Chapter One
UP UNTIL FIVE months ago, Amy Chastain had never hated anyone.
She flinched as the needle pierced the inside of Benji’s small arm and her son’s wail ripped through the exam room, ricocheting off the clinical white walls. The hatred burned hotter. Darker. More violent.
“It hurts,” Benji sobbed, lifting brown eyes brimming with tears to her face.
“You’re almost done, baby. Almost done.” Her heart a raw, aching mess, she brushed the tears from his damp cheek and stroked his sturdy back.
The syringe slowly filled with his rich, red blood. There had been far too many syringes of blood over the past week. Far too many teary-eyed wails. Far too many blood tests, X-rays, MRIs, CAT scans—virtually every test known to man.
How could anyone—anyone—purposely poison a child? He was only a baby—barely seven years old.
The hatred settled deeper, a raw, pressurized force bubbling and brewing and spitting plumes of rage.
Sure, there had been people she disliked in the past. A person didn’t reach forty years of life without disliking someone. And when that person was a woman, fast-tracking her way to the top of the White Collar Crime Division in the good old boys’ club called the FBI, there had always been someone intent on sabotaging her career. Add in the constant rumors of sleeping her way to the top after she’d married John, who’d been special agent in charge of counterterrorism in Seattle’s field office, and, yeah, there had been plenty of individuals to dislike in her old life.
But not hate.
Hatred hadn’t entered her life until the insanely rich Eric Manheim and his cronies from the New Ruling Order had kidnapped her and the boys in order to force John to comply with their demands. Hatred hadn’t become part of her biological makeup until those bastards had killed John when the hijacking of flight 2077 had been circumvented, thanks to the intervention of Commander Mackenzie and the three SEALs who’d served beneath him. Hatred hadn’t become a living, breathing dragon seething inside her until Eric Manheim had detonated her children’s lives in service to his dual gods of power and greed.
He’d injected her children, for God’s sake, filled them full of this damn biological tracker just so he could follow them back to Mac’s safe house and blow the compound to hell and back.
And judging by the grave look on Dr. Zapa’s face when the woman had asked to speak with her—alone—Manheim’s avarice didn’t just threaten the lives and careers of the four SEALs who’d rescued her and the boys all those months ago. No, the bastard’s mechanizations threatened Benji’s and Brendan’s lives now too.
If ever a group of men deserved to be gutted and staked out on an anthill, it was Eric Manheim and his buddies in the New Ruling Order.
“There. See?” Amy dropped her voice to a soothing croon as the nurse smoothly slid the needle out of Benji’s flesh and pressed a cotton ball to the injection site. Amy took over applying pressure through the cotton ball as the nurse turned to the stainless-steel counter to tube and label the blood. She stroked her son’s back again, a long, soothing glide up and down his spine. “We’re all done.”
He hiccupped on the tail end of a sob and stared up at her, nutmeg eyes drowning in tears and suspicion. “Are they gonna poke me again?”
“Nope. You’re all done.” For now. Amy fought for a reassuring smile.
“Not only are we not going to stick you again today, but also look at this,” the nurse said in far too chipper a voice.
Benji stared at the bandage the nurse held out, his mouth dropping open in awe. “It’s a dinosaur!”
“Not just any old dinosaur,” the nurse told him in a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s a T. rex.”
“That’s my favorite!” The clouds in Benji’s eyes cleared, and his voice climbed in excitement.
“It is?” the nurse asked, her eyes rounding in pseudo astonishment. “How about that.”
Why in the world would there be children’s Band-Aids in Shadow Mountain’s clinic? Although the compound wasn’t a US military outpost, it was still a military base, packed full of Special Forces soldiers and other essential personnel. She hadn’t seen one civilian or child since arriving the week before.
She frowned as Benji’s previous appointments rolled through her mind. He’d had at least a dozen blood draws in the past week, and none of them had come with a dinosaur bandage. The clinic must have ordered the kids’ bandages specifically for him. She smiled her appreciation at the nurse. The clinic staff had been remarkably kind and helpful, considering that she and the boys had been thrust on them when Wolf, Shadow Mountain’s military commander, had hauled them to Alaska and dumped them on the base.
“Look, Mom! I’m a dinosaur!” Benji bounced in place, his gaze fixed on the thick tyrannosaur-shaped Band-Aid that decorated the inside of his elbow.
“I see that,” Amy murmured absently as she turned to Brendan.
Unlike Benji, who fought the blood draws with every fiber of his stocky body, her oldest son accepted the procedure with calm stoicism. He held perfectly still, without making a sound, as the nurse pushed the needle into his arm. After tubing and labeling Brendan’s blood, the nurse returned with a collection of bandages to choose from.
Brendan chose the plain brown one.
And wasn’t that just like her oldest. Brendan was so busy being the man of the house since his father had died, he’d forgotten how to be a child. She smothered the splinter of grief as John’s face rose in her mind.
No time for that.
“All that’s left is getting a weight on you two, and then you can go and fill those rumbling bellies,” the nurse said after taping the plain brown bandage across the cotton ball she’d pressed to the inside of Brendan’s elbow.
Amy glanced at the clock shining black against the white wall of the exam room. Marion should have arrived in the waiting room by now. “Would you mind taking them to get weighed and bringing them to the waiting room when you’re finished?”
“It would be my pleasure.” The nurse sent her an understanding smile. But then, she’d been there when Dr. Zapa had asked to speak with her . . . alone.
Amy’s throat tightened, a cold, hard block of ice hitting her belly. Dr. Zapa’s face had been so grave—defeated, even.
As she exited the exam room and hurried down the long, peach-tinted hall, she took deep, slow breaths, trying to calm the nerves tightening her chest. But the scent of disinfectant, fresh coffee, and carpet cleaner hit her lungs, constricting them even further.
Marion Simcosky—Lieutenant Marcus Simcosky’s mother—pushed a cloud of silver hair out of her eyes and rose from one of the blue-and-peach waiting-room chairs as Amy walked through the door next to the receptionist desk.
“I can’t thank you enough for stepping in like this, Marion, and taking the boys to the cafeteria.” Amy forced a smile as she approached Cosky’s mother. The woman had been a godsend over the past week, willing to babysit every time Amy had an appointment with their doctor.
“Don’t you worry about us.” Marion Simcosky’s gaze softened, sympathy brimming in her dove-gray eyes. “I’ll take good care of your boys while you talk to the doctor.”
“Benji will fill up on pastries and cookies, given half a chance, so make sure he eats more than just sweets.” She forced a matter-of-fact tone.
“Of course, dear.” Marion reached out to pat Amy’s hand, her soft face folding into lines of commiseration. “Try not to worry. I’m sure everything will work out. In the meantime, Benji and Brendan will be safe with me.”
Another smile was beyond her acting ability, so Amy forced a murmur of appreciation instead. Of course her boys would be safe with Marion. That wasn’t the concern. No—what scared her to death, what held her immobile in a raw, terrifying choke hold, was the beaten look on Eve Zapa’s face.
Benji’s loud, hyper voice barreled down the hallway and burst into the waiting room well ahead of her boisterous son. Amy turned. That was Benjamin for you, announcing his presence by voice way before his thunderous, two-footed arrival. His over-the-top albeit normal entrance should have steadied her, eased some of the anxiety. Instead it tightened the lump in her throat and increased the icy churn in her belly.
He’s only seven. Just a baby. How could anyone—
She strangled the question, forcing the panic down deep and burying it there. Such questions were pointless. The injection had already been given. The unidentified biological agent had already multiplied and flooded her sons’ bodies. Now she had to deal with the consequences—consequences forced on her children by a triad of heartless, unconscionable bastards.
The hatred bared its teeth and snarled. They would pay. Every single one of them. She’d make sure of it.
Commander Jace “Mac” Mackenzie drained the last dregs of coffee as he spied on the three Shadow Mountain men sitting at the cafeteria table in front of him. The distinct, sickly sweet stench of hydraulic fluid drifted from his targets, mixing with the thick scent of cooking that escaped from the kitchen behind him. The men’s oily cologne and stained gray overalls marked them as grease monkeys.
He’d hoped his subtle surveillance while they shoveled back mountains of biscuits and gravy would provide some intel on the mysterious military base he and his men were currently calling home. Simple conversation between colleagues could convey a multitude of information. But not this time. When one of the bastards did talk, it was in an unfamiliar, guttural language that Wolf used off and on—Arapaho, according to Kait Winchester. He couldn’t understand a damn thing they said, which meant lingering here was a fucking waste of time.
Scowling, he set the white mug on the plastic tray next to the ceramic plate with its smears of gravy. The chicken-fried steak and eggs he’d ordered for lunch had been considerably better than the fare he’d existed on during various deployments. Not only did the Shadow Mountain brass provide their operators with top-of-the-line medical and military equipment, but they also fueled their bodies with edible and enjoyable rations. Something virtually unheard of in the US military machine.
He swung his legs over the bench and carried the tray to the dirty dish station. He took his time stacking the dishes, silverware, and tray in their requisite bins. For the first time since he’d entered the United States Naval Academy as a hardened eighteen-year-old, he was uncertain of how to occupy his time. His position as commander of SEAL Team 7, at HQ1, had generated an ever-evolving list of tasks that required attention: ops in need of review, strategies in need of refinement, operators in need of training. Even off time came with responsibilities. Home ownership alone fed on free time like politicians fed on corruption and greed.
He shook his head and grimaced. Hell, when it came right down to it, he’d had every minute of every day spoken for long before he’d entered the USNA. With his old man comatose drunk 90 percent of the time after Davey died and Mommy Dearest split, Mac had taken care of himself and the house since the age of ten. Not that he’d given a rat’s ass about the house or his old man, but at least he’d had a bed to sleep in and hot water for a shower—two things that had made it easier to attend school and grab the odd job when the opportunity arose.
The jobs he’d snagged hadn’t paid for much beyond food to fill his belly and the occasional new pair of shoes or pants. But the old man’s retirement check had taken care of the utilities—assuming Mac had been able to wrestle the money away before the motherfucker dropped the whole damn wad on booze and gambling. He’d been lucky the old man had owned the house outright, thanks to an inheritance from a great-aunt who’d died long before Mac had arrived on the scene. At least he hadn’t been homeless. By the time the county seized the property and auctioned it off to pay the property taxes, he’d already joined the navy and settled into his new life as if he’d been born and bred to it. Which, as a third-generation career navy man, he had been. The Mackenzies were career navy through and through.
Which made it a bitter pill to swallow to have the navy goatfuck him twenty-six years later. Just goes to prove what wearing the white hat led to. Instead of kudos for preventing that damn hijacking, they’d been wrung out and left to swing in the breeze by their own damn command.
Mac scowled, frustration cinching the muscles of his chest like a straitjacket. He did a one-eighty and headed toward the cafeteria’s exit. The lack of progress on bringing to justice the men who’d murdered Admiral McKay and John Chastain—or, hell, even clearing his men’s names and proving their innocence against the laundry list of federal crimes riding their asses—was maddening. Almost as irritating as being shut out of the intel and preparations taking place in Shadow Mountain’s war room. He didn’t even know if Wolf’s command had located Dr. Ansell’s doomsday device or whether they were gearing up to retrieve the damn thing.
It fucking blowed to be locked out of the loop like this.
No doubt Zane, Cosky, and Rawls were handling this information blackout better than he was. After all, the three were bunking with their respective significant others—code for they were otherwise engaged and didn’t give a rat’s ass about the intel embargo.
Why the hell that train of thought would give rise to Amy’s image was something he had no intention of examining too closely. So far, over the past week, he’d managed to avoid his redheaded albatross almost completely.
As he closed on the cafeteria door, it slid open, revealing the dark heads of Amy’s children. Son of a bitch, the woman was like Beetlejuice. He just had to think of her, and boom—there she was. Except . . . the woman who followed the two boys through the sliding door wasn’t a short, athletic redhead. Rather, a soft-bodied, grandmotherly type with uncontrollable silver hair.
He frowned, unease stirring as he stepped aside to let the trio pass. Amy Chastain was protective as fuck when it came to her boys. She wouldn’t pass them off to Marion Simcosky without a damn good reason.
Not your circus. Let it go.
Advice that might have taken hold if Benji hadn’t spotted him and charged forward.
“I’m a dinosaur,” he shouted, stopping within inches of Mac and letting loose an enthusiastic roar.
Mac stumbled back, narrowly avoiding a collision with the child.
“See?” Benji extended his arm with another ear-splitting roar.
Holy fuck, the kid could be used as a sonic weapon, crushing the eardrums of enemies far and wide.
Tilting his head, Mac scanned the small limb presented to him. A Band-Aid in the shape of a T. rex shielded the inside of the boy’s elbow. “A T. rex, huh? They were pretty bada—fierce.”
“Roar! I’m fierce too!”
Mac winced. “You know that the T. rex was the most ferocious predator in the history of our planet?” He nodded sagely as Benji cocked his head, his face suddenly slack with fascination. “But what made them so dangerous was their silence. They’d sneak up on their prey in absolute stealth. Attack before anyone realized they were even there. Their silence is what made them so fierce.”
Marion Simcosky snorted, amusement sparkling in her eyes. “Nice try, Commander.” She turned to the older child. “Brendan, why don’t you take Benji to the counter and get him some of that pizza he’s been carrying on about. I need a word with Commander Mackenzie.”
“But I’m talking to—”
“You can talk to him after you’ve eaten, Benji. Now skedaddle.” She waited for Brendan to herd his brother across the cafeteria floor before turning a suddenly grave face in Mac’s direction. “The boys’ doctor asked to see Amy in private, and I suspect the news is less than good. Nobody should have to face something like that alone, but she needed help with the boys, so I couldn’t stay.”
Ah hell . . . Stiffening, Mac took a step back. “Beth or Kait—”
“Aren’t here. You are. The meeting with the doctor will be over by the time I find them. Amy needs someone now.”
Mac took another step back. “I’m sure Mrs. Chastain would prefer to have a woman with her.”
“The only woman available is me, and I promised her I’d take care of her children. Trust me, she’d be much more comfortable with me watching over her boys than holding her hand. Which means you’re currently the only person available to step up.” She leaned toward him, a militant look sheening her gaze.
Fuck.
“She’s at the clinic, Commander. Alone. She needs you.” The resolve shifted to entreaty in her eyes and voice.
Double fuck.
He spread his feet and tensed his muscles, powering up for an uncompromising refusal. No way in hell was he taking on Amy Chastain’s troubles.
“Fine.” The surrender grated as it rumbled up his throat and out his mouth.
Where the hell had that come from?
Mac scowled, regrouping. Time to nip this in the bud and retreat to safety. “Look, I’ll check in on her. That’s all I’m promising.”
He groaned beneath his breath. Agreeing to check up on the damn woman wasn’t exactly retreating.
Marion’s expression softened in relief. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate that, Commander.”
Grunting an acknowledgment, Mac brushed past Marion before she talked him into doing anything else. Of course, just because he’d agreed to check on Amy didn’t mean he had to do so. It would be easy enough to skirt that duty by heading in the opposite direction. Except his feet developed a mind of their own and carried him two streets to the right and through the clinic’s sliding glass doors.