Forged in Fire (6 page)

“Yeah, well.” Zane rubbed his chin, and tried not to look satisfied. “I’ve got a plan to make you look less suspicious.”

Rawls started laughing.

Zane snapped off a glare and turned his attention back to Beth’s suddenly leery expression.

“Pay attention, Cosky,” Rawls drawled, managing to hold back the laughter long enough to force the words out. “We’re about to witness some of the finest rationalization known to man.” He started laughing again.

Zane ignored him.

Beth looked from Rawls to Zane, and back to Rawls. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

Fuck. He hadn’t intended to broach the subject like this, but any good strategist knew to regroup and redeploy. “The best way to clear you of suspicion is to give you another reason to be at the airport, spur of the moment, without your clothes.”

Nervousness touched her face. Her eyes skittered to Rawls, who’d leaned back against one of the steel rungs of the shelving. He’d stopped laughing, but his shoulders still shook.

“I’m definitely not going to like this,” she said to no one in particular.

Zane barreled ahead. “We’re on our way to Hawaii for a teammate’s wedding. Cosky’s from Seattle. Since we’re on leave, we decided to head out early, do some hiking along the trails Cosky’s been bragging about, then fly out for the wedding. We’ve been hiking all week. We’ll tell everyone we met over the weekend and things got hot, fast. I asked you to come to Hawaii with me, but you were uncomfortable taking off with someone you’d just met. We argued. But this morning you changed your mind and decided to join me, so you listed yourself on standby.”

He paused, studied her face. Was she buying his reasoning? With luck it wouldn’t occur to her that they could just claim she’d come to the gate to say goodbye.

“To make this work, you’ll need to call your supervisor and request the week off.”

Her gaze dropped to his mouth, and her flush—which had faded—gained ground again.

His body tightened. “That kiss set the stage. People will remember it. People will remember us.”

The red in her cheeks eased, but she continued to look uncomfortable. No, she didn’t like the suggestion. Too damn bad. Her expression of discomfort shifted to resignation.

She took a deep breath, let it out and her face turned stoic. “We’ll have to keep acting like a couple.”

That stoicism seriously pissed him off. Was it really that fucking hard to act like she might be interested in him? Anger prickling, he didn’t try to sugarcoat his correction.

“Not a couple. Lovers. Hot and heavy lovers. The kind so hungry for each other they’d fly to Hawaii without any luggage because they’d be spending all their time in bed.”

Chapter Four

Commander Jace Mackenzie dropped the telephone receiver into its cradle and threw himself against the backrest of his company-issue, hard-as-a-rock desk chair. The metal and plastic shifted beneath his weight, squeaking like a rabid hamster on a wheel.

So, some cocksucking motherfuckers thought they could grab one of America’s passenger planes, did they?

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, a cold, hard grin tugging at the edges of his mouth. Those fuckheads were in for a major surprise. In a contest between three of his best men and six cold-blooded killers, he’d bet every single cent he owned on his boys. Zane and company would nail those motherfuckers to the wall and hold them there until the FBI and Homeland Security swept in for clean up.

Slowly, the grin faded. It never paid to settle into complacency. The second you considered a situation under control it exploded in your face with the fury of a fucking H-bomb. He’d seen it happen too many times. Some poor schmuck who’d relaxed at the worst possible moment and got his ass handed to him in the midst of a raging firestorm. God only knew how many good men he’d lost through the years because they’d let their guard down when they should have ramped it up. Second chances out on black ops were rarer than an honest woman, and death lurked behind every foreign grain of sand.

Mac wasn’t afraid of death. Hell, you couldn’t afford fear in his line of work. Fear paralyzed faster than a round to the spine. Besides, there were some things worth dying for. Forget that clichéd crap of love and the American Dream. Love wouldn’t buy you a handful of stale peanuts. As for the American dream—that sucker had long ago withered into selfishness and a sense of entitlement. For every poor sod who appreciated the sacrifices endured in mosquito-infested swamps while your brothers-in-arms disintegrated into bloody chunks all around you, there was some other motherfucker burning the American flag.

Still, while the U. S. of good ol’ A had a host of problems, when it came right down to it, this country was worth the sacrifices made for her.

Mac believed that with every fiber in his heart, as did the men he served with, but then they were a special breed, his warriors—a dying breed, he sometimes thought in his darker moments, which was the big difference between him and Lieutenant Commander Zane Winters. Winters didn’t have black moments. Moments in which he wondered when those motherfucking terrorists, domestic or foreign, would stop trying to hijack American jumbo jets full of innocent people.

Scowling, Mac glared at the phone.

Zane Winters was one of the calmest, rational, but surprisingly intuitive men he’d served with. One of the few people, on a very short list, Mac trusted implicitly. Hell, Winters had been the one who’d talked him into stepping up and accepting this fucking desk job—which also happened to be the
only
grudge he held against the guy. As for those freaky visions of his … well, fuck. They’d saved their asses more than once.

So if Zane said something was going to happen on that plane, then something was going to happen. He’d been on the receiving end of Winters’ intuitive flashes enough to trust his LC’s judgment. Yeah, this might be the first time his buddy had actually dreamed an event, and hell yeah, that might make it even freakier than normal, but if Winters said there were guns on that bird, and six men intending to grab it and divert to Puerto Jardin, then Mac would get the FBI and DHS out there pronto.

Because Zane Winters didn’t lie.

Which made it a fucking bitter pill to swallow knowing his best friend had just spent the better part of the past five minutes lying to him.

Oh, he didn’t doubt for an instant that there were guns stashed beneath those seats and six motherfuckers intending to escort the passengers into the afterlife. No, he didn’t doubt the bulk of what his LC had told him, but something about that conversation didn’t ring true.

Winters wasn’t the only one with kickass intuition. And Mac’s bullshit meter, which had been fine-tuned through the years, had warped into the red zone. Although what, exactly, he was picking up on, he didn’t have a clue.

Staring down, Mac picked up a pen and glared at his stained, battered and scuffed steel desk. His one and only contact in the FBI had retired the previous year, which meant he had absolutely nobody to call from the Rolodex in his mind. However, he had HQ1’s secret weapon a push button away.

He reached out to punch the intercom button as the conversation with Zane played through his head. Something niggled at him, but he couldn’t put his damn finger on it and considering the plane was due to lift off in an hour, he didn’t have time to pin it down.

“Get hold of someone from the FBI,” he said the moment he heard the door open, “and not some fucking junior agent. I need someone with clout, someone who can get things done.”

The measured footsteps across the room paused, as though he’d managed to startle the old goat for a change. Mac glanced up, hoping to see surprise on that weathered face, but not a chance. His assistant, Radar, had his intractable image to preserve.

“What division?” Radar asked. With his ears sticking out the way they did, and his triangular face and thickened, earth-toned skin, he looked like a bat that had been staked out to dry in the sun.

Mac tapped the pen against the top of his desk. “Counterterrorism. Out of the Seattle Field Office. I need someone on that line ASAP.”

“Perhaps you should contact Captain Gillomay first?” Radar offered bluntly.

Yeah, no doubt he should—the proper channels and all that shit—but then he would have to explain. While Gillomay had heard of Zane’s neat little trick, he hadn’t been on the receiving end of the visions, which meant there would be some convincing to do as well. Rear Admiral McKay, on the other hand, had firsthand experience with Zane’s flashes.

“There isn’t time. I’ll inform McKay after the FBI’s rolling.”

Radar’s thin lips pursed, but he merely nodded, pivoted with military precision and retreated into the quarterdeck with his customary economical stride.

Mac watched him go. He’d inherited the old goat from his predecessor. While he wasn’t completely certain how Radar had earned his nickname, he suspected it had something to do with the old “M*A*S*H*” sitcom. Like his namesake of the television show, his assistant had an uncanny ability to read his mind and know exactly what Mac was going to need and when he was going to need it. If anyone could get hold of a top-ranking FBI official, it would be Richard Anderson, aka Radar, HQ1’s secret weapon.

As he waited, Mac continued glaring down at his desk. From what Zane had described of the hijacking, it sounded like the same crew who’d grabbed that plane down in South America. Too bad the details had been so sketchy. No description of the men in question, since they’d butchered all the first-class passengers once the ransom had been paid.

The intercom buzzed and Radar’s raspy voice came through the machine. “John Chastain, Senior Agent in Charge of Seattle Field Office’s Counterterrorism Division, is holding on line one.”

Mac glanced at the clock above the door. It had taken Radar less than a minute to get someone on the phone. That had to be some kind of record. He snatched the receiver up and punched the button.

“Agent Chastain? This is Commander Jace Mackenzie, HQ1 out of Coronado. We’ve got a big problem in Seattle. Sea-Tac airport to be specific—Flight 2077, Seattle to Hawaii. We’ve just received intel indicating this flight is about to be hijacked.”

Dead silence greeted this declaration.

Mac hardened his tone. “I’m not fucking with you. This is good intel. Fresh as a fucking daisy. This bird is about to be jacked, the guns are already on board and we’re running out of time. Liftoff’s in seventy minutes. Boarding starts in forty. You need to get on the wire, get this flight delayed, and get someone out there to search that plane.”

He paused, listened for a few seconds, his pen tapping against the desk with increasing frequency. “I’m fully aware of how difficult it is to smuggle guns on board an airliner. I’m also aware that no matter how difficult, it can be done. Those guns
are
on board. They’re about to be used on a plane full of American citizens. Somebody needs to get their asses out—”

Breaking off, he tossed his pen onto the desk and threw himself back in his chair. It squawked violently beneath him. “That long ago, huh? You including 9/11 in those statistics? Yeah? Well, maybe you better check with your buddies in DHS before making stupid-ass assumptions.”

He scowled at the rising voice on the other end of the line and broke in. “A flight out of Argentina was hijacked last year. Our intel indicates it’s the same crew. You drop the ball on this, you go down for it.”

After listening for a moment, he gave a sharp nod. “Glad to see you’re finally showing some fucking sense.” He barked out a derisive laugh and rolled his eyes. “You go right ahead. Oh, and Chastain? As coincidence would have it, three of my best men are booked on that flight. If anything happens to them and I do mean
anything
, I’m going to rip your lungs out through your ass. You’ll be using them as a fucking umbrella.”

He listened a second, shook his head, and massaged the tight skin across his forehead. Dealing with arrogance and stupidity left him with a headache.

“No, we weren’t conducting ops on mainland soil. They’re on their way to a wedding. However, they’ve been apprised of the situation. They’ll be monitoring the passengers until you get your team into place. Fine. I’ll be flying up myself. Yeah, sure, you do that. It’s spelled M-a-c-K-e-n-z-i-e—make sure you get the spelling right.” Without saying goodbye, he slammed the phone down.

Chastain had to be fucking kidding. Could the prick really be so stupid he’d blow off fresh intel from a black op? Christ Almighty, he’d run into arrogance and territorialism before, but this guy took the prize, and considering the jackass headed up the Seattle’s counterterrorism unit, they were in a shit-can of trouble.

The door to the office opened as he pushed his chair back and stood up. “Get me Admiral McKay.”

“Of course, Commander. I’ve taken the liberty of booking you on the first flight out. It leaves in two hours.”

Of course he had. No doubt he’d known a trip to Seattle was in Mac’s future before Mac had. He didn’t bother to tell the man to cancel his appointments and reschedule. Knowing Radar, he’d already done so.

As he waited for the call to ring through, his thoughts returned to Zane. What the hell had Winters gotten himself into? He might not know what his LC had lied about, but he knew the lie was there. There was something else he was certain of. Somehow, in some way, this lie involved a woman. When it came to solid by-the-book operators like Zane Winters, only a woman could trip them up and send them reeling into the gray zone where lying became an option. Only a fucking woman could turn them inside out and upside down and put them through the wringer until they lost all sense of who they were and what they stood for. Until they were bled dry of their honor and self-respect.

When you added in Zane’s family history and all that crap about soul mates—well hell, the man had a weak spot a mile long. No doubt some conniving bitch was playing up that soul mate bullshit and wrapping his buddy around her finger.

Because only a woman could ruin a man like Zane Winters.

* * *

Beth described her dream several more times before Zane was satisfied. At which point he kicked her and his two friends out of the storage closet. She suspected the bid for privacy was meant to protect his friends from
the lie
, as she was beginning to think of it.

The deceit still bothered her. If they’d had more time, she would never have allowed him to take that step, but their window of opportunity was shrinking. Besides, his story would be believed more quickly than hers, which was essential with only an hour left until boarding.

“Why don’t you tell us about your co-workers?” Cosky’s flat tone turned the question into an order. He braced his shoulder against the wall beside the closet door and turned so he could keep an eye on the airport’s main corridor.

“You mean do I work with anyone capable of cold-bloodedly murdering hundreds of people?” Beth asked drily, knowing where this line of questioning was headed. “Why are you jumping to the conclusion that their inside guy is in engineering? It makes more sense to recruit one of the bag smashers or techs.”

“Do you know the baggage handlers or techs?” Cosky asked, his chilly gaze studying her face.

“Well, no.” Like any big corporation, PAL’s departments were pretty insular. She knew everyone who worked on her floor, and a few people who worked on the floors above and below, but nobody who worked out in the hangars.

“But you do know your engineers, so we’ll start with them. Is there anyone who comes to mind as being capable of this?”

Sure there were people she didn’t care for. Every job had them. Her co-worker from hell, the tech writer in the cubicle beside her, sprang to mind. He talked incessantly, took overly long lunches and breaks, and told the same stupid joke over and over again. But his transgressions were a far cry from something this inhumane.

For the most part, the engineers in her department were complete geeks walking around in a daze. She tried to imagine Todd hiding the guns, and bit back a laugh. Knowing Todd, he’d get distracted by some equation in his head and sit down to work it out. The guns would still be there, beside him, in plain view, when the flight crew arrived.

“Nobody I work with could possibly be in on this,” Beth said. “It’s not like any of them live on the fringe. We’re a department of boring nine-to-fivers, with families and mortgages and car payments.”

“You’re making assumptions.” His steel gaze met hers before shifting back out to the corridor where an elderly couple had appeared.

The fact he studied the couple as they slowly walked past, arm-in-arm, told Beth how serious he was. The pair had to be in their seventies.

“The hijackers are male, mid-to-late thirties,” she reminded him pointedly.