I can show the pictures around, ask if anyone’s seen them, while you guys question the booth attendant.”

Mac ignored her. “Chastain can keep an eye on her.”

Beth rolled her eyes and split her glare between Zane and Mac. “I’m going,” she said loudly, finality ringing in her voice. “If I have to, I’ll get my car and head over on my own.”

“Jesus Christ.” Mac’s face twisted into a snarl. He tried to intimidate her with a glare. When that didn’t work, he swung to Zane. “Fine, keep her out of the fucking way.”

Turning on his heel, he stalked toward the door. It opened as his hand touched the knob and Chastain’s haggard form filled the doorway.