Risk the Burn

by Marnee Blake

  As he’d gone through the painful process of recovery, he’d downplayed the difficulty. How many times he’d doubted that he’d ever be whole again.

  He’d hidden so much that his concerns had become secrets.

  Meg would understand, though. She was a physician assistant. She would be able to guide him to someone who could help him figure out what was going on in his head.

  He also needed to talk with Charlie. As the tug of his parachute opening and catching sent a rush through his stomach, her face flitted through his mind, another tug in his chest.

  His suspicion that she was hiding something from him clarified. She had wanted him to walk away, had pushed him to do so. Why?

  Well, she had said she needed time, but he wasn’t the sort to give up. If she hadn’t figured that out about him yet, then he would prove just how steadfast he could be.

  When he got back from this jump, he’d fix things, with his head and with his heart.

  As he floated to the ground, the plume of smoke from the fire he would be fighting trailed into the sky nearby, and for the first time in a long time he was at peace with his direction.

  His landing went perfectly. Most important, he managed not to tree himself. In record time, he gathered his gear, stowed his jumpsuit, and headed off to meet the rest of his colleagues.

  When they’d all huddled up around the crew boss, Tim, his face was grim. “It’s a meth lab.” He shook his head. “We’re to assess the situation from a distance, but we’re waiting on additional resources for hazmat containment.”

  Meth labs in the forest were becoming a much larger concern for the Forest Services. Because of the flammable materials involved, containing them could be tricky. The personnel working the fire had to be constantly aware of the chance for explosions or for exposure to potentially hazardous materials.

  As they broke off and began the process of stopping the fire’s spread and clearing a space for a helicopter to land with more specialized hazardous material personnel, he dug into the backbreaking work involved in this job. Smokejumpers might have the added difficulty of parachuting into the remote spaces that took longer for other firefighters to get to, but the methods of firefighting remained the same. Axes and debris removal, creating a barrier to keep the fire from reaching its fuel. The monotone of the physical labor and the science of burns.

  He’d fallen into the motions, the natural high he got from repeated physical activity, so he didn’t notice right away when the shouts from the rest of the team split the forest.

  Two men were stumbling around, flailing. They might be in their teens, but he couldn’t be sure. They were significantly aged, their faces pockmarked and their cheeks sunken. Probably the meth cooks.

  And one of them was holding a gun.

  Around him, the other jumpers had realized the same. They’d all attended the required training session on how pop-up meth labs were becoming a major issue for the government agencies involved in forest preservation. They were taught to stay away from anyone involved with the labs, as tweakers could be paranoid and erratic, disassociated from reality, so they were backing away slowly.

  But, though the situation was dangerous, the coincidence was too much for Hunter.

  It hadn’t even been two days since Charlie had been stabbed, and now he was standing next to an explosive meth lab, facing two armed tweakers? The back of his neck tingled.

  That wasn’t a coincidence.

  “Where’s Buchanan?” The man with the gun yelled. “I’m looking for Buchanan.”

  The sickness in his stomach consolidated, even as his temper ignited. “Who’s asking?”

  “Santillo says that you’re worth killing.” The tweaker didn’t look at anyone else, his attention directed at Hunter. He moved through the brush, his arm outstretched, the gun waving.

  The other man stayed back, as if some part of his drug-addled mind recognized his partner wasn’t getting him involved in anything good.

  “You work for Santillo?” Hunter needed to keep him talking. If the guy remained focused on him, he wouldn’t be looking at his friends.

  “He says you ruined his life.” The cook had to scream over the flames behind him.

  “Think he probably did that himself,” Hunter yelled back. Around him, the other jumpers were shifting back and away in an ever-expanding circle. To help shield them even further, he stepped forward, drawing the cook’s attention.

  The cook lowered the gun, putting it on the ground. “He’s coming for you, you know. That’s what he told me to tell you.” He backed away from the gun. “He wanted me to tell you that after he kills your little whore, he’s coming for you, too.”

  With that bit of prophetic rambling, he joined the other man and they sat down, their hands in front of them.

  The crew boss had pulled his revolver, approaching the two cooks and keeping them in his sights. There was more shouting as someone else came forward with rope and the two men were subdued.

  Lance approached him. “Hunter. You okay?”

  He shook his head. This was so fucked that he wasn’t sure he’d ever be okay again. “I need to get back to Charlie.”

  “Buchanan.” The crew boss’s revolver was holstered again, and he stalked toward them. “What the ever-loving hell is going on?”

  “I’d like to go back with them. Have you radioed for a helicopter?”

  “Christ.” The boss ran his hand over his soot-covered hair. “Yeah. I did before, actually, when we found out it was a meth lab. Nothing has changed. We still need to clear a landing for it. That’ll take some time.”

  “Understood. But when it’s ready, may I go?”

  “That’s highly irregular.” The boss glared at him. “Not sure if you noticed, Buchanan, but there’s a fire over there. I need you.”

  “My girl.” Hunter wasn’t sure if he could call Charlie his girl any longer, but in his heart, that’s what she was. He loved her. He wasn’t sure that would change anything for her, especially with all of the trouble he’d brought into her life. But that didn’t stop him from feeling that way. “She’s in danger.”

  “We can call back, have someone check on her.”

  He nodded. “Please.” He wanted to push, to demand to go. But what could he do there that the police couldn’t do without him? He understood that he was better utilized here, fighting this fire.

  Tim must have seen that on his face. “Damn it.” He glanced toward the two cooks, now bound. “Fine. I’d want to go, too, if it was me. Let’s go call back, explain what we can, call in law enforcement. But then you better work your ass off until they get here.”

  “Absolutely.” As if there were any question.

  Following the boss to the radio so he could relay information back to the base, Hunter couldn’t help wondering, though, if the precautions they were going to take would be enough to keep her safe.

  When he was finished, he hurried back to his Pulaski, digging in to clear the brush for the helicopter. The faster they finished this, the sooner he could lay eyes on Charlie.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hunter boarded the helicopter with the meth cooks. He couldn’t help himself; he attempted to get what he could out of them. The one who hadn’t uttered a word since they’d found them in the woods kept silent. His eyes cast around frantically. Either he recognized how much trouble he was in or his paranoia was so high that everything around him looked dangerous.

  The one who’d wielded the gun was more forthcoming, at least initially. He started with repeating what he’d said at the meth lab, that Santillo was coming for him. But when Hunter’s line of questions turned to what—if anything—Santillo was going to do to help the cook, he clammed up, his eyes narrowing.

  After calling to the air center so they could contact Charlie’s guards and tell them what happened, Hunter spent the remainder of the trip back to Redmo
nd berating himself. He was pissed and terrified, a horrible combination.

  What if he didn’t get to her in time? She could be in danger right now and he had been in the middle of a National Forest, leaving her to her own devices.

  He should have seen it coming, but the panic attack hit hard, stealing his breath and filling him with doom. As his gaze bounced around the helicopter, he couldn’t avoid comparing his own lack of focus with the two meth addicts next to him.

  And even as the anxiety paralyzed him, he recognized that if he was with Charlie right now, he would be no help at all.

  He’d spent all these months avoiding the reasons why he was having these episodes, pretending it wasn’t an issue. He had done intricate mental gymnastics to convince himself that when some variable was removed from his life, they would go away. That variable had changed more than a couple times, until he had to admit that he had no idea what was causing the attacks. At first, he’d assumed they were linked to his first jump. After what had happened a year ago, it had been logical; facing another jump after that would be difficult.

  He’d credited Charlie with his successful jump. He’d latched onto her as his strength, as a calming factor in his life. When he hadn’t been able to talk to his family or his friends, he had been able to talk to her. He’d opened up to her in ways that had helped him, grounded him.

  He’d believed she’d fixed him.

  But was he broken? He had finished training, top of his class. By all accounts, he was physically recovered. He was dependable and worked hard.

  He’d come so far, but he had to admit that he couldn’t figure this out, and it bothered him that it remained out of his reach.

  Why hadn’t he asked for help earlier? When he’d talked with Lance at the base, Lance had been pissed. Hunter tried to put himself in Lance’s position. If he’d watched one of his friends struggle, if he’d found out that Lance or Dak or one of his siblings had been struggling with panic attacks or anxiety and hadn’t said something, he would have been upset. But mostly, he’d have been concerned, like Lance.

  None of their accomplishments—personal or professional—would be worth his loved one’s happiness. So why hadn’t he treated his own health and happiness with the same regard?

  He would have insisted they get help. Why hadn’t he taken his own advice?

  Except he’d been trying so hard to prove to them that everything was all right now. That even though last year’s accident had happened, he’d recovered. He’d finished rehab, finished training, become a smokejumper like his family expected.

  But maybe that was the problem. This wasn’t about them. It was his life. He didn’t need to prove anything to anyone but himself.

  Lance was right. He’d let this get too far out of hand.

  As soon as things settled down, as soon as Charlie was safe, he’d start the process. If that threatened his work at the air center, so be it.

  This was his life. It wasn’t perfect, but he wasn’t broken either.

  It was time he took back control. It was overdue.

  When he arrived at the air center, he changed in record time before hurrying to his car. He dialed the hospital on his way, needing to hear what they’d done to ensure Charlie’s safety. As he accelerated, his car eating up the miles between Redmond and Bend, he wouldn’t relax until he saw her for himself.

  * * * *

  Charlie’s eyes were heavy when the door to her hospital room opened after dinner, admitting a janitor cart. Two hours earlier, two detectives from the Bend PD had stopped by, explaining that Johnny Santillo had planted meth cooks in the forest to warn Hunter. They didn’t know many details, but they were under strict orders to remain at her door and increase their vigilance.

  She’d been unable to eat any dinner. She’d attempted a book but hadn’t been able to concentrate, instead settling on reality TV.

  Meth cooks had threatened Hunter. She’d processed that they had threatened her, too, but all she could focus on was that he’d been threatened.

  Her whole point for being distant had been to try to keep him safe. Or so she’d told herself. Had she believed that would actually work?

  She’d been protecting herself, not him.

  She’d called Meg, who didn’t have any additional information either except that Lance was on the jump with Hunter. Her worry had coursed over the line. When Meg had offered to come and sit with her, Charlie had declined. No reason for her to drive to Bend when Lance would be flying back into Redmond.

  So instead, she was watching Housewives.

  The janitor’s cart was bulky, and it took some maneuvering inside. But when the maintenance person closed the door, she shifted up further in her bed. “Hello,” she said.

  The man was handsome. Dark hair, olive skin, a strong jaw. As a physical therapist, she noticed he was in good physical shape. When he turned, though, he pointed a pistol at her. She stilled completely.

  “Hello,” he said, keeping the gun on her as he went to the windows and pulled the blinds. “I’m Johnny Santillo. You might have heard of me.”

  Of course she had, though this wasn’t what she’d expected. He looked nothing like the meth addicts that he’d sent after her. This man was healthy, alert. Cunning.

  “Name rings a bell.” Her heart had kicked up, racing in her chest. Where were her guards? They’d promised not to go too far.

  “The officers?” Santillo peeked through a few slats in the blinds. There was education in the lilt of his conversation. This wasn’t a fool. “If you’re wondering where they are, Officer Kenner went to the bathroom and might have slipped and fallen. Or I hit him on the head. One or the other. When his partner arrived, he joined him. They’re in a closet now. Tied up.”

  Oh God. How badly were they hurt? “There are other police officers around. You can’t expect to get out of here.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Santillo smirked. “But we’ll see, I guess.” He winked at her. “I’m actually waiting for someone.”

  “Big date?” She had to keep him talking. Her new pepper spray was in her handbag nearby, along with her cell phone. She couldn’t reach it right now without giving herself away. She had expected to have a few moments’ warning if there was danger. Thinking about it, she realized how ridiculous that was. She should have been prepared, kept the spray closer.

  “Your boyfriend is in the parking lot.”

  Hunter was here. “You’ve been watching. Waiting.”

  “Figured it was only a matter of time before he showed up. He’d want to check on you, after the lab explosion earlier.” Santillo shrugged. “And I might have mentioned that I was trying to kill you.”

  She could only blink at him. “You’re a psychopath.”

  “Maybe.” Again, the shrug. “But mostly, I spent a few years in jail. It was the worst experience of my life. I’ve killed people for less. Your boyfriend deserves to die.”

  “That’s horribly morbid.” What kind of monster was this man?

  “Life’s hard, baby. I didn’t make my money having sympathy for humanity.” That was true enough. He was a drug dealer. She’d witnessed the addicts who had attacked her. Even the woman with the knife. They’d been afraid, out of their minds. Paranoid, probably. Disillusioned.

  They’d been promised something and ended up with trouble.

  “You scared him so he would come and see me.” Of course that’s what Santillo had done. Because anyone who had ever met Hunter would know he wouldn’t allow someone he cared about to be alone like this. His sense of justice, of righting whatever wrong in his life or in others’ lives, well, it oozed out of him.

  “I was sick of waiting to finish this. I have a business to run, and I don’t have time to keep waiting to get you both in one spot. This isn’t the easiest escape plan, but it’ll do the trick.”

  A knock sounded at the door. Santillo waved at
her.

  She shook her head. No way. If he thought she’d call him in here, he was out of his mind. He could shoot her. Let the chips fall where they may.

  He cocked his gun and she only stared at him.

  “Charlie?” Hunter’s voice sounded through the door as he knocked again. “Hello?”

  The blow caught her off guard. She’d been watching the door so intently that she hadn’t been paying attention to Santillo.

  He hit her across the face with the pistol. It had to have been the gun, because the pain was too much for a fist. There was a pop in her head, and she was sure he’d broken something. Her cheek, maybe. Or her jaw.

  She must have cried out, because the door burst open. Through the pain vibrating in her skull, she could only focus on her pepper spray. Unable to see, she dove toward her purse.

  Praying, she rummaged on the top, certain she’d left it next to her phone.

  There. Her fingers closed around it as her vision began to clear.

  In front of her, the janitor cart had been knocked over. Hunter had his hands wrapped around Santillo’s gun, and they were jockeying for position. The men were evenly matched, but Santillo’s hands were on the bottom, right on top of the gun.

  She didn’t wait. Spraying, she tried to aim for Santillo, but she was certain she got them both.

  As both men hit the floor, she reached behind her. Her face throbbed and her stitches pulled, but she pressed the call button and started screaming her head off.

  * * * *

  An hour later, Hunter sat on Charlie’s bed. She held an ice pack against the throbbing bruise on her cheek. The doctor had been in to check it, but he hadn’t thought it was broken. They planned to take her to have it X-rayed as soon as the police were finished with her.

  Hunter reached for her free hand.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, obviously uncomfortable.

  She attempted a joke. “Like a donkey kicked me in the face.” She rolled her eyes. “Getting hit in the face with a pistol can ruin a perfectly good day, you know?”