Forged in Fire (2 page)

“I won’t recognize anyone,” she promised herself.

“I’m sorry, did you say something?”

She released a tight laugh. “Talking to myself.”

“Oh.” He took that as an invitation to stay and sat down, smiling as she slid over. He set a laptop case between his feet. “Russ Branson.” He offered his hand.

She took it. “Beth Brown.”

“Well, Beth Brown, what flight are you on?”

“PacAtlantic 2077, to Hawaii.” Which wasn’t a complete lie. She did have a boarding pass.

“Too bad.” Regret darkened his brown eyes. “I’m headed to the Twin Cities myself. Minneapolis.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “You’re not on Flight 2077?”

“No. My gate’s next door.”

The greasy bile rose again. So she wouldn’t have recognized him from the dream after all. Her pulse thundering, she straightened in her seat and squared her shoulders. Time to stop this foolishness. Still, it took every ounce of willpower to force her gaze up.

Across from her, an untidy pile of duffle bags spilled across the floor in front of a bench. A teenager with dirty blond hair, ripped jeans and a hooded red sweatshirt slouched against the blue plastic.

This time the shock wasn’t a hot, noisy rush—it was ice-cold and piercing.

The rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire. That dirty blond head slamming back, almost white against the dark blue upholstery of the headrest and then exploding in a burst of blood, brains and bone
.

He’d been in seat J32. Directly in front of Zane Winters.

“Mommy, how much longer?”

Slowly, her head turned, tracking the childish voice.

A middle-aged woman shuffled past, a young child clinging to her hand. The little girl was maybe five or six with dark hair pulled into two untidy pigtails, and a stuffed yellow duck clutched to the embroidered heart on her pink sweatshirt.

“Just one more flight, baby, and then we’ll be home. Daddy will be waiting for us.”

Mouth wide open, a young girl endlessly screamed. One dark pigtail dripped blood. A crimson duck, splotched with yellow, clamped to her rigid chest.

“Hey, maybe you better lie down. You’re white as a ghost,” her Good Samaritan said.

Beth barely heard him. Her gaze returned to the tallest of the trio against the wall. In the dream, Zane Winters had been intimidating enough. In real life, he was even more so. The hard planes of his face looked cast in stone. His well-washed jeans and faded blue t-shirt did little to disguise the lean, powerful frame roped with muscle. He was a warrior. She could see it in his unyielding expression, hooded eyes and rangy physique honed to weapon-sharpness.

Hardly the kind of man to believe in ESP, or premonitions, or crazy women raving about ominous visions.

Dark hair soaked with blood. Sightless green eyes staring up, a milky film clouding the emerald fire. A crimson stain mushrooming beneath his splayed, bullet-riddled body. Rough hands shoving him over, working a drenched wallet loose from the back pocket and pulling out a driver’s license. “Zane Winters, just like the boss said
.”

The breath she drew sounded wrenching and raw. The passengers were real. Every last one of them. Real.

So far everything she’d dreamed the night before had come true. The fire in the abandoned warehouse off Whitaker. Shelby calling about the divorce. And now the travelers waiting to board Flight 2077, Seattle to Honolulu, were the same people who had died in the nightmare.

The paralyzing dizziness struck again. Still as a fawn in hiding, she waited it out. Was she still asleep? But she remembered waking up and drinking her coffee before climbing into her car. She remembered turning on the radio and listening to the news about the fire as she drove to work.

So if the fire had happened, and Shelby’s news about the divorce and the passengers were real—she had to assume the rest of the dream would come true too.

Unless she stopped it.

The hijackers in her nightmare had been blond and jovial, only to morph into cold-blooded killers as soon as the plane lifted off.

She searched the teeming departure gate, but couldn’t find them amid the clusters of chattering people. After a second sweep, she released a relieved breath. They must not have arrived yet.

“When does your flight leave?” the Good Samaritan asked.

She glanced at the clock on the wall behind the ticket counter. “An hour and a half.”

Ninety minutes to convince someone to believe her and prevent a hijacking.

“You want to get something to eat?”

“I’m sorry. I’m really not up to eating.”

Any other time Beth would have taken him up on the offer. He was exactly the kind of man she responded to. Gentle, a bit geeky—someone she felt comfortable around. He reminded her of Todd.

Her attention shifted to the three warriors lounging against the wall. Scratch that, two warriors. The third man, the other lean, dark and dangerous-looking one, had disappeared. Her gaze lingered on Zane Winters’ hard face. Comfortable was not a word she associated with him, which was fine, since such men rarely noticed she existed. But God help her, what she wouldn’t give to have him beside her at the moment. He would know what to do. He would know how to stop it.

Her Good Samaritan followed her gaze across the room and rose to his feet.

“I see.” His voice thinned, and a hint of coldness touched his eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

With a shrug, he walked away.

Her attention swung back to the two men against the wall. She needed a plan. Sitting here accomplished nothing. But what exactly should she do?

She could go to her supervisor and tell him about the dream. Frowning, she rejected the idea. The weasel-faced little rat had been gunning for her since the incident in the hallway last fall. If weapons were actually discovered, he’d probably accuse her of being involved and get her fired, or worse.

The machine guns must have been stashed earlier. Those cold-blooded monsters had pulled them out from beneath their seats. What were the chances that the weapons were already onboard? Todd… as an engineer, he had access to the PacAtlantic fleet. He could board the plane from the tarmac and search for the guns. She plucked her cell phone from her purse and scrolled through her contact list until she found his name. The call rang and rang, before going to voicemail. She hadn’t seen him that morning. Maybe Ginny had finally persuaded him to call in sick. He’d been fighting the flu for a week now. She tried Ginny’s number next, but the call went straight to voicemail. Frustrated, she stuffed the cell back in her purse.

Maybe she should head back to the inbound security gates. She could pull one of the guards aside and explain. But explain what, exactly? That she’d had a nightmare and feared it was about to come true? They’d think she was a nut job. Besides, once they knew her name, they’d know she worked for PacAtlantic and she could kiss her job goodbye.

She could call in an anonymous bomb threat. But she’d have to do it outside of the airport and away from security cameras. Maybe with one of those disposable cell phones. If she claimed a bomb was beneath the seats, someone was bound to search the plane. At least the guns would be found.

But the killers would go free.

Sure, the passengers would live. But those bastards would just do the same thing on some other flight. She needed a plan to stop them
and
put them behind bars.

Swallowing hard, Beth opened her eyes. She needed someone to believe her, or at least listen to her story with an open mind. But she couldn’t afford to wait for Todd. It could be hours before he returned her call. Her attention flickered back to the two men across the room. To her surprise, Zane Winters was watching her. He snared her gaze and held it, something sensual and heated twisting between them.

She jerked her eyes away. Obviously, she’d imagined
that
. She simply wasn’t the kind of woman lethal men played eye-footsie with. A quick peek a few seconds later proved the assumption. He’d turned away and was leaning to the right, head cocked—listening to his blond friend.

The third man, the other dark-haired one, rejoined the two against the wall. With a subtle shift of broad shoulders and muscular bodies, the three formed a loose huddle, blocking outside observation.

What were they talking about so intensely? Were they talking about her? Had they noticed all the glances she’d been sending their way? Maybe they’d misunderstood her interest.

Embarrassment crawled through her, but it quickly cooled. In the nightmare, one of Zane’s friends had called him lieutenant. Maybe he was a cop, or in the army. As a lieutenant, wouldn’t he have connections? If she convinced him something was going to happen on the plane, maybe he could get the flight delayed, but in such a way the hijackers could be apprehended.

If he gave her the brush off, she’d fall back on Plan B and call in the bomb threat.

Her cheeks heated as she stuffed her purse under her arm and rose to her feet. Zane Winters was going to think she was coming on to him. He was going to think she’d made this whole story up just to draw his attention. But she had to try. She couldn’t live with herself if all those people died, and she’d done nothing to stop it.

She was half way across the terminal when something icy and threatening drilled into the hollow between her shoulder blades. The hair on the back of her neck lifted. Raw fear squeezed the breath from her lungs.

Someone was watching her. Someone ice-cold and deadly. She could feel those malevolent eyes locked on her spine.

* * *

Zane scowled at the couple sharing the bench across the room. The prick with the glasses and laptop had hit on her the moment she’d sat down. Was still hitting on her. Fuck the decision to keep her at a distance. If Loverboy moved a fraction of an inch closer, he was heading over and breaking every bone in the bastard’s body.

Forcing his gaze away, he scanned the assembled passengers, studying expressions, gestures and postures. Rawls, who lounged beside him, surveyed the crowd as thoroughly. But within seconds Zane’s attention migrated toward the right again. Toward that damn bench.

The pull toward her kept getting stronger. It took every ounce of restraint he possessed not to break position and claim what was his. He hated the loss of control. Hated the fact he couldn’t trust himself, couldn’t trust his muscles to take orders from his brain.

He’d known the hunger would be strong when he found her. But he hadn’t expected the sheer ferocity of the pull, or to lose his self-control. And he sure as shit hadn’t expected the ugly urge to break apart any poor asshole that so much as looked at her.

But then he hadn’t expected to find her in the middle of a crisis, either.

What a fucking mess.

“How you doin’, skipper?” Rawls asked quietly.

“Fine,” Zane snapped, ripping his attention from the bench and scanning the departure gate again. “Where’s Cosky? He should be back by now.”

They’d made several sweeps of the departure gate since Cosky had left to call Mac. By now they should have been able to pinpoint where the threat was coming from. If their target was an amateur, he’d be easy to spot—body posture and facial expressions would give him away. The fact that nothing struck them as odd or out of the ordinary indicated a clusterfuck of massive proportions. If the man behind the weapon was one of the laughing, chatting throng, then he was a professional and they were in deep shit.

The next time he glanced toward her, Loverboy had disappeared. Zane relaxed, at least until her gaze shifted, snaring his. A current of awareness arced between them and heat rolled through him. The sharp tug toward her actually straightened him against the wall.

Son of a bitch. He
had
to get this reaction under control. But she was the one to turn away.

“She’s the one, isn’t she? The one you’ve been waiting for. Like with your dad and brothers.” Disbelief rang in Rawls’ voice.

“Yeah.”

“And you just… know?”

“Something like that.”

Although it went deeper than simply knowing. It was a tug in his bones, embedded in his cells. Hell, it spiraled right down to his DNA. It was the visceral certainty that she belonged to him.

When he caught sight of Cosky’s dark head weaving through the throng of vacationers, Zane straightened.

“Mac’s behind closed doors,” Cosky said as soon as he joined them. “Radar wouldn’t budge on disturbing him. Said to call back in thirty.” He glanced at the clock on the wall behind the ticket counter and braced his fists on his hips. “It’s tight, but workable. We’ve got ninety minutes before boarding, plenty of time for Mac to get on the horn and get the bird grounded.” Frowning, he scanned the packed room. “Pick anything up on recon?”

Zane shook his head and scowled. “If he’s here, the bastard’s a pro. He isn’t giving anything away.”

With a twist of his shoulders, Cosky scanned the gate area. His gaze lingered on the bench in front of the main corridor and the blond woman sitting stock-still upon it. “What gives? You locked onto her like a guided missile the moment she entered the terminal. You can’t keep your eyes off her. Yet she’s sitting over there all by her lonesome.”

Since there was no way he was going to admit he couldn’t trust himself to remain focused if she came any closer, Zane settled for a half truth. “We don’t know what’s going on. Could be someone’s tracked us down and we’re the targets. I don’t want her anywhere near us until we’ve assessed the danger.”

Of course it would help if he could concentrate on something besides her long enough to do his job. But his attention had splintered the moment she entered the gate room. He was acting like a goddamn adolescent with his first hard-on. Even now, his cock throbbed with a heartbeat of its own.

“I hate to break the bad news,” Rawls said, shooting Zane a quick look. “But your little honey’s on her way over.”

Shit
.

Zane folded his arms across his chest, set his jaw and shifted until she faced his back. He couldn’t afford this. Not only would her presence put her in danger, but she was enough of a distraction across the terminal. Having her up close and touchable was just asking for trouble.