Forged in Smoke (Red-Hot SEALs #3)(100)

Men stirred, checked weapons, stretched the kinks and numbness out of stiff muscles. Faith slowly sat up.

“One minute to touchdown,” Rawls told her, pitching his voice loud enough to reach her over the scream of the engine and whine of the rotor.

She nodded her understanding. He quickly checked his equipment and then hers—although all she’d been given were an NVD and the standard radio. Well, plus the vest and armor plates, which all but swallowed her, even though they’d found her the smallest size possible.

The chopper banked and dropped. The shriek of the motors eased as the bird slowed. One of Wolf’s men rose to his feet and muscled back the door, and the roar of the wind merged with the scream of the engine and the shrill whop-whop of the rotor. They’d approached from the west, out of the target’s line of sight, and were inserting into a meadow two klicks away. The rest of the distance would be covered by foot.

The bird rocked slightly as it settled on the ground—no fast roping this time around. The roar of the wind vanished, and the engine’s whine dropped to a hum. Crouching, Wolf’s men dropped from the chopper and melted into the darkness. Rawls’s teammates followed.

Rawls turned on Faith’s NVD and then his, wrapped an arm around her waist, thereby anchoring her to his side, and eased them both from the bird. Head bent, flinching from the pelting of pebbles, grass, and dirt kicked up by the rotor’s wash, Faith stumbled along beside him. Once clear of the blades, he stopped long enough to show her how to adjust the scope on her goggles.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was so thin he could barely hear it. Apparently she’d taken all the warning to maintain silence seriously.

“Nothin’ to be sorry about,” he said in an equally quiet voice. Sound carried, even buffered by trees, and they had no clue whether those bastards had ears out here.

“I’m holding everyone up.”

Even as thin and shaky as her voice was, he could clearly hear the self-reproach in her tone.

He gave her a quick, one-armed hug. It was true, she was holding everyone back. But then, nobody had expected anything less.

“Nobody expects you to turn into Rambo, darlin’. You’re doin’ fine.”

A soft snort came from behind them. Mac undoubtedly, since he was bringing up the rear. Zane’s and Cosky’s crisp, fluorescent-green figures were waiting ahead, about midmeadow.

“Let’s head up,” Rawls said, giving a final one-armed hug before letting her go and grabbing his rifle, which was hanging—safety engaged—from his shoulder.

Thank Christ he didn’t have to worry about Pachico getting all frisky on him. According to Wolf and his Arapaho elders, Pachico had passed—or been shoved—over to the other side. Since his trollish hitchhiker hadn’t put in an appearance since the binding ceremony, he was inclined to believe them. But to err on the side of caution, the hiixoyooniiheiht still burned lightly against his chest. From the volume of leather cords circling the Shadow Mountain warriors’ necks as they’d climbed on board the chopper, he wasn’t the only one siding with caution.

Faith kept up with him easily as they crossed the meadow, and with each step, he could feel her nerves settle.

“What are these called again?” Faith whispered, briefly touching the goggles covering most of her face.

“Night vision devices,” Rawls whispered back.

“Why is everything such a sharp shade of green?” she asked, curiosity rather than nerves in her voice.

A fist suddenly slammed into his shoulder from behind, shoving him forward a step. Mac, giving him the one-second warning to shut the f*ck up.

Rawls half turned to glare at his commander. If the bastard hit Faith, there’d be more than one fist flying.

“Never mind, I’ll google it,” Faith said. She turned slightly to frown behind her. “No need to get physical, Commander Mackenzie. A verbal warning would have sufficed.”

Rawls fought a grin at the censure in her voice. She was certainly getting her nerve back fast.

The trip to the target took less time than he’d expected, and well before he was ready for it, they joined Zane and Cosky and the bulk of Wolf’s team at the edge of the forest.

The building jutting into the night sky before them was three stories, square, with a flat roof. Cameras ringed the roofline, and the glowing, barred windows were few and far between. An acre of lawn surrounded the place. To their right, a rutted dirt road emerged from the forest and dead-ended to the right of the building in a large square of gravel and dead grass. He counted eight cars parked there. Which could indicate anywhere from eight to thirty Tangos inside waiting for them—depending on number of employees per vehicle.

Zane leaned in so close his mouth was next to Rawls’s ear.

“They scrambled the cameras. And Wolf sent his scouts out.” The words were so low they’d be nonexistent a foot away.

Rawls glanced at Wolf. They were right on schedule. The Shadow Mountain strategy had called for scrambling cameras and cell phones prior to scouting for secondary entrances. Once the entrances were secure, they’d bring in the second bird, which carried team two.

A minute passed, then two . . . five . . .

Wolf’s men stirred uneasily and then everyone froze, faces tense, heads slightly cocked as though they were listening to something.

Seconds later, a short, vicious-sounding foreign word broke from Wolf—an Arapaho swear word. Rawls had no doubt. The word was repeated by several of Wolf’s normally taciturn men. Something had sure shoved a poker up their new allies’ asses.