by Julia Harper
She stared at him. “Well, if it is, it’s a darn good one. If we stay here, we’re going to be roasted alive.”
“Then let me go first.” He had his gun out and in his hand.
“You can’t even stand on your own!” She wasn’t sure he could stand at all. Right now, he was leaning against her shoulder.
“I—”
The door burst in and Dante jerked his gun toward it.
John crouched in the doorway. “Come on!”
“He can’t stand, John,” Turner said.
“I can—”
John cut Dante off by simply walking over and wrapping his arms around him. He hauled him to his feet but then staggered. Dante was making a valiant effort, but his head lolled on his shoulders. He had to be almost a dead weight on John. Turner tucked the laptop under one arm and came up on Dante’s other side. Together, she and John half dragged, half walked him out the door. Outside, the air was fresh and the sun bright in her eyes. Turner coughed and looked back. The ice fishing shack was billowing black smoke. As she watched, a whoosh of flames burst through the roof.
“Christ,” someone exclaimed. “Do you have any idea how much that ice fishing house cost?”
Calvin Hyman was standing by a tree, his arms behind his back. It took Turner a moment to realize he must be handcuffed. Squeaky was in front of him, apparently guarding the man, although the dog looked anxious. His tongue was hanging out, and he panted. The fire probably had him on edge. The fire had her on edge, too. She glanced around. The forest was bone-dry. There hadn’t been any rain for weeks.
“We need to call the fire department.”
“Already have,” John panted. “On Hyman’s cell.”
He pivoted them toward the path leading up the slope to the cabin. Her instinct was to run away from the fire—she felt her arms prickle at the danger—but they couldn’t run. Not with Dante. John’s partner was leaning more heavily now. Turner wondered if they’d be able to get the man up the slope. If he passed out, could they carry his dead weight?
“Squeaky, come on,” John called.
The dog hustled over. He evidently thought leaving the fire behind a great idea. Already, the leaves on the trees shading the ice fishing house were burning.
“You, too, Hyman.” John didn’t bother looking back to see if the bank president would follow.
“You have to let me go,” Calvin whined. “I can’t climb with these things on.”
“Try,” John said unsympathetically.
The gravel on the path slid beneath Turner’s feet suddenly. She went to one knee, painfully pressed into the rocks. John grunted as Dante’s full weight fell on Turner, pulling him over.
Crack!
Calvin screamed. Squeaky took off again, tail between his legs. Oh, Lord! Turner flinched and fell facedown, shaking. She knew that sound. Someone was shooting at them. Again. She dropped the laptop and tugged at Dante, trying to drag him into the woods with her.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
The shots started echoing in her head. The smell of smoke filled her nostrils. Turner whimpered. She didn’t want to be here, going through this again.
She didn’t want to be dead.
Calvin swore loudly, profanely, and dove into the woods on the opposite side of the path.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
She dug her heels in the soft, dry dirt and heaved at Dante with all her might. And he moved suddenly, toppling her as John shoved them both into the safety of the trees. She panted into the dusty leaf litter, still shaking. John fired his gun next to her, the sound so loud she thought she’d go mad. She had her hands over her ears, trying to press the percussive shots out, but they still came.
The shooter was returning fire, as well. Bark jumped off a tree in front of her. Dante groaned. He had his gun in his hand but couldn’t bring it up.
All around them, the smoke was choking and thick. The woods were on fire, and the only path out was blocked by a killer. “Oh, Lord.”
John didn’t respond. His whole attention was on his opponent, somewhere out there, still firing at them.
“Stop! It’s me!” Calvin shouted from the other side of the path. “Dammit, Hank, it’s me, Calvin Hyman. Shoot them, not me.”
John grunted. “Knew he hired this asshole.”
Crack! Crack!
Was the gunman following Calvin’s instructions? Turner tasted ashes in her mouth. John shifted and felt along Dante’s body. The younger agent groaned. If he wasn’t unconscious yet, he was close to it.
“Here,” John said. “Take Torelli’s gun. The safety is off. All you have to do is point and shoot.” He turned fully toward her for the first time since they’d dived into the woods, and Turner saw . . .
Blood.
Blood painting half of his face, clotting over his eyebrows, clumping his eyelashes together, dripping onto the ground. She thought she smelled the copper scent, mingling with the smell of smoke.
John was bleeding.
No. Not John. She reached for him, ignoring the gun.
But he shoved the weapon into her hands. “Pay attention. If I pass out, you have to continue shooting. You have to keep him away, make him think I’m still here.”
The blood. She whimpered.
“Turner.” His pale eyes bored into hers, grim and intense, deadly serious. “This guy is wacko. He likes to shoot things. You need to keep him off if I can’t. Because he’ll kill you. He’ll kill all of us.”
He meant to say more, she could tell, but the shooting resumed.
Crack!
She ducked reflexively and felt the grit of dirt in her mouth. She blotted out the image in her mind of John drenched in blood. Her eyes stung from smoke, and her chest was tight. How long before the fire reached them? How long before they couldn’t breathe or were burned alive or shot dead?
“Jesus! Let me through, Hank,” Calvin yelled from the other side of the path. “I can’t breathe. Too hot.”
The only answer was another volley of shots.
Beside her, Dante started coughing, his chest shaking convulsively. He groaned, the sound making her more anxious. Turner was sure that had he been aware, he would’ve smothered the sign of pain.
“Goddamnit!” Calvin yelled again. Branches on the other side of the trail waved frantically as he thrashed around. “I’m coming out!”
The bank president ran out into the middle of the path, coughing. His hands were still behind his back, bound by the handcuffs, and he was having trouble keeping his balance. He started up the path, then seemed to notice the black laptop case for the first time. Turner could almost see his mind debating. Calvin turned and carefully squatted as if he were doing an intricate curtsey. He was trying to pick up the laptop from behind.
John swore. He raised his gun, but he was beaten to it by the hit man.
Crack! A shot kicked up dirt a foot away from where Calvin bent. He yelped and toppled over. Then a flurry of shots danced about him, hitting dirt and rocks and making a haze around Calvin but not touching him. Evidently Calvin had ticked another person off.
Beside Turner, John took careful aim and fired three shots so quickly that they seemed like one sustained explosion. Her ears rang, and she covered them reflexively. She thought at first that he’d shot Calvin, but his target was farther up the trail in the trees. Something large crashed in the woods, and from behind a tree a man’s arm flopped onto the edge of the path. The rest of the body was thankfully hidden in the shadows of the trees. In the sudden silence, the crackle of the fire was loud. Nothing happened for several seconds. Turner stared at the arm, waiting, waiting, for it to move. But it didn’t. Instead, flames began marching down the trail.
The fire had cut off their escape route.
Chapter Fifty
W e need to get to the lake,” John said and then burst into a spasm of coughing.
Turner nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak. The smoke grew denser, creeping into her throat, clogging her chest, stinging her eyes.
Sparks danced through the air. One lit on the back of her neck, and she slapped at it in instinctive panic. John took Dante’s right arm, and she took the other. They pulled in unison, muscles straining. The young man hung, a dead weight between them. She hoped his lack of response was from loss of blood, not something more serious. Not that loss of blood wasn’t serious.
They dragged Dante back out to the path. Turner tripped over the tree roots now obscured by smoke. Calvin had already righted himself and was hobbling down to the lake. There was no sign of Squeaky. Turner briefly worried. Would the big dog know to get out of the forest? Animals weren’t always smart about fires. She’d heard tales of cats hiding under beds in burning houses and horses that refused to leave barns on fire. But she couldn’t worry about the dog now. It was all she could do to hold up her end of Dante. They edged their way slowly down the path to where the laptop lay in the dust. Turner quickly bent and grabbed the black case, looping the handle over her forearm, where it hung like a bowling ball.
John shot her a glance but didn’t comment. The lake lay up ahead, blue and serene, the sun sparkling off the water as if nothing had happened in the last few minutes. As if John hadn’t just saved their lives by taking another. As if the forest wasn’t roaring behind them like a demon intent on devouring its prey.
A few more careful steps. The path was steep. A birch sapling by the water’s edge exploded into flame, the fire popping and leaping into the air. Burning leaves floated merrily in the breeze like miniature firecrackers. John stumbled, caught himself, and stumbled again. Dante sagged against Turner with his entire weight, and they all went down like a house of cards. Turner skidded on her rear. Dante slid a couple of feet on the trail, head pointed down, gravel rattling after him. He swore weakly, and Turner managed a small smile. At least he was still alive.
She scrambled to her feet, then doubled over coughing. The wind, so light and playful earlier, had turned malevolent. It swept toward them, bringing the fire and the asphyxiating smoke with it. She looked up, still coughing, and saw through a cloud of tears the lake’s bright blue water just out of reach.
“Go on,” John commanded. But when she looked at him, he was still on hands and knees. His head hung down, dripping scarlet blood into the khaki dust beneath him. “Go on. I’ll follow with Dante.”
And she knew.
John wasn’t going to follow with Dante. He didn’t think he could make it to the lake. He was telling her to save herself.
To go on alone.
Turner felt tears that had nothing to do with the smoke stinging her eyes. How could he even think, after all they’d been through, that she would just leave him? That she wanted to be alone now? Did he think her the same isolated woman she’d been only six days ago? She wasn’t that woman.
Not anymore.
Turner dropped the laptop into the dust and went to pull at John. “Come on.”
He looked at her. “Go.”
She shook her head. “No. I’m not leaving you. We’ll make it to the lake. Together.”
She pulled again and John heaved to his feet, a colossus rising. The blood on his face was streaked with dirt and sweat, and he swayed as he stood. But he grimly bent to pull at Dante while Turner took the younger man’s other arm. She strained with all her might. There was no point in trying to get Dante upright anymore. They simply dragged him on his back. Slowly, agonizingly, the muscles tearing in her shoulders and arms, they pulled toward the blue lake. Toward safety.
Toward life.
Turner didn’t once look back to see what had become of the laptop. Everything important to her lay ahead and beside her, no longer behind. And when they finally made it to the water’s edge, the lake embraced them like the cool kiss of a welcoming mother. Turner felt the liquid wet her feet, calm and soothing. It rose to her thighs and then up to her waist as she walked into the water. They waded out until the lake lapped gently at her chin. John held Dante’s head above the water.
Only then did she look back.
The shoreline was a holocaust. Flames climbed the trees, licking and devouring, and leapt toward the sky as if seeking more fuel. The path where she’d dropped the laptop was obscured by smoke and fire. A black pall hung over the sky as far as the eye could see, shrouding everything in death.
All except the lake. The lake was still quiet. Still cool. Sanctuary and life, it enveloped them in safety.
“Ha,” Calvin gasped from where he struggled to stay afloat in the water. “The laptop’s gone. You have no evidence on me.”
“Premeditated murder,” Dante mumbled. “Contract killing, bank robbery, assault on a—” He drifted off again, but John took over.
“And generally being a pain in the ass,” he drawled. He smiled crookedly at Turner. “Hyman’s going away for a long time.”
Turner smiled back. Just as Squeaky burst from the trees, made one giant bound, and splashed them all with water.
Chapter Fifty-one
J ohn looked at the dashboard clock and groaned. It was close to midnight, and Turner was just now driving him home to his apartment. The hospital had wanted to keep him overnight for observation, but he had stood firm: he wanted to sleep in his own bed. Fortunately, Turner wasn’t hurt. He wasn’t sure the ER doctor would’ve let him go, otherwise, but since there was an able-bodied driver, the doc couldn’t very well refuse. Thank God. John’d had enough of monotonous medical procedures and hospitals by that time.
They had been in the lake over an hour before being rescued by helicopter. The minute they’d landed, Hyman was taken into custody, John and Dante had been medivacced out in another helicopter, and Turner was left to follow by car with Squeaky. He still wasn’t sure how she’d found a car to drive back to Milwaukee. His Chevy Silverado, along with much of the surrounding forest, must have been ashes by that point. He’d been worried about Dante and the delay in getting him help. The younger man had been unconscious by the time the helicopter rescued them. He’d lost quite a bit of blood, and his shoulder blade was cracked, but the docs were cautiously optimistic that with care he’d fully recover.
“Turn here,” John directed Turner. She’d been silent most of the ride.
Squeaky, a little singed and a lot smelling of lake, snored in the back. The glow from the dash softly lit Turner’s face. John watched her. She had a red welt on the side of her neck, probably a burn spot. She’d been so strong today, so fearless. And in the end, she’d relinquished the treasure in her grasp—evidence of Hyman’s crimes—for him.
What could a man say to a woman who’d sacrificed so much?
He opened his mouth, but then they turned into the parking lot. John frowned and decided what he had to say could wait until they’d gotten inside and had a chance to sit down. They parked, and he climbed out of the car carefully. They’d given him a painkiller at the hospital, but his head still felt like a semi had hit him.
“Are you okay?” Turner watched him worriedly, probably afraid that he’d fall down and she’d have to drag his sorry ass up a flight of stairs.
“I’m fine.”
She didn’t look convinced, but she made no reply. They went in the building and up the stairs, and he tried to find the right phrase for what he wanted to say. He halted in the hall beside his apartment.
“Turner . . .” He grimaced and fished in his pocket for the key.
She looked at him. “What?”
“I—”
“Dad!”
My God. He swung around at the feminine voice. Rachel was behind him. Taller, her blond hair longer. His first stunned thought was that she looked so mature.
“Rachel?” he asked stupidly.
She frowned—scowled, really. “Who is this? Is she why you haven’t been answering my calls?”
“Rachel, why don’t you come inside?” He fumbled at the door.
“I want an answer, John. I want one now. She—”
“A bullet grazed your father’s head today,” Turner said evenly. “An inch over and he woul
d be dead right now.”
Rachel swung her scowl to Turner. “What right do you have—” The meaning of Turner’s words seemed to hit her. Her face opened, her eyebrows drawing up, her mouth widening. “Daddy?”
John grimaced. “Come inside—”
But then a strident voice interrupted him. “Rachel!”
They all turned. Well, shit. This was just perfect. Amy was rushing toward them with, yup, Dennis the asshole in tow. His head felt like it was about to explode.
“Rachel!” Her mother skidded to a halt in front of the girl, hands on hips. “What were you thinking to come here without even telling me or your father?”
Dennis, behind Amy, lifted a hand and mouthed hi to him. John nodded wearily. The guy was really all right. For an asshole.
“Is this something you cooked up, Mac?” Amy narrowed her eyes at him. “I would expect that—”
“She wants to know why you two divorced,” Turner said.
“What?” Amy blinked. “Who the hell are you?”
“She’s his girl,” Rachel sneered.
John felt his temper spike. “Turner,” he said clearly and loudly, “is the woman I’m going to marry.”
Rachel’s mouth dropped open, Dennis blinked, and Amy—for once—evidently couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Um,” Turner cleared her throat in the silence. “You all have a lot to talk about, and John needs to sit down. Rachel, why don’t you take your father’s arm before he keels over?” Against all expectations, his daughter rushed to his side. “I’ll just go down and get Squeaky.” She nodded at Amy. “Nice meeting you.”
And the one person he wanted to stay left.
John sighed. Fine. This was going to be a painful discussion no matter when it happened. Might as well get it over with while he was high on codeine. But then Rachel put her shoulder under his arm and helped him into his own apartment like she really thought he needed support. That was gratifying in a bittersweet way. He could smell some kind of perfume in her hair. His little girl used perfume.
“Maybe we ought to come back another time,” Dennis said. “John’s obviously been hurt—”