Tempting the Fire

by Sydney Croft

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-one

  For several long seconds, no one moved. Not even the birds in the trees. And then, gunfire shattered the air. The whiz of the bullet vibrated Logan’s ear, followed by the surviving chupacabra’s bloodcurdling scream.

  It rocked backward from the force of the slug’s impact, its blood exploding from the hole in its abdomen. Its red eyes fixed on Logan, hatred burning like coals as two more bullets slammed into its muscular body.

  Then two more.

  The beast stumbled sideways, its legs wobbly, its chest heaving, and as it collapsed, the gruesome sounds of bones snapping and muscle stretching joined Marlena’s horrified cries.

  The chupacabra’s body writhed on the ground, and with agonizing slowness, Chance emerged, his breaths shallow and rattling, his skin morphing from grayish scales to pale, bruised flesh. The transformation would have been incredible if Logan didn’t know that Chance was dying.

  Bullets couldn’t kill the purebred chupacabra, but Chance was only half … and obviously not bulletproof.

  Logan released a breath and pulled himself to his feet. He heard Marlena’s screams behind him, and Phoebe’s laughter, and he curled his hands into fists, because he knew that trying to kill that bitch would lead to both Sela and Marlena getting hurt.

  He was at Chance’s side before Marlena, checking for a pulse, and heard Sela attempting to keep her friend back.

  There was so much damned blood that Logan couldn’t tell where all the bullets were. He applied pressure to Chance’s abdomen in an attempt to stanch the bleeding, knowing full well it wouldn’t be enough.

  They were hours away from camp. He could run with Chance, leave the women with Phoebe, but …

  “Save him, Logan,” Marlena was telling him now. She’d struggled away from Sela and was rushing to Chance. Her eyes glistened as she bent down to whisper in Chance’s ear.

  The usually bustling Amazon seemed so quiet now, the noise deadened by the sudden, gaping loss of life, as if the jungle were in mourning.

  Suddenly, inexplicably, Chance drew a shuddering breath and opened his eyes.

  “Holy Christ,” Logan muttered. Marlena continued whispering, and son of a bitch, Chance nodded as if in response to whatever she said to him.

  “Thank God,” Phoebe said. “I need one of them alive.”

  Logan stared in amazement. The blood that had been running through his fingers had slowed, turned dark as if coagulating.

  If he didn’t know better, he would say that Chance was … healing. Right in front of his eyes. He was dying and healing at the same time.

  He heard Sela catch her breath behind him, felt her hand on his shoulder, and he wondered what the hell on God’s green earth was happening. None of this was natural and yet … by the way Marlena looked at Chance, she didn’t care.

  Just like Sela looked at him.

  “Chance, can you hear me?” he asked, and Chance nodded. Logan took his hands away and stared at the hole in Chance’s gut. It was puckering, closing, right before his eyes.

  “This one’s dead for real, unless that return-from-the-dead thing is something all chupacabras can do,” Phoebe called from where she was nudging the chupacabra with her boot.

  Behind him, Sela shifted, called back, “You can still get a lot of information from it—probably more than you can from a live one, since you can perform a necropsy. That chupacabra will still be a big asset to Itor.”

  Phoebe snorted. “Nice try.”

  There was no way Itor would walk away empty-handed, not when they had a half man, half beast they could turn into some B horror movie supersoldier who miraculously healed from life-threatening bullet wounds to the chest.

  Logan leaned down, told Chance, “We’re in some trouble, but I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  Chance nodded, closed his eyes again.

  “We’ll carry him back. Both of them,” Phoebe ordered.

  Marlena launched herself at Phoebe, slamming the other woman to the ground. She was no match for the Itor agent, but the fierceness of her intent couldn’t be denied.

  The women rolled, hitting trees and grunting, as fists flew. Marlena got in a nice right hook, and blood spattered from Phoebe’s nose before Phoebe pinned Marlena, a knife to her throat.

  Logan glanced at Chance—the man was fighting so hard to get up that the veins in his neck and forehead bulged.

  “Let her go!” Sela kicked Phoebe in the ribs, and as much as Logan enjoyed watching her kick the shit out of the woman, alarm trickled down his spine—one wrong move would get his sister killed.

  Cursing, he took Sela in his arms, restraining her against his chest, even as she spat obscenities at him and Phoebe. Phoebe stood, keeping her boot on Marlena’s chest.

  “She’s very pretty. Itor would have many uses for her,” Phoebe said as Marlena jerked out from under the boot. Phoebe smirked—clearly, she’d allowed Marlena to escape. She gestured to Chance. “If he can’t walk, we’ll drag him to camp.”

  Logan took a deep, calming breath. “I’ll carry him. He shouldn’t be jostled.”

  Phoebe shrugged. “It’s your back.”

  “You’re a font of compassion,” Logan muttered as he gathered the SEAL up, easing him over his shoulder.

  Phoebe cocked her head at the dead chupacabra and pointed at Sela and Marlena. “You two will carry the creature.”

  His fury must have shown on his face, because Sela covertly held up a hand and mouthed, “It’s okay.”

  No, nothing about this was okay, but he kept his cool as she and Marlena hefted the beast, and they marched, single file, out of the jungle, the way they’d come in.

  IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON BY THE TIME THE ACRO FOURSOME reached the outskirts of the GWC camp after hiking the thirty or so miles from the crash-landing site.

  As always, the Amazon wasn’t like Stryker remembered. When he wasn’t here, he tended to romanticize the jungle, think about the cool adventures he’d been on. When he was here, he realized that it was sort of like being in the middle of hell, except he was pretty sure hell would be more fun than this.

  Not that hanging out with Akbar wasn’t an adventure. His mentor was one of the fiercest fighters Stryker had ever encountered.

  They’d worked together from the start, with Akbar teaching him things about combat and patience, and Stryker would never have come this far without Akbar’s steady encouragement and rock-solid work ethic.

  Our gifts are work—you’re not taking the easy way out, Akbar would say. You need to develop every aspect of your power—harness it, rein it in, never let it control you.

  It hadn’t been easy—Stryker knew it never would be—but men like Akbar made things a lot more bearable.

  His parents first realized he had his gift during a typical four-year-old temper tantrum. He’d terrified the shit out of everyone, including himself, convinced that the house was falling down on him.

  Which, of course, it almost did.

  He was pretty much scared straight from that point forward, and although the ACRO scientists and doctors talked with him about what happened, he didn’t ever go there again—until he was seven, and that too was an accident.

  It had taken a long time to gain precise control, and it didn’t always work. Stryker always had to be especially careful here—the Amazon was already uncontrollable, wild, and he was never sure how the jungle would react to his powers. And really, taking out a chunk of the Amazon was something Dev would be royally pissed at … he was trying to take ACRO green as much as possible.

  He looked over his shoulder at Gabe, who was sitting near Annika. Akbar had forced Annika to lie down and rest and hydrate and she had grudgingly complied. She’d done a fine job of chuting down into the jungle and had handled the hike like the pro she was.

  He turned back to the camp, assessed the situation with his high-powered binoculars. Some GWC guys, being guarded by some Itor ones. Perfect. Itor had always found a way to spoil a party.
r />   “They’re all yours,” Akbar said quietly.

  “I thought we’d draw straws to see which one played captive,” Stryker grumbled.

  “I thought I’d just pull rank.” Akbar flashed his easy, familiar grin. Anyone who didn’t know what the man was capable of could easily underestimate him—and end up dead, thanks to one flick of a wrist.

  Akbar’s gift came in the form of poisonous spurs that shot out of his wrists.

  Stryker and Akbar planned as much as they could, leaving room for the inevitable fuckup, which could happen at any time. Stryker would provide most of the muscle, with Akbar jumping in with the element of surprise at the end. If needed, Annika and Gabe could play a role as well.

  He stood and prepared to head to the camp.

  “Stay safe,” Akbar told him.

  “Always,” Stryker answered, the way he had hundreds of times before. But this time, when he began to walk away, a feeling of unease hit him and he almost turned back.

  Just your nerves screwing with you, he told himself as he worked through the thick jungle. His clothes helped with the worst of the bites and scratches in dealing with the underbrush, but man, what he wouldn’t give for a cold pool. And a beer.

  And women. Not ones who could kill you if you touched them either.

  Focus, man. He got to the edge of camp and checked out the competition. He could take them all down pretty easily, but it would be nice to have the GWC guys on his side. And so he strode in from the jungle like he owned the place. “Hey, why the hell didn’t anyone relieve me?”

  All the men turned to stare at him. He walked straight up to one of the GWC men—easily differentiated from the Itor bastards because of the look of annoyance on their faces. “What’s going on here, guys?” he asked loudly, and then mouthed, “Work with me,” to one of the men.

  “Who the hell is he?” one of the Itor guys demanded, and Stryker pivoted around.

  “I work for GWC. Who the hell are you?”

  The Itor guy—fucking excedo, of course—slammed him to the ground with one closed fist to the side of his head. Stryker bit the dirt and held his temper in check. It wasn’t the time to give away the fact that he could play the special-abilities game. Yet.

  But he’d have fun with payback when it was—because, fuck, that hurt every single time. Fucking overkill—excedos loved that shit.

  For now, he sucked the dirt and pretended he was down for the count while they jacked his hands up behind his back with plastic disposable cuffs and dragged him across the ground. He waited for a while, at least an hour, until he heard footsteps stop next to him.

  He rolled and groaned.

  “It’s okay, man … you’re okay,” one of the men whispered. He opened his eyes and stared at a man with half his face bandaged.

  “Where’s Logan? And Sela?” he asked quietly.

  “Some woman’s got them in the jungle, searching for the thing—the beast,” the man said as he helped Stryker sit up.

  He chafed against the restraints. He could get them off, but it would come with a price—the price of his temper, and it was way too early for that part of the plan.

  Instead, he assessed the GWC men around him; few seemed worse for wear, and he’d guess that none of them had any special abilities beyond being ex–Special Forces. Which, he had to admit, came in pretty damned handy in a pinch.

  Except for the old guy—identified by pre-mission briefing photos as Richard; he didn’t look like he was willing to do anything but get in the way. “Who are you?” he asked, crouching next to Stryker.

  “I’m here to help.” Stryker kept his voice low and his gaze on the Itor bastards, some of whom patrolled the perimeter of the camp, and others who maintained a watch of the GWC people.

  The old man’s eyes crinkled as they narrowed. “You government? Military?”

  “Something like that. You’re going to have to follow my lead and we’ll all get out of here alive.”

  “Itor has my daughter.” Richard gripped Stryker’s shirt in his fist. “If you’ve jeopardized her safety, if they transmit trouble back to their headquarters …”

  Stryker stared into the man’s eyes. “They’re not calling in shit. We’ll be ready when the rest of my team arrives if you shut up and do exactly what I say. If you don’t, I can promise you’ll be sorry.”

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-two

  That Phoebe bitch scared the crap out of Sela. Mainly because when Sela looked into her baby blues, the only thing she saw was evil. The uncommonly gorgeous blonde had a body to die for and eyes that said she’d be happy to help with getting you dead.

  How she’d do it was the question. Sela had no idea what the woman’s special ability was, and she really didn’t want to find out. So she kept quiet as the group hiked through the jungle with the chupacabra’s body, Chance still draped over Logan’s shoulder.

  A fierce rainstorm caught them about halfway back, making the last three miles even more miserable. When it was over, steam rose up off the forest floor, mingling with the streaks of intense sunlight that pierced the cap of tree branches, and Sela might have thought it was beautiful if not for the fact that she was soaking wet, hot and feeling like she was living in a pressure cooker.

  By the time they straggled into camp, the afternoon heat and humidity had taken its toll on everyone—except, seemingly, Phoebe. The woman smiled brightly at her crew, and Sela took the opportunity to nonchalantly move toward Logan’s tent, while everyone else dealt with Chance and the dead creature—a dead creature Sela would love to study. If she could get to Logan’s sat phone, she could call Dev and find out where the hell her backup was. She needed boots on the ground, and fast. She had a sneaking suspicion that Itor wasn’t going to leave anyone alive once they got everything they wanted all packaged up.

  Sela was almost there when a hand came down on her shoulder, and she was roughly jerked around by the female Itor agent.

  “If you were planning to call for help, you should know that all tents have been cleared of electronic devices.”

  “Well, goody for your efficiency,” Sela snapped. “But I wasn’t planning on calling anyone. Who are you anyway? Is Itor a government agency? For the United States? Another country?” Yep, Sela could play dumb pretty well.

  Phoebe laughed. “We work for many governments.”

  Yeah, you work for any sleazy government with enough money to pay you to do their dirty work. Probably best not to say that. “What do you want with Global Weapons Corporation so badly that you had to hunt them down in the middle of the jungle?”

  Phoebe’s hand trailed down Sela’s arm in a playful caress, and Sela had an instant suspicion that, sexually, the agent played for the home team. “You ask a lot of questions for a cryptozoologist.”

  “You barged into camp, took over and threatened our lives. I think I’m asking questions anyone would ask.”

  A half smile turned up one corner of Phoebe’s mouth, and she let her hand drift to Sela’s breast. “I suppose you’re right.” She paused when one of her men approached.

  “What are your orders?” he asked.

  “I want the unconscious man and the creature prepared for transport,” she said, her fingers plucking at Sela’s nipple now. “Confiscate all research materials, and call Jackson. Tell him to bring in the rest of the team. I want to be gone within the hour.”

  The agent nodded and jogged off.

  “The rest of the team?” Sela asked, stepping away from Phoebe’s groping hands, but the other woman caught her, backed her against a tent, and this time slipped her hand under Sela’s shirt. Sela’s skin crawled at the feel of the hot palm sliding around her waist.

  “We didn’t want to alarm anyone, so we’ve had half our team staged outside the camp.”

  Hopefully they’d been killed by the guerrillas or eaten by another chupacabra. Because Phoebe wouldn’t be calling them in if they weren’t a cleanup crew. Which meant that everyone in the camp was about to die.

&n
bsp; “Ma’am? Is everything okay?” The familiar male voice had Sela whipping her head around. Stryker stood there, and though Sela couldn’t tell for sure, she thought his hands were bound behind his back.

  He was watching Phoebe, completely expressionless.

  “This is none of your concern,” Phoebe growled. “Go away.”

  One eyebrow cocked up, but Stryker didn’t move. He merely looked to Sela. “Ma’am?”

  “I’m fine,” she assured him. “We’re just talking. Killing time before the rest of Phoebe’s crew gets here.”

  Phoebe’s nails dug painfully deep into Sela’s hip, punishment for what she’d said. But Stryker had gotten the message, and he dipped his head in a brief nod before walking away.

  “I didn’t realize it was a secret,” Sela said, lowering her voice, putting her Seducer tricks into play.

  As a Seducer, she’d been trained to reel in men and women, had been instructed in all the ways to pleasure both sexes. On the job she’d done what—and who—she’d had to, and when it came right down to it, fucking a woman she hated was just as easy as fucking a man she hated. It was all a matter of putting your mind in the right place and detaching yourself while engineering their pleasure.

  Problem was, Logan had ruined her, and she didn’t know if she could get to that place with anyone else ever again. But if she could keep Phoebe busy in a tent for a while, maybe she could buy Stryker some time to call in help or plan something. Better, if she could get the Itor agent to climax, she might get some good intel.

  But the only person she wanted to make climax was Logan, and as Phoebe’s hand drifted down the back of Sela’s pants, the images that popped into her head were those of Logan, his head thrown back in ecstasy, his eyes closed, tendons in his neck straining.

  Maybe that would be how she could deal with Phoebe; keep Logan in her head as the person who was stroking her ass, inching fingers down between her legs.

  “That’s it,” Phoebe purred into Sela’s ear, and that fast, she was jolted out of it. This wasn’t going to work. Roughly, she shoved the Itor agent away.