Forged in Smoke (Red-Hot SEALs #3)(28)

What the hell is wrong with you, hoss?

Besides his reluctance to entertain his obnoxious troll of a ghost, this wasn’t the girl to get down and dirty with. Innocence and awkwardness rode her like a threadbare blanket. He didn’t want to hurt her. But getting involved with her, while his head was good and scrambled, would end up hurting her—for sure emotionally, possibly physically. Hell, it could end up killing her.

He was smarter than this. He was—damn it.

“I’m gonna—” The words were raspy and borderline breathless, so he coughed to clear his throat and tried again. “I’m gonna go wrestle up your meds.”

Avoiding her face, and what he might find there, he backed right out the door.

“Smooth, Doc, really smooth,” Pachico said dryly, following him down the hall and across the cabin’s living room.

Rawls ignored his mouthy shadow as he shoved open the cabin door and took the steps in such a hurry it felt like he was in full-blown retreat.

“Probably for the best, all things considered.” Pachico continued matching Rawls’s breakneck pace across the courtyard. “In her condition, who knows whether she’d survive the horizontal tango. And having a gal die while you’re doing her, well it just kills the mood, if you know what I mean.”

Pachico’s comment hit Rawls squarely upside the head and started to fester. All sorts of questions crowded his mind. Like, were there limits to Faith’s physical activities?

From what he remembered during medical school, organ transplants offered patients a normal, healthy return to life. But Faith had said her donor heart had been damaged during the harvest. How damaged? Bad enough to turn sex into Russian roulette?

Not that he had any intention of making love to her. But still . . .

It wouldn’t hurt to do some research into her condition, refresh his memory on heart transplants and preventative maintenance. There was a computer next to the sat phone with full Internet access thanks to Wolf’s ultra-sleek tech setup and satellite service.

As luck would have it, the command center was empty. He grabbed a couple of chocolate chip cookies off a rack on the dessert-laden kitchen counter as he passed.

“Man, those suckers look good.” Pachico stopped next to the counter and hovered there, his translucent feet several inches off the floor. He swiped at the stacks of cookies. “Fuck,” he said morosely as his hand sliced harmlessly through the towering, chocolate-studded, golden-brown stacks.

Just for spite, Rawls stopped, backed up a few paces, and grabbed a couple more cookies. Ignoring the grumbling rising behind him, he headed for the computer desk tucked in the far corner of the room and settled in the wheeled chair behind the screen while munching on one of his prizes.

First things first. He dialed Wolf’s cell phone from the command center’s sat phone.

A burst of static sputtered through the phone, followed by a garbled, terse “Speak.”

More static crackled from the sat phone. Rawls waited for the noise to clear and quickly recapped Faith’s medical crisis and required prescriptions.

“Ten-four . . . next chopper out.”

Rawls released a relieved breath. Jude could have gone for the meds once he returned from picking up Amy’s kids, but it was a useless trip without a prescription. His shoulders tightened at the thought of his teammates and the danger they were in. He forced his muscles to relax. His teammates were old pros at these kinds of missions. They’d be fine. Everyone was going to be just hunky-dory.

He glanced toward Pachico, who was hunched over the cookie tray, trying to pick one up.

Except . . . maybe . . . me . . .

Time to grab hold of his balls and ask the other question he needed to talk to Wolf about. He shot Pachico a quick look. His troll was staring morosely down at the tray.

Now was the time, while his stalker was distracted, to question Wolf about ghosts, what he knew about them, if he’d had anything to do with Pachico’s disappearance . . .

“Hey, Wolf,” he said quietly into the phone’s mouthpiece.

An earful of static answered him. He waited a few seconds . . . a minute . . . but the static grew louder. Disconnecting the call, he dialed Wolf’s number again. More static.

Damn it.

He shoved the phone back in its charger. Apparently his questions would go unanswered for the time being.

A quick glance toward the counter proved that Pachico was still trying to assuage his cookie craving. Relieved at the uncommon peace, he booted the computer up and got to work on his research assignment.

His relief was short-lived. After several Internet searches on organ transplants, worry crested. According to the data available online, the average viability for a pediatric heart transplant was listed as just eleven years.

Faith had said she’d received her transplant at fourteen, fifteen years earlier, which put her current heart well past the average lifespan. Even if they got her back on her meds early enough to avoid complications, she’d still be living on borrowed time. Her heart could start failing at any moment. It wouldn’t be long before she’d have to go back on the transplant list and wait for another donor match.

A match that could take years, assuming it even happened at all. According to his research, on average, twenty-one people died every day while waiting for an organ to become available.

Or . . .

Kait and Cosky kneeling beside his prone body, their hands pressed hard against his still chest, as a dense bubble of silver cocooned them, flowing out of their hands and plunging into his chest, where it advanced in a glowing puddle until it infused every inch of his inert form.