Forged in Smoke (Red-Hot SEALs #3)(83)

Rawls nodded his understanding. The elders started to chant, their voices lifting and waning in unison. In a straight line, led by the man with the red-and-yellow sunburst, they began a slow, rocking path to the circle of white stones. As they traveled the outside edge of the circle and slowly rocked a chanting path around the white rocks, their hands would dip into the pouches hanging at their sides and toss whatever they removed into the circle.

And sweet hell, with each toss from the pouches, the small fires burning so sedately in front of the log benches would erupt into spitting, hissing, ferocious flames. After two trips around the circle, the elders stopped and shouted. Whatever they said was in Arapaho, so Rawls couldn’t understand it, but Wolf did. Stepping forward, he handed Rawls’s hiixoyooniiheiht to the leader wearing red and yellow and then took three huge steps back.

The elder held the object up and the chanting resumed. The rocking, chanting parade continued with two revolutions to the right, at which point the elders pivoted and did three more to the left. And then suddenly, when each elder was in front of a bench, they simply stopped. Silently, three of the men sat behind their small fires, leaving only Red Poncho to stand and chant. After a few more seconds of chanting and rocking—standing in place this time—the elder dropped the corded amulet into the flames at his feet.

The fire spat, flames leapt, devouring the weaving instantly. Once the fire had settled back into its sedate glow, the elder motioned Rawls over.

“It is time,” the man said in perfect English. “Summon your biitei.”

Yeah . . . how did one go about summoning a ghost? That wasn’t something taught in SQ training.

Wolf picked up on his uncertainty. “Call it by name.”

“We didn’t know his name,” Rawls said, running a hand through his hair. “He was usin’ an alias. And he hasn’t felt like sharin’ his real name since turnin’ transparent.”

“Did the biitei offer you a name before it crossed over?” the elder asked.

“It called itself Pachico. Took a local cop’s name,” Rawls said.

Red-and-Yellow Sunburst nodded, as though the matter was settled. “This is the name it offered to you, this is the name you will summon it under.”

Okay . . . Rawls shifted uncomfortably.

Ah, what the hell. Squaring his shoulders, Rawls lifted his head.

“Hey, Pachico,” he said in a loud voice, and waited.

Everyone stared expectantly at the circle, but nothing manifested in the middle. Well . . . he was assuming it was supposed to show up in the circle. He took a slow turn, surveying the rest of the cavern. Nothing. He waited a bit longer.

“Again,” the lead elder said. “Concentrate. See his image in your mind and summon him to you.”

Feeling foolish Rawls closed his eyes and tried to visualize his ghostly stalker’s thin body and bald head. Didn’t it just figure that the one time he wanted the * to show up he’d turn all contrary?

Once the image was fairly clear in his head, he opened his eyes, focused on the white circle of rocks, and tried again. “Pachico, get your transparent ass over here.”

The forceful words echoed in the chamber. For a second it looked like his second command was going to have the same effect as his first—which was to say no effect whatsoever. But then a misty swirling stirred the dirt floor within the stone circle. Slowly, oh so slowly, a transparent form took shape. It wasn’t long before Rawls recognized the bald head and black knife sticking out of the translucent chest.

“So now you wanna talk to me.” Pachico’s hollow voice was filled with condescension. But then he noticed the four elders on their benches, and a surprised look crossed his face. The surprised look gave way to caution. “What is this? A welcoming party?”

Although the question was spoken sarcastically, Rawls could hear the tension in the ghost’s voice. Apparently death hadn’t stolen his instincts. He knew something was in the works. Something he wasn’t going to like.

“Ask the biitei its name,” Red Etchings said, his face calm and body still.

Rawls turned back to the circle of rocks and the translucent form caged within. “What’s your name?”

The ghost laughed, although there wasn’t an ounce of humor in his voice or on his face. “Seriously? You want to know my name? What the f*ck do you think we are? Girlfriends or some shit?”

In unison the four elders reached into the pouches hanging at their sides, grabbed a handful of whatever was in there, and threw it on the fires burning at their feet. The four fires flared, their reflections glowing in the circle of rocks, and Pachico screamed.

The scream was so unexpected, Rawls jumped, watching in shock as the translucent form that had been tormenting him for the past seven days writhed in apparent agony.

What the hell . . .

“Ask again,” the lead elder said as the flames died and the translucent form in the rocks quit squirming.

Rawls cleared his throat. “Your name.”

“Fuck you,” Pachico snarled, his form going thin and so translucent it was barely visible.

The elders reached into their pouches and their fires flared again. Pachico’s scream echoed with agony.

“It has been bound to the circle. It cannot leave.”

Once again it was the guy with the red-and-yellow sunburst who spoke. Rawls was getting the distinct impression he was the only one of the four who had a voice.