Forged in Smoke (Red-Hot SEALs #3)(48)

“Faith’s in the kitchen,” Rawls said. He glanced at the radio and raised a brow. “They’ll be monitorin’ the channels.”

“No shit.” Mac grimaced. “Let’s hope Winters and Cosky are as smart as they think they are.” Mac’s voice turned grim. He shot a glance at Rawls. “You’ll need to get the doc underground. Grab the sat phone while you’re there. We’ll rendezvous in the hub.” He stared down at the radio for a moment and grimaced. “Let’s hope like hell those bastards circling us are monitoring the channels. We don’t have time to take the tunnels to grab the gals.” He glanced toward the window and lifted the radio to his mouth.

“Alpha two, three, and four.” Mac keyed the radio. “Jude’s taken a turn for the worse. We can’t wait for the medevac, that appendix needs to come out now. Doc will do the surgery, but we’ll need all hands on deck. Rawls is on his way to the lodge to get the med kit. The rest of us will rendezvous with Amy in the hub.” He paused. “Copy?” A static crackle followed by two calm affirmatives. “Amy? You copy?”

At Amy’s quiet confirmation, Mac tossed Rawls the radio and waved him away.

The Tangos outside were holding off their attack for a reason. Mac’s ruse had been clever enough. It gave them a good reason to be crossing the compound like bats out of hell so early in the morning. Maybe it would convince their uninvited visitors to resist turning Mac and him into bloody sieves. Assuming the Tangos were monitoring the channel, assuming they bought Mac’s excuse, and assuming they didn’t open fire just for the sheer hell of it.

He burst through the cabin door and leapt down the front steps in one bound. As he sprinted for the kitchen and Faith, he heard Mac’s boots hit the earth behind him, and charging footsteps take off toward the right—in the direction of Amy’s cabin.

That earlier icy prickle as he had climbed through his bedroom window didn’t hold a candle to the glacier currently encasing his spine. With every step he expected the hot agony of metal to pierce his flesh and bones.

And unlike his annoying troll of a ghost’s attack, those rifles locked on him as he raced toward Faith wouldn’t vanish after five seconds. Nor would the pain and damage to his body be phantom and fleeting.




Mac glanced toward his bedroom as he followed Rawls down the hall. It would take a quick three seconds to pivot and retrieve his radio, but he opted to save the time. Those seconds might well be the difference between arriving at Amy’s cabin whole and mobile versus sluggish and bleeding out. Besides, Amy had a walkie-talkie, not that there was much sense in using it under the circumstances. They had to assume the channels were being monitored.

At least he had his weapon. He’d grabbed the pistol before heading out to investigate the subtle scrape of the window sliding back in Rawls’s room. The walkie-talkie hadn’t been a priority since he’d been certain the noise was indicating his corpsman had returned.

Without a backward glance, Rawls shoved open the screen door and took off in the direction of the command center and kitchen. Mac tensed, expecting gunfire to light up the compound. They had no clue whether the men scoping out the camp had overheard his transmission or, if they had, whether they bought into the ruse.

If the situation had been different—meaning if they’d been alone, unhampered by a camp full of defenseless women and children—he and Rawls would have slipped back into the woods and taken out as many of the bastards watching them as possible. But to do that in the current circumstances chanced some of the motherf*ckers attacking before they could be neutralized.

Which left them with only one option. Get the women and children to safety before gearing up for the counterattack. With that in mind, he followed his corpsman down the steps and veered off toward Amy’s cabin.

Sixty feet stretched ahead of him . . .

Of all the women, Amy was fully capable of defending herself. But she was also responsible for her two children. One of whom appeared to be a handful. Contrary behavior in a battle situation was the quickest way to get a person—or a child—killed. Hence the race to her rescue.

Fifty feet stretched ahead of him . . .

With each thud of his boots, his scalp prickled and the flesh down his spine crawled. He could sense the scopes locked on his back, itchy fingers caressing the trigger as the bastards surrounding them watched him run.

Forty-five feet . . .

The compound remained quiet . . . still . . . the only sound disturbing the calm was the thunder of his and Rawls’s boots.

Thirty feet . . .

For whatever reason, the motherf*ckers on the perimeter were holding their fire. If he were lucky—damn lucky—that decision would last until he and Rawls reached their targets and the cover provided by the cured whole logs that made up the compound structures.

Fifteen feet . . .

He strained to hear beyond his own pounding feet and deep breathing. Their current f*cked-up situation just proved what he’d been saying all along—they had no Goddamn business cohabitating with a bunch of Goddamn civilians.

Five feet . . .

The three steps to Amy’s cabin loomed in front of him. He took them in one leap, while the muscles in his back twitched and the absolute certainty rose that those bastards were just playing with him, and planned to punch him full of lead as he reached the door.

And then the door was within reach.