Forged in Fire (8 page)

“You okay, miss?” one of the men asked.

Before she had a chance to respond, her attacker made another snap decision. Rather than making a run for it, he leapt forward and grabbed Beth by her hair. Yanking her head back, he wrapped his arm around her throat and squeezed—hard.

She gagged, clawed at his arm and tried to turn her head to bite him, but she couldn’t angle her head enough to reach his flesh. She kicked back with her heels, but there wasn’t enough leverage to inflict any damage and while her elbows connected with a bit more force, it wasn’t enough to gain her freedom. Instead, he cursed and squeezed even harder.

This time the black dots dancing across her vision had nothing to do with shock and everything to do with lack of blood and breath.

“Everyone stay back!” he snarled the order as her vision started to gray. “Stay back or I’ll break her fucking neck.”

* * *

Damn it to hell!

Russ watched with increasing frustration as Eric Dietrich completely lost control of the situation. It shouldn’t have been that difficult to get the woman to leave willingly. All he’d had to do was present himself as an authority figure. Demand that she accompany him. If one presented themselves as someone in authority, people tended to follow along like pathetic little lambs—at least in the beginning. By the time she’d realized her mistake, it would be too late. Without her SEAL contingent protecting her, the woman had been vulnerable. Easy pickings.

Swearing beneath his breath, Russ turned from the drama taking place like a runaway train across the corridor. He typed a command into the keyboard of his laptop that would wipe the computer clean, leaving it a useless lump of plastic and metal. Although nothing was ever truly wiped clean. If the FBI or DHS techs got their hands on it, everything that had just vanished could be resurrected. Eventually. But by then Russ would be long gone.

Of course if he intervened, his laptop wasn’t the only thing he could kiss goodbye. He’d lose any possibility of escape as well. Since he wasn’t booked on Flight 2077, it was doubtful he’d have been hauled in for questioning.

While they’d separate and hold the passengers of the compromised flight for interrogation—hell, he was counting on it—there would be no reason for the FBI to quarantine the surrounding gates. He would have been free to catch his plane to the Twin Cities.

Except, he needed that fucking woman.

Since Dietrich had lost his opportunity, that left Russ to step up and take charge. Of course, by taking action he’d bring himself to the feds’ attention, but they wouldn’t discover anything detrimental. His military record had been erased years ago. Even if they did fingerprint him, his prints were on file under the Russ Branson persona, thanks to a carefully crafted arrest report charging the man with a DUI.

He should update the bosses. Explain why the operation was moving to door number two. A pulse of pure tension shot through him. He took a deep, calming breath. He’d take care of that unpleasant task as soon as he corrected the situation across the corridor.

Moving without haste, he zipped the laptop into its case and rose to his feet. He stretched, worked the kinks out of his shoulders, and smoothed the wrinkles from his slacks. A quick tuck-in of his shirt and he was ready for battle. Breathing easily, calmly, he picked up the laptop case and tucked his cell into the pocket of his slacks.

Beth Brown screamed as Russ started across the corridor. He stopped and stared, appreciating the show. The surrounding gates had gone still as death, every eye swinging in her direction. Which by default included Dietrich. The attention brought him into focus like a blinding white spotlight.

That alone was reason enough to kill the stupid bastard.

She was a smart cookie. No way in hell was Dietrich dragging her out now. Not with the entire fucking airport watching.

Russ scanned the gate area, but hundreds of frozen passengers obstructed his view. Too bad. He’d bet Jilly’s entire Broadway sound track collection that Beth Brown’s scream had set off some interesting physical reactions in Zane Winters’ physiology.

As the woman shrieked again, Dietrich reacted exactly as Russ had come to expect—like a fucking idiot. All he had to do was laugh her off as an unstable, hysterical girlfriend. All he had to do was walk away. Instead, he launched himself across the space separating them and grabbed her by the neck, proving to the watching passengers that he was dangerous. No doubt everyone was wondering if he did have a bomb beneath his shirt.

Un-fucking-believable
.

Once this job was over, he’d hunt down the bastard who’d vouched for the fool, and stuff that glowing recommendation down the asshole’s slit throat.

Half a dozen men broke from the crowd and formed a loose circle around the pair. Russ picked up his pace. Adrenaline crested, along with the razor-sharp awareness he remembered from those long-ago special-ops days. His senses sharpened. His vision brightened. His hearing crystallized, until he could hear the hard thump of his heart.

It felt good to be so alive. Back in the action.

He’d been stuck in the prep and flow of strategy for so long he’d forgotten how much he loved these heightened moments just before the kill.

Chapter Six

Zane locked his gaze on the target and slipped between the laughing, chattering, milling clusters of people. The ages of the passengers ran the gamut from frail seniors leaning on canes to a jostling crowd of college-aged males who’d staked out a section next to the wall and were tossing a football back and forth. A knot of Asians in three-piece business suits to the right were yammering away in Korean. To the left, another group of passengers with fair hair and light skin were decked out in colorful sweaters and denim jeans.

In some eerie way, deploying through the crowd felt like deploying through the ocean—but rather than the buoyancy of the waves, you were carried along by the rise and fall of voices.

Zane lost the tango when the blond hijacker faded into the crowd. He parked it, and waited for the asshole to move. From his position he’d know the moment the guy went right or left.

Within minutes his target lost patience and moved. He was easy to track. His head jutted a good six inches above most of the passengers and his white-gold hair shone like a beacon.

Zane had the advantage in this skirmish. For one thing, the jackass had been waiting at the back of the departure gate, with no exit behind him. To escape into the airport, and from there out to the street, he’d have to come forward—directly toward Zane. It was a serious tactical error. In tight quarters, the smart man buddied up to an exit.

The target slipped between the college kids and a cluster of Middle Eastern businessmen, and then turned toward the mouth of the terminal. Zane shifted over to block him.

No escape here, asshole
.

The hijacker must have realized that himself. He abruptly pivoted and eased in behind the kids, who’d clumped together and were busy shoving each other amid boisterous slurs regarding sexual performances.

There was a ribbon of space between the boys and the wall. If Zane dodged left, the target would go right, skirt the kids, and break for the mouth of the terminal. If Zane went right, the guy would dodge left—with the same effect. From his smug expression the idiot apparently thought he’d acquired the upper hand.

Amateurs
.

There wouldn’t be much risk if Zane used the students to fence the tango in. The asshole was unarmed, and these boys were in excellent shape. Considering the toy they were tossing back and forth, they were probably football players, which meant they had a rudimentary knowledge of blocking tactics. They’d do in a pinch. He stepped up.

“Guys,” he said loud enough to pierce the terminal’s din and capture their attention. A dozen pairs of eyes swung in his direction. “I need you to split this group down the middle. Step to the right and left. Use your bodies as a barrier. Do not let that asshole behind you get past.” When they stared at him with startled confusion, he injected steel into his voice. “Move. Now.”

They reacted instantly to the authority in his voice. The group split down the middle. He’d lucked out that they were football players, since they instinctively positioned themselves for maximum blockage.

The hijacker settled back on his heels and crossed his arms over his sweatshirt clad chest. With just the right amount of bewilderment, he watched Zane advance.

“Is there a problem?” the guy asked, confusion in his voice, but his eyes gave him away. They were too sharp, too focused. He knew exactly what was going down.

“I need a couple of you to strip off your shoelaces. The longer the better,” Zane said, without taking his eyes off the tango’s face.

“Who the hell are you to give us orders?” one of the college students asked, bravado quivering in his voice.

“Yes,” the hijacker agreed, his gaze assessing. “I’m rather curious of that myself.”

A whisper of unease prickled and Zane frowned. Some deep, raw instinct insisted he check on Beth. He blocked the urge. He couldn’t afford to lose focus. The moment his attention wavered, the situation could explode.

The simplest method to capture this asshole was to use these kids to contain him while Zane moved in for the takedown. But they needed to know exactly what they were up against.

“I’m Lt. Commander Zane Winters with the United States Navy. And the asshole behind you is a terrorist. Intel suggests he and his team intended to hijack this flight.”

There was a round of hissed breaths and stammered questions and the shuffle of sneakers against the carpet. Zane kept his attention locked on his target. The hijacker’s eyes had narrowed as Zane spoke. Now they filled with frustrated fury.

“I haven’t done a damn thing. You can’t hold me,” he said flatly, his voice perfectly clear despite the noise surrounding them.

Zane smiled. There was the scuffle of more feet against carpet. Through his peripheral vision he caught the flash of movement as several students backed up.

“Then I’m sure you won’t mind sticking around to answer some questions,” he countered in an agreeable voice, even as an odd, urgent tension swelled inside him.

He fought the urge to check on Beth. She was fine. She’d scream if she were in trouble. Forcing himself to concentrate, Zane shook the foreboding aside.

“But I do mind,” the target drawled, and while his tone might have been conversational, his hazel eyes were hot and mean. “It’s against my Constitutional rights.”

Wasn’t that just sweet. Another jackass hiding behind the Constitution.

“Uh-huh. What about the Constitutional rights of the passengers you intended to use those MP5s on?”

From the flash in the tango’s eyes, it was obvious MP5s were stashed on board. Good to know. Even better to know that Beth’s dream had been right on target; when the plane was searched those guns would be found. He’d already accepted the possibility of reprimand if the weapons weren’t located. Acting on her information had been a calculated risk, but it had been the only option he could live with.

After that telling instant of shock, the target’s face tightened. A scowl furrowed his forehead and pinched his eyebrows together. “You have no right to hold me. I can walk out of here right now, and you can’t do a fucking thing to stop me.”

Another surge of foreboding rolled through him. Sharper this time. Stronger. Christ, he needed to end this and find Beth.

He dropped his smile and matched the hijacker stare for stare. “I can break both your legs. Consider it a citizen’s arrest.”

“Hey, man,” a nervous voice said to Zane’s left, “here’s those shoelaces you asked for.”

Before Zane had a chance to reach for the bindings, the tango’s nostrils flared and his eyelids flickered. The guy was about to make a break for it. Zane loosened his muscles, shifted his weight over the balls of his feet, and eased down slightly… waiting.

Just as the hijacker’s thighs bunched—a dead giveaway that action would follow —a wave of fear ripped through him. The hair along the back of his neck lifted. His heart gave one frantic thump and stopped cold. There was no doubt who that fear belonged to and it wasn’t him.

He’d already experienced the bond acting as a conductor, when he’d been touching her. And he’d been told that in moments of extreme stress, thoughts or images could even be transmitted. But he hadn’t expected to experience the connection—without physical contact—so soon. Christ, Beth was clear across the room. He shouldn’t be able to sense her so distinctly. Still, every instinct he possessed insisted that he abandon this asshole and head to the rescue.

Only, the target attacked.

Launched by pure adrenaline, and the need to end this skirmish ASAP, Zane dropped to the ground, bracing his palm on the floor so his weight was balanced on his right shoulder and arm. The hijacker hadn’t expected the movement and led with a punch that sailed harmlessly above Zane’s head. Zane waited for the guy’s forward momentum to carry him closer and kicked out—hard. The heel of his boot connected with the bastard’s knee, but at a slight angle. There was a sickening crunch, followed by series of pops, and the hijacker’s right leg folded.

Without hesitation Zane struck again, taking out the left knee. He needed to make sure this bastard was incapable of movement.

Another sickening crunch and the target dropped, screaming in agony.

Zane swarmed him. Forced him onto his belly. Dragged his arms behind his back.

“Laces,” he snapped, holding up his hand.

A scream pierced the terminal.

Feminine. Familiar.
Beth
.

His chest burning, his breath locked in his throat, Zane cinched the guy’s wrists in record time. He didn’t bother with the ankles. The guy wouldn’t be walking any time soon. Fear a black mist choking his brain, he rocketed to his feet, spun around.

Some motherfucking son of a bitch had his arm around Beth’s neck.

Time screeched to a stop. He could see her clearly from his vantage point across the gate room. Her face was turning gray.

Fear shot directly into terror. He wasn’t sure whether it was his, or hers. Ice sluiced down his back and froze his feet into clumsy blocks, until it felt as if he were slogging his way through an icy bog. His body responded to his brain’s demands with sluggish uncoordination—too slow. Too fucking slow.

He’d faced countless situations where death hovered an instant away. He’d faced those moments with absolute calm and no discernable acceleration to his heart rate. Until today, when he couldn’t seem to catch his breath, or get his fucking body to
move
.

The motherfucker across the departure gate started backing away, dragging her limp body with him.

Suddenly, Loverboy—Beth’s admirer from earlier—stepped into view. His thin face tense, his glasses sliding down his narrow nose, he slowly raised a laptop case above his head. He moved with painstaking stealth, although he needn’t have bothered; Beth’s attacker was so fixated on the men crowding him in front that he wasn’t paying the least attention to his back.

He watched his rival raise the laptop case even higher, and then tilt it at an angle, so the sharp edge pointed down. Relief mixed with disgust. Hell, the asshole was actually going to rescue her, and Zane was too far away to help.

Her rescuer brought his makeshift weapon down with stunning force. Even across the shocked-silence of the terminal Zane could hear the muffled thud as the case connected with bone. The arm fell from Beth’s throat and her attacker dropped like a brick.

Beth would have dropped too, if Loverboy hadn’t let go of his weapon and caught her around the waist. Zane’s heart stuttered back to life as her arms and legs started to move. Her head rolled against his shoulder, the ash-blonde tangle of hair looking even softer and blonder against the dark blue of Loverboy’s cotton golf shirt.

The relief that she was alive and unharmed barely had a chance to settle before the sight of her in another man’s arms started needling him. He growled low in his throat, a surge of heat blasting the ice from his veins. His gaze locked on those masculine arms cradling
his
woman and he stomped on the urge to kill.

“Relax,” Cosky said dryly, appearing beside him. “He’s not one of our targets.” He paused, wiped the shimmer of a grin from his lips. “Besides, looks to me like he saved her.”

Yeah. Like
that
was helping.

A scowl built as he glared across the terminal. Beth was upright. Standing on her own two feet, but that bastard still hadn’t dropped his arms. If he wanted to keep them, he’d better rectify that mistake pronto.

“She looks unsteady,” Cosky said. “I’m sure that’s why he’s still hugging her.”

“You might think about shutting the fuck up.”

A swarm of blue-suited security guards came trotting down the airport corridor. About fucking time. “Where the hell’s Rawls? And where did you stash your asshole?”

He skirted a group of elderly men and women without taking his eyes off Beth. Christ, when the hell was she going to step away? She couldn’t actually
like
the feel of those arms around her… could she?

“Right here, skipper,” Rawls drawled from behind him. “Target acquired, contained and awaiting transport. I heard the scream. Came to see if I could—” He broke off, and released a strangled cough. “Well, would ya look at that? Loverboy’s back and he’s gettin’ downright
friendly
.”

Zane gave serious thought to rearranging Rawls’ face. He was too fucking pretty anyway.

His gaze didn’t budge from the pair as he stalked forward, but now that Beth was out of danger and unharmed, he needed to get his mind back on their targets and—

Jesus Christ! Was that motherfucking, son of a bitch actually rubbing her back?

Fuck no.
He obviously didn’t value his hands.

Zane broke into a jog, the instinct to maim riding him like a red-ant infested blanket.
Obviously
, she was perfectly steady on her feet now.
Clearly
, she did not need those arms around her one second longer. So
when
was she planning on pulling away?

“Is he rubbin’…?” Rawls wheezed alongside him, easily keeping pace.

Considering that Rawlings worked out a gazillion hours a day and was in better shape than all of ST7 put together, Zane knew damn well all that gasping had everything to do with holding back his amusement and nothing to do with exhaustion.

Wasn’t this just fucking greeaaaat?
Nothing like having an audience when you got bit by the ugly kill-anyone-who-fucking-touches-her monster.

“Why don’t you two head back and keep an eye on our tangos,” Zane said, his tone more of a demand than a request as he tried to mask the aggression in his voice.

Christ, he’d expected a certain degree of need when he found her, his dad and brothers had warned him of that. What he hadn’t expected was the jealousy, or this odd vulnerability.

“No offense, skipper,” Rawls drawled, “but my guy’s down. He ain’t goin’ nowhere and no way am I missing this.”

Zane swore. “I’m your CO.”

Translation: do what I fucking tell you.

“Uh-huh. And we’re on leave.”

He was just about to remind his
buddy
that regardless of their leave status, they were still in the middle of an op, when his rival raised his head and stared straight at him. No question he picked up on Zane’s territorial urge to maim because his chin reared back and his shoulders tightened. But he didn’t let go of Beth. Instead, his gaze narrowed and he glared back. Then deliberately cradled her closer.