Forged in Smoke (Red-Hot SEALs #3)(76)
It was so damn simple he couldn’t believe the idiot hadn’t considered it himself.
“Our chopper”—this time the even tone tightened—“is no longer in play.”
Eric froze. “What the f*ck does that mean?”
“It means it was taken out.”
There was a hint of a snap to the voice, as though the man it belonged to didn’t appreciate the scolding. Which was too bloody bad and justification for terminating his contract.
“By what?”
“Some kind of experimental aircraft.”
“The hell you say? You lost your helicopter and most of your men and didn’t find that news worth reporting?”
This time he didn’t bother to relax his fingers when they started to cramp. The pain gave him something to concentrate on, something to combat the urge to throw his coffee cup across the room and watch it shatter.
“I’m reporting in now. And FYI, these SEALs are hooked up,” his facilitator said, his accent thickening. “Much more than you indicated.”
Really? Really? The bloody f*ckhole was blaming him?
In an effort to calm himself, he stared out the rain-beaded window of the penthouse’s breakfast nook. Central Park, in all its sprawling, wild glory, sparkled like a glistening emerald beneath the misting rain.
For once, the view failed to soothe him.
It was too bad there was so much time and distance between him and the man on the other end of the line. The bastard had talked himself into a painfully slow execution. His family as well.
“No excuses. I don’t care how you do it. Just get it done.” Eric cut the call, knowing the man wouldn’t be calling back.
“Problems, darling?” Esme asked, looking up from the business section of the New York Times.
With the rage still trying to break free, he focused on the beautiful woman who shared his table, his bed, his life, and his vision of a new world order. Her normally sleek cap of blond hair was slightly rumpled, her blue eyes soft and languid: a slight flush still rode the crest of her cheekbones. She looked like a woman who’d just climbed out of bed after a night of thorough loving—which she had. His hands unclenched as that unquenchable hunger she never failed to unleash in him stirred. Beneath the silk nightshirt obscuring her slender figure, she wore nothing but warm soft skin. His fingers tingled, itching to slide the shirt up and explore every inch of that sleek body . . . again.
But regrettably, duty beckoned.
Crossing to her, he leaned over to place a gentle kiss on her upturned swollen lips and then picked up her teacup.
“Looks like we’re in the market for another freelancer,” he said as he set her cup in the marble sink. “Perhaps it’s time to contact Coulson’s man. At least Coulson’s tactics produce results.”
“They escaped? Again?” She cocked her head slightly, her hair fluttering around her ears.
“For now. But the signal’s still broadcasting. We’ll track them down.” He frowned, staring down at the brilliant diamond pattern etched into the teacup’s glass as unease brewed in his mind.
They were dealing with an unknown variable. And in his experience, unknown variables tended to prove disastrous. “It would appear that our SEALs are better connected than we realized. They have access to reinforcements, at least one experimental aircraft, and some major artillery.”
“Could the reinforcements be coming from Coronado?” Esme asked, reaching across the table to stroke his hand. He caught it and carried it to his lips.
“Possibly, but doubtful. Most of their buddies are out on deployment.” He’d made sure of it. “Besides, they couldn’t acquisition an experimental helicopter from the navy.” He shook his head and frowned. “Or the kind of firepower it took to shoot down team B.” He turned to stare out the breakfast window again as more of those uneasy chills peppered his spine.
His instincts were usually dead-on, and at the moment, they were clamoring that those damn SEALs had hooked up with someone with major resources and the ability to do serious damage.
If he wanted to survive the oncoming storm he sensed looming on the horizon, he needed to find out whom they’d climbed into bed with, and take immediate steps to neutralize the whole damn lot of them.
* * *
Chapter Fifteen
* * *
MAC SETTLED AGAINST the padded wall vibrating against his back. The average military-grade chopper could travel 150 knots an hour, and six hundred kilometers on a tank of fuel. They’d been in the air for five hours now, which meant this bad boy shuttling them to Christ-knew-where was far superior to any military bird he knew of. He estimated it was going faster than 150 knots an hour too. A hell of a lot faster—which made it one pretty sweet ride.
He smoothed his palm down the sleek, almost metallic sheen of the wall beside him. The surface didn’t feel like metal, or fabric, or anything he’d encountered before. He’d bet his pension on this craft being experimental.
Assuming you still have a pension.
He sighed, envy rising. What he wouldn’t give to have one of these babies sitting on the tarmac at Coronado.
Whomever Wolf and his team worked for, they were well funded.
Impressively funded, impressively connected too—experimental aircraft weren’t handed off to every Tom, Dick, or Harry. Nor were mysterious compounds with intricate tunnel systems, which included elevators in the middle of f*cking nowhere.