Page 36 of Light My Fire

What if the man she had known, loved, even admired…well, wasn’t the man she had known, loved, and admired?

No. Prison couldn’t have changed him that much.Please.

At the very least, her father wouldn’t stop her, even if he took off in the chaos. But she was counting on his cooperation to plead his case.

Hostage, not the hunted.

“Normally, you use the fusee for a controlled burn, with a handle. It’s toxic, so you need protective gear, but we’ll throw it. And I don’t have to throw this far. They won’t want to put it out, so it’ll burn and smoke and hopefully give us the cover we need to take March down.” Tucker crouched next to her, and for a moment she felt his hand in hers, a remnant of last night’s grip.

Tucker had taken off his bright yellow shirt, effective for firefighting, not so much for sneaking around in the woods. His black T-shirt skimmed his lean body, his biceps stretching out the sleeves, the bottom tucking into his Nomex pants. He’d taken off the bandanna, too, and his brown hair lay in sooty tousles. He glanced at her, those brown eyes fierce with determination. The man was honed and powerful and yes, they just might stand a chance.

They just needed to separate March from the others. Disarm him. Hope that no one came to his defense.

Just…

But their planjustmight work, with Tucker positioning himself behind the truck, ready to throw the fusee. Once he threw it, she would surprise March, then Tucker would run behind him, and tackle him.

It sounded so simple when they’d sketched it out, she’d bought into Tucker’s confidence.

Ignored the fist in her gut.

Although, she did have to confess— “I’ve never shot anyone before.”

Tucker had been studying the layout of the compound through his binoculars. He drew them away and looked at her. “That’s a good thing, right?”

“Yeah. I guess, but…” She shook her head. “It’s one thing to shoot a paper target. Another to shoot a person.”

He touched her hand, the one holding the revolver. “This will work,” he said. “You won’t have to.”

This will work.She clung to his words now as he turned to her.

“Ready?”

Oh boy. “I’ve actually never done anything like this,” she said quietly. “I’ve never had to chase down a fugitive before. And we always train as a team. I’m never alone—”

“I’m your team,” Tucker said, his voice low, finding her bones. “And you’re not alone. So trust me a little, okay?”

And it struck her again how she already did, really.

The sun had fallen to just above the mountains, tufting the sky in striations of blood red and fire, pitching shadows into the yard. Not enough to hide them, but with the scrim of tall black spruce and birch edging the property, the shadows fell thick and abundant.

She crouched behind the firewood, her revolver drawn. What she wouldn’t give for her Glock right now—but no, she’d left that in her truck.

She wasn’t impulsive, no, not at all. Sheesh.

Please, let them not get anyone killed.

Tucker had put his gloves on and now removed the striker cap on the fusee—a long orange flare—and held it in his left hand.

He struck the fusee against the striker cap, and it lit, buzzing, a hiss from the sparks.

“Meet you on the other side.”

Wait—

Tucker stood up and heaved the fusee into the air. It arched across the yard, a snake of fire tracing a bold line of orange against the woods.

It landed with a whump on the far side of the yard, the Bronco between the cabin and the fire.

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