Forged in Smoke (Red-Hot SEALs #3)(24)

“Alpha two, you got a visual?” Mac asked as he swept the dust-veiled road behind the SUV.

If their adversaries were going to attack, it would be soon, but there were no new torrents of dust rising into the air signaling a second vehicle.

“Affirmative. Three subjects. All identified,” Zane responded.

The Expedition rolled to a stop in front of Amy and Cosky, and the back doors flew open. Two children with dark close-cropped hair exited the SUV from opposite sides. The smaller boy left his door wide open and raced toward his mother, his small sneakered feet kicking up thin puffs of powdery earth with each stride. Amy stepped in front of two plastic retail-store sacks on the ground and knelt. Mac watched her arms and shoulders tense as she braced herself. A soft “oomph” traveled over the headset as her son hurled himself into her arms.

Something hot and achy, like heartburn, spread through Mac’s chest as he watched her fiery head bow and her arms tighten around the child. He wrenched the scope away and focused on the older kid. The second boy had exited with much more decorum, stopped to close his door, and then walked around the rear of the Ford to close his brother’s. When he headed toward his mother, not even a hint of dust rose from his feet. He stopped a foot or two from Amy. She glanced up and reached for him. Latching on to the hem of his T-shirt, she dragged him into her hug.

For several long moments the three clung together and that hot, acidic rush in Mac’s chest climbed his throat. Scowling, he yanked his obsessed gaze from the tender tableau on the ground and scanned the access road again. The dust storm the Expedition had launched was settling. Judging from the lack of new clouds, Amy’s brother hadn’t been followed.

An uneasy feeling wormed through him. Those bastards after them should be making their move—he twisted to scan the hillside behind him, but there was no sign of party crashers.

The driver’s door swung open as the cluster on the ground separated. Amy rose to her feet and shifted, watching her stepbrother approach. Mac settled the scope on her face, or at least what he could see of it, which was mostly her profile. From this angle she looked more neutral than welcoming.

Frowning, Mac studied the fed. Although they were stepsiblings, surprisingly they looked enough alike to be twins. What were the odds of that? The pocket-sized Venus look suited Amy—but her brother? Not so much. His lack of height combined with his slender frame imbued him with an air of ineffectuality.

Great.

Mac lowered the rifle and scowled. In his vast experience of dealing with *s, size did matter. Far too often guys built like Amy’s stepbrother tried to prove their masculinity in the most inconvenient way possible.

“Thanks for meeting me here,” Amy said, her voice as flat as her face.

“Momma!” Her youngest kid grabbed a handful of Amy’s polo shirt and tugged. “What do you have on your head?” His gaze skated over Amy’s headset before settling on her face. He lowered his voice, but not by much. “Uncle Clay said the really bad words all the way here.”

Apparently the aforementioned bad words were much more interesting than Amy’s headset and mic. Mac grinned. What, exactly, did Amy consider to be “the really bad words”? Probably everything in Mac’s vocabulary. It wouldn’t hurt to watch his language around her and her boys. When he realized the direction his thoughts had taken, he froze in shock. When the hell had she become important enough to him to justify modifying his behavior? He was so busy backpedaling in his own mind, he missed her stepbrother’s initial reply.

“. . . I could have done without the theatrics,” Clay continued in the thin nasal tone associated with pretentiousness.

Mac grimaced and shook his head. It was hard to believe these two had been raised in the same household, under the same set of parents. Amy’s voice was matter-of-fact, with a side of cool. Her brother sounded like he’d taken acting lessons to get the diction and delivery just right. Where Mac came from, that was called putting on airs . . . or being an ass . . . or both.

“Momma,” the youngster said, tugging determinedly on his mother’s shirt. “A deer jumped in front of us and Uncle Clay said—”

“Give me some credit.” Clay raised his voice, drowning out the childish chatter. “I’ve been on the job for twenty years. I know what a damn tail looks like.” Clay shook his head, disgust sharp on his face. “You’re acting paranoid as hell, you know that, right? Nobody is after you or your kids.”

While he spoke, the fed turned his head and locked on to Cosky. Mac groaned beneath his breath. Amy had been right about one thing—the * was about to become aggravating.

“Momma,” the little guy said, still yanking on Amy’s shirt.

“Not now, Benji. Let me talk to your uncle.”

But the bastard had already turned his shoulder on her in favor of confronting Cos.

“You’re Lieutenant Simcosky, aren’t you? We’ve got some questions for you. If you’ll accompany me back to Seattle, I can offer you immunity and free you from this mess.”

“Considering the lack of progress the bureau has made on our case, I’ll pass on your generous offer,” Cosky said, his voice drier than the dust surrounding them. “I stand a better chance of straightening out this mess without your help.”

“But Momma—” Benji’s voice lifted determinedly.