Forged in Smoke (Red-Hot SEALs #3)(40)

A couple of deep breaths later and he managed to force his unease aside. He was being foolish, jumping to conclusions. The addition of an Indian to their team, whether native or imported, was purely coincidence. Besides, according to the dossier they had on Kait Winchester, her father had been full Arapaho and her brother, Aiden, was the spitting image of their father. He relaxed. Of course Kait Winchester would recruit her brother to assist them. No doubt he’d been the Indian operative mentioned.

Nothing to get all wrung out over.

“My untrusting sis had the boys change clothes before hopping aboard the chopper,” Purcell said after a minute. “She brought a complete change for each of them, right down to their tighty whities.” He laughed, but an ugly shadow dampened the humor. “Ain’t she in for a surprise? You got the trace on her brats?”

Eric’s eyebrows bunched in distaste. The woman was his sister. The boys he’d so callously dismissed, his nephews. Didn’t he have even a modicum of regret?

“Is the tracer activated?” Purcell’s voice sharpened, but it wasn’t in repentance. Instead, anticipation thickened the raspy vowels.

“It’s active. We’re tracking them now,” Eric said.

“I want to know when it’s done.”

“Of course.” Eric jabbed the End Call button and tossed the phone on the table.

It had been quite clear from the beginning that Clay Purcell’s feelings for his sister were far from brotherly—rather, they verged on sociopathic.

But then according to the info he’d collected on the pair, the two weren’t actually siblings. They were the product of a blended family, courtesy of the marriage between Purcell’s father and Amy Chastain’s mother.

Still, the two had been raised as brother and sister from the age of seven—on Purcell’s part anyway, Amy Chastain had been a couple of years younger—but the point was, they’d been raised as family.

Purcell had been best man at John and Amy Chastain’s wedding. He was the godparent to their oldest child. How the bloody hell could the bastard play best man and best friend to John Chastain only to gut him in an airport closet? Or sign on as Brendan Chastain’s godfather, only to orchestrate the child’s murder?

Eric shook his head, staring at the red dot as it headed toward the Cascade mountain range. They’d never intended to extend their partnership with their FBI liaison after the hijacking. Agent Chastain’s death and the SEALs’ interference had bought Purcell a few additional months.

But once the SEALs were neutralized, it would be his pleasure to make sure the bastard didn’t waste any more of the planet’s resources.

If ever a man needed killing, it was that sociopathic, disloyal, two-faced weasel.





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Chapter Eight




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WITH A BEWILDERED shake of her head, Faith stepped back and closed the door, blocking the swarm of bloodthirsty mosquitoes trying to squeeze through the thin netting of the screen. From the window, she studied Rawls. Or at least what she could see of him, which was the tense line of his back and even tenser set of his shoulders. He was headed across the compound at a swift clip, apparently determined to put as much distance between them in the shortest amount of time as possible.

She watched him for another second or so before dragging herself away. Her heartbeat was settling and with each second, the threat of tachycardia diminished. Time to turn her mind to other things, soothing things. Luckily she had plenty to keep her busy. The roast wouldn’t prepare itself. She needed to get it into the oven soon or chance the helicopter landing with a horde of hungry people and nothing to feed them—nothing substantial anyway. But as she went to work studding the roast with the rest of the garlic cloves, her mind circled back to those sensual moments on Rawls’s lap.

Hard to believe the man hotfooting it across the compound was the same man who’d kissed her silly only minutes before. Or if not silly, at least into mindlessness. Although, that term didn’t quite fit either, not when her brain had been fully engaged, every synapse aware and focused—on him. A more apt term might be lustfulness.

Maybe the whispers were true. Maybe the man was borderline crazy. His behavior had certainly indicated some kind of mental tic. There’d been that bizarre obsessive focus on the cookies, the way he’d thrown that cookie at the wall. The loud talking, like he was competing with some kind of noise even though there was no radio or television on the premises. There’d been no distractions in the kitchen . . . unless the noise was in his own mind . . .

And then there’d been that final bit, his sudden premonition that something was about to happen to her. Because that’s what it had seemed like—an advance warning. He’d known something was about to happen several seconds before it did. Why else would alarm have descended on his face? Why else would he have shouted that peculiar warning and sprinted toward her? A person didn’t behave in such a manner unless they knew—or at least believed—something terrible was about to happen.

Acidic, all-consuming pain flashed through her mind.

She flinched from the memory. Never before had she experienced such agony, which said a lot considering her medical history. But that consuming volcanic burn had been new. Unexpected. And beneath the burn had been the strangest sensation of compression. Like something was squashing her bones and flesh and nerves together, squeezing her into a small ball of pure agony.