Firewolf

by Jenna Kernan

Meadow flagged a waiter, who returned a few moments later with two drinks on a silver tray. Meadow lifted the wine, swirling the burgundy liquid before taking a long swallow. He took a large gulp from his drink and found it tasted of chemicals. He grimaced and set the tumbler aside. Meadow had already finished her drink and signaled for another.

  “Bad idea,” he said.

  “Two-glass limit. Also, my mother hates it when I drink.”

  They had a few minutes alone as Meadow nursed her second glass of wine. Then she made her excuses to her mother and kissed her father, then led him to the room he would use while under her parents’ roof. It was too far from Meadow, so he followed her back to her room.

  “My head aches,” she said, her words slurred.

  He’d been battling an upset stomach since just after dinner.

  “Did you have anything else to drink?” he asked.

  “Two glasses. That’s it.” She blinked slowly and her lids remained half-closed.

  His stomach pains escalated. Dylan spoke so that FBI field agents Forrest and Cosen could hear.

  “I think we’ve been drugged. Meadow is blacking out. I’ve got stomach pains. Destiny. Destiny,” he said, repeating the code for help.

  “What?” she said, her eyes widening.

  Dylan wasn’t taking chances. He lifted the phone on her desk and got no dial tone.

  “Cell phone?” he said, wanting to call Jack.

  She motioned at her satiny silver cocktail dress. “Don’t have it.”

  He lifted her by the shoulders and took her to her bathroom. There he told her to make herself vomit. He did the same. But it was too late for Meadow. She was already dropping into a drug-induced slumber. He lifted her, determined to take her out of this house. He got his arms under her legs and lifted, but she was so heavy. Instead of bringing her up into his arms, he fell to his knees on the bathroom floor.

  “Forrest,” he said. “Help.”

  Had the agents heard them?

  The door to her room banged open. Dylan managed to get one knee under him. His vision was bad and the two men seemed a blur of motion, coming at him too fast for him to react.

  “This one’s still conscious,” said the one in blue.

  “Knock him out, then check him for a wire.”

  Dylan roared and lunged. He caught the one in blue around the waist and drove him through the doorway and knocking him to his back. The jolt of their landing made his head pound, but he lifted a fist to finish the job. Something heavy hit him in the back of the head so hard he saw stars. The wide wood-floor planking rushed up to greet him. He tried to rise and someone hit him again.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Meadow woke to the smell of smoke and a stomach that heaved with every jolt. She’d had her fair share of hangovers—okay, more than her fair share. And she’d woken up in some unexpected places. But she didn’t do that anymore.

  Why not?

  Then she remembered. Dylan Tehauno. Since she had met him she had lost much of her inclination toward reckless self-destruction.

  The car hit another jolt and she groaned.

  “Sleeping Beauty is waking up.”

  She knew that voice.

  “Won’t matter. We’re here.”

  The car pulled to a stop, bumping along on uneven ground.

  Meadow could not get her eyes to stay open. It took all her effort just to lift her lids a slit as the door beside her head swung out. She was hauled from the vehicle by her wrists. Her legs banged into the wheel well and then onto the ground. Next, her heels dug twin trenches in the sand. She managed a sound that was more mew than cry.

  “Jeez, I can barely see through the smoke,” said the first man.

  Who was that?

  She was dropped unceremoniously on the ground. Her cheek hit hard and the sharp sting of pain helped rouse her. She opened her eyes and saw yellow grass and two legs clad in gray trousers. Either the light was bad or it was her vision. Was it still evening or early morning?

  “Come on. Let’s get him and then get them both into the house.”

  Him? Were they talking about Dylan?

  “What’d you give the guy at the roadblock?”

  The other man snorted. “Money. They evacuated this neighborhood yesterday. Wrangler says it’s a goner. Smoke should kill them even before the fire gets here. Either way, we’ll be on our way back to Phoenix.”

  She did cry out this time.

  “You hear that, Princess? Should have died up here the first time. You recognize it? The ridge fire outside Flagstaff? Welcome back.”

  She tried and failed to roll to her back. What had they given her? It was like she was paralyzed, unable to get her body to listen to the commands of her mind.

  They walked past her and then returned, dragging Dylan. They dropped him on his back beside her. His head lolled and she saw the drying blood that had run across his forehead and into his eyes. He didn’t move, and for a moment she thought they had killed him. But then she saw it—the blood leaking from a wound on the back of his head. Dead men didn’t bleed, did they?

  Really, she didn’t know.

  “Dylan,” she cried, her words only a whisper.

  He remained completely still. Tears leaked from her eyes. This was her fault. She’d wanted to prove her father’s innocence, and Dylan wouldn’t have let her go alone. She didn’t care if she had to join the 27 Club if only she could save Dylan. He was so much better than her in every way imaginable. And she loved him.

  The tears now choked her as she admitted the truth. She loved him and it was going to get him killed.

  Beyond her tiny view of the world, she heard the sound of a motor and the clang of metal. The men returned.

  “Is he alive?” she asked.

  “Not for long,” said her captor, and then she knew him. It was Joe Rhodes, one of the soundmen on her father’s documentary projects.

  “Joe. Don’t do this.”

  “I’d say sorry, but I’m not. You cannot believe what I’m getting for this.” He scooped her up and then carried her from her resting place, past the truck and up a driveway made of paver stone. She controlled her head, but the rest of her body did not seem attached. Her legs swung and her arms dangled. She couldn’t really feel them. When Joe passed the driveway and carried her around toward the back of the large ornate Spanish-style home, the smoke came directly at them, a hot rush of air, like the kind from a blast furnace used to fuse glass. The skin on her face tingled.

  “Why?” she asked Joe.

  “Wrangler’s orders. I guess someone is tired of cleaning up after your messes. I would have put you over my knee about twenty years ago. Someone should have. But they never cared enough about you to do that. Did they, Princess?”

  Joe shifted her over his shoulder to maneuver through a wrought-iron gate and then draped her across a lounge chair with what should have been a fine view of the ridgeline. Instead, it gave her a horrific picture of the approaching line of orange flames that would soon overtake this home.

  Joe left her. She screamed at him to come back and choked on the acrid smoke. Seconds ticked by as she tried to get just her little finger to move. The gate creaked open and then banged shut. The next time she heard the gate, Joe and the second man had returned carrying Dylan between them. She now recognized the second guy, as well. Mark Perkinson, her sister Rosalie’s legal assistant. He leaned down and stroked her cheek.

  “Just drop him here,” said Joe, releasing Dylan’s knees. Mark grunted and then lowered Dylan to the flagstone patio. Mark approached and stood over her, hands on hips.

  “Not too good for me now, are you?”

  She vaguely recalled turning him down at a holiday party some years ago.

  “Mark. You have to help us.”

 
; Mark turned to Joe. “She’s talking. I thought she’d be out the whole time.”

  “So hit her on the head,” said Joe.

  “She’s not a catfish,” said Mark.

  “But she’s going to fry like one,” said Joe, and snorted at his joke. Then he turned toward the gate. “Come on. We don’t want to get trapped up here, too.”

  “Should we put the camera near them so it looks like they were filming the fire?” asked Mark.

  “Just set it up.” Joe’s coughing was worse. “Then turn it on.”

  “Why on? It’s just going to burn up.”

  “I don’t know. Wrangler wants it on.”

  There it was again. Wrangler. She squeezed her eyes shut against the stinging smoke as her heart split in two. Her father had done this to her. He was exactly what the FBI had told her, a madman, an extremist bent on returning the earth to pristine glory before humans interfered.

  She did not know what her death would achieve. Perhaps she would be a martyr for his cause.

  Then she had a thought. The wire. The FBI. They’d be listening. They’d know where to find them.

  But then why hadn’t they come already?

  She looked down at her dress and found the back zipper open so the low neckline gaped. The skin between the pink cups of her bra was bare. The wire was gone.

  “She’s moving,” said Perkinson.

  The wire...was gone. They were on their own and no one knew where to find them.

  “Won’t matter. Come on.” Joe disappeared and she heard the gate creak. Mark spared her a backward glance.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, and followed Joe.

  Meadow rolled her head back to the approaching wall of flames, the pungent stench of charring wood now hauntingly familiar. Death was coming for her and she was filled with regrets, so many they ate away at her like termites in rotting wood. Even as the smoke stung her eyes, she came to a certain clarity that Dylan was the one good thing in her life. He had treated her with the respect and tenderness that was absent in her family. Why did her father want her dead?

  They had always been so close. He had never denied her anything and that had been a constant source of contention between her parents. Her mother could not and would not approve of her lifestyle or her accomplishments, few as they were.

  Up on the ridge, the dry piñon trees had no chance against the fire that consumed them, crackling through their branches and turning the crowns into torches. Behind the flames lay a hillside of blackened earth.

  Why weren’t their firefighters here trying to save this neighborhood? She tried to think. Sometimes the fire teams deemed an area unsalvageable and offered it as sacrifice to the gods of fire. That would please her parents because she knew how her mother and father felt about the overdevelopment in this canyon. Though they didn’t object to their own older gated community and the golf course that sucked up precious water.

  Meadow reached out and clasped Dylan’s limp hand and squeezed. He did not move. She looked at her hand clutching his and realized she had moved her hand.

  What would Dylan do?

  She didn’t know, but she was sure that he would not be mourning a misspent youth. He’d be fighting for their lives. And that was exactly what she intended to do.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Someone was calling his name from a long way off. Dylan roused to the feeling that his head had been cracked open like a goose egg. He squeezed his eyes shut, smelling smoke and blood. He lifted a hand to wipe away the sticky fluid pooling in his eye sockets and then moved his fingers beneath his nose to smell the drying blood. His fingers then raked through his hair to the gash that sat on a lump at the back of his skull.

  “Don’t touch it. It’s still bleeding.”

  He blinked open his eyes to see Meadow kneeling beside him, her features tight with worry as her amber eyes met his.

  Dylan registered the unmistakable smell of a wildfire and looked about.

  “Where are we?”

  “Back at the ridge fire. Two of my father’s men dropped us here.”

  “Why?”

  “I think they’d like us to die.”

  Dylan swung his legs off the padded lounge chair and onto the flagstone. Meadow still wore the pretty satin cocktail dress she’d had on last night and he was still in his clothing, necklace plus the borrowed blazer. His shirt had been opened and the wire that had been affixed to his chest had been removed.

  “Someone hit me from behind. Twice.” He grappled with the pain and dizziness that came with each tiny movement.

  “I was drugged. I couldn’t even move until a few minutes ago. It was like some nerve toxin.”

  Dylan looked at the line of fire rushing down the hillside in their direction. They had to get out of here.

  “Have you tried the phones inside?” he asked.

  She shook her head. Dylan opened the locked glass sliders by using the base of the wrought-iron side table as a battering ram. The force needed to shatter the glass made his eyes water as the pain flipped the contents of his stomach. His coordination was dismal as he staggered inside the ornate dining room using the upholstered chair backs for support. In the kitchen, Meadow found a phone on the wide expanse of black honed granite. She lifted the handset and pressed the call button. She gripped the counter with her opposite hand and swayed as if she stood on a ship’s deck in rough seas. What had they given her?

  “No service,” she said, her words slower than usual. She squeezed her eyes shut and gave her head a shake.

  He reached her and drew her close.

  “We have to go,” he said. Maybe the residents had left a car in the garage. He wouldn’t have. If he’d had two cars and this house, he would have loaded up everything he could carry and left when the evacuation was called. Still, they stumbled to the garage and found the three bays empty except for a golf cart.

  She looked at him and he made a face.

  “Terrible escape vehicle,” he said, glancing at the open sides.

  “It’s that or the bikes,” she said, motioning to the expensive mountain bikes neatly stored on hooks beside the ski equipment and golf clubs. “And my balance is off.”

  He took her arm and guided her to the cart, where they found the ignition key missing. A search of the tiny glove box, cup holders and beneath the seats yielded nothing.

  “I’ll bet it’s on his key chain.”

  “Hot-wire,” he said.

  Dylan watched with growing appreciation as Meadow located the two wires running from the battery behind the seat and yanked. Once free it was an easy matter to touch the exposed ends together. The engine turned over.

  “You ever drive one?” asked Meadow.

  He shook his head and she climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “Where’d you learn that trick?” he asked.

  “It’s why I got thrown out of the Canton-Wesley Academy. Stole the dean’s cart and drove it into the outdoor pool on a dare.”

  Dylan returned to the entrance to the garage and hit the button to open the automatic door. Outside the lifting door was a white Range Rover, and beside the vehicle stood Meadow’s father, holding a pistol.

  “Get in,” he ordered.

  * * *

  “DADDY?” MEADOW SLID from the seat of the cart and stood on unsteady legs.

  Dylan dragged a golf club from the closest bag, a wood, with a nice solid-looking head.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “No time. Let’s go.” Theron Wrangler looked behind him, down the road as if expecting company. He was sweating and pale, and he held his left hand across his middle as if he had suffered some injury.

  This made no sense. He’d brought them here and now he wanted to move them. Dylan tried to puzzle out a reason an
d a possibility flickered in his mind. He slipped the club behind his back as Wrangler turned his pistol in Dylan’s direction.

  “You, too. Come on.” He stepped back, giving them room to exit. “Who else is here?”

  Meadow shook her head. “Your men already left.”

  “My men?”

  “Joe Rhodes and Mark Perkinson. They said you paid them to leave us here. Why, Daddy?”

  “No time now.”

  If Dylan didn’t know better, he would think he was looking at a man who was truly frightened.

  Dylan wondered at the choice of words, which made it seem as if Theron’s life was also at risk, though he was the one pointing the gun.

  The blast of a car horn was unmistakable. Through the smoke that swirled about the house, Dylan saw the white Mercedes sedan draw into the driveway, boxing in Wrangler’s Range Rover. The rear door swung open and Dylan saw Lupe Wrangler, dressed in charcoal-gray slacks and a tailored orange blouse, lean from the compartment and motion wildly to her daughter, shouting to be heard above the approaching maelstrom.

  “Niña, hurry.”

  Her father swung the pistol to aim at his wife. She lifted her hand as her eyes widened. A moment later her face went scarlet with rage.

  “Don’t go, Meadow. She’s the one who drugged you,” said her father.

  Meadow looked from one parent to the next as confusion knit her brow.

  What had Carter told Dylan, the name that his new wife had overheard...? Wrangler. Not Theron Wrangler. Just Wrangler. Could it have been Lupe Wrangler all along?

  Meadow took a step toward her mother. Dylan grabbed her arm. She stared up at him. He shook his head.

  “I think your father is telling the truth.”

  “What?” she asked.

  Because poison was a woman’s weapon, he thought. And because he’d never seen a mother so hostile toward a child, and because Meadow did not resemble her siblings, who all favored their mother. And because Lupe had the money and the legacy of environmental ruin. The pieces of the puzzle snapped into place. Daddy’s little girl and the reason Meadow could never please her mother.