Forged in Fire (20 page)

“You fucking—”

Mac locked onto the target’s sternum and squeezed off two quick shots.

At the last possible millisecond, the guard spun and dropped to one knee. The rounds plunged into the wall above his head, with a hollow
thwack-thwack
.

Son of a fucking bitch.

Amy Chastain shot him one disgusted, disbelieving look and dropped to the ground.

Before he could line up a second shot, the bastard sprayed the surrounding area—from the kitchen to the laundry room—with a burst of submachine fire. Mac ducked out of sight.

“Jesus Christ,” Cosky roared from behind him. “You fucking missed?”

Mac glanced to the left, in the general direction of the living room. There went their stealthy infiltration. Those bastards guarding the kids would be on the move now.

He hoped to God that Amy knew what she’d been doing when she’d passed the SIG off. Because, sure as hell, Ginny was going to need it.

* * *

“And this is the library,” Mrs. Simcosky said, leading Beth into a generous room with a fire flickering in a river rock fireplace. “Or, as Mason liked to call it, my love den.” She drifted to one of the floor to ceiling book shelves and trailed her fingers down a bevy of colorful spines. “He used to call my books ‘the other men’.”

When she turned to Beth, there was a mixture of bittersweet amusement and loss on her face. Beth reached for her hostess’s hand and gave it a comforting squeeze before stepping farther into the room. The cherry finish of the bookcases glowed beneath the firelight.

Although her condo served her needs for the moment, eventually she’d intended to buy a bigger place. A home with some character and a lot more space. She’d planned to convert one of the rooms into a sanctuary, where she could sink into an overstuffed couch and read those cold, rainy days away.

Her dream library had looked much like this, with the same big-screen television stashed in the corner and well-worn furniture just waiting to welcome someone into their comfortable depths. Not to mention the bookcases, with their row upon row of colorful spines.

Drawn to the overflowing shelves, Beth stared at the rainbow assortment of books. She recognized many of the titles, even more of the authors. It felt like arriving at a new acquaintance’s party, and discovering a dozen good friends. Except… the familiar titles, and authors didn’t offer the same appeal as they had in the past.

Somehow, immersing herself in a fantasy didn’t hold the same allure. Maybe because she’d tasted the real thing. Felt the press of Zane’s hard body against hers. Breathed in his smoky, musky scent. Listened to his deep, calm voice.

She swayed as the realization hit. She missed him.

Missed his heated presence beside her, warming her from the inside out. Missed that steady, confident tone. The tingles his touch set off. The fire in those molten kisses.

How was that possible? How she could miss a man she’d hadn’t even known a full day? A man she had nothing in common with? A man she had no real relationship with?

Even more insidious was the worry for him. Fear of what he might be facing, what
they
might be facing. She tried to shake it aside. If anyone could take care of himself, it was Zane. He and his buddies were trained for hostage situations. They’d faced combat and emerged unscathed. Look how easily they’d taken down the hijackers at the airport.

Except—a sneaky voice whispered—the hijackers at the airport had been unarmed. God only knew what kind of weapons they were facing at the moment.

Beth turned back to the bookshelves in the hope of distracting herself. It wasn’t fair to let her fear infect Marion. Zane wasn’t the only one risking his life out there. Three other men were right there beside him, and one of them was this woman’s son.

“Try not to worry,” Marion said, her gray eyes as dark and turbulent as storm clouds just before the thunder rolled. “If you give in to it—the fear—it will chew you up inside.”

So much for her determination not to worry the woman. Beth stared at the rows of colorful titles occupying the shelves. At least half of the books were romantic suspense. Love and danger, they went hand in hand in such books. But in real life, the mix wasn’t nearly as satisfying.

“Does it get any easier? Watching that door close behind them?”

A pulse of silence fell.

“No,” Marion finally said. “If anything it gets worse, as you start calculating the odds. The smart woman learns how to deal with it.”

Beth stared at the hundreds of books lining the walls. Hundreds of covers full of happily-ever-afters. Was this how Marion had coped? By sinking into imaginary worlds every time her husband walked out the door? Every time her son walked out it now? Had she buried herself in a mirror reality in the hope of escaping the ugly one surrounding her? Buried herself in imaginary worlds where she could count on the bad guys being defeated, and the good girls getting their man, and everyone living happily ever after? Where she could count on the literary hero walking through the door at the end of the book, even if she couldn’t count on her own hero doing so at the end of his shift?

A familiar cover caught her attention. Beth gently wiggled the book free.
Mackenzie’s Mountain
, one of her favorite books. A comfort read. One she’d read so many times her copy was tattered and torn. Yet, it offered no comfort now. She put the book back.

“Was he a SEAL, like Cosky? Your husband, I mean?”

“No,” Mrs. Simcosky said, her voice thick with grief. “He was a cop when I met him. A detective when he died.”

“How did he die?”

The laugh that echoed through the room was raw with irony. “Not in the line of duty, if that’s what you’re wondering. Cancer took him. Lung cancer. Even though he’d quit smoking years earlier, long before I met him.” She walked over to Beth, and stared at the dusted and polished shelves. “All those years of worrying,” she murmured, “of terrifying myself every time a knock sounded on the door. Only to lose him in a hospital. In a bed.”

The echo of past fears seemed to swell in the room, the pulse of fresh grief.

Suddenly, all those colorful spines seemed to suck the oxygen from the air. She was suffocating. Suffocating beneath the knowledge that somewhere across town four good men were most likely under fire. Possibly injured, or even dying.

Because in real life, people died who didn’t deserve it. Women were raped. Sons lost their fathers, and wives their husbands. In the real world, life wasn’t fair and you couldn’t count on a happy ending. Good men died. Families were fractured. Whether because of cancer, or a bullet in the family van, or submachine fire in some crappy little tract house across town, they died.

As though she understood Beth’s sudden panic, Marion Simcosky linked their arms and drew her into the warm kitchen, fragrant with the aroma of baking brownies.

“They’re Marcus’s favorite,” Marion confided, dropping Beth’s arm and picking up a pot holder. “The timing should be perfect. They’ll have cooled enough to eat by the time the boys return. No doubt they’ll have worked up an appetite.”

A bubble of hysteria formed in Beth’s throat.
Worked up an appetite?
As though they’d participated in some kind of extreme sports competition?

As Marion focused on the brownies, Beth turned to the sink. Her eyes were drawn to the window looking out over the backyard. On the other side of the glass, above a round table carved from some kind of reddish wood, hung a spiral set of metal wind chimes. They spun in the light breeze, rotating in and out, and an airy melody drifted through the kitchen window.

Beth breathed in the light, harmonic sound. Her tight muscles slowly loosened. How soothing. Her condo had an outside porch. She could pick up a patio set and hang some wind chimes. Why wait? There was no reason—

A blur of movement to her left caught her attention and she turned her head, expecting to see a bird flitting through Marion’s backyard. Or maybe a cat stalking the bird, or perhaps a dog chasing the cat. Which reminded her of that old nursery rhyme—
there once was an old woman who swallowed a fly
.

She was still smiling when the blur of movement took shape. It stepped out of a swath of bushes to the left. She swayed, dropped her hands to the sink to steady herself. Stared so hard her eyes burned. It was an animal, all right. Of the most lethal variety. A two-legged monster. In muscled arms, he cradled an MP5.

Beth dug her fingers into the metal sink, the stainless steel cold and damp against her fingertips. The bubble of hysteria took shape again, climbed her throat.

She must be dreaming. Dreaming while awake now.

His face was flat. A thin, jagged scar curving along his hairline. Hair cut short and stubby, in some kind of military cut. She recognized the face, the muddy sheen to his eyes, even the weapon he carried. She recognized them all. From the nightmare.

“Mrs. Simcosky?” Her voice emerged eerily calm.

But then this couldn’t be happening. They weren’t at the airport. This was a private residence. How would the hijackers know where to find her?

“Please, call me Marion.” The oven door creaked and a rush of heat baked Beth’s backside.

“Marion? Would you come here?”

The brutal face turned in her direction. Flat, dead eyes locked on her face.

“In a moment, dear.” The metal baking rack rattled. “I need to get these—”

“Now.” Beth’s voice rose as man in the window lifted his arm and spoke into a device strapped to his wrist. “I need you to come here
now
.”

Marion must have dropped the brownie pan, because there was a metallic bang behind her. The oven door slammed shut and the billowing heat evaporated.

“Do you see him?” she asked the moment Marion joined her at the sink.

“You mean the man with the Uzi?” Marion’s voice was so matter-of-fact, it reinforced Beth’s disbelief.

“It’s not an Uzi. It’s an MP5,” Beth corrected and that bubble of hysteria almost escaped in a giggle.

“Well, don’t just stand there.” Exasperation edged Mrs. Simcosky’s tone. “Let’s skedaddle.”

To the left, down the hall leading to the front entrance, came a crash. The tinkle of shattering glass. The screech of splintering wood.

The devil in the window raised his gun.

Chapter Fifteen

Mac scuttled back, the urgent
rat-tat-tat
-of the MP5 echoing in his ears. The doorjamb detonated into mangled chunks of wood and lethally sharpened slivers.

Amy scrambled on her hands and knees toward the refrigerator as the cupboards and counters to her right erupted into wood pulp.

“Me and Cos are headed out front,” Zane said from behind him. “We’ll take down the front door.”

Mac grunted in acknowledgement. With luck, Zane’s attack would keep the guard in the living room so busy he wouldn’t get a chance to take out the kids.

“Give me your backup.” Mac stuck his hand back.

He grabbed the weapon Zane pressed in his palm, crouched and slid it to Amy, who’d yanked open the refrigerator and was huddled behind the door. As the gun slid across the linoleum, he stuck his Glock around the mangled doorframe and fired. The bastard in the dining room jammed down the trigger of his MP5 and rattled out another dozen rounds.

Amy snatched up the gun, gave it a quick once-over, and clicked off the safety. She listened, head cocked, and at a lull in the
rat-tat-tat
scooted to the edge of the fridge door, stuck her arm out and fired.

A cacophony of bullets struck the cupboards and counters in front of her. Dust, wood pulp and tatters of linoleum misted the air.

Mac frowned. MP5 rounds could penetrate wood. Their position remained secure since the laundry room shared a wall with the garage, rather than the dining room. The fridge provided Amy a measure of safety. But some of those rounds could have penetrated the west wall and riddled the room beyond. If that room happened to be where these bastards had stashed the kids, they could be looking at fatalities.

At a break in the submachine fire, he thrust his arm out and snapped off a round. Another prolonged bombardment hammered the laundry room’s arch. The doorjamb shrunk by a couple more inches. Swearing, he glanced at Amy. Neither of them could expose their heads long enough to line up a shot.

They needed a distraction.

He set his gun on the floor and grabbed the Molotov cocktail. It was far from an ideal choice. Once the weapon detonated, they’d have five minutes—give or take—before flames and smoke took their toll. The linoleum would slow the blaze and the bedrooms were on the opposite end of the house. Still, he hated like hell using fire with kids in the house. But he didn’t have much choice. They had to break this stalemate. He couldn’t count on Zane and Cos breaking down the front door in time to turn the tide. Without some kind of movement, the kids wouldn’t be the only casualties.

Bottle bombs had one huge advantage. On impact, the gasoline sprayed outward. If the target was within a four-foot radius, he’d go up in flames.

Down the hall, on the opposite end of the house, a steady barrage of gunfire broke out. Zane and Cosky were chipping away at the front entrance. Amy Chastain flinched at the sound. Her head jerked toward the front room. She started to rise.

“My men,” Mac shouted at her. “They’re taking down the front door.”

She glanced toward the laundry room, her eyes skimming past Mac, and visibly relaxed.

He skidded the Molotov cocktail across the floor toward her. She was closer to their tango, with a direct shot into the dining room from across the kitchen counter.

Hope flared in her eyes. She stretched her fingers toward the rolling bottle.

Mac dug into his pocket, tossed a Bic lighter at her and snatched his weapon back up. Then glanced over, checking on his female partner—Christ, who would have thought it?

She crouched there. Frozen. Bic in one hand, Molotov cocktail in the other. Slowly, her head turned toward the kitchen wall, and Mac knew she was thinking about her kids. When her head swiveled back, he caught the recognition in her eyes.

They were out of options.

Her hands were steady as she sparked the lighter and set the tampon ablaze.

He’d wasted six rounds so far, which left four in the magazine. And he didn’t have a backup piece. The rest of his shots had to count.

Another quick glance at Amy. Those calm hazel eyes were locked on his face, waiting. He nodded, rolled toward the doorjamb, thrust the Glock out, and started firing.

The MP5 coughed to life with that fucking
rat-tat-tat
and the doorframe shuddered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her take a quick peek above the counter and lob the bottle.

A muffled pop sounded as something punched through his palm. His gun went spinning, clattered across the floor. Numbness swallowed his hand, crept up his forearm. Swearing, he jerked back, fell on his ass.

In the dining room, glass shattered. There was a whoosh, and the acidic stink of igniting gasoline. The submachine fire went wild. Chunks of sheetrock and insulation rained down.

And then a male voice started screaming.

“My turn.” Rawls grabbed him by the collar and dragged him back, then stepped over him to take point.

Bracing his wrists against the doorjamb, Rawls snapped off a couple of shots.

Amy Chastain popped up as well, and fired from behind the counter. The screaming fractured in mid-shriek.

Swearing, Mac glared down at his hand. Numbness extended from his palm into his fingers and up his wrist. He’d expected to find a bloody hole where a bullet—or two—had plowed through the flesh. Instead, a sliver the size of a steak knife pierced the middle of his palm from front to back. His tingling fingers dripped crimson.

Gingerly, he rolled onto his knees, careful not to jar the injured appendage.

Rawls shifted positions and glanced down the hall toward the living room. He gestured at Amy. She nodded and turned, firing down the hall.

“We can’t assume that bastard’s dead.” Mac forced himself to his feet. The movement set the wound off, and the Novocain sensation dissolved until his entire hand throbbed like a motherfucker.

“He’s up in flames, Commander.”

Rawls’ backup weapon was plugged into his waistband and bulging against the white cotton of his t-shirt. Mac yanked the material up and liberated the piece.

“You’re righthanded.” Rawls’ hooded gaze dropped to Mac’s bloody hand.“Ambidextrous.” Mac thumbed off the safety.

Amy fired down the hall and Rawls darted across the narrow space between the laundry room and kitchen.

Mac checked out the dining room. A bonfire leapt from a charred, motionless bundle. The flames escalated from a hiss to a roar and the ceiling caught fire. In seconds, the blaze resembled a hellish mushroom. Clouds of smoke spiraled toward the hall.

His eyes started to burn. They needed to get moving.

Gunfire still pounded the living room. God only knew which side was taking the brunt of that heat. Time to get their asses down that hall. He shifted into a half-crouch.

“Cover me,” Amy shouted, and stepped around Rawls.

Like fucking hell
. Mac sent Rawls an urgent
grab her
gesture and relaxed as his lieutenant latched onto her arm, hauling her back.

“Rawls,” he said, his eyes tearing.

“Got your back.” The words were coughed more than spoke.

Mac’s lungs began to burn. They needed to get the fuck out of this smoke. He glanced back at the dining room. The ceiling blazed. Flames licked toward the kitchen. Christ, that sucker was escalating faster than it should have.

Crouching, his weapon extended, Mac headed down the hall.

* * *

The first wave of unease hit Zane as he ducked beneath the garage door while it was rolling up. His heart stuttered, then warped into overdrive. Cosky’s dead face flashed through his mind. Whatever was going to happen would happen soon. His stride faltered.

Cosky slowed beside him and shot him a quick, hard look. Zane picked up speed again.

Out of the blue, an urgent impulse to call Beth slammed through him. He shoved the compulsion back down.

They shot out the cameras as they raced along the outside wall. No need to hide their presence, but submachine rounds penetrated wood as easily as flesh and the cameras would give their location for cluster shooting.

They took up position on either side of the door. Cosky reached out and tried the knob. It didn’t budge. Big fucking surprise.

Together, they aimed their weapons at the sweet spot on the doorframe that housed the door’s bolting mechanism. The wood disintegrated beneath the barrage of bullets. It took a full clip each to chip the bolt free. They paused to reload.

There had been no return fire, but without the cameras, the kidnappers wouldn’t know where to concentrate their shots. They could be conserving ammunition.

Cosky glanced at him, and moved into position in front of the door. Zane flanked him, weapon ready. One hard kick of Cosky’s booted heel broke the door loose. Zane fired the moment it started moving. Cosky joined in. The door flew forward, crashed into the wall behind, and bounced back.

Still no return fire.
What the fuck?
Maybe the living room guard had joined the fray in the kitchen. Or maybe he’d headed for the kids. Too many fucking maybes.

Cosky stepped to the right. Zane moved to the left, until they straddled the entrance. They crouched low, leaned back slightly, weapons extended. With the toe of his boot, Zane nudged the door open. This time a burst of gunfire greeted him. He ducked back.

Toward the back of the house, amid the rattle of MP5 fire, someone started screaming.

Cosky stuck his weapon through the opening between the door and frame and fired off a couple of rounds. Return fire thunked against the door jamb. Cosky snatched his arm out as the edge of the door splintered.

Son of a bitch
.They were getting nowhere.

The distinct scent of gasoline, smoke and charred flesh wafted out to him. Mac must have used his Molotov cocktail. Zane discarded the possibility of doing the same. Unlike the dining room, the living room was carpeted, which decreased their window by several minutes. It was also right next to the bedrooms. They’d be blocking the kids’ only avenue of escape.

He’d have to go in fast and low. Drop the target with his first shot.

Zane lowered himself into position.

A whistle snapped his head up. Cosky made a fist. Thumped his chest.

The memory of blood flashed through Zane’s mind, shag carpet. He shook his head. Cosky swore, thumped his chest again, his eyes blazing.

Glaring back, Zane pointed at the door and held up five fingers. At the five-second mark, Cosky’s boot hit the door and he thrust his weapon around the doorjamb, holding it high. Submachine fire battered the jamb next to Cosky’s arm. A muffled thunk. A hiss from Cosky. Simultaneously, Zane launched himself through the door. He came in hard and low. Sighted on the bald, burly tango in the corner. Fired. Twice. Heard the twin wet
thwacks
of his rounds striking home and the pluck, pluck, pluck of MP5 rounds plowing into the wall behind his head. He hit the carpet—fucking orange shag—and rolled, came up shooting, reassured by the sound of Cosky’s Smith & Wesson as it coughed out bullet after bullet to his left.

The figure in the corner grunted, wheezed out a death rattle, and slowly pitched forward.

Zane scanned the living room. “Clear.”

Cosky swung through the door in a half-crouch, gun extended, a streak of blood bright against his forearm “Are you fucking crazy? You forget you have someone to live for now?”

Yeah. Like he was going to let Cosky or anyone on his team take all the dangerous ops from now on. “You’re hit,” he said. But one quick glance assured him the wound wasn’t serious. He started for the motionless, splayed body in the corner. They could use that MP5.

Sudden movement across the room sent them diving for cover behind a couch.

“Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot!” Ginny Clancy shouted. “I’ve got the kids. Don’t shoot.”

Zane swore, his heart slamming against his chest. He eased his finger off the trigger. Jesus, he’d been a twitch away from coming up shooting.

“Christ,” Cosky said from behind him, his voice just as shaken.

“Don’t shoot. We’re coming out,” the woman yelled again.

Zane started to rise, but a wave of foreboding slammed through him. He froze. It was unlike anything he’d felt before. It rolled through him with the force of a tsunami, sucking the breath from his lungs and the strength from his limbs. Burying him beneath a tidal wave of fear.

Intense, soul-sucking terror. Beth’s terror.

He felt the bright, white heat of Beth’s presence in his mind. Images started flashing.
Marion Simcosky’s kitchen. A window. A hard-faced man, with cold eyes. Thick arms cradling an MP5. Marion’s fragile back as she fled down a hall
.

Frozen, sweat breaking out across his back, Zane rode the flashes out.
Jesus. Jesus. Jesus.
Panic screamed through him, zapping every nerve alight. Something was wrong.… Something was terribly wrong and he wasn’t there to protect her.

“What’s—” Cosky started to ask.

“Look out! Behind you!” Ginny screamed as two shots rang out behind them, from the direction of the open front door.

The unmistakable wet
thwack thwack
sounded of bullets plowing into flesh. Cosky grunted, and pitched forward, his body a huge, smothering weight collapsing on top of Zane. The gun coughed again. A third round shook Cosky’s body. He coughed out a thick groan.

Jesus. Jesus. Cosky hit. Cosky down.

Even as he shifted—those fucking images still reeling through his mind like a silent movie—the gun coughed again. Cosky’s body twitched, but without a sound.

Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. How bad? How bad?

His vision finally clearing and Beth’s presence receding from his mind, Zane felt the warm, wet spread of blood soaking into his shirt. His jeans.

Cosky’s blood.

Smelled the metallic, sweet scent of looming death.

Zane focused. Tightened his blood slick fingers on the Glock and shoved Cosky’s dead weight aside. But even as he twisted to face the threat, he knew he wouldn’t get his shot lined up before that fucking gun went off again.