Page 55 of Light My Fire

She tossed the keys underhanded to March. He caught them with one hand.

Smiled.

And that’s when she figured it out. When she caught up to why her dad had escaped with March, why he’d run with him over and over.

Her father let out a howl. “No!” He sprinted toward Stevie. He leaped as the gun in March’s grip reported.

His arms went around her, his body pummeling her to the ground, and he landed on top of her, his full weight pinning her.

Stopped moving.

“Dad—” She pressed up against him, wiggling out from under him.

He groaned, and she wanted to weep with relief. But blood covered her jacket, her hands. “Dad!” Kneeling beside him, she rolled him over.

Blood ran out of a wound in his gut, spilling onto the dirt road, a through and through that—

She touched her own body. The bullet had missed her, somehow.

She tore off her jacket, pressing it into the wound. “Hang on—please, don’t die!”

A hand curled around her neck. “C’mon, honey,” March said. “We have to go.” Fingers pressed in, cutting off her breath. She gripped her hand around his, fighting for air, then rearing back to slam her hand into March’s wound, to fight him with everything she had.

He cuffed her hard, the blow stinging, the world spinning.

Then he hit her again, and everything went black.

* * *

Tucker spottedthe plume of black in the sky even before he got Seth on the horn.

“The fire’s kicking back up,” Seth said in response to Tucker’s check-in. “Winds from the west have pushed it past the fire line, down into the valley. Last night we had to retreat south. We’re about a half mile from the Boy Scout camp.

“That lake is your safety zone, then,” Tucker said, studying the smoke. It rose as a thick column into the blue, black in the center with layers of gray and white. “Looks like the fire is burning hot and fast. But as it digs in to the moisture under the dry underbrush, it’s smoldering—that’s the gray smoke, burning wet trees. You may be able to slow it down if you can direct it toward an area with wet fuels.”

He needed a map, really, but every second he spent on the radio was a precious second that Stevie ran after trouble.

Alone.

He’d dug around in his pack and pulled out two pairs of dry socks plus a T-shirt. The T-shirt and one pair of socks he’d given to Skye, who went into the woods to change. He bent to unlace his soggy boots.

“We need you back here,” Seth said. “With Riley gone, we’re down to four, plus the three prisoners. We need reinforcements.”

“What’s the BLM doing?”

“They’re working on getting a tanker in here, maybe calling in another team. By the way, the team of US marshals found the cabin—they can’t be too far from you.”

Skye emerged from her forested changing room with her hair pulled back into a wet and grimy ponytail, wearing his black T-shirt and dry socks. It wasn’t a roaring campfire, but at least her core might start to warm.

“Tell them that we followed a deer trail south,” Tucker said.

“I’ll let them know.” Seth paused. “Can you get back here?”

Maybe. They could hike back to the cabin and take the old four-wheeler he’d seen.

Skye met his eyes. Something was up with her—she’d argued with him the entire walk/jog/run back to his pack that they needed to follow Rio. That he was in danger.

Tucker closed his eyes, pressed the radio to his forehead. Because yeah, he should be heading back to help his team. He wasn’t a cop. The last time he’d tried to play at fugitive recovery he’d nearly gotten Stevie killed. Certainly she was smart enough to stay back, let her team bring down March.

---