Page 37 of Light My Fire

Sparks bit into the pine brush, igniting the loam.

Shouts from the prisoners as, just as Tucker predicted, chaos erupted.

Rio grabbed Skye and shot off the porch. Thorne and the redhead jerked away from the Bronco.

March yelled at them to put the fire out.

Tucker had taken off, using the distraction to dash through the woods.

March leveled his gun at the woods beyond the fire, arching around the darkness to the pile of firewood. “Stay back!”

Now.Stevie double gripped her revolver and stepped out from the cover of a trio of birch. “March. Put the gun down.”

He whirled toward her, and instincts told her tomove! She dove, skidding hard into the earth just as his shot pinged off the birch behind her. Her gun flew from her grip and she scrabbled for cover.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Tucker launching himself at March. A full-out flying tackle that took March into the dirt. She hadn’t considered Tucker a big man, but seeing him emerge like a grizzly from the woods shucked the breath from her lungs.

This. Might.Work.

March slammed into the earth, and his revolver went off again, clearly cocked for a second shot.

Tucker might have just saved her life.

Behind the truck, the piney earth crackled as the flames sparked the resin, little gunshots of heat. Smoke clogged the air.

Her gaze fixed on Tucker, who banged March’s wrist against the ground, fighting to dislodge his grip on the gun. March writhed beneath him, hammering his fist into Tucker’s ribs. Tucker rammed his elbow into March’s chin. “Let go!”

Another shot cracked from March’s gun. It hit the Bronco, zinged off it.

She heard screaming—in the corner of her periphery, she caught the redhead scrambling into the woods. Thorne had vanished. And going the other direction—Rio had Skye in his grip.

“Stop!” Stevie scrambled to her feet, but Rio had already dragged Skye into the thickening veil.

Stevie stood, dazed for a second, not sure—

But Rio wasn’t a murderer. She turned to March just as he clocked Tucker with a piece of firewood he’d gotten his grip around. Tucker must have dislodged his gun.

With the hit, Tucker flew off him, clearly stunned because he lay on the ground, unmoving.

“Tucker!” She needed her gun.

March rolled over on him, raised his arm to clock him again, and she didn’t have time to locate her weapon. She took two steps and leaped on March, wrenching his arm away.

With a roar, March jerked back, rolling and body slamming, landing on top of her. Her breath huffed out, the weight of his body crushing her. Her brain told her to wrap her legs around his, to pull him down into a choke hold, but everything turned into a black whir as she gulped air.

He bounced off her, and she sucked in a full breath.

Then he turned and pounced on her, his legs pinning her arms, his hands on her throat.

Squeezing.

She’d fallen on a root or a rock in her spine, and as he leaned on her, the pain spiked through her back. It shunted her kicks, kept her from rounding up and wrapping her legs around his neck. She worked her hands between his arms, tried to force his hands away, but even as she writhed, her world turned gray. Splotchy.

“Let her go, March! You don’t want to kill a fed!”

The voice—Dad!

“March!”

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