Chapter Seven
WHEN THE KNOCK struck his door, Wolf opened it without hesitation. But he’d expected Jude, who intended to accompany him to the smudging ceremony. The Hiihooteet ritual—or death ritual—stirred strong emotions. Such burdens were shared easier between friends . . . and clansmen. Jude was both.
It wasn’t Jude’s face that greeted him when he opened the door.
“Hell.” Sometimes the white man’s curse fit the moment more accurately than anything from the people’s language. He shifted forward, blocking admission lest Black Cloud decided to enter without welcome. “I have no time for you.”
“Nice to see you too. What’s with the feathers?” Mackenzie’s gaze lingered on the four eagle feathers dangling from Wolf’s thick braid.
Wolf crossed his arms across his chest and ignored the question. The death ritual was not for outside ears.
Although there’d been a caustic edge to the commander’s tone, the harsh voice was more tempered than Wolf had ever heard it. And there was an odd, tight, maybe even confused look in the black gaze eyeing Wolf’s hair.
Something had thrown Black Cloud off his game.
“I know you’ve heard of the hit on Purcell. His death narrows our chances of finding the cure for Amy’s boys.” Mackenzie smoothed a palm over his shorn head and cupped the back of his neck.
Wolf tamped down his impatience and simply nodded.
“James Link is our best bet now. He’s in charge of Dynamic Solutions’ advance technology department, and that shit they injected into Benji and Brendan is as experimental as hell. We need to move on him, A-SAP.” The midnight gaze that fixed on Wolf’s face glittered with grim determination.
James Link . . . Wolf frowned. Mackenzie had a point. If the compound originated from Dynamic Solutions, as they suspected, then James Link was their best prospect for finding a cure. However, as the acting CEO, he’d be impossible to access.
Not that inaccessibility had ever stopped them from acquiring a target before.
Nevertheless, this topic could not be debated now. There were other priorities. Priorities that had already been put off too long. It had been ten days since the chopper crash. The Hiihooteet ritual was not meant to be stretched this far. The delay had been unavoidable. Many of his warriors had been deep in missions and difficult to retrieve.
“I will take this under advisement.” Wolf spread his feet, willing Mackenzie to depart. Per usual, Black Cloud ignored the hint.
“You boys have as much reason to go after Link as we do. As a member of the NRO, he’s spinning in your wheelhouse. A joint mission to grab him would benefit both of us.” Mackenzie’s voice hardened and rose. A direct challenge.
Hell—he wasn’t wrong.
The timing was.
“I will bring this to the council,” Wolf said, willing Black Cloud’s boots to start moving.
“Good. That’s good.” Another swipe over his bristly head, and Mackenzie stepped back and turned.
Wolf locked down his surprise. How about that? The SEAL was leaving without trying to bully his case forward. Atypical behavior to be sure.
“We shouldn’t wait too long.” Mackenzie spun back to face him, a tired slump dipping his shoulders. “The sooner you take this up the ladder, the better for Amy and her kids.” With that he turned and walked away.
The second knock on his door came moments later.
This time he opened it to Jude’s placid face. As the elder of the Eagle Clan, his nesi wore traditional garb—soft hide trousers and a hide vest over his painted chest. Red and yellow feathers dangled from Jude’s graying braid.
“What demands did Black Cloud make this time?” Jude asked, glancing to the right, where Mackenzie had disappeared.
“He wants men and equipment.”
“For?” Jude eased back, giving Wolf space to enter the corridor.
“James Link.” Wolf fell into step beside his uncle. Silence fell as Jude considered the matter.
“This would not be a bad thing,” Jude finally offered with a lift of his shoulders.
Wolf huffed softly in agreement.
By the time they reached the Hiihooteet chamber, everyone had assembled. Caged lanterns burned along the craggy walls. The cavern was shaped in a circle—as were all things sacred. Its rock walls and ceiling bore an endless chain of interlocking white circles, denoting that all things were related. In the middle of the dirt floor sat an ancient pot, smoke leaking from the lid like wreaths of breath on a cold morning.
Neniiseti’ stepped forward and nudged off the lid to the pot. Smoke boiled up, a steady flood that hit the ceiling and spread out in an undulating wave. Neniiseti’ grasped the pot by the wood handles, lifted it above his head, and beseeched Shining Man to allow the smoke to light a path to the spirit world so their dead warriors might find their way to the ancestors. He turned and approached Jude, who leaned forward until his head was immersed in the billowing gray. By the time the pot was offered to Wolf, the ceiling was a sea of smoke.
After the last warrior had partaken of the purification smoke, Jude stepped forward. He halted before each warrior and chanted the recall prayer—words spoken only by the beniinookee of the Eagle Clan—and painted a red circle on each warrior’s forehead and cheeks. The sacred red circles were physical pleas to retrieve the pieces of their spirits that had torn loose at their brothers’ deaths and followed them into the spirit world.
After the last warrior had been prayed over, Jude joined Neniiseti’ at the fire. Normally a warrior’s totem pouch was used to illuminate their path to the ancestors, but the helicopter crash had left no bodies or totems. They’d had to improvise.
Neniiseti’ glanced at the name taped to the back of a toothbrush and threw it into the fire. His voice filled the cavern as he beseeched Shining Man above to show Abe White Horse the path to the ancestors.
A broad face with deep-set black eyes flashed through Wolf’s mind. Abe had smiled easily and often. A practical joker, he’d always known what to say or do to break the tension. A fist of loss grabbed his chest and squeezed the air from him. Abe’s death was a throbbing abscess among them all.
After the last word fell away, the warriors stirred against the walls, the rustling of their clothes muffled and eerie in the filmy air.
“Hooxei. Walk with me,” Neniiseti’ said, his voice disembodied within the hazy chamber.
Wolf stopped at hearing his name in the people’s tongue and waited at the exit for Neniiseti’ to reach his side. The elder exited the chamber before him, as was tradition. Neniiseti’ stopped outside in the ancient tunnel, watching the warriors ahead gain distance. Wolf planted his feet and locked his hands behind his back, waiting.
Once the men ahead grew indistinct, the elder turned to face Wolf. “Friends on the outside speak of strangers asking questions about local Indian tribes with military aircraft.”
Wolf straightened, the haze from the smudging ceremony fleeing his mind. There was only one organization that would be interested in the answers to such questions. “The NRO?”
They’d known discovery was a possibility when they’d ferried the boys to Shadow Mountain. But the choice had been given. Children were never abandoned . . . at least not among the Arapaho.
“This is unknown but likely,” Neniiseti’ said. “It would please the council if these strangers were brought before us.”
Wolf nodded his understanding. The base was well hidden, protected from curious eyes. The question seekers would hear nothing of value. However, they might hold value themselves. If they knew where Faith Ansell’s clean energy device had been taken, the effort to acquire them would be worth the trouble.
“As you wish, Grandfather,” Wolf said with a respectful half bow. “In other matters, Mackenzie asks the council’s support to go after James Link. There is evidence Link is involved in the NRO. If so, his answers before the council could prove enlightening.”
Neniiseti’ frowned slightly, his gaze unfocused as he stared down the tunnel. “If the evidence is misguided, and Link is not involved—” He broke off to shake his head. “In such a case, an offensive would be foolish, perhaps even dangerous, exposing our warriors.”
“Perhaps.” Wolf kept his tone calm and respectful. “But if he is involved, stepping aside would be foolish, perhaps even lethal for the Chastain children.”
The elder sighed, his head lifting and falling slightly in agreement. “I will bring this before the council.”
Wolf murmured his appreciation and waited. The old one had not walked on yet, which meant there was more to discuss. His intuition proved correct when the spirit walker locked fierce eyes on him.
“Last night a heneeceine3 walked in my dreams. A caged heneeceine3 with the stink of infection.”
A lion. A wounded lion.
Every muscle in Wolf’s body seized. The elder was referring to Jillian; the dream lion made that crystal clear.
“The heneeceine3 paced the cage. With each pass the stink grew stronger, the heneeceine3 grew weaker. The rot spread. Slowly the heneeceine3 crumbled until it was no more. Until the cage stood empty.” He paused, the fierce black gaze softening. “Your woman cannot heal here. You must let her go.”
Let her go.
Wolf’s chest contracted, his muscles aching. “She is not strong enough. She needs more time.”
“She grows weaker, not stronger here. She cannot stay.”
The gasp of air Wolf took burned all the way down his throat and set his lungs ablaze. “She is not safe on the outside. You know this. She cannot leave.”
There was no give on the elder’s face. “She cannot stay. The spirits have spoken. She must go.” With the finality of his words echoing between them, the elder walked away.
Wolf stood there, his boots frozen to the ground, his muscles locked and shaking, his beniinookee’s order ringing in his ears.
He knew of the weight Jillian had lost since arriving at Shadow Mountain, noticed the fragility that increased with every day. Unless he brought her food, she didn’t eat. If he left her to it, she’d sleep all day . . . every day.
He recognized the emptiness in her eyes, her disinterest in everything around her. He knew she still wept in her sleep, cried for her babies, stained her pillow and cheeks with tears.
Neniiseti’ was right. He knew that. She was not getting stronger. Indeed, her spirit grew weaker each day.
But to let her go . . . his entire body ached at the thought.
She was protected here. Safe. If he sent her away, even to the heteiniicie, to those he trusted, she could wander away, disappear from his life. She could be targeted by enemies and taken, or killed.
He could lose her.
You’re already losing her.
Frustration burned a path across his lungs and cinched his chest tight. She slipped further from him with each passing day; this he knew too. Her spirit was in a death spiral. If he could not pull her out of this, he would lose her. But if he sent her away, he could lose her then too.
He could lose her either way.
After talking to Wolf, Mac headed for the gym.
Maybe he could torture his body into submission and get some sleep tonight. Fuck knows he hadn’t gotten it the night before. The fatigue was extra annoying since he’d gone to bed at a decent hour only to toss and turn. He was too damn old to awake with his cock at full salute and his balls as blue as those moronic aliens in Avatar.
The replay of those moments on the couch with Amy’s hands burning against his face and her tongue sweeping inside his mouth had been bad enough. But the dreams didn’t stop there. They had to flash forward to her glazed, terrified eyes as she fled his arms.
His gut clenched.
Christ, the look in her eyes had hit like a bullet. Took the air from his lungs and the strength from his legs. Amy was one of the strongest people he knew, and for those raw, agonizing moments she’d looked broken.
How could he have been so fucking blind? How could he have missed what she was going through? She’d been kidnapped, for Christ’s sake. Raped—repeatedly. Of course she carried major emotional scars. Just because she didn’t paste the pain on her face so the world could gawk didn’t mean the emotions weren’t there.
Christ, he could kick his own ass.
Rage stirred, added spit and fire to his stride. Most of the men who’d held her captive were dead, but two were still awaiting trial in Seattle. What he wouldn’t give to track them down, take out every ounce of her agony on their worthless hides.
Amy buried 90 percent of herself below the surface, projecting calm competence while hiding her pain. Which was the opposite of his ex. Hell, Piper wielded emotions like nuclear weapons, scorching everything in her path.
He hadn’t known it at the time, but finding Piper riding Martinez had been the best moment of their marriage. He’d walked out of that bedroom minus a wife and the world’s softest pillow-top mattress, which he’d fucking hated but agreed to just to shut her up.
The moment he stepped through the gym door, his image was reflected from mirror to mirror; he appeared to be everywhere. He skirted clusters of machines and scattered benches where men were working legs and arms or various other body parts. The place smelled like sweat, dirty socks, and multiple jocks in need of a shower.
He breathed deeply . . . grimaced.
Ah, all the feel of home.
In the far corner were the free weights—and three familiar faces.
Eyebrows arched, he approached the three men who’d staked out a six-by-six-foot matted section. The spot included a bench with a standing rack and a set of weights. Rawls was currently on his back on the bench, working a loaded barbell that weighed as much as he did.
Cosky spotted him first. “You look like hell.”
Mac grunted, too tired to work up a snappy rejoinder.
As Rawls completed his set and shoved the barbell on its rack, Zane straightened from his position as spotter and studied Mac. “Cos is right. You look like shit.”
Mac flipped the pair a double bird.
Rawls sat up. After using the bottom of his T-shirt to mop his sweaty face, he cocked his head toward Mac. “No offense, Commander, but maybe you should sit down. You’re wobbling around like a babe taking its first step.”
Mac knew Rawls meant the dig as a joke. Problem was there was enough truth to the taunt that it stung.
Zane shoved Rawls off the bench and took a seat himself. Cosky moved into the spotter’s position.
“You should leave the big-boy stuff to us,” Rawls drawled as he stretched an arm above his head.
“Really?” Mac snorted. “You haven’t kicked the bucket enough already? You looking for another shot at it?”
“Only if Kaity’s around with those hot hands of hers.” He batted his eyes and directed kissing sounds in Cosky’s direction.
Cosky ignored the comment. Even if Rawls had been unattached, he wouldn’t move on Kait. Everyone knew that. Rawls lived by the code. You didn’t poach a teammate’s girl. Ever. Too bad Martinez hadn’t figured out that core principle.
“You talk to Wolf yet?” Cosky asked, watching as Zane lifted the barbell and started doing reps.
Mac smothered another yawn. “Just now. He’s taking our request to their council.”
“You want in on reps?” Cosky asked.
Mac shrugged. “Might as well.”
“You’re next then.”
Silence fell as they watched Zane work the weights. When he finally settled the barbell on the rack, sweat stained his chest and armpits. Mac took Zane’s place on the bench.
The weight of the barbell when he took it solo almost drove Mac’s arms into their sockets. “What you got on this thing?”
“One-eighty. Why? You want to downgrade?” A definite taunt lingered in Cosky’s voice.
Asshole.
“Surprised. That’s all,” Mac said, lowering the bar to his chest. The motion burned all the way down his arms and into his shoulders. “Thought you pussies could handle more than that.”
“This is just warm-up,” Zane said dryly.
Greaaaaat.
The second rep burned even worse than the first. By the fifth, his arms didn’t burn anymore; they were numb. He held his breath as he settled the bar in its cradle and sat up.
Cosky and Zane added a twenty-pound weight to each end of the barbell.
Two hundred and twenty pounds.
Mac scowled. His arms might just shrink during this next set.
While Cosky stretched out on the bench and Zane moved behind to spot, Mac turned to Rawls. “Has Faith figured out how these bastards are hiding that airstrip up there?”
The question had been bugging the hell out of him since they’d arrived. True, choppers wouldn’t need much runway since they could lift and hover. But there were several jets in the hangar, and those suckers needed space for liftoff. Hell, the fucking Grizzly Airbus they had tucked in the corner of the hangar needed a good ten thousand feet of flat, even asphalt.
How in the hell were they hiding three klicks of runway?
Rawls shook his head. “They ain’t talkin’. The Shadow Mountain tech guys are mighty partial to their secrets. She’s feelin’ lucky they let her in on their newest baby. Sweetest little EMP cannon you’ve ever seen. Once it’s operational it’ll fry all electronics within a thousand feet.”
“That’ll come in handy.” Mac watched absently as Rawls traded places with Cosky and started lifting and lowering.
After finishing his reps, Rawls thrust the barbell onto the rack with a crash. After a couple of deep breaths, he sat up and turned to Mac. “How’s Amy doing?”
“How the fuck should I know? I’m not her therapist,” Mac snapped, but the memory of cool hands and a hot tongue followed him onto the bench.
The burn wasn’t as bad this time. Maybe because he was distracted. Halfway through the repetitions, the memory of terrified hazel eyes slipped into his mind, interfering with his breathing and his count.
Twenty more pounds were added to each end of the bar. This time Cosky hunched over the bench, ready to catch the bar if Zane’s strength gave out. Not that his LC’s steady reps and intent expression gave any indication of stalling.
Rawls frowned as he watched Zane work. “Faith says the airstrip ain’t even the real mystery about this place. She reckons Shadow Mountain is using a ton of energy, enough to power a major city. If they’re pullin’ the juice from the outside, someone must have noticed. Shit like that’s hard to hide. Yet the base remains hidden . . .”
Cosky took Zane’s place on the bench but paused before lying down. “No fuck? Where does she think they’re pulling the energy from?”
“Hell, she don’t know. Lots of questions, not much in the way of answers.” Rawls watched Cosky finish his set, then moved over to spot for Mac.
Mac locked down his misgivings as he took his turn on the bench. Two hundred and sixty pounds sat on that bar. All three of his men had managed the weight with no apparent struggle. If Rawls had to rescue him . . . He grimaced as he lifted the bar. He’d never hear the end of it.
Maybe if he got lucky, a heart attack would put an end to his stupid-ass pride and this moronic competition.