Forged in Smoke (Red-Hot SEALs #3)(96)
Link coughed. “Which is what our testing indicated. But our testing was limited. It’s impossible to test it against every condition. I would guess the boys have arrived someplace that blocks the signal.”
Slowly Eric sat, relaxing as the Technogel cushions conformed to his frame, cradling him. If what Link had said was true, the signal would resume once the children left the area interfering with the signal. Since Link had been tracking them right up until the signal disappeared, he must know the approximate location they’d gone to ground.
“Where did the signal disappear?” he asked. At the last checkin, the signal had been approaching the Alaska state line.
“In the vicinity of Mount McKinley.”
McKinley? The mountain was—he ran a quick Google search on his phone—at least 1500 miles from Seattle. Which meant the aircraft the SEALs and their charges had appropriated was flying at speeds of three hundred miles an hour. At least—he googled typical helicopter speeds—twice as fast as any chopper currently in use by the military.
“Who in the hell are they working with?” he muttered beneath his breath. “They didn’t get that helicopter from Coronado.”
“Maybe it was a plane. A private jet can fly over six hundred miles an hour.”
Eric shook his head. His last team leader had specifically mentioned a helicopter taking out their Jayhawk—the second bloody one he’d lost to those navy bastards, mind you. Too bad he hadn’t gotten a description of the aircraft before his spineless, incompetent * of a team leader had f*cked everything up and then gotten himself killed.
He grimaced and got back down to business. “If there’s something blocking the signal, it should resume once they start moving again. Correct?”
A pause echoed through his phone. And then Link cleared his throat. “Assuming they haven’t arrived at their destination, or that they haven’t transferred to another vehicle that is blocking the signal. If the latter is the case, they could be anywhere.”
Bloody hell. Eric scrubbed at the headache behind his eyes. He needed another team. Someone to send up to Alaska and do some poking around, but the f*ckup in the Cascades had deprived him of choices. He thought about asking Link if he had anyone they could send, but he swallowed the question at the last moment.
It was pretty much guaranteed that anyone Link recommended would lack the sociopathic, cold-blooded killer instinct the job required. If you wanted to hire an assassin, your best bet was to ask a killer for recommendations.
“Let me know immediately if the signal comes back online.” He didn’t wait for an agreement. He simply ended the call and dialed David Coulson.
“Thoughts?” Mac asked, looking back and forth between his two officers. The two men in front of him were Rawlings’s best friends. Hell, they’d been roommates for years. If anyone knew how bad off the poor bastard was, it would be them.
“At least we know what’s going on with him now,” Cosky pointed out, lifting the tumbler of whiskey to his lips and taking a healthy swallow.
Zane rolled his shoulders in what might—or might not—have been agreement as a hard knock sounded on the door.
Pushing back the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and then his chair, Mac climbed to his feet. He studied the grim faces across the table before silently turning and heading for the entrance to his quarters.
Since Rawls had been the one to call the meeting, his face on the other side of the door was expected. Mac stepped back, allowing him entry.
“You want a shot?” Mac asked, following Rawls back to the table. He lifted the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. When Rawls waved the offer aside, he refilled three of the four empty glasses spread across the Formica surface.
“I have some information y’all need to know,” Rawls said, jumping into the subject immediately.
Stiffening, Mac held up a palm, halting the flow of words. “We can’t assume this is a private conversation.”
It was a safe bet that the quarters he’d been given had come with an extra set of ears. Of course, it was an equally safe bet that they’d have someone listening in on their discussion no matter where they had it.
Rawls’s tight grin looked more like a grimace. He shifted from foot to foot, shoving tense fingers through his hair. “Trust me, Wolf and his people are fully aware of everythin’ I’m about to tell y’all.”
Cosky and Zane exchanged guarded looks.
“Okay,” Mac said, and waited.
“All the intel at the strategy session yesterday came from Pachico.”
Stunned silence rocked the room, thickening the air until every rustle of clothing or shuffle of feet sounded muffled and languid.
“Pachico,” Cosky finally said, his voice neutral. “As in our dead cop impersonator?”
The operative word being dead.
“That’s the one,” Rawls said in an equally flat voice.
Giving himself time to batten down his immediate, explosive burst of disbelief, Mac picked up his tumbler and drained it, concentrating on the furious burn traveling down his throat. He wasn’t certain what he’d expected, but it sure as hell hadn’t been this.
While the tunnels had brought to light the fact that Rawls was convinced he was seeing ghosts, who’d have guessed he intended to interrogate the damn things?
“I assume this information was collected after Pachico died?” Cosky asked dryly.