Chapter Three
EXHAUSTION DRAGGING AT every synapse in her brain and sinew in her body, Amy Chastain paused in the doorway. The hall lamp burned bright and harsh behind her, casting a thin wedge of light to the right and left of her body and illuminating two bundles of blanket-wrapped boys.
The small apartment the Shadow Mountain housing committee had assigned her boasted two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small living area with an attached kitchenette. The larger of the two bedrooms barely accommodated the two narrow beds, which had been pushed against the walls in an L formation. At the foot of each bed was a four-drawer dresser. At best, the small closet behind the door held a coat or two. Her room was even smaller, with a single bed and a built-in wardrobe. Combined, the entire space occupied around four hundred square feet.
But the rooms were safe. Secure. Private.
Qualities that were much more important than space these days.
Upon reaching the bed to the right, she leaned over and straightened the collection of blankets before tugging them over Benji’s shoulders. It wouldn’t be long before the covers were tossed aside again. Her youngest had always been a restless sleeper, thrashing around in bed as though sleep couldn’t contain his enthusiasm or exuberant personality.
She straightened then arched her spine, kneading the tight muscles in her lower back. At least the events over the past few days—or even months—hadn’t impacted her youngest. While his father’s death had dimmed his sunny personality for a while, he’d treated everything else—from their kidnapping to the flight through the tunnels with the compound exploding overhead—with uncontained excitement. Not even the battery of medical tests he’d endured over the past week had squelched his spirit for long. But then, unlike Brendan, Benji had no idea what the test results had yielded.
Brendan knew even though she hadn’t told him. Her oldest took after his father when it came to intuition and rock-solid temperament. Although only four years separated her two sons, Brendan was a millennium older in maturity and perception.
Amy turned to the bed on the left and found Brendan watching her. It didn’t surprise her. She suspected he hadn’t been sleeping any better than she had.
Unlike Benji’s trashed cot, Brendan’s covers were neatly folded at his chest, the blankets smooth and straight, as though he hadn’t moved a fraction of an inch since he’d climbed into bed.
She settled beside him and reached out to stroke his cheek. “Couldn’t sleep?”
He studied her face before answering, as though trying to judge what she needed to hear. Such a subtle, heartbreaking response to a simple question.
“It’s going to be okay, Mom,” he finally said, his calm, quiet voice filling the darkness.
Yep, he’d found it. He’d pinpointed exactly what she needed to hear. His hand rose, caught hers, and held tight. Something else she’d needed without realizing it.
A wave of sorrow—raw and suffocating—broke over her and threatened to rupture her composure. Sorrow for John, for the life that had been taken that could never be returned, for all the things she wouldn’t be able to share with him through the coming years. For Benji, whose losses were still to come when he slowed down enough to realize how much had been stolen from him. But most of all for this child lying so still and silent beside her. This adult in a child’s body.
Brendan had lost everything. He’d lost his father and the exceptionally close relationship they’d shared. He’d lost his school, his friends, and his sports teams—which he’d excelled at.
But most of all he’d lost his innocence.
Through their kidnapping and her rape, he’d learned that sex could be used as a weapon, leaving bruises and blood and invisible wounds that cut to the soul. Through his father’s death, he’d learned that you could do everything right, everything possible, and still pay the ultimate price. Through this awful high-tech shit those monsters had shot into his veins, he’d learned that there were people out there capable of the most invasive, horrific acts to achieve their own agendas.
While Brendan’s quiet, deliberate nature had always been the core of his personality, these past five months had tempered his natural demeanor into something harder, darker—heartbreaking in a child.
Nothing had gone over Brendan’s head. Although he hadn’t said anything, he understood what those bastards had done to her four and a half months ago while they’d been helpless and trapped.
She shied away from the memories, entombing them deep within her, where they smoldered and swelled and pressed outward like a pus-filled abscess ready to burst forth and spew its rot.
There wasn’t time to deal with what had happened to her or work through the aftermath. She couldn’t afford to wallow in her own personal tragedy, not when there was another catastrophe looming—one that could swallow her children.
“There was something in that shot, wasn’t there?”
Brendan’s voice dragged her from the crumbling abyss of her own thoughts.
“Something that lets them track us?” While he’d framed it as a question, the certainty sat flat and hard in his voice as well as in the dark eyes watching her.
She swallowed and tightened her hand around his before forcing the admission through her tight, aching throat. “It appears so.”
“They can’t get it out of us?” His knowing gaze didn’t budge from her face, and acceptance resonated in his voice.
The dark brown of his eyes didn’t match hers, or John’s either, but then neither did the color of his hair. Both were throwbacks to her father. Her biological father, not the man she’d called Dad for the past thirty-odd years. She didn’t remember much of the man who’d fathered her besides a quiet voice and strong arms. But she’d seen enough pictures to know where her sons’ dark hair and eyes came from.
“Dr. Zapa is working on it, but they aren’t sure what we’re dealing with yet. In the meantime we’re safe here. The signal is blocked by Shadow Mountain.” She paused to instill confidence in her voice. “They can’t find us here.”
“The healing Kait and the others did didn’t work?”
Amy silently shook her head, a lump clogging her throat.
Brendan didn’t look surprised. She hoped he hadn’t figured out the rest of it. If Eve couldn’t find out a way to neutralize the compound, her children would never be able to step foot outside Shadow Mountain again. Not without the risk of being scooped up and used in this deadly conspiracy Eric Manheim and his cronies had embroiled them in.
A beat of silence followed.
“Commander Mackenzie thinks Clay did this to us,” Brendan suddenly said, a cold edge chilling his voice.
She flinched, denial instinctively rising. Her dad and mom—and Clay—couldn’t have had anything to do with what happened.
They couldn’t.
“Commander Mackenzie is suspicious of everyone.” Which was nothing less than the truth and had nothing to do with what her son was trying to tell her. She backtracked and tried again. “Mac doesn’t even know your uncle Clay.”
Mackenzie’s suspicious face rose in her mind.
Brendan was right, though. Mac did think Clay was behind the injection given to her sons. But if he was right, that meant Clay was behind the rest of it too. John’s murder. Her, Benji, and Brendan’s kidnapping. What those bastards had done to her. If Mac was right, Clay was responsible for every single horrific blow since late March.
It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t. She’d known Clay since the age of five. They’d shared a home and an idyllic childhood. He’d been John’s best friend and best man at their wedding. He was Brendan’s godfather. For him to be capable of such evil without her or John recognizing it? No. It simply wasn’t possible.
Straightening her shoulders, she shook her head. “Clay has nothing to do with any of this.”
Brendan just stared at her. “He was there, Mom. He brought the doctor. He’s the one who told us we had to have the shot.”
“Because someone convinced him you needed the shots to get back into school. He didn’t realize what you were being given.” She forced conviction into her voice.
“He’s FBI, like Dad—and he didn’t check with the school? Have the shot tested? Dad would have.” Reservation and something darker burned in her son’s grim eyes.
“That’s why your dad was senior agent in charge, and your uncle Clay isn’t,” Amy said. “Clay misses things sometimes.”
“Commander Mackenzie would have checked.” There was no give in Brendan’s voice.
Yes, Mac would have. The man never took things for granted.
“We’ve already established that Commander Mackenzie has a suspicious nature,” Amy said, exhaustion crashing over her in an emotionally draining wave. Not that she’d sleep, or at least not for very long, if she headed to her bed.
“I think Commander Mackenzie is right. I think Clay knew what was in that shot. I think he gave it to us on purpose.”
“Oh, Brendan . . .” Amy’s voice failed.
Another wave of sorrow washed over her, only this time it was tinged with rage. Apparently they’d taken even more from her son than she’d realized—they’d stolen his trust in family too, the security of knowing that those closest to you had your back.
“He’s never liked us, Mom.” Brendan tilted his chin and set his jaw.
That gave her pause.
Never?
Never spoke of long rather than short term. Never referenced a lengthier pattern than five months.
Brendan had stopped calling her brother Uncle Clay years ago. When she’d questioned him, he’d told her calling him uncle was a baby thing and he was too old for that now. She hadn’t thought much of it at the time, assuming it was something he’d heard at school or through his friends. Had it been more than that? Had he been certain even back then that Clay didn’t like him?
“Clay might not always show it, sweetheart, but he loves us.” The reassurance sent déjà vu crashing through her. She’d said the exact same thing to Mackenzie—twice now.
Suddenly she felt mired in a case of she-who-doth-protest-too-much.
“He smiled when Benji cried,” Brendan said, a flat sheen glossing his brown eyes.
Startled, Amy straightened. “When was this?”
“When the doctor gave us the shot. It hurt bad, and Benji started crying. Clay smiled. He liked seeing Benji hurt. He liked seeing him cry.”
She wanted to protest, tell him he was imagining things, but she couldn’t. Brendan didn’t imagine things, not ever. If he said Clay had smiled when Benji cried—then Clay had smiled.
Nausea rolled up her throat. “Could he have been thinking about something else?”
Brendan’s dark brows knitted, but then he slowly shook his head. “I don’t think so. He was looking right at Benji, and he didn’t smile until Benji started crying.”
Amy sat there frozen, a dark, cold shadow pressing into her.
“I know you think of him as a brother, Mom.” Brendan sat up and scooted back until his shoulders were braced against the headboard. “But he’s never liked us. He might smile with his mouth, but his eyes are mean. He’s been like that as long as I can remember.”
“Your grandpa’s always been hard on him.” She paused, shook her head. She was making excuses. But nothing excused this if Brendan was right. If Mackenzie was right. “Why didn’t you ever mention this before?”
“Because it didn’t matter before.”
She thought about that, the cold sinking into her like a thick frost. Even her bones ached. “You really think Clay knew what he was doing? That he injected you on purpose?”
This time he didn’t pause to think about it. He nodded solemnly.
If Brendan was right, then what Clay felt for them went deeper than dislike. This rammed right into hatred.
Maybe Brendan was picking up on something that wasn’t there. Maybe the past five months had hardwired his natural suspicion, and he was seeing monsters in familiar faces.
Was that what had happened to Mackenzie? Had he lost his innocence during childhood? Had that hardened him into the suspicious adult he was today?
She rubbed at the ache throbbing behind her eyes. She couldn’t dismiss Brendan’s comments no matter how much she wanted to. Her son was intuitive for his age, with killer instincts. She needed to get hold of Clay and find out. She needed to rid herself of the sisterly bias and discover whether family loyalty had blinded her to the monster her brother had become.
“Hey, Woof Boy. Hold up.”
A sizzle of irritation crackling through him, Wolf paused, one thick black boot inches from the cement. With slow deliberation, he placed his foot on the ground, schooled his face to tolerance, and pivoted.
It came as no surprise to find Commander Mackenzie’s harsh face and toxic personality barreling down on him. But then he’d recognized the heebii3soo’s voice immediately. Well, that and the accompanying flash of annoyance. Mackenzie was one of the few men in existence who could shatter a good morning simply by opening his mouth.
And today was no good morning.
Jude, Wolf’s uncle and the leader of the Eagle Clan, paused beside him on the ramp to headquarters. After glancing over his shoulder, he grunted, his shoulders flexing slightly. Without looking at Wolf, he headed toward the looming door of their destination.
“Bawk, bawk, bawk,” Wolf clucked beneath his breath.
“Better to run like nih’oo3ounii’ehiiho’ than drown beneath Black Cloud’s noo’uusooo’,” Jude responded dryly, his boot steps a steady beat against the concrete. The heavy steel-and-glass door opened and closed with a sibilant hiss.
Wolf grimaced as he watched Mackenzie approach. Storm . . .
A fair description of the obnoxious SEAL’s abrasive personality. Mackenzie’s perennial dour mood had earned him the Black Cloud handle, which fit him all too well, considering how often he shed the emotional equivalence of lightning bolts and gale-force winds.
“Commander.” Wolf inclined his head as Mackenzie stopped before him, leaning in just enough to invade Wolf’s personal space.
“I need access to that nifty experimental chopper you boys like to show off.” Mackenzie leaned forward even farther.
“Indeed.” Wolf crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to ease away from the not-so-subtle challenge. Only Mackenzie could turn a request into a demand. However, to give the man credit, his demands usually came with valid reasons. “Why?”
Thick black brows beetled over Mackenzie’s hawkish nose. Rocking back on his heels, Mackenzie shoved a blunt hand through his short graying hair. “The doc says the isotope those bastards injected into Amy’s kids was delivered through the flu shot—which Clay Purcell, her fucktard of a brother, arranged. We need to talk to the asshole, force him to give up the doctor who administered the shot. It’s the best lead we have so far. But he’s down in Seattle.”
Wolf nodded, a scowl quickly following. The ineffectiveness of the combined healing had been a blow. To Amy most of all, but to Kait as well. His sister refused to accept the limitations of her gift.
A wave of fury tinged with disgust rolled through him. The New Ruling Order had much to answer for. They’d proved their willingness to sacrifice their own people through the years, but to endanger the lives of those so young went against everything his people stood for. During the Old Time, they’d lost many of their children to war and disease. After they’d been forced onto the reservation, their children had been taken and sent hundreds of miles away to schools meant to purge their customs and culture. Too many of them had never returned home.
Generations of his people had fought for their children. It was a pity the outside world did not do the same for theirs.
He shook the disgust aside and concentrated on the man practically vibrating with impatience in front of him. Mackenzie had a point. Although Eve maintained that the boys were handling the isotope well, it was uncertain how long the status quo would last. Without intervention, the two boys could very well be the latest casualties in their war against the NRO.
It was of the utmost priority that an antidote be found. Amy’s brother was the obvious starting point, as Mackenzie insisted. The timing, unfortunately, was a complete hoxhisei.
“Three days. I have no team available until then.” Wolf turned back toward headquarters.
“I’m not asking for a team. I’m asking for a bird. Fuck, it doesn’t even have to be one of those black op specials. I’ll take the Jayhawk.”
Wolf halted but didn’t turn around. “I can give you the bird and a team in three days.”
Mackenzie’s voice hardened behind him. “We don’t know if those boys have three days. We don’t have a clue what that toxic shit is doing to their insides.”
The commander spoke the truth. If the boys’ health deteriorated, Benji and Brendan might need these three days’ head start. Turning again, Wolf breathed deeply, burying the frustration and rage. The need to join Mackenzie on his mission and track down the men who’d thrown two tei’yoonoh’o’ beneath the hooves of their greed exploded inside him like thunder.
But he had other obligations. Sacred responsibilities. Not just to his living warriors but to his dead brethren as well. Grief unfurled and pressed hard against his chest, dampening the frustrated rage. To assure his dead warriors connected with Shining Man above, the smudging ceremony had to proceed. He needed these three days.
But Amy and her tei’yoonoh’o’ should not have to wait. “You’ll take your men?”
Mackenzie’s snort and eye roll expressed his opinion of that question. Wolf simply nodded.
“I’ll arrange it.” Before he could retreat into headquarters, Mackenzie grabbed his arm.
“What the hell’s going on with Faith’s doomsday device?”
Locking down another spike of irritation, Wolf calmly shook his bicep free. Apparently his capitulation had emboldened the man to demand even more time and answers. Typical.
“Classified,” he drawled, knowing the answer would stir the storm clouds again.
Mackenzie’s description of Ansell’s clean energy generator fit well. Doomsday device, indeed. If Manheim and his cronies activated the machine and managed to mentally link with it, if it augmented their brains’ patterns as the machine had done to Dr. Ansell, and if it allowed them to blow up something with a mere thought or kill with a single word . . . yes, the world would suffer unholy consequences.
How did one fight such enemies?
That was if they didn’t simply rewire it and turn it into some kind of bomb. His mouth tightened. They needed to find the damn thing. Destroy it. Destroy every schematic associated with it. Which was easier said than done when they didn’t have a location on the device or the man who currently possessed it.
But perhaps Neniiseti’s spirit walking would change that. If Shining Man was willing and the cedar smoke smudged in the right direction, the device’s location would be theirs. He forced back a chill of unease. Neniiseti’ had plenty of experience navigating the shadow world, but the spirits were capricious and not always to be trusted. They had no way of knowing whether such a journey would prove victorious and give them the location of the device or send them down a rabbit’s warren and lure Neniiseti’ too deep into Shining Man’s web.
“I must go.” Before Wolf had a chance to turn, Mackenzie started talking.
“Cos says you lost everyone on that second chopper when it went down.” A mix of grimness and sympathy rasped through his voice. “Just wanted you to know how sorry I am—we all are—about that.”
Wolf inhaled deeply, breathing through the grief. For a second the agony of dozens of lives ended raged through him again. Although mental linking gave them major advantages during insertions, it carried serious consequences as well. The worst of which was experiencing your brothers’ hiihooteet through the link, their pain and fear, the sudden absence of their mind followed by that vast emptiness where vibrant personalities had once dwelled. But to lose twelve within seconds . . . the gray, wintery plains of grief sucked at him, tried to pull him under. He shook off the tide. The vigil would soon begin, followed by the freeing ceremony. Neither would be open to outsiders.
“Appreciate it.” Wolf rolled his shoulders, trying to release the tension. Just when he thought he had Mackenzie figured out, the man turned all human on him.
“I know what it feels like to lose men. Good men. Me and the boys, we’d like to pay our respects if you’ll let us know when and where.”
The mental screams and prayers of a dozen minds as their lives ended echoed through Wolf’s mind in a chaotic jumble. The cold, impersonal loss of life in Mackenzie’s world was worlds apart from the immediate, agonizing loss of life in his.
“Appreciate it,” he said again without extending an offer to Mackenzie or his team. The smudging ceremony would be held in private, void of curious eyes—as such matters always were.
To Wolf’s relief Mackenzie’s face shifted from sympathy to calculation. “When can I get the chopper?”
“Soon.” Which was the best he could do until he spoke to Neniiseti’.
“Soon as in today? Tomorrow? Or three days from now?” Mackenzie demanded, his face collapsing into a scowl.
“You’ll be the second to know.” To Wolf’s surprise, Mackenzie backed up a few paces. But he didn’t turn to go. Clearly he had another subject on his mind. He waited a few moments for the man to spit it out, and when the commander’s mouth remained shut, he cocked his head. “And?”
“Hell.” A grumbling curse shook the air. Mackenzie took a deep breath before continuing with obvious reluctance. “My men’s womenfolk are asking about Jillian. They’re concerned about her.”
Wolf tensed and crossed his arms. “I am aware.”
His sister had turned into a veritable shrew on the subject. However, he found it unlikely that Mackenzie shared their worry. Black Cloud was not one to engage in concern for those outside his command. This topic read more like a ruse, perhaps to gain access to Jillian for further interrogation. Mackenzie had made it bluntly clear he still had questions for his heneeceine3 and didn’t believe she’d told them everything she knew about her brother’s movements or her kidnappers’ agenda. But the last thing Jillian needed was a reminder that her beloved twin brother had been a sociopathic murderer and the mastermind behind the attempted hijacking of flight 2077.
“It is not my call on whom or when Jillian visits. She will step out when she is ready.”
Except she showed no interest in leaving her room or in eating, drinking, even showering. He shook the worry aside and refocused.
Everyone needed to practice patience when it came to his lioness. He most of all. He’d known from the moment of their meeting that she wasn’t mentally or emotionally stable—in no shape to give him what he needed from her. Understandable, given the circumstances of her children’s murders and her brother’s betrayal. But the question that haunted him was whether she would ever be ready.
Whether she would ever heal enough to start a new life or take on a new love, even a new family.
Or whether he was doomed to spend his days walking the earth, craving that which could never be his.