Forged in Smoke (Red-Hot SEALs #3)(110)

“And since the Chastain boys were broadcasting right up until they reached Mount McKinley—”

“We finally know where their f*cking lair is. We’ve got the bastards,” Coulson finished.

Well, not exactly, Eric allowed. It could be they’d found something to block the signal up there in Alaska—as Link had suggested—and then continued on their merry way. But Eric’s instincts whispered otherwise.

The signal had disappeared at the base of Mount McKinley. The activist group called themselves Shadow Mountain. Not to mention if the boys had been secreted away inside a bloody mountain, the signal would be interrupted.

All signs pointed to Mount McKinley as the base camp for those annoying, interfering bastards—as Coulson liked to call them.

Which meant they finally had a location to target.

A smile bloomed. As it turned out, Mackenzie had done them an immense favor, one worthy of a Hallmark card—if they made one for such an occasion—he’d given them the means to kill two enemies with one missile.




Rawls anchored a limp Faith against his right side as he pressed his palm to the scanner next to his quarters. Faith leaned against him without protest, apparently so tired she could barely keep her eyes open, or her body upright. He was familiar with the effects of a post-adrenaline crash, so he knew with certainty that wasn’t what she was experiencing. At least not completely. Sure, some of her exhaustion could be contributed to the recent mission—but not all of it.

Most of the fatigue came from other factors: like dying, and being dragged back to life, the battery of tests she’d undergone over the past two days, followed by a night of sex rather than sleep. And then there was her grief.

He could feel the sorrow dragging at her, weighing her down. A thick blanket of oppression sucking the life from her. He’d wager the heartache was hitting her the hardest. To lose so many friends at once. Not just her mentor, but everyone she’d worked with. Sweet Jesus—that kind of loss would hit a person hard. He thought of losing Zane and Cosky, Mac, Aiden, Tram and Tag, and the rest of his buddies in ST7, and his soul went ice cold.

As soon as the lock clicked, Rawls pushed the door open, hit the switch to turn on the lights, and half carried Faith inside.

She stirred as they stepped through the doorframe. “I should go to my own room. I’m not good company at the moment.”

Like hell. But Rawls kept the thought to himself.

There was no way he was letting her suffer through the night alone. Whether she wanted it or not, she needed company. A warm body to remind her there was more than death in this world. A warm body to remind her that life was still there for the living.

“Let’s get you in the shower and warmed up,” he said, ignoring her comment.

“Okay.” She stared up at him with the saddest, most exhausted eyes he’d ever seen. But then her gaze dropped to his bicep and the beginnings of a frown knit her brow. “How’s your side and abdomen? Maybe you should go see the doctor.”

“The wounds are gone,” Rawls assured her. “One Bird is almost as good as Kait.”

In fact, he felt amazingly good. The ringing in his ears and aches and pains from hitting the ground had been vanquished along with the bullet holes. He stared down at her paint-streaked face and red-rimmed eyes as he tugged the T-shirt over her head. After returning to the chopper, he’d soaked a rag in water to wash her face. The effort had smeared rather than removed the paint, giving her the definitive raccoon look.

She didn’t protest when he started undressing her; instead she stood there, docile, while he unzipped and unbuttoned.

“I had thought we’d get there in time,” she said softly, anguish thickening her voice. She absently lifted one foot and then the other so he could remove her shoes. “I thought we’d have more time.”

Naked, her skin looked translucent beneath the harsh white light. Fragile. She was so thin he could clearly see the rise and fall of each rib and the points of her pelvis and collarbones.

“What happened was not your fault,” he said, in case she was suffering from survivors’ guilt, although from experience he knew the reassurance wouldn’t sink in right away—if it ever did.

He stripped his own clothes off and then urged her into the bathroom. After adjusting the taps until the water ran two steps below hot, he eased her under the spray. She flinched slightly as the water hit.

“Too hot?” he asked, keeping his voice soft and unobtrusive.

“No.” The word emerged on a sigh.

Although he wasn’t within the spray zone, the steam built steadily until they were surrounded by heat and humidity.

She tilted her face up and stood there, still, while the spray hit her full in the face. He didn’t realize she was shaking until he picked up the bar of soap and turned toward her.

Ah hell . . .

Dropping the soap back on the shelf, he dragged Faith into his arms and held her tight. She shuddered and pressed against him, her hot, wet face nestled in the hollow of his throat.

The shake to her shoulders was his first indication she was crying. But the tears were falling silently. The hurt so vast she couldn’t give voice to it. Somehow that made her pain even harder to witness.

“There you go. Let it out,” he whispered, running his hands up and down her slick back.

He ignored his own aching, a very physical one, as the wet, warm woman in his arms pressed fully against him. His dick signaled its approval with a steady increase in breadth and length, at least until Rawls mentally squashed its excitement.