Forged in Fire (18 page)

“At least we know we’re at the right place.” Zane braced a palm against the hood and leaned inside. “There’s a garage door opener clipped to the visor. We can use it to gain entry.”

The driver stared hard at the unwavering hold Mac had on the weapon, then rolled onto his left shoulder and spit out a loogie thick with blood.

“You’ve got the wrong guy.” He turned his head and shot off another wad of bloody spittle.

“That’s not what your tat says,” Mac growled. “Or what the DNA will say.”

“We can get into the garage with this.” Zane jerked his chin at the Mac’s captive. “Tattoo here can drive. Rawls, you’re the same size and coloring as your new friend.” He nodded toward the kidnapper Rawls held at gunpoint. “You should be able to pass as him long enough to get us inside the garage.” He leaned into the car and popped the trunk. Gravel crunched underfoot as he walked to the rear of the car. “There’s enough room back here for me and Cosky. Mac can stretch out across the back seat.”

“Works for me.” Mac gestured at the driver with the gun. “Get up. You’ve been drafted.”

Tattoo studied Mac’s face, and his swollen lips twisted. “I don’t see any warrants.”

Mac shot him a nasty grin. “Sue me.”

“We should assume they have protocols in place,” Cosky’s icy gaze locked on Tattoo’s face. “Some kind of code to alert their crew to trouble.”

“No doubt.” Mac thumbed off the SIG’s safety, his smile showing plenty of teeth. “But our new friend’s going to provide every code necessary to get us into that garage. Aren’t you, motherfucker?”

The kidnapper offered another smirk. “You bet. What are friends for?”

“You think I’m blowing smoke up your ass?” Lunging forward, Mac jammed the .357 against Tattoo’s left knee. “Maybe you need some convincing.”

The driver’s smirk shifted to a sneer. He glanced down at the gun pressed against his leg and rolled his eyes. “You think I’m a fucking idiot? The FBI’s nothing more than glorified Boy Scouts. Get serious. What the fuck are you going to do if I say no? Kill me? I don’t think so.”

As Mac stared at the asshole across from him, he knew with absolute certainty that they couldn’t trust the bastard. First chance he got, the motherfucker would bungle the code, and lead them into an ambush.

They needed a different driver.

Rawls’ captive had a different temperament. Controllable. Rather than superiority, there was wariness in his watery blue eyes. He’d make an excellent chauffeur. After some conditioning.

As the driver shifted his weight from one shoulder to the other, his tattoo flickered. Mac’s gaze darted toward it, then back to his captive’s swollen but smug face.

“You keep looking at the tat. You like? I bet you got off on that video, didn’t you. I bet you liked what we did to that bitch. How we made her scream.”

That damn image mushroomed in Mac’s mind. A slender, arched neck. The muscles corded. Eyes locked on the ceiling. Endurance and courage.

“But she never screamed, did she? Not once,” Mac said, the darkness inside him stirring again. “You couldn’t take that from her.”

Tattoo’s bronze gaze went flat. Utterly cold. “She would have. By the time I was finished with her she’d have screamed herself hoarse.”

The bastard had been on his way back for another round. The serpent coiled tighter and tighter around Mac’s chest, squeezing the breath from him. Without conscious thought, the SIG migrated north.

“Give it up,” Tattoo sneered, glancing down as the gun moved. “You can’t do a fucking thing. You sure as hell aren’t gonna kill me.”

Flash.

The driving punishment of male hips hammering between spread, bloody thighs. Crimson tears weeping down a harvest moon
.

All those tears. Over a dozen of them. Each tear an initial. A name.

“You’re right,” Mac agreed with eerie calm. “I’m not going to kill you.”

He smiled and watched sudden wariness flare in the eyes across from him.

In a smooth, unhesitating move, he jammed the .357 against the driver’s crotch. As panic flooded the guy’s face, and the tattooed arm lunged forward, making a sudden grab for the gun, Mac plunged forward, slapping his palm over the guy’s mouth. The force of his grip slammed the driver’s head down to the gravel. The guy’s legs scissored. Both hands clamped onto the gun in a desperate attempt to force it away. Mac climbed onto the bastard’s knees, pinning him to the ground.

As he settled onto the kidnapper’s legs, the tattoo bulged along with the guy’s bicep, and with each flash of ink, the rage burned hotter, darker.

“I’m not FBI. Nor was I a Boy Scout.” He angled the SIG’s barrel for maximum damage, and held it in place by sheer force of will as straining, panicked hands tried to force the weapon aside. “And no, I’m not going to kill you. I want you to remember this every fucking minute you have left.”

He pulled the trigger.

The gunshot was muffled by the flesh beneath, but still loud enough to echo amid the trees.

The two hands clamped around the SIG, went lax. The body beneath him convulsed and screams pounded against his palm.

A throbbing silence fell as the report faded.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Cosky’s harsh voice splintered the silence. “You want to go Loreena Bobbitt on him, use your goddamn knife. At least you wouldn’t give our position away.”

Mac leaned into his palm, forcing the screams back down the bastard’s throat. “Who’s screaming now, you motherfucker? Although, we can’t call you that anymore, can we?”

“The report was muted,” Zane said, his voice as calm as ever. “It’s over a klick to the house, through the trees. The windows are boarded. It’s unlikely they heard anything.”

“We can’t be sure of that,” Cosky snarled.

“No. But it’s done. We’ll deal.” Gravel crunched as Zane stepped closer and Mac could feel him staring down. “He won’t be adding any more tears to that tat.” There was satisfaction in the even tone.

Mac shook his head, a sudden wave of dizziness rolling over him. The condensation from the driver’s breath was slicking his skin, breaking the seal between flesh, and some of the screams were leaking out, although they were too weak to carry much range. He adjusted his grip and the guttural cries dried up.

Shifting his weight, he glanced up. Their second captive was trying to drag Rawls across the hood of the car. Although Rawls had the passenger’s arm in an iron grip, he wasn’t paying attention to the kidnapper’s frantic bid to escape. Those sunny blue eyes were darker than Mac had ever seen and locked in disbelief on Tattoo’s shredded, bloody crotch.

“Rawls, bring your guy over,” Mac said.

Their second captive let out a low, plaintive moan. But Rawls didn’t budge, nor did his gaze lift from the blood spreading across Tattoo’s hips and down his thighs.

“Rawls,” Mac tried again, but it was Cosky who stepped over and grabbed the passenger by his elbow, dragging him forward. As their captive’s plaintive moans grew more urgent, Mac’s patience snapped. “Shut the fuck up, or you’ll be joining your buddy in eunuch land.”

The moans snapped off in mid-wail.

“You’re taking the driver’s seat.” Mac stared directly into their captive’s horrified eyes. “You’re going to get us into that house. So let’s try this again. Are there any protocols in place?”

The passenger nodded numbly, his gaze darting to the bloody pool spreading beneath his buddy’s hips. “We call. Just before we get to the house, we’re supposed to call. They open the garage door for us.”

Gravel crunched as Zane walked back to the open car door and leaned in to flip down the visor. “You don’t use the opener?”

Their captive shook his head, his gaze flitting to the gun Mac still held against Tattoo’s mangled crotch. “No, they open the doors from inside.”

“What would happen if someone used it?” Cosky asked.

The passenger’s eyes flickered toward Cosky only to compulsively shift back to the .357 SIG. “They’d know something was wrong. They’d split into two groups. One would kill the hostages. The second would set up in the garage, waiting for us.”

So they’d arrive to a massacre. “It’s a damn good thing you’re not going to touch that opener,” Mac said. “How many are waiting in the house?”

“Six.”

“So you two would have made eight,” Zane said with a quick shake of his head. “I’ll be damned, that kid
was
giving us a head count.” He turned his attention back to their new driver. “Have you called in yet?”

Their captive shook his head. “We were just about to, but—” He broke off and glanced at his buddy on the ground.

“Get him into the driver’s seat,” Mac ordered, and for the first time took a good hard look at the bloody mess below him.

Another wave of dizziness swept over him. He shook it off. “I need something to stuff in this bastard’s mouth. And the duct tape. Somebody find our bucket.”

They’d left the bottle bombs at the edge of the forest before they’d embarked on their wild flight toward the car. While Zane tore a swatch of cloth from the bottom of his shirt, and Rawls guarded their new driver, Cosky melted back into the forest in search of their Molotov cocktails. By the time Cosky returned, Tattoo had stopped struggling.

Cosky handed the tape to Zane and stowed the bucket in the backseat. Mac stuffed the SIG back in his waistband, and accepted the hunk of cloth his lieutenant commander passed to him. It took seconds to gag and bind this captive. The tattoo, smeared by blood and dirt, didn’t flash once.

“Let’s get him into the bushes,” Zane said.

For the first time since that car had started bouncing toward them, Mac turned to meet his best friend’s gaze. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to find in Zane’s eyes—maybe concern that his OIC had turned into a fucking schizoid.

Instead, Zane watched him with calm understanding.

Oddly relieved, Mac lifted Tattoo onto his shoulders and carried him into the forest, dumping him behind a thick tangle of bushes. The limp body didn’t stir as it hit the ground.

By the time he pushed through the shrubs, and emerged back on the driveway, someone had kicked a mountain of dirt over the pool of blood.

“Cosky or I will take the passenger seat.” Mac joined his team beside the open drivers’ door. “We’ve got the darker, shorter hair. With the driver blocking the camera we should be able to fool them into thinking we’re Tattoo long enough to get inside.”

“You should take wingman,” Cosky said dryly. “Our chauffeur’s so worried about his dick he’ll do whatever you tell him.” His attention shifted to Zane and his face went tight. A pulse of silence fell. “Fuck, get it over with. Might as well test those fucking visions of yours now. There may not be another chance.”

Zane, green eyes splinter-sharp, reached for Rawls’ arm. Nothing touched the calm, stillness of his face, so he must not have been hit by one of those freaky visions. He let go, turned toward Mac and lifted a dark eyebrow. After a grudging hesitation, Mac stepped forward, bracing for his buddy’s touch. Hell, all these years later, and he still couldn’t get used to this damn ritual. Knowing your own death, even if it could be averted, just felt… wrong.

But apparently his death wasn’t on the roster today. Zane moved on to Cosky.

This time, when his hand landed, every muscle in his body convulsed. He froze. His face rigid, eyes blank.

“Son of a bitch.” Cosky raised disgusted eyes to the bright blue sky and jerked his arm free. “This day just keeps fucking with me.”

Mac waited until awareness flooded the green eyes across from him. “What did you see?”

With an abbreviated nod toward Cosky, Zane dragged in a raw breath. “Blood, lots of it. Orange shag carpet.”

“Damn it.” If he benched Cosky, it put everyone at risk. They were already outmanned and outgunned. They couldn’t afford to lose another operator. He turned his attention to his disgusted lieutenant, “You’re on our six. For Christ’s sake, look sharp.”

Cosky snorted his opinion of that order.

Rawls held the gun on their captive while Cosky and Zane levered themselves up and climbed inside the trunk. It was a tight fit, but Mac managed to close the lid over the pair. Before heading for the passenger seat, he scanned the area one last time, his gaze lingering on the mountain of gravel where Tattoo had fallen. He crossed to the car and settled into his seat. Easing the door shut, he pulled out the SIG and shoved it against their captive’s ribs.

Rawls climbed into the back, the door clicked shut and he disappeared from view.

“Showtime,” Mac said, digging the gun into their driver’s flesh. “Make the call and start driving.”

Chapter Thirteen

“What’s your name?” Mac eased the .357 back a fraction. He shot a quick glance over his shoulder. Rawls lay flush with the floor mats, hidden from view. So far, so good.

“Little Mike.” Their captive simply sat there, face ashen, hands tight around the steering wheel. “Chino’s cell’s in the cupholder.” With a nervous tic of his eyelid, he slid a wary glance toward the passenger seat.

Mac checked the console between the bucket seats. Sure enough, a flip phone was tucked inside the plastic cupholder.

“Pick it up. Who’s Chino?”

Their captive loosened one rigid hand from the steering wheel and reached for the cell. “Chino’s the guy you… ah—” His breath turned choppy and whistled through the gap between his front teeth. “Tattoo.”

Yeah, no need to go there. Judging by the trembling fingers and tight face, their new pal was teetering on the brink of a meltdown. It wouldn’t hurt to do some soothing.

“You do what you’re told, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Make the call.”

“They won’t be expecting me to call. Chino does the driving and talking.”

This kind of info was exactly why this guy had been the right choice. Sure as hell Chino wouldn’t have volunteered that little secret.

“Is Chino a drinker?” Little Mike’s nod didn’t surprise him. Tattoo had the look of a man who spent a good chunk of his life in the neighborhood bars, with periodic trips home to beat the shit out of the wife and kids. “If your buddies ask—” and they probably would “—tell them Chino knocked too many back at the bar and he’s passed out beside you. Sell it. Because I guarantee you won’t like the results if you don’t.”

Their hostage nodded and swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed, but his hand was steady as he highlighted a phone number and punched the call button.

“Hey,” he said into the phone, his voice strained, but level. “You want to let us in?” He tilted his head and listened, his sandy brows knitting. “Yeah. That’s not gonna happen. Chino went on a bender. I tried to stop him… but, well… you know Chino.” He paused, shook his head. “Nah, he passed out before anything slipped. The bartender helped drag him to the car.” His voice rose a pitch. “Hey, when you report this, make sure the boss knows this wasn’t on me—okay? Thanks, man.” His tone leveled out again. “We’ll be there in a minute.” He snapped the cell closed.

“Hand it over.” Mac took the phone and tossed it into the back seat. “Now drive.”

With a quick twist of the key, the Chrysler’s engine roared to life.

“There must be a door from the garage into the house?” Mac raised his voice to compete with the sedan’s rumbling engine. “Where’s it lead?”

“Into the laundry room. From there into the kitchen.” The car started to roll down the rutted lane.

Shit. Most laundry rooms were small and narrow, full of bulky machines and lots of cupboards, which left little space for cover. Maybe they could access the house through one of the exterior doors. “You got guards on all the doors?”

Their captive nodded.

Motherfucker. “Who watches the camera feeds?”

“Each camera feeds into a separate laptop and is monitored by the guard assigned to that door.”

So they’d be spotted the moment they approached, which meant the front and back entrances were still out. “Give me a layout of the place. Where are the rooms in relationship to each other? How many guards on each door?”

The hostage slowed for a huge, deep rut running the width of the gravel drive. The sedan rattled over a dozen smaller furrows before hitting the big one and Mac gritted his teeth as the Chrysler rocked violently. Fuck, no wonder the car had been going so slow. The piece of shit had no shocks, which meant each roll of its worn tires was an exercise in isometrics.

“Living room and bedrooms to the left. Kitchen and dining room to the right. A hallway separates the two sections. The front access through the living room, back through the dining room. One man per entrance.”

“You got someone on the garage?”

“Yeah, Joey.” The car picked up speed as it came out of the grand canyon of ruts.

So they’d have eyes and ears the moment they hit the garage.

“You’re going to get Joey over to the car.” Mac shoved the SIG hard enough against Little Mike’s side to leave a circular imprint on the asshole’s kidney. “Tell him you need help getting Chino into the house.” He pitched his voice louder. “Rawls, I’ll have to curl into the passenger door. Tattoo and I are close enough in size and coloring to fool them from the back. But if they get a look at my face—we’re fucked. You’ll need to cover our new friend.”

“Copy.” Rawls’ cool voice floated up behind them.

Mac turned his attention to their chauffeur’s tense face. “My boy back there has a Smith and Wesson .500. You ever looked down the barrel of one of those babies? It’s like staring into cannon. Leaves a crater the size of a pizza box. He’s got that sucker pressed against the back of your seat and while traveling through all that foam and fabric might slow it down some, that bullet’s still gonna disintegrate a good chunk of your spine and turn your guts into soup.” He twisted the gun against Little Mike’s ribs. “You copy me?”

Their captive gave a jerky nod.

Turning to the passenger window, Mac rolled it down and angled the side mirror until he had a lock on the driver’s face. Then he hunkered down, curling his shoulders toward the door, but elevating his chin so he could keep an eye on the mirror.

The sedan turned the corner and broke into the open. Sunlight splintered the lacy shadows of the canopy overhead.

Christ, he hated going in blind. If their captive decided to grow a set of balls, he’d do so now, while Mac’s back was turned. But the cameras needed to record what their chauffeur had described.

“You said there were eight of you.” Seven now with Chino out of the picture. “Three guarding the doors. Where are the other men stationed?” Out of the corner of his eye, he caught flashes of movement as the forest spiraled past in an endless ribbon of green.

“We rotate, six on two off. Me and Chino were headed back to cover our shift.”

Mac clenched his teeth against the urge to turn and make sure a firing squad hadn’t lined up to serenade their arrival.

“There’s a guard on each family. Sixth man’s a floater.” The car sped up as the ruts smoothed out.

Standing orders were likely to kill the families the minute trouble reared. They’d be hard-pressed to reach the civilians before their guards started firing. “Where are the families?”

“They keep to the bedrooms.”

He stifled a growl. The civilians were on the opposite end of the house, with an army of armed guards between them and the insertion point. Fucking Beautiful.

The driver suddenly slowed and honked.

Mac’s muscles seized. “What the fuck was
that
?”

“We always honk.” Little Mike’s voice climbed. “To let them know we’re here.”

“And you couldn’t tell me that?”

“I forgot!” His tone skated the edge of the ozone layer, high and thin.

Mac regulated his breathing, and forced himself to relax. A grating rumble sounded as the garage door rolled up. When the sound ceased, the car eased forward again.

“Hey, Joey,” their driver called as the car rolled to a stop. “You wanna help me get Chino into the house?”

“We should just leave—” The rumbling of the garage door as it came down, drowned the voice out.

Their chauffeur waited until the door touched down. Dusk descended as the last patch of sunlight fractured and dissipated. “Yeah, well. You want to be the one to explain to him why we made him sleep it off in the car?”

“Serves him right,” a clipped voice said, each word gaining strength and clarity as the target neared the car. “Drinking on a job? What was he thinking? He’ll be lucky to have his balls when the boss hears about this.”

Little Mike made a choking sound. Mac tightened his grip on the Sig.

Footsteps rounded the hood of the car.

“Hey, what the—” The exclamation came directly above passenger door. Mac shot his arm through the open window, grabbed the target by his scruffy t-shirt and jerked him forward, slamming him face-first into the doorframe. An ugly crack sounded. Blood spritzed the air.And then Mac was out of the sedan, weapon pressed to the bastard’s throat.

“One word, just one. Give me an excuse,” Mac whispered as he scanned the interior of the garage. No cameras. He shot a quick glance toward the laundry room door.

Closed.

Their newest draftee must have shut it behind him. How considerate of him.

Rawls had the driver out and down on the floor. All in all, this insertion had gone smoother than he’d expected. Which, in Mac’s experience, meant that things were about to go straight to hell.

* * *

Zane shifted in the cramped trunk, easing his shoulders off the crowbar digging into his spine. How far had they traveled down the driveway? The sedan’s erratic speed made it difficult to estimate their progress.

“Can we trust he’s not gonna lose it in there?” Cosky’s low voice echoed in the dimness.

“Back off.” Zane winced as they hit a bump and his temple collided with the back of Cosky’s head. “We didn’t see the video.”

He fixed his gaze on a thin bead of light glowing between the upper and lower gaskets sealing the trunk. They were going to be at a major disadvantage when the latch was popped, at least until their eyes adjusted.

“I don’t give a fuck about the video. He went apeshit. He should have known better. Can we trust he’s not gonna lose it again?”

“You’ve gone wheels-up with him. You need to ask that?”

Silence built. “He’s been out of the field for a couple of years.”

Hell. Zane twisted and scowled toward the ceiling. Cosky was right and no matter how he sugarcoated it, that gunshot
had
put the team at risk. If it had been heard they were screwed. Mac
should
have known better.

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.