Page 3 of Runaway Rogue

“All yours,” Miriam murmurs, drifting away to the stock cupboard.

The man stops in front of the counter. I peel my tongue off the roof of my mouth. “Um. Hi. What can I get for you?”

His eyes areintense.So brown they’re nearly black. The man doesn’t smile when he looks at me, but something sparks behind those eyes. Some secret interest, like he’s never seen anything like me before.

Ha. Blonde, tattooed baristas with rumpled aprons? We’re on every block. The city is lousy with us.

“Coffee,” he says. “Black.”

“Like your soul?” I say, teasing before my survival instincts kick in.

The man’s eyes glitter. “Something like that.”

I make his coffee, steam hissing, beans grinding. I’m wearing a goofy smile the whole time.

When he walks away with his drink, I’m sad to see him go—until my eyes widen at the tip jar. When did he slide a hundred dollar bill in there? Andwhy? I’m not that funny.

“Miriam,” I call, “get your ass out here right now. You need to see this.”

And we’re so caught up with his giant tip, laughing and prodding at the jar, that I forget what we were talking about before.

I forget Miriam’s warnings about my future.

* * *

You’d think the higher I climb above the lava, the less intense the heat should be. But no—as I reach the top of the slope, the air is so hot it shimmers. I sway in my leather boots, dizzy from hiking for hours. My running group did not prepare me for this.

“What happens if it erupts?”

Silence. I wave away a bug.

“Echo. What happens if the volcano erupts?” The peak still seems like miles away, and if you looked at it fast, you’d think it was a snowy mountain top. But nope: that’s ash, streaked with fiery lava.

“You must have studied Geography in school.” The agent sounds bored in my ear. “Or watched the news a few times. What do you think happens, Miss Hale?”

I think I die. I die a horrible, gruesome death, and assuming Agent Dawes survives, these jerks move on to plan B without losing a wink of sleep.Tried that, moving on.

“I’ll haunt your ass,” I grumble, trudging closer to the trees. “Don’t think I won’t.” Obviously, compared to an eruption, the trees are no shelter at all—but it still makes me feel better. Less exposed.

“Just don’t wander onto the lava field.” Echo says it like I have exactly one brain cell, and no spares. “Stay near the jungle, and look for signs of Agent Dawes. We didn’t bring you here for a vacation. Get on with it.”

The unfairness, no, theaudacityof this man lecturing me from his comfy tent back at base camp—equipped with a generator and no less than three electric fans—makes me want to swan dive into the lava after all. He’s the secret agent! They all trained for this, they getpaidfor this, and they have the skills, the equipment, the freaking cardio.

Meanwhile, I’m in borrowed boots and pinned with a tracker, left to fumble my way through this nightmare. I should be dusting cappuccinos with chocolate powder right now, not wiping sweat from my eyes in the middle of the ocean.

Stomping alongside the jungle, I’ve never felt more helpless. Swept up in the grand scheme of events, and forced to play a role that I don’t understand.

Bait.

For a man I barely know.

A man who probably couldn’t pick me out of a line up. And what happens when Agent Dawes doesn’t nibble?

Two

River

She’s here. My barista ishere, a thousand miles from home, barging along the treeline and making more noise than a rampaging elephant. Twigs crack beneath her boots; her breaths are ragged and wheezing. Betty snarks out loud every few steps, carrying on half a conversation, her blonde ponytail swinging in the muggy air.

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