Forged in Smoke (Red-Hot SEALs #3)(61)

There was no way that adult tone had come from an eleven-year-old—more like a seasoned warrior with numerous campaigns under his belt.

Brendan shifted to face Mac, holding his gaze with steady dark eyes. The expression on the kid’s face was as old as his voice. “The shot left a scab. It will be easy to find the injection site.”

Respect stirred. Christ, if the kid was this self-possessed at eleven, what the hell was he going to be like at thirty? At forty?

He was going to be pretty damn formidable, that much was certain.

Amy’s face tightened, she glanced at her son’s calm, resolute face, but before she had a chance to countermand him, Jude stepped forward.

“This will not be necessary. Wolf comes. He will take us to betee3oo hohe’. We have the facilities there to remove such devices.”

Mac scowled. Betee3oo hohe’? Where the bloody f*ck is that?

And then the first part of Jude’s speech hit him. Wolf was coming? When the hell had that happened, and how did Jude know? Had he called Wolf somehow? If so, how? The radios didn’t have enough range . . . and the sat phone was in the kitchen. Rawls wouldn’t have had time to contact Wolf above the tunnels, and there wouldn’t have been enough reception below—besides, how would he have gotten the info to Jude? If it had come via radio, everyone would have heard it—including the *s attacking them. A third possibility struck. Did Jude have a sat phone? Had he called his CO prior to escaping into the tunnels?

He shot a questioning look at Zane, who shrugged.

With an irritated roll of his shoulders, Mac dropped the questions. From past experience, he knew the impassive bastard wouldn’t answer unless it suited him.

“If the boys are tagged, our enemies will follow you back to your base,” Mac said. Not that the Arapaho badass needed the reminder. Jude had damn well understood the implications of his suggestion.

Jude folded his muscled forearms and lifted heavy black eyebrows. “They can try.”




Faith awoke slowly, vaguely aware of a strong, rhythmic throb against her ear. Heat cocooned her, rocked her in a firm embrace. She sighed, a low hum of satisfaction, and snuggled closer to the warmth toasting her right side from cheek to hip.

The rocking stopped.

“Faith? Open your eyes for me, sugar.”

The entreaty in the deep, Southern-spiced voice forced Faith’s eyes open. Not that she could see much through the shadows surrounding her. But what she did see was confusing—like a band of arms encircling her and a broad chest against her cheek.

“You awake, baby?”

She would have thought she was dreaming, except for the tension in the smooth, rich voice rumbling against her ear. She recognized that voice. Responded to it.

“Rawls?” She started to stretch, but the bands of steel encircling her constricted, holding her in place.

“How you feelin’, baby?” The normally smooth voice was rough, raspy.

She frowned slightly, unease jiggling. Why did he sound so raw? But the disquiet was impossible to maintain when she felt so wonderful—warm, cozy, cared for.

“I feel great.” She sighed again, nuzzling her cheek into his chest. And it was true. She did feel great. Better than she could ever remember feeling. Which begged the question. “Why are you carrying me?”

There was a noticeable lift and fall to his chest, as though he’d taken a deep breath, followed by an even bigger exhale. And then the rocking started again.

“Do you remember what happened?”

She thought back, images unfurling in her mind.

Explosions overhead. The ceiling cracking and tumbling down. Dirt and concrete plunging through the gaping holes. Fleeing. Agony in her arm and chest. The inability to breathe.

Her heart must have acted up. Hardly surprising considering they’d faced the very real possibility of being buried alive. She glanced up, relieved to find the concrete above her head intact. Rawls must have hauled her to safety. At least they didn’t have to fend off that particular danger at the moment. The first time had obviously put enough stress on her heart to trigger the tachycardia. Thank God she’d saved that last dose of Cordarone.

“Thank you,” she mumbled on a deep contented breath. The earlier crisis so dim and dreamlike, it didn’t have the power to pierce her current serenity.

“For what?”

His voice sounded closer, and she could swear something was nuzzling the top of her head.

“For getting the Cordarone into me. I would have died without it.” An unwelcome realization scratched at the contentment. She must have been totally out of it, because she didn’t remember taking that pill.

“Yeah . . . ” That odd rasp was back in his voice. “I couldn’t get to the pill. I didn’t save you. Kait did.”

“Kait?” She raised her head, trying to make out his face in the shadows surrounding them. Where were the flashlights? But then the renewed tension in his arms and the rawness to his voice distracted her. There was more to the story than he was telling her.

“She healed you.” Thickness ironed out his drawl.

“Healed? Why did I need healing?” She tried to remember. But her recollection stopped when the ceiling had given way. “What happened?” She forced the question out, even though she was pretty sure she didn’t want to know the answer.