Summer of the Burning Sky

by Susan May Warren

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, Archer?” 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.

  5

  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.

  It had lurched into his throat, settled there, threatening to spill out. Would have, had Archer not talked temporary calm into March.

  They’d finally happened upon a hunting cabin, a two-room shack that seemed recently used, but currently—thank You, God—uninhabited. A pair of graying antlers hung over the unlocked door.

  Archer must have rooted through the cupboards, because he’d found a couple MREs and brought them out to the porch where Skye and Rio sat.

  Skye shook her head to the offered supper, and Rio didn’t blame her. His guts were in a knot too.

  March gulped one down, while sending Darryl and Thorne to coax to life a dirty red-striped Bronco stalled in the yard. Across the yard, a shed protected a drying rack of antlers and a bear skin. Rio’s gaze settled briefly on a four-wheeler that sat in the shadows, but he dismissed it. It probably wouldn’t even start.

  The place looked like a hideout where a fugitive like March might hole up, and Rio thought he might be considering it, if Darryl wasn’t so determined to get the Bronco running.

  “Listen. I need to talk to you. March is dangerous. And the next time I tell you to run, do not come back. No matter what you hear. You are not to rescue me.”

  She looked at him, a little stripped. “But—”

  “No buts. And if he grabs you around the neck again, I want you to tuck your head down, protect your neck. And then make a fist and swing your free hand back right into the, um, soft tissue.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Ow.”

  “That’s the point. He’ll freak out, let go, and you run. And don’t look back.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  He glanced at March. Shook his head. “Just because.”

  A few strands of hair had fallen from her braid, now disheveled and dirty. “I can’t believe we’ve been on the run for a whole day and no one has found us.”

  “They will, Skye.”

  “You sound almost like you hope the US marshals will swarm in—”

  He looked away. Gave a tiny nod. “As long as no one gets hurt.” He drew in a breath. “I’m sorry…I’m sorry my plan didn’t work.”

  “Darryl nearly broke your nose.”

  He lifted a shoulder.

  “Okay, what’s with you—you’re the one who suggested I would be a great hostage.”

  He cut his gaze to her then because the word became a fist in his chest. “I was trying to keep you alive.”

  She frowned at him. “Thanks. I think.” She drew in her breath. “Are you sure you’re really a criminal?”

  He opened his mouth. Closed it. “Yeah. I’m definitely a criminal, Skye.”

  Her mouth tightened, and she pushed her hands between her knees. Looked at the ground. “Part of that long, sad story?”

  He considered her, the tan that spread across her face, the red that touched her nose. She’d been a trooper today and frankly, braver than he expected. But she was a smokejumper, and that took real courage, so maybe she wasn’t quite as delicate as…

  He swallowed, turned away. She still couldn’t defend herself against a rapist like March. And Rio knew in his gut, in the way March kept looking at Skye, something dark and cruel in his eyes, that Rio couldn’t let him near her. Not again.

  “Well, whatever you’re in for…you’re not him.” She glanced at March, now yelling at Darryl.

  Rio wanted to smile at that. She was trying, but oh, she didn’t have a clue. He looked away, shaking his head. “Actually, I was him. Desperate, angry, doing stupid things.”

  Sirens. “I’m sorry to tell you, ma’am—”

  Skye touched his arm, jerking him out of the memory. “Everybody makes a mistake.”

  He glanced at her, and now his mouth rocked up on one side. “Oh, I knew what I was doing, Skye. I knew exactly what I was doing when I killed the man who murdered my sister.”

  Her eyes widened and she pulled her hand away. Oh, he shouldn’t have said it like that. But he didn’t want her suddenly thinking she should ever come back for him again. That he was somehow redeemable. Worth risking her life for.

  Still, she swallowed as if slapped, and he felt like a jerk, so, “In my defense, I was seventeen, my dad had just suffered a stroke, and my life was falling apart before my eyes.”

  And he really shouldn’t have said that because her expression softened. She touched his ar
m again. Found his eyes, and he could wince with the compassion in them. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks.” He stared at her hand on his arm. Funny, he’d held her hand all day, but this touch sank heat into his skin, found his bones. Like last night’s fleeting finger brush.

  “She was sixteen and went out with friends to a rave. Hooked up with a guy and left with him. They found her body a day later, raped and strangled.” He closed his eyes against a sudden burn, probably fatigue, but he leaned his head against the house, so bone exhausted, he just wanted to curl into a ball.

  Instead, he heard the sirens again, the ring of the doorbell in memory. “The police came to the door, stood on the porch, and told my parents that their only daughter had been murdered. Didn’t even come in. The cops thought she was some runaway at first—asked my parents how long she’d been living on the streets.”

  He opened his eyes. The sun had started to weep red and orange across the sky, long shadows darkening the woods around the house. If the marshals were out there, this might be exactly the right time to invade and capture.

  “We found out later that whoever killed her had drugged her up good. She was probably high when she was killed.”

  Her hand slid down into his. He didn’t grip it, didn’t move, but his gaze fell on her fingers, curling around his thumb. Yeah, this was a bad idea, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

  “I should have let the cops handle it, but I was…they were so…they acted like my sister was a…” He shook his head. “A prostitute. And I just knew that they weren’t going to find the killer. Or if they did…well, maybe I just wasn’t satisfied with the idea of some guy serving petty time for destroying my family.”

  Skye’s thumb ran over his hand, and Rio couldn’t stop himself from closing his hand around hers. Something about holding onto her made the words run easier. “I had murder on my mind when I tracked down the guy who left with her. He told me he’d gotten her high and hooked her up with a couple guys. I think they were going to traffic her, but…well, she fought them. Which was why they beat her, strangled her.” He swallowed. “Raped her.”

  Silence, and he thought he saw movement by the woodpile, stared hard in the direction of the gathering shadows, but nothing materialized.