by Anne Marsh
“You satisfied, boy scout?” Her eyes laughed at him. The laughter was good. That meant she wasn’t so scared anymore.
Satisfied. No. He was not. Good to know, though, that she cared. The bolt of lust that shot through him was not entirely unexpected. He seemed to spend most of his time around Olivia Albert in a state of arousal. So, of course, it made perfect sense for his dick to harden and send insta-lust messages to his brain. In the middle of a fucking forest fire. Christ.
“Safety first.” He turned and started hiking again. He should listen to himself, that’s what he should do.
Instead, the next words out of his mouth were about as far from safe as he could get.
“Since we’re stuck out here until the fire burns over, I’ll help you look for your tango,” he said. “At the very least, Livy, I’ll watch your back while you do what you need to do. Whatever time I can give you, it’s yours.”
The smile that lit up her face was pure trouble.
The smoke behind them grew thicker, but Sam moved as unhurriedly and deliberately as ever. Just a nice, even jog like he was doing his five miles around the neighborhood park on a Saturday morning. Still, she bet he knew precisely how tall the plume following them was. The plume had changed even more over the last hour. Now, the smoke had more colors than a layered candle. The top of the plume was white followed by black, down to the base where it turned orange. She had a feeling that orange was a real bad sign.
Her mountain man apparently thought so, too, because his gaze flicked to the plume, then back to her face and he picked up the pace. His face didn’t give anything away, but she hadn’t expected to see an Oh, shit message displayed there, either. Sam had always been annoyingly calm. And put together. The exact opposite of her, in fact.
“Almost there,” he offered when she made a give-it-up gesture towards him.
Hell. She swiped at the sweat on her forehead and searched the forest for any sign of Holm Arthurs.
She’d eyeballed every bank of dirt, every game trail disappearing into the thick underbrush. If Holm Arthurs had been here, she wasn’t seeing any evidence of him now. She’d been so certain she was on top of him. That flash of camo and skin earlier hadn’t been a figment of her imagination. She was sure of that. So where was he? This manhunt should have been a success. She’d done her homework. She’d been almost close enough to touch him.
And yet here she was. Out of time and with nothing to show for her efforts.
She didn’t like failing at anything, but taking Holm Arthurs down wasn’t optional. Not only was the man dangerous, but he was completely remorseless. He had an agenda and he didn’t care what it took to accomplish his goals. Holm’s last success story was pretty much burned into her brain. She’d arrived at the scene to kick off her investigation—and had stood there, frozen for a long moment, because the charred sentry box still smelled of burning rubber hours after his backpack bomb had detonated, taking out two American soldiers with ten pounds of triace-tone triperoxide and scrap metal.
Sam turned his head and looked at her. “No luck,” he said.
“No.” Agreeing almost killed her. She’d been so sure she had Holm’s trail. “I don’t see any sign of him.”
Sam nodded slowly, like he was rehashing their steps in his head. “Nothing yet,” he agreed. “Still some time, though, for him to turn up. If I was him, I’d be hunkered down near the gorges. Pick a good spot there, and wait the fire out.”
She could see Sam’s gorge up ahead, so they were close. And Sam sounded damned sure.
“You didn’t seem surprised to hear about Holm Arthurs.” A blast of smoke tore at her throat, and she coughed. He stopped jogging and handed her his canteen.
“Drink.” He waited until she’d swallowed, then took the canteen back and capped it. “Surprised? No. Lots of stuff happens out here in the park. You meet all sorts, including plenty of survivalists. You tell me,” he suggested, “what makes Holm different from the rest.”
The trees gave way to a thin trickle of stream, and Sam turned and headed upriver. The steep walls of the gorge rose beyond the treeline. They were going to make it. Things would be okay.
Sam’s fine ass led the way across the streambed. Water splashed around his boots as he picked out the straightest, quickest path to safety. Right. Because he was a forest ranger and a hotshot, just doing his job, and if their lives weren’t in danger, she’d be giving serious consideration to sexually harassing him on that job. Still, she couldn’t ignore the pleasure she took in watching him, despite the danger.
I’m not going to let myself need him again.
She concentrated on his question instead as she waded into the stream.
“He’s not a survivalist; he’s a killer. At first, he was one more white, middle-class, gun enthusiast. He mail-ordered a few rounds of the interesting stuff, picked up a few legal firearms at his local gun shop. Filled in his paperwork and passed the background searches. He had a three-bedroom ranch in the suburbs, a nine-to-five, and not much else.” She shrugged. “Not much that was on our radar, that is.”
“What turned you on to him?”
“He made a few visits to some chat rooms, did a few meet-and-greets at regional gun shows. Could have been simple curiosity. But, the FBI got photos of him at some of the Branch Davidian protests and, bam, he was on our radar.”
Sam’s boots hit deeper water and he turned, holding out a hand. “So say he succeeds. He blows up something big, hurts lots of people. Then what?”
She took his hand. There was no pointing in ass-planting in the water and the rocks were slippery. “He probably believes that his explosion is going to start something a whole lot bigger. That his bomb will be the start of a revolution and the end of the U.S. government.” When Sam snorted, she had to smile. “Yeah. Unbelievable to us, but he’s fully invested. And he’s damned hard to catch. When it’s a small operation, there aren’t that many people to talk. Holm wasn’t a Chatty Cathy online. He engaged occasionally, but he didn’t post a blueprint of his plans, either.”
“You’re chasing a ghost.”
“Out here? Maybe.” She shot him a look. “But I’m almost certain I saw someone moving around earlier.”
“Could have been an animal or a bird,” he offered. “You really think Holm Arthurs was watching you hike through the woods?”
“It’s a possibility,” she argued, “and I know what I saw. That was no animal.”
His hand steadied her elbow when her foot slipped on the loose stones on the bottom of the streambed, the warm weight of his fingers penetrating the thin fabric of her windbreaker.
“All right,” he said, letting go when she’d found her footing. “So your target is out here. We’ll find him.”
She liked the we far too much. The man crossing the stream next to her was simply doing his job. His words didn’t have to mean anything else, even if she wanted them to.
Still, clarifying was good, right? “Are you offering to help?”
His long-legged stride got him to the opposite bank first, and he turned, waiting for her to catch up. His dark eyes watched her carefully. Maybe she looked like she was going to fall in, because he took a step closer.
“I don’t want this guy running around my park any more than you do,” he offered slowly. “I don’t want innocent people getting hurt. You know me better than that, Livy.”
She did. Sam was hero material, pure and simple. Sure, he’d never call himself heroic and it was damned certain he wouldn’t want the label, but there was no escaping the truth. Sam Clayton did what had to be done to keep everyone else safe and that made him one hundred percent, grade-A hero. Safety came at a price and he’d always, always pay up so no one else had to. She’d be crazy to turn down a helping hand from a man like this.
“Where would you build a bunker?”
“Me?” He shrugged, then looked around. Really looked. “I’d want to be off-trail, to keep a low profile, but not too far because packing stuff in is easier
and less obvious if there’s a well-known trail and a trailhead with parking. I’d want water. And I’d want to be able to see anyone coming. Maybe a backdoor exit, too. In case, I had to leave real quick.”
“You see those conditions here?” she challenged.
He gave her a look. “Pretty much, honey. There’s a reason we’re headed for this particular canyon. If I was digging a bunker, I’d pick the eastern downslope.”
He pointed and—what do you know?—there in the distance, she could see an irregularity in the underbrush. Minutes later, they found the bunker she’d almost given up hope of spotting. Plywood concealed a hole dug into the dirt slope at the bottom of the canyon, covered with needles.
He winked at her. “Needle, meet haystack.”
Chapter Four
Well, hell.His hunch had paid off. And so had Livy’s determination.
There was a goddamned needle in a haystack in the middle of a three-hundred-acre wildfire. Finding it shouldn’t really have come as a surprise. Livy Albert was tenacious and she’d always gone after what she wanted. That was how she’d been admitted to a top school.
Maybe that was why her leaving had hurt so badly. She hadn’t wanted him enough to fight for him.
Right now, though, her eyes lit up like a kid’s on Christmas morning as she dropped to the ground beside him, smoothing away the pine needles covering the industrial-sized sheet of plywood. How Holm Arthurs had moved that board this deep into the forest was one of the many questions Sam had. Followed by: Where the hell was the man now? Fire wasn’t the only danger in the woods tonight.
“You want a hand?” He squatted down beside her. Sooner she got the lid off this unexpected hole in the ground, the sooner she’d be willing to move on. Because no way she wasn’t going to stop to take a peek. Hell, he’d have done the same if he’d been her.
Her hand slapped his away. “Hang on. A man like Holm, he might have wired his hidey-hole to blow.”
That was a kicker. He watched her explore the area for a trip wire, while he thought her words over. “You think he’s in there?”
She shook her head. “I doubt it, not the way this thing’s covered up and not after I chased him through the woods earlier.” She shot him a grin. “But I’m not taking chances.”
She palmed her gun, and his attraction to her ratcheted up another notch. Her face was all fierce concentration and he’d seen that look before, right before she came in his arms, almost there, but not quite.
This was no time to be mooning after Livy, he reminded himself. Not when they were about to find out if they had themselves a terrorist in a hole. Or when there was a wildland fire beating down on them. Problem was, his head got that, but the rest of him—the rest of him was too pleased to be standing next to her again.
Even if she’d up and leave as soon as she had Holm Arthurs bagged and tagged.
Of course, that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to change things. Hell, he was an expert on fighting last-ditch battles. He’d pitted himself against hundreds of fires. He’d held his line most of those times, too. He eyed the woman crouched beside him. So, the question was, did he want Olivia Albert and was she worth fighting for, even if there was a strong possibility he’d get his ass kicked and his heart overrun?
Hell, yeah.
And not only because she was a strong, take-charge woman. He had delicious memories of loving her younger self, but he liked this woman, too. Ten years older and wiser, Olivia Albert was even more dangerous to his peace of mind. To his heart. She knew what she wanted and how to go after it. So, all he had to do was convince her that he was what she wanted.
Eyes on the concealed entrance, she mouthed a countdown. On three, she gestured sharp and fast, and he sprang into action.
He lifted, smooth and fast, the whoosh of air followed by the harsh bang of the wood hitting the ground. A pine-fresh burst of scent exploded out of the dark, as needles scattered, followed by a hit of stale air from the yawning hole in the ground. They were in.
This was Livy’s gig, so he hung back. It was easier than he’d thought, to let her edge over that hole, gun out. This was her job and she was clearly good at it. He wouldn’t have expected anything less from her.
So he watched as she dropped down into the hole, his own military training putting him on edge. The silence didn’t guarantee there was no one home, but he’d have expected some flash of motion. Plus, shoving back the cover had knocked plenty of dirt loose and there was no telltale cough. No quick intake of air. Nothing at all.
Still, he had her back. He’d stay up here and keep an eye out. Just in case Holm Arthurs was hanging back, watching this little party.
Sam certainly knew how to watch and wait.
“Clear,” she called and he settled back on his heels, scanning the trees. Holm was a survivor. Sam was almost certain now that the man would be out there somewhere, doing a little wait-and-see of his own. Livy disappeared into the darkness and it was like waiting at the end of the runway—again—for a pilot to guide in his distressed plane. Maybe the man made it, or maybe he hit the end of the runway in a spectacular flameout. Either Sam slapped him on the back and atta-boyed him, or he hosed down the flames and scraped up what was left.
Damn it, he was tired of waiting for shit to hit the fan.
He scanned the forest one last time—still clear—and ducked inside the hole.
Holm’s bunker was little more than a big, raw hole dug into the ground, the sides shored up with four-by-fours. Somehow, the man had brought in metal shelving and enough camping supplies to keep him going for weeks. Sam spotted a neatly rolled sleeping bag leaning against an orderly row of plastic water jugs. Ammo was lined up on metal shelving with military precision. If a man wanted to wait out an apocalypse, this was the place to do it.
Livy raised her head from something she was examining in the corner. “You down here?”
“Yeah. Unless you want me keeping watch up there?”
She shook her head. “I think he’s long gone, or this is a fallback site for him. There’s dust on the shelves and nothing’s been disturbed recently.”
“Doesn’t mean he’s not watching from the woods right now,” he pointed out, even though that begged the question of why Sam was here if the danger was out there.
“I doubt it.” She shrugged. “And although I’d be happy to flush him out, you said we were on a deadline.”
“Yeah.” He rocked back on his heels. “We still are. You got ten here.”
“I need more time than that.” She didn’t bother arguing, just spun on her heel and disappeared deeper inside the bunker. The place had to stretch fifty, sixty feet into the ground and he admired Holm’s tenacity. Digging this place out had taken time and effort.
“Make it enough.” He stuck his head outside again, scanning the woods around them one more time, but it was too smoky and the light was going fast. Screw it. If Holm was out there, he was out there. Best thing to do now was to get in and get out. Fast.
He pulled back inside into the bunker, pulling the plywood partially over the entrance to cut the smoke.
Dark. Shadows covered the dirt walls, lit up by orange pinpricks of light and smoke. Christ. The familiar dark-and-smoky catapulted him back through the years to the last crash he’d picked up before leaving the military. He saw the twisted mess of a plane and smelled the unmistakable smell of metal super-heating right before the gas tanks blew, leaving no time to get to the pilot who hadn’t ejected. No. He sucked in air and forced himself to breathe. Slow and even. In and out.
“Sam?” She turned towards him, as if she sensed his distress.
Hell. He couldn’t afford to come apart now. She wasn’t trapped. He could get her out of here by giving their plywood a quick shove. Easy-peasy.
“Holm a vet?” He distracted himself by calculating the number of narrow, dark crawl spaces feeding off the twelve-by-twelve the survivalist had carved out for himself. Holm had to be smaller than Sam—or didn’t mind a tight fit. There
were no marks of recent passage, though.
Livy got out a camera and started photographing the bunker. “He’s an accountant. But he likes the Discovery Channel. And, he spent most of his childhood hunting.”
“You got eight minutes left.” The place was smoking up fast, even with the plywood pulled overhead. Too hot, not enough air—and he damned well didn’t like not knowing where those tunnels went.
“Don’t touch anything,” she snapped when he grabbed a folded-up tarp from the shelving nearest him.
He felt like a heel for finding her bossiness so sexy. He didn’t think that was the effect this special agent was going for. He bit back a smile. Maybe he’d let her boss him around again later. In bed.
While she did her thing, snapping pics and cursing the lack of cell phone reception that meant she couldn’t contact her team, he got busy rifling through the contents of the shelves. Behind him, Livy inventoried the bunker quickly, her inspection thorough and methodical. She’d done this before and he didn’t know how he felt about that, but it wasn’t as if he worked a desk job himself. He was in no position to complain.
“Five minutes left. Make them count.” He wasn’t going to argue with her, so he ignored her pointed comments on who was in charge here. He’d be happy to show her later.
Instead, he got busy salvaging what he could, rapidly pulling anything useful off shelves and throwing his finds onto the tarp. The shelves were meticulous, the cans lined up with military precision. Not the standard food shelf special, either. Holm had gone for all-organic, high-end stuff.
The cans weighed too much to bother hauling. Instead, he grabbed vacuum-sealed trail mix and dried meat. Holm had an assortment of freeze-dried meat as well, but those would require soaking. He’d take some anyhow. The gorge he had in mind had a stream.
“Hey.” She pulled on his arm when he grabbed a packet from the shelf where she was working. “You can’t do that!”