“One crazy move, and you’re dead.” March uncocked the hammer and stuck the gun in his belt. He turned to Archer. “Which way?”
“We gotta go west.” Archer pointed back the way they came. “We can go up around the ridge, cut around, and head south. That way we avoid the camp.”
March’s gaze hung on Rio a long heartbeat before, “Let’s go.”
They took off in a silent run through the far edge of the forest, up along a rocky ridge, and tracing the back side of the fire. Smoke hung in the woods like a phantom, the fire an eerie, distant crackle as the group doglegged down along the opposite flank of the fire. Rio got a good glimpse of the ridge where he’d saved Tucker’s life, the black and white moonscape of forest, the line they’d dug that stopped the fire cold.
That had been a cool bit of strategy—fighting fire with fire.
Rio had worked up a sweat by the time they clambered down the ridge, cutting away from the fire line toward the western horizon.
He was head down, looking at his footing when he heard the shout.
“Hey!”
Rio looked up and froze. Oh, no…no—
Skye was running over to them. He didn’t want to ask where she’d come from—probably some lookout perch—but she was grinning, her face innocent, curious. She’d taken off her helmet and left her pack behind, and the sunlight turned her long braid to gold. “Are we starting to mop up?”
It only took her a second, but ten feet away from them, her expression changed. And it wasn’t hard to see why. They’d all turned, and Rio knew even he wore a sort of horrified expression.
Then March raised his gun. “Stop.”
She gasped, halted, and put her hands up. “Please—!”
March advanced on her, five determined steps, and set the gun against her head.
“Stop—stop!” Rio’s brain shut down, and sheer reflexes propelled him across the rocks. “March—don’t!”
“She’ll run back to camp and warn them,” March said.
Skye’s breath shuddered out, her hands quivering. “No—no, I won’t—”
“Shut up!”
Rio wasn’t taking any chances. He walked right up to Skye and without pause simply put his arms around her. Turned her in one quick motion.
And March’s gun barrel was now shoved against his spine.
“Shh,” he said, his mouth against Skye’s ear. And he had to give her credit for not moving, not screaming.
“You shoot, and everyone in the camp will wake up,” Rio said, glancing over his shoulder. “She’ll come with us. We need a hostage if things go south.”
The moment he landed on the word hostage, Skye jerked. But he tightened his arms around her.
One second. Two.
Rio’s eyes fell on Thorne, whose gaze hung on March, as if sizing him up.
As if he might have Rio’s back.
“Fine,” March said. “But the minute she doesn’t keep up, she’s dead. And so are you.”
March stalked away, and Rio’s breath released. He looked down at Skye. Her eyes were wide in his, and she swallowed hard.
And oh, he wanted to tell her—well, everything. But they had no time, and if she knew who he was, who was to say that she’d be able to keep the secret?
Knowing Rio was FBI would definitely get them killed.
So he grabbed her hand and because he couldn’t stop himself, let out a low, guttural, “Trust me.”
Then he took off after March.
The minute she doesn’t keep up, she’s dead.
Those words kept Skye’s legs moving. Skye glanced at Rio’s hand in hers, tight enough to pull her along, not so tight that he hurt her.
She could hardly wrap her brain around the fact that a fugitive, a prisoner, a man who looked like he could kill her with his bare hands, just saved her life.
Except for Rio’s word. Hostage.
And, clearly, he meant it because he hadn’t let go of her hand for the last hour as they’d jogged down the ridge, working their way through rutted mountain trails toward a valley that stretched out like no-man’s-land, a golden wasteland as the sun took full repossession of the sky.
But Rio hadn’t hurt her. In fact, he kept looking at her with something confusingly like concern in his amber eyes, and that only dragged up into her thumping heart his softly spoken, Trust me.
Maybe.
Oh, she should have just stayed put. Because she’d watched them climb down the ridge from the back side of the fire, and her overactive imagination assumed that Tucker had left her out—again. That he’d taken the team around the fire to assess the mop-up and hadn’t bothered to tell her, trying to keep her safe, and a fury had erupted inside her.
She’d jumped to her feet, scrambled down the rocks, and was halfway across the ridge to them when she realized…
The prisoners. Not Tucker. Not Seth. Not Riley or Romeo or even the Zulies.
But by then she’d opened her big mouth, and March—she heard Rio call him that—rounded on her so fast her heart simply stopped.
She froze.
Oh, she could have done something. Run, maybe. Scream.
Anything but stand there and let March push a gun to her head, the cold barrel digging into her skull.
She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, and then—well, Rio’s movements happened so fast, one minute her bones were turning to liquid, the next, he had his arms around her, pulling her tight to his chest.
Taking the aim of the gun against his body.
She’d stood with her ear pressed against his chest, listening to the wild thunder of his heart, her own heart clinging to the gentle, Shh.
As in, Everything’s going to be okay.
She’d closed her eyes. Somehow Rio had talked March out of blowing a hole through him—them, really—but now…
Now she was on the lam with a bunch of prisoners.
The gang had dwindled by three, however, because she’d looked behind her not long after March took off, and the three younger men had vanished.
Probably off on their own escape trajectory.
The older man and the pudgy redhead were in front of her, but the other man—the taller one with the quiet demeanor and dark eyes—hung to the back, and she half expected him to duck behind a boulder and fade into the wilderness next.
She’d said nothing about the disappearing entourage, but Rio had definitely noticed, his gaze casting back, his mouth a tight line.
And that’s when March had stopped, also glancing behind him. Swore.
Then he leveled the gun at Skye.
Rio yanked her behind him, held up his hand. “I don’t know where they are, man. It’s not her fault.”
She’d barely noticed March at the camp. He looked like…well, like someone she might see on a ski hill, or afterwards, hanging with the après-ski bunch. Clean cut, save for the three-day whisker growth, he wore his brown hair short and even a little stylish, if it weren’t covered in ash and grime. Gray eyes—piercing almost, but she suspected that in a crowded bar, he might stand out when he set his gaze on a girl.
If she were given a multiple-choice quiz on the guy most likely to hold her hostage…well, it would be the man she currently held hands with.
“We gotta keep going,” Rio said now to March.
“Ahead of me,” March said, and Rio didn’t hesitate. He nodded and tugged her along, his strong hand tightening in hers.
She couldn’t make a run for it if she wanted.
They worked their way down a cliff side, slow going, and at the bottom, stopped to catch their breaths. The older man bent at the waist, breathing in hard. The redhead leaned in the shade against the granite wall.
The sun had risen, pouring light into the meadow ahead of them. Dotted with wildflowers and white reindeer moss and long grasses, it could be exactly where the US marshals picked them off.
And maybe March knew that because he stared out at the expanse, his jaw tight.
“How far to the campground, A
rcher?” He directed his question to the older man.
“Five miles, give or take, south. Past the river for sure.”
The river. Skye had seen it from the ridge, right before they descended. A ribbon winding through a canyon to the west.
“Five miles,” grumbled the redhead. He straightened and wiped his hand across his brow.
“I can leave you right here, Darryl,” March said, and lifted the weapon.
“Take a breath, March,” Rio said and dropped her hand. He held both of his up in surrender. “Just give him a second. It’ll take them hours to get people in to track us. We have time. Just…take it easy.”
Skye had stepped back, into the shade, wiping her hand on her pants. She needed water—she’d left her canteen with her pack. But Archer wore his pack, and now he dropped it to the ground, as if reading her mind, and pulled out a canister.
He handed it to Darryl, who uncapped it and started to drink.
March walked over and took it from him.
“Hey!”
And that’s when Rio turned and looked at her. Just zeroed in on her eyes, a heat in their amber depths that stripped any response from her. He took a step toward her. “I’m going to get you out of this,” he said tightly in a whisper. “Just stay calm and wait for my signal to run.”
She blinked at him. What—?
Maybe her question shone on her face because, “He can’t keep up with you. You’re strong and smart. Keep your wits about you and you’ll make it.”
Right. She nodded, her eyes wide. And his eyes said it again. Trust me.
Yes, okay.
Rio turned back around and grabbed her hand. Gave it a squeeze.
March capped the canister and handed it back to Archer. “Let’s go. And don’t think I’m not watching you, Thorne.”
Thorne. The taller man, the one who bore elements of military in his posture and pensive eyes. His gaze went over March a moment before he moved out in front of them.
March motioned with his weapon for Rio to move and he pulled Skye with him, out into the meadow.
The sun burned down from the sky, a golden eye that followed them across the expanse. A wind scurried down from the mountains, carrying the bite of a glacier in its breath, lifting the heat from her neck. Rio jogged easily beside her, glancing at her now and again.
They slowed to a fast walk, and Rio looked behind them. Made a face. “Darryl is lagging.”
Why he cared baffled her, but she, too, looked behind her. Spotted March in the back giving the redhead a shove. Darryl fell onto the ground, and March stopped over him.
“Get up!” March kicked him.
“Don’t run yet,” Rio said and let go of her hand, jogging back to March.
Don’t run? Because now felt like exactly the right time—except the forest was still a half mile away, and if March was a decent shot, she’d never make it to cover.
So she didn’t move, watching Rio confront March. She glanced at Archer, standing a little away, and he was watching the entire spectacle with a grim expression.
Sort of reminded her of Bruce Willis waiting for the bad guys to make a mistake. Crazy. He was just as dangerous as the rest of them.
Whatever Rio said—Skye didn’t catch it—made March shake his head, but he lowered his gun and let Rio haul Darryl to his feet.
Rio stalked back to Skye, his face tight, and reached out his grip.
She took it like it belonged there. And maybe, right now, it did.
They marched toward the forest on the far edge of the meadow in silence, the wind stirring the grasses. A hawk circled overhead, and she looked back once and spied the smoke from the fire mushrooming. The morning winds had raked it up.
Her team couldn’t fight the fire and look for her.
Besides, what could they do? They weren’t cops. And they’d only sent in one US marshal.
But plenty of prisoners worked fires over the summer months. Minimum security prisoners often trained for firefighting work. In California, they even had all-prisoner teams who joined with the regular wildland firefighters—no guards needed.
So maybe these guys weren’t killers. Except…
March glared at her, motioned with his chin to keep going, and she turned back around just in time to stumble.
Rio caught her, righted her. Met her eyes with a warning.
Right. Keep up.
They crossed a ravine, then stepped into the cool embrace of a forest, sparsely wooded at first, then thicker as they trudged deeper. Shaggy black spruce rose above them, darkening their path, with tall trios of birch and full-leafed aspen arching in a knitted canopy overhead.
They worked their way up a hill, breathing hard, and even March sat down halfway to the top. He tucked the gun in his belt and bent over, bracing himself on his knees.
Archer stood a few feet away, looking back along their trail, still that pensive expression. Skye wasn’t sure if she should be afraid of him or…well, probably. After all, he was clearly on board with this escape.
Darryl leaned against a tree, his back to March, breathing so hard Skye thought he might be having a heart attack.
Rio pulled Skye up next to him, glancing over to Darryl, then back to her. Met her eyes.
Now. She had the sense of it even as he took a breath, looked at March, then back to her…and nodded.
He practically pushed her away as he turned and lunged at March.
She took off back down the hill, running with her heart outside her body, leaping over a rock, her feet bruising the piney loam. Run, run—
In her mind, Rio was grabbing March’s gun, rolling over, and holding him at gunpoint.
A shot shredded the branches just over her head, deafening, the hot whiz of a bullet so close it singed the air.
She screamed. Turned.
Froze.
Because March stood at the top of the hill with his gun to Rio’s neck. Rio bled from the nose, clearly woozy from a blow he’d taken.
“Come back,” March said, his tone lethal. “Right now.”
But her legs wouldn’t work. She just stood there, dumbly.
March tilted his head as if considering her.
Then he pointed the gun at her.
Behind him, Thorne had started to run, now turned, his jaw hard.
“No!” Rio slammed his head into March’s face and March’s shot went wild.
And she knew she should run again but—but Rio was on the ground now, March’s knee in his back, the gun moving down—
“Stop! I’m coming back—I’m coming back!” She stumbled up the hillside. “Don’t shoot—I’m coming back—”
March watched her, his hand on Rio’s head, shoving him into the bloody soil. She topped the hill and dropped to her knees in front of Rio. “I’m not running—I’m right here.”
“I should just kill you both. Right now.”
Skye stopped breathing.
“So, maybe you have two hostages,” Archer said quietly.
Thorne had come back, stood outside the ring. For a quiet man, he said a lot with those clenched fists. She wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t grab March by the throat.
Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.
“I don’t need two hostages,” March snapped. “I don’t need any hostages.”
“You need me,” Rio said quietly. “Trust me, the US marshals want me back.”
Silence, and even Skye’s heart thudded, a fist against her ribs.
Why? What could he have done that might be worse than March?
“Get off me, man,” Rio growled.
March must have known something because he got up, breathing hard. His nose bled, too, and he wiped a sleeve across it.
Rio leaned up on his hands and knees, blood dripping from his nose, breathing hard. The look he gave Skye was so wretched her gut twisted.
He’d nearly gotten killed again—for her?
What kind of prisoner was he?
Archer had dropped his pack and now came over
holding a bandanna. Shoved it in her hands. Met her eyes. “Sorry.”
Huh?
But she ignored it and got Rio sitting up, the bandanna against his nose. He tipped his head forward and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Only then did she notice the boulder Darryl held in his grip. His eyes blazed.
“Darryl hit you?” she asked Rio in a low tone.
“Yeah,” he said, his eyes reaching hers. He let out a breath, his jaw tightening.
“Let’s go,” March snapped.
She put a hand under Rio’s arm and helped him to his feet.
Took his hand.
And this time he hung on, as if she might be the one saving his life.
She didn’t know what to do with that as they trudged in front of March, following Archer, Darryl, and Thorne into the wild.
Five
Eugene March was going to kill Skye. Rio read it in the man’s eyes, the way he followed her as they trekked through the forest. The way he grabbed her arm when they reached the tiny cabin nestled in an alcove cut from the woods, dragged her close, and snarled a warning in her ear.
Don’t run.
It had slid a cold finger of terror down Rio’s spine, and told him one thing. He had to get her away, even if he had to abandon Darryl and flee with her.
“Is it broken?” Skye knelt in front of him on the small porch, examining his nose, the welt swelling on his jaw.
“No,” Rio said, catching her hand. He couldn’t look at her, almost thankful for the pain.
It would have worked. He’d had a hand on March’s gun, would have at least slowed him down enough for Skye to escape.
Had Darryl not surprised him with the smash to the face, stunning him, tilting Rio’s world sideways. Darryl might have knocked him clean out of the way. Rio found himself face down on the ground, March’s knee in his back.
Then the shot. It had shaken Rio through, turned him cold, and he’d wanted to swear when Skye appeared, arms high. I’m coming back.
No—no!
She had crouched in front of him, such concern in her eyes, he felt ill. He’d nearly offered up the truth, right then, to keep her alive. To bargain for her freedom.
I’m FBI.
The Heat is On_Christian romantic suspense Page 6
