Forged in Fire (17 page)

“The paint thinner and cotton will act as a wick. The minute the glass breaks, the burning tampon will detonate the gasoline. The tape prevents fumes, spillage and premature detonation.”

He picked up the wire cutters, clipped off six inches of wire, plucked a drenched tampon out of the coffee can and attached it to the neck of the bottle by winding the wire repeatedly around the two. When he was done, the wire strapped the tampon to the neck of the bottle.

Simple enough.

When Zane stepped away from the counter, Beth slid over to take his place. But instead of heading back to the kitchen, he moved in behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist and nuzzled the hollow between her neck and collarbone.

“How are you holding up?” He dropped a whisper-soft kiss on the side of her neck.

A shiver skated through her as his cheek rasped against her neck, his day-old bristles scratchy, yet strangely erotic.

“I’m okay.” The shiver turned to a quiver as he pressed another light kiss to the sensitive skin.

“We’ll find your friends.” His arms tightened around her waist, his breath a sensual tickle against her heating skin. “We’ll bring them back to you.”

He wasn’t promising they’d be alive, but then how could he promise something like that? Something he had no control over?

He must have sensed the tension that suddenly gripped her, because his arms tightened even more. “Beth—”

“I can finish the rest of the bottles. You should go help your friends.” She broke in.

With a sighed, his arms loosened and he stepped back. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

She listened to his footsteps cross the garage, the opening and closing of the door, and found herself surrounded by silence. She was used to being alone, but somehow the emptiness surrounding her felt more intense without Zane’s larger-than-life presence beside her. Warning bells rang. If her life already felt emptier without him beside her, and she’d only known him a handful of hours, how much worse would the loneliness be after days, weeks, even months?

It didn’t take long to finish the last Molotov cocktail. She hunted down a plastic bucket, and packed the bottles in tight, using wadded-up newspaper to brace the glass.

She reentered the kitchen to the rise and fall of calm voices discussing insertion points, fallback positions, and other tactical strategies she didn’t understand. An arsenal lay strewn across the table. Rifles and shotguns to the right and left, and an assortment of handguns in the middle. All four men were sprawled out in oak chairs, dismantling or assembling the weapons.

The brownie platter had been pushed to the back, where it sat empty and forgotten.

Zane shifted in his chair and scanned her face as she crossed the kitchen toward their hostess, and she gave him a quick smile.

“I saved you a brownie, dear.” Mrs. Simcosky gestured toward the counter, where a huge brownie swallowed a saucer.

The rich, fudgy scent drew Beth like a hummingbird to nectar. It wasn’t until Cosky’s mother picked up a saucer and moved toward the sink that Beth noticed the book lying open—face down—on the tile counter. She recognized the green and gold cover immediately. Patti O’Shea’s
In The Darkest Night
. Both author and title were among her favorites.

“Do you read?” Mrs. Simcosky asked, catching Beth’s glance toward the novel.

“My favorite pastime.” Beth nodded toward the book. “It’s one of her best.”

“I’m rather partial to her first.” She sent Beth a wicked smile. “That Alex, he curled my toes. Such a shame he didn’t get his own book.”

“Have you read Simona Taylor or Roslyn Carrington?” Beth asked, marveling at how easy it was to fall into book discussions with complete strangers when both parties shared a love of romances. “They’re wonderful—”

She broke off as Rawls approached, and set the empty platter on the counter beside the book.

“Could you hand that over, sweetie? I’ll put it in the sink.”

As Rawls picked the platter up again, the edge caught the corner of the book and flipped it off the counter.

With a murmured apology, Rawls handed the platter off and bent, picking the book up. As he straightened, he absently scanned the text. His movements slowed. His head bent. Slowly, his ears turned pink. A hint of red frosted his cheekbones.

Beth glanced toward Cosky’s mother, who winked.

“Love scene,” she mouthed.

Oh. Ohhhhhhhhh
. Beth grinned. If memory served, that particular book had been smoking hot.

“Rawls,” Cosky’s dry voice broke over the silent corner. “If you’re done checking out my mom’s porn, maybe you’d like to join us in discussing strategy?”

Rawls dropped the book like he’d been caught digging through a bag of crack.

“You can take it with you,” Mrs. Simcosky offered.

“That’s okay.” Rawls sidled toward the table, his ears getting pinker by the moment.

“Are you certain? Because—”

“He’s sure.” Cosky nailed his buddy with a derisive look that clearly warned if he responded with anything but no, he’d never hear the end of it.

The wicked smile on Mrs. Simcosky’s face collapsed into a frown. With a disgusted huff, she crossed her arms and glared at her unrepentant son.

“Believe me, the four of you would benefit from reading some of my romance novels. They’d give you a better idea of what women are looking for in a relationship.”

Cosky snorted, reassembling a shotgun with quick, sure movements. “We’re doing just fine on our own.”

“Then why don’t I have grandchildren?”

Ignoring the question, Cosky concentrated on wiping down the shotgun he’d reassembled.

Before long, they were loading the guns with various rounds of ammunition, and distributing the weapons among themselves; all four men took a shotgun or rifle, as well as a pair of handguns.

The sheer volume of weapons they were stuffing beneath waistbands or belts sent ice coursing through Beth. They were preparing for war.

“We need two cars,” Mac said as Cosky spread a map across the table. “There isn’t enough room in Chastain’s for the four of us, two women and three kids—assuming they’re there.”

“Mom—”

“Of course, dear. You know where the keys are.”

“I can drive one of the cars,” Beth said, taking a step toward the table.

“Cosky can drive one. I’ll drive the other.” Zane didn’t look up.

Beth took another step forward. “They’re my friends. They might need me. Besides, if the women have been… abused… they’ll need another woman on scene. Not a bunch of strange men.”

Zane straightened from the table, regarding her with an implacable expression. “We’re trained for this. You’re not. You’d be a liability.”

“I’m not stupid,” Beth snapped. “I’m not saying I want to go in with you. I’ll wait in the car, a couple of blocks away. You can call me once it’s safe.”

Zane shook his head, his implacable expression unbudging. “At best, you’d be a distraction. At worst, someone could grab you and use you against us. You don’t know who might see you.”

“Then I’ll wait in a place full of people. A store or something.”

“We’d have to wait for your arrival before we could leave. Your
friends
might not have those minutes to spare.
We
might not have those minutes.”

“We’re wasting time.” Mac shot Beth a glance full of disgust. “Lock her in the fucking closet if you have to. Let’s move.”

He was right. She was being selfish and foolish and risking everyone’s lives, and for what? Because she wanted to do something?

Sometimes the best way to help was by doing nothing at all.

“Beth.” Zane headed toward her, his face tight. “You can’t—”

“I know.” She released a long sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m being foolish. Where will you take them?”

“To the closest E.R. They’ll need to be checked out.” His gaze dark, he searched her face.

With a wobbly smile, she reached up to stroke his cheek. It was warm and bristly beneath her fingertips.

“You don’t need to lock me in the closet. I promise I’m not going to turn stupid. I won’t go anywhere.” She ignored Mac’s disbelieving snort. “Just promise you’ll call as soon as you have them. I’ll catch a cab and meet you at the hospital.”

He gave a slow nod and reached up to take her hand, holding it against his face in an iron grip.

After a moment, he glanced over at Mrs. Simcosky. “You don’t mind if Beth hangs out here?”

Cosky’s mom patted his arm and smiled at Beth. “Of course not. She’ll be good company while you boys are working.”

Working. Quite the euphemism
.

Zane snatched a pen off the counter, tore off the bottom of a grocery list and jotted something down. He handed the slip of paper to her.

“My cell.”

After Beth stuffed the scrap of paper into the pocket of her slacks, he took her hand again.

She followed Zane toward the front door. By the time they reached the porch, Cosky had the garage door open and was backing out his mom’s SUV. He tooted the horn impatiently.

“Don’t forget the bottles. I put them next to the garage door.”

Beth watched as Mac and Rawls loped down the path, rifles in hand, splitting at the driveway with Rawls headed toward Cosky and Mac toward Chastain’s sedan.

“You’ll be safe here. I need to know you’re safe.” Zane stopped, turned toward her and hauled her into his arms, his shotgun hard against her back. With a soft sound, he took her lips in an urgent kiss.

A kiss full of promise.

The promise that he’d be back. That there would be more kisses. More time.

And then he was gone.

With her fingers pressed against her lips, Beth watched him climb into the driver’s seat, back down the driveway and out into the street. Watched as his taillights bled into a single crimson eye.

Her lips still throbbed. Ached for his touch.

Her mind flashed to the dream—to his body crumpling beneath a hammering spray of bullets. To the thick, red spread of blood and the milky sheen of death filming those gleaming emerald eyes. In the nightmare, he’d died in the air.

In reality, it could take place in some crappy little house across town.

Panic rose, clogging her chest and paralyzing her. She couldn’t breathe.

Mrs. Simcosky, her eyes a rich turbulent gray, reached out to grab Beth’s hand. She gave it a hard squeeze. “Try not to worry, dear.” She cast one last look down the empty street, and then led the way back to the kitchen. “Now, why don’t we make another batch of brownies? The boys will be hungry when they return.”

Chapter Twelve

“Son of a bitch,” Zane said beneath his breath as he lowered the binoculars they’d liberated from the gun safe.

Taking care not to disturb the drooping boughs, he sank to his knees. The cushion of pine needles matting the ground gave beneath his weight, releasing an alpine-scented perfume of such strength it smelled like someone had spritzed the place with air freshener. He aimed the binoculars through a break in the dense foliage and studied the football-field expanse of lawn stretching from the edge of the forest to the concrete path leading up to the front of the house.

The situation didn’t look any better on the second scan.

With a frustrated grunt, he passed the binoculars to Cosky, who crouched beside him.

“We’re good and fucked.” Zane kept his voice low, barely above a whisper. Sound traveled, even within the confines of heavy vegetation.

The two pairs of military-grade binoculars they’d found amid the guns had been the last piece of good fortune they’d been blessed with before things had taken a detour into fucked-up.

Apparently, the good citizens of Enumclaw didn’t believe in numbering their mailboxes, driveways, or even their goddamn houses. Nor had the worthless piece of shit the FBI called a GPS system been able to direct them to the address on that slip of paper. The system had guided them toward a driveway that didn’t exist. They’d wasted twenty minutes looking for a mailbox with a street number, and then counted their way up from there.

“This has to be the place.” Cosky aimed the binoculars toward the left edge of the house, and the two cameras mounted to the trim just below the gutters.

“No shit.”

The cameras and windows were a dead giveaway. Zane took the binoculars back and peered at the sheets of plywood stretched across the glass. No way in hell were they gaining access through there. Not without a crowbar and some serious muscle. He turned the binoculars toward the upper-left quadrant of the house. One of the cameras was aimed out, surveying the endless stretch of emerald lawn, while the other was angled in, toward the windows, front door and the two-car garage.

He scanned the yard again. At least two acres of flat lawn. No trees. No shrubs. No rock. No dips or swells. Which equaled no cover. Yeah, they were well and truly screwed.

Out of the blue, Zane found himself wondering where Beth lived. Did she live in a rural setting, or the heart—

Christ, he needed to get his mind back on the mission. Scanning the entry way again, he forced Beth out of his mind.

No steps. No shrubs. No decorative trees.

Son of a bitch.

“At least we don’t have to worry about neighbors. The last thing we need is some poor bastard out mowing his lawn taking a stray slug.” Cosky didn’t lift his gaze from their target.

“Or calling the police.” Zane lowered the binoculars, foreboding prickling.

The house was a good three quarters of a mile from the main road, and surrounded by a thick stand of maple, pine, and fir. They couldn’t ask for better cover, at least back here, but once they left the shield of the trees, they’d be completely vulnerable. The residence’s position gave a tactical advantage to its inhabitants. With those cameras on the roof line, and the lack of cover—the kidnappers would know the second someone launched an attack.

No doubt the house’s defendable position was one of the reasons this place had been chosen. But he could think of another reason.

Nobody would hear any screaming.

His phone started vibrating against his thigh. He fished it out of his pocket and pressed it against his ear, sealing it tight, so no sound escaped.

“Yeah.” The word was more breath than sound.

“We got eyes all the way around. No cover,” Mac said his voice hushed.

Zane wasn’t surprised. “Copy.”

“Cameras ring the place.” He snapped the cell phone closed by making a fist and shoved it in his pocket. “Cover’s no better out back.”

Cosky swore beneath his breath and plucked the binoculars from Zane’s lax hand. He trained the lens on the front door. “Reinforced steel.”

Zane scowled at the front entrance. The door was hardly a surprise. Boarding up the windows had been a clever tactic. They’d limited access to the interior of the house. They’d hardly blow that advantage by using wood doors—three good blasts from a shot gun and you’d have a manhole. Those same blasts against reinforced steel just left a couple of impressive dents.

“We’ll have to take out the frame,” Zane said, his voice grimmer by the second.

Even reinforced steel had its weakness; the doors were hinged to a wood frame. The frame could be chipped away. Once the wood was destroyed, access was assured.

But it would take time, and a hell of a lot of bullets.

Zane shook his head in disgust. They could scratch any possibility of a blitz attack. With cameras recording every move they made, the kidnappers would be waiting for them long before the door fell in. Rocking back on his heels, he scrubbed both hands down his face, then got his toes beneath him and slowly rose to his feet.

“This has to be the right place,” he said, the lack of numbers still bothering him.

“Probably,” Cosky agreed and then his voice turned dry. “Or, whoever’s inside could be batshit crazy and cooking meth in the garage.”

“Hell.” But Cosky was right. He could think of dozen illegal activities requiring these kinds of security measures.

“We’re fucked,” Mac said tightly, as he fell in behind them.

“That’s the consensus,” Zane agreed, his voice just as tense.

“We might as well just walk up to the door and knock.” Mac raised the second pair of binoculars and scanned the area in front, then shook his head. “Same distance front or back. Rawls and I will take the back. You two take the front.”

“We’ll have to shoot out the frames. Kick the doors in,” Zane said.

Mac swore beneath his breath and glared across the lawn. “We could blast our way through the garage door.”

Zane and Cosky shook their head in unison. “If they’ve stashed the hostages in there, we’ll end up killing the people we came to release. Besides, we can’t be certain this is the right place.”

All four men turned to glare across the grass.

“Is it too fucking much to ask that people number their damn mailboxes?” Mac braced his fists on his hips. “How in the hell did the kid get the address, anyway?”

Zane had been wondering the same thing. “We need to get them to open the door,” he said after a moment of silence. “Lure them out.”

With a disgusted snort, Mac dropped his hands. “Yeah? How the hell we gonna do that? Tell them we’re selling Girl Scout cookies?”

“Everyone shut the fuck up,” Cosky suddenly snapped.

Zane turned to find him standing with his head cocked, listening. A moment later the rest of them heard it. The low prowling growl of an engine. The crackle of tires rolling over gravel, the ping of rocks chipping away at an undercarriage.

A car was headed up the driveway.

Zane shot a quick glance at the house. If they were actually parking their vehicles inside the garage, that car could be their only chance of accessing the target without fatalities. In unison, they turned and sprinted deeper into the woods, rifles thumping against shoulders, moving as silently as possible while maintaining speed. The driveway cut through the forest in a lazy arch. There were two bends—the first less than a klick from the main road, the second just before the narrow lane broke into the open and cut a swath through the lawn.

They didn’t have a shot in hell of reaching that car before the first bend, so they had to intercept it before the second one.

This time Mother Nature and the property owner’s stinginess smiled on them. The driveway was a rutted, washed-out mess, impossible to navigate with any kind of speed.

They reached the straight section between bends before the vehicle finished navigating the first turn. Cosky and Rawls darted across the rutted strip of gravel and melted into a pocket of shrubs. Zane and Mac took cover in the dense underbrush opposite, shed their rifles and crouched.

If their luck held, the car doors would be unlocked. They could hardly shoot out the tires; the report would alert everyone within a five klick radius. Nor could they afford to render the car unusable. Stepping in front would just invite a hit and run. Their best bet was to yank open those doors and jerk the bastards out.

As the car turned the first bend, the odds shifted in their favor. Peering through a slit in the surrounding vegetation, Zane got a good look at the approaching vehicle. It was white, an older model Chrysler Sedan, and the driver’s window was down. A muscled forearm rested on top of the door. They could yank the asshole out the window if need be.

There were two people in the vehicle. The passenger was smaller, slighter, with dirty blond hair. The driver was a big bastard; heavy through the shoulders, his dark hair spiky and short. A ripple of movement caught Zane’s attention as the car passed beneath a break in the canopy, and a beam of light shimmered across the exposed bicep. Crimson and black ink undulated beneath the sun’s rays. Some kind of tattoo.

A low, menacing growl rose from his right. From Mac.

Zane froze, his heart slamming into triple digits. It was a sound unlike anything he’d heard before. Menacing. Inhuman. Like a rabid bear, or a Rottweiler on steroids. The hair lifted along his forearms and down the back of his neck.

The car rolled closer, bumping across the ruts and the ink flashed again.

That low, guttural growl broke the stillness once more.

Jesus Christ!

What the
hell
had gotten into Mac? But he couldn’t afford to check and see. The vehicle was so close; the shiver of branches on a windless day could give them away. Hell, that fucking growling could give them away. If the bastard hit the accelerator, they’d never get him out of the car.

The Chrysler rolled closer.

Ten feet.

Five feet.

Three.

Zane gathered himself, every muscle tensing, but before he took that first step, Mac leaped forward, flying through the thicket like a cannonball.

His attack was brutal and eerily silent.

* * *

As the Chrysler bumped its way down that narrow, pitted lane, an image exploded in Mac’s mind. A slender, pale neck. Feminine. The muscles bulging as she fought to lock the screams inside. Finger-shaped bruises mottled the white skin, like some obscene choke chain.

He tried to shake the vision aside, to focus on the job, but with every flash of that fucking tattoo, the image bloomed in his mind. And it was flashing a lot, as the car hit patch after patch of sun. Just as it had flashed in that bedroom with every brutal thrust of his hips between her bloody, semen-streaked thighs.

Violence wasn’t new to him. Brutality and black ops shared the same leech-infested swamps and burning stretches of sand, but there was something about the viciousness that had taken place in that bedroom… something about her white neck and furious courage, her stubborn refusal to give them the satisfaction of her screams.

The car rolled closer, the tattoo shimmered and—

Flash.

“Scream, bitch. Scream. Tell me how much you like it and maybe I’ll let those two brats live after we’re through with you.
”

Mac shook the memory aside. Burying it within his subconscious where it coiled, waiting to strike—an oily, black serpent belching rage and repugnance.

He could sense Zane tensing beside him as the car rolled closer, but at the three-foot marker, Mac’s muscles took on a life of their own and he found himself flying through the air without the memory of taking the first step. He hit the driver’s door like a rocket, yanked it open, grabbed the driver by the back of head and slammed him face-first into the dashboard to the right of the steering wheel.

The car slowed, and rolled to a stop.

“You hit that car horn and we’re fucked,” Zane said from behind him. “Drag him out.”

Hell. He hadn’t even thought about the horn. It was a miracle the driver hadn’t hit it when he’d connected with the dashboard. He needed to get his head back in the game.

Grabbing a handful of muscle shirt, Mac yanked the bastard out of the car. Zane leaned in to shove the gear into park and set the emergency brake. Cosky, he saw with a quick glance across the seats, had already dragged the passenger clear.

As the driver’s shoulders hit the gravel, he shook off the dashboard-induced lethargy and lunged for the .357 SIG tucked into the waistband of Mac’s jeans. With furious satisfaction, Mac slammed his fist into the asshole’s face.

“Scream, you bitch. Tell me how much you like it and maybe I’ll let those two brats live after we’re through with you.” He waited long enough for recognition to stir in the bronze eyes below before lifting his arm again.

Zane caught his cocked fist in an iron grip. “Jesus, Mac. What the fuck? Stand down. We need him functional.”

For one long moment Mac strained against Zane’s grip, the serpent coiled inside him vibrating with the need to strike. Of the three who’d raped and brutalized, this bastard had been the worst. He’d savored the agony he’d inflicted.

“He was on the video,” Mac said. “With Chastain’s wife.”

When Zane let go, he eased back on his knees and yanked the SIG loose from his waistband, aiming it at the driver’s head.

Zane stared down at their captive. “You said their backs were to the camera. How can you tell?”

“The tat.” Mac forced calmness into his voice.

Cosky crouched, taking a closer look at the tattoo. Mac didn’t bother checking it out. He already knew what he’d find—a harvest moon pierced by a dagger, tears of blood dripping from where the knife ripped into the moon’s flesh.

Swearing, Cosky rose to his feet. “There’s letters inside the tears. It’s some kind of fucking trophy.”

Did the harvest moon symbolize women? Each tear representing a rape? Chastain’s wife’s name was Amy. Was the bastard planning on adding an ‘A’ to his trail of tears? A ‘G’ for Beth’s friend Ginny? Mac finger tightened on the SIG’s trigger. He forced it to relax. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Zane head to the open driver’s door.