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

Breath by breath the discomfort edged into pain, and from there it shot straight to agony. A groan broke from him, which spawned an explosion of voices.

Light-headed, he struggled to open eyelids that weighed a thousand pounds apiece. One blink, followed by several more, and two worried faces swam into focus—Cosky and Kait, their faces tomato soup–red and streaming with sweat.

“Welcome back,” Zane said, his voice rough with relief.

Rawls rolled his head, tracking his LC’s voice, only to freeze as dizziness hurled his stomach into his throat. He gagged, desperately forcing the bile back.

“Easy,” Zane said, his voice quiet and calm. “You took a couple rounds to the chest.”

An explanation Rawls had arrived at himself thanks to the straitjacket of misery cinched around his ribs, along with that weird dream they’d yanked him from. He eased back on the breathing, taking shallow breaths that wouldn’t expand his rib cage. Kait and Cosky must have healed him enough to keep him alive, although judging from the pain consuming his upper body, considerable damage remained.

He gingerly turned his head to the right, keeping his torso as still as possible, and searched out Kait’s sweaty, tired face.

“Thank you,” he mouthed.

The effort, small as it was, exhausted him. Relaxing, he allowed his eyes to drift shut and concentrated on his breathing. Slowly, the buzzing in his head subsided and the dizziness waned. The agonizing burn in his chest shuffled aside, lurking in the background. A steady drone of voices overhead lulled him into a stupor. He’d just rest here a moment. Recoup his strength. But it didn’t take long for that strange dream to play through his mind.

If Freud’s theory was correct, and dreams were nothing more than the subconscious mind’s expression of wish fulfillment, what the devil did that say about his desires? Uncomfortable with that line of questioning, he searched for something else to occupy his mind.

Opening his eyes, he took stock of his surroundings.

He was lying on the ground, which explained the chilly dampness spreading up his spine. Shifting his shoulders to escape a sharp object jabbing into his shoulder, he winced as agony instantly swooped down, clawing at his chest.

Still, he’d take the pain over that disturbing nightmare. Pain meant he was awake. Hell, it meant he was alive.

Time to get moving, though—the devil only knew when those bastards would regroup and descend on them again. They couldn’t afford to be caught in the open like this. With that in mind, he concentrated on his hand, willing it to move. It took far too long for the order to travel from his brain to his hand, and when it finally did register, the movement barely qualified as a flutter. At this rate, he’d celebrate his next birthday in this damn place.

“Give it time,” Zane said, as though he’d read Rawls’s mind.

Did they have the time?

“Sitrep?” The single question was all he had the energy or air for.

“Secure. We neutralized the last of the bastards.” Zane straightened and arched his back with a grunt of relief. “Wolf and Mac mopped up the chopper guards and are sitting on the bird.” He paused to shake his head, a grim shadow darkening his eyes.

Sitting on the bird . . .

The words echoed in Rawls’s head. When had his CO and Wolf left? They’d been standing there moments ago. He frowned in frustration, realizing he was mixing reality with events from the dream.

“For a moment there, it didn’t look like you’d be bugging out with us.”

“That close?” Rawls asked, the strange dream still churning through his mind. He’d died in that silvery netherworld.

“Closer than Cos got.” The grimness echoed in Zane’s voice.

As Zane stepped back, the bulk of another man drew close. Although the new arrival was partially obscured by Zane’s silhouette, a streak of moonlight clearly illuminated a bald head.

Rawls caught his breath and froze—tension hitting hard and fast. Their party didn’t include a Vin Diesel wannabe. At least not now. Not for the last thirty minutes, not since Jillian had driven a knife into Pachico’s chest in retribution for the children he’d stolen from her.

The shiny chrome dome atop the man’s head flashed silver as he turned in Rawls’s direction. A face came into focus—long cheekbones, a narrow chin, small mean eyes . . . familiar eyes. A bloody white bandage wrapped around a pale forehead.

The ground at Rawls’s back heaved. Ice crystals hardened in his gut, chilling him from the inside out.

Not possible . . . not possible . . .

His muscles rigid, he reluctantly dropped his gaze to the figure’s opaque chest, with its big, black protrusion of a knife.

The mud-brown eyes watching him widened, which was impossible since the bastard was dead.

Sweet Jesus, he’d watched him die, watched his body incinerate during an explosion that had sent flames twenty feet into the air. There was no way—absolutely no way—the man could be standing in front of him.

No. Damn it. No. This isn’t happening . . .

Rawls stared at the translucent body identical to the one in his nightmare, and his head started throbbing like a smashed finger.

Wake up, damn it. Wake up.

Pachico chuckled—an ugly sound completely devoid of humor. “Well, f*ck me. Looks like you’re not gonna escape me after all.”