Chapter 2

TWO

So much for his brilliant escape from the hospital. At this rate, he’d perish, alone and trapped in a car, and they’d find his emaciated, decaying body…well, maybe never, given the remoteness of his location.

Maybe Crispin wouldn’t starve to death. He’d die from exposure, or even blood loss—his shoulder wound having ripped open—one drip at a time as he struggled to free himself from his prison.

From what he could make out, the tree he’d crashed into had flattened the tiny Kia.

If he could just reach the stupid burner phone, which had flown off his seat into the depths of the vehicle…

For the fiftieth time, as if the phone fairies might have decided to move the phone into his reach, he stretched out his free hand and felt around the debris-ridden floor of the car. Cups, wrappers, and who knew what sort of grossness lay in the litter.

Empty.

He laid his head back down on the seat, trying to unravel the crash. Most of it came up blank, but he did remember seeing a deer in his headlights. Remembered hitting the brakes.

He’d woken up, smashed against the passenger seat on his side, his legs tangled in the steering wheel, his body curled under the passenger dashboard, the roof pressing against his shoulder and legs.

He ached, but nothing felt broken. He’d managed to squeeze himself up to the passenger seat. Tried the door. Of course, stuck.

And then the acrid odor of smoke filled the cab, along with a tiny glow of red light against the spidery glass of the crushed windshield. He’d waited most of the night for the fire to consume him, to light the haze of gasoline that filled the car.

Now, as the morning misted into the car, a chill ran through his body. He had worked one leg free of the crushed driver’s side, but he hadn’t a hope of getting that door open.

Sorry, Booth. And Sophie, who had never really gotten a chance to get to know him again after his three-year stint of playing dead. She’d deserved more than his quick Hello! I’m alive! and a hug before he was back on the trail of The Brothers and the missing nuke.

Although, in truth, she’d known he wasn’t dead. He’d sent her postcards for years, secret hints as to his non-demise, so he wasn’t a complete jerk. Mostly.

This stupid job had cost him more than he’d ever expected. Including, apparently, a hero’s death. No, he’d go down as the guy taken out by Bambi.

He didn’t think he’d hit the deer, but that sounded about right—people and things that came into his headlights often ended up dead.

“Hello!”

He jerked, looked up toward the sliver of glass that remained of the passenger window.

“Anyone in there?—”

“Yes!” He jerked, and of course banged his head on the ceiling of the crushed roof, adding sparks to his already pounding head. “I’m here!”

“Oh my gosh—okay, listen, I’m going to try and get your door open.”

He loved that idea. Except—“With what, the handy jaws of life in your glove box?” Because he hadn’t heard a siren. He could only guess she might be a passerby, had glimpsed the crumpled orange Kia in the ditch.

Or maybe an angel, sent by God, showing up to save him, just like his mother always said. A very present help in times of trouble , although that hadn’t exactly worked out for her, had it?

“Shield your eyes. I’m not sure how this glass will break.”

He buried his face in the crook of his arm as the door creaked, fighting whatever wedge she’d put into the space. Putting his hand on the door, he tried to help, to unlatch it, to push with her force.

The door wrenched open with a shriek. Fresh air poured in, and a woman crouched at the opening. She wore a helmet, a yellow Nomex jacket, and held a Pulaski.

A firefighter. Sounded right, given the wildland fire that burned around them.

“You’re bleeding.” Her sunglasses hid her eyes, and she looked like a bandit with her handkerchief around her neck. Her dark-blonde hair hung in a single utilitarian braid. She put down the axe. “I have a first aid kit?—”

“Get me out of here first. Don’t worry about the blood—that’s an old wound.”

“Huh,” she said, but grabbed his upper arms with her gloved hands. He was already working himself free, gritting his teeth against the burn in his leg. So maybe he’d only been numb to whatever broken bones?—

Nope. Not broken, just stuck, and as he wrenched himself free, he ripped his pants and maybe sliced open some skin but managed to tumble out onto the soft, loamy earth. Gasoline from his destroyed tank soaked the ground, and he dragged himself away, with the woman’s help.

Which he shook free of as soon as he found his legs.

He stood up, and—oops, head rush—braced himself on a nearby tree.

“You should sit down,” she said.

His knees were already obeying.

She uncapped a canteen and handed it over. He took it, drinking too greedily—because maybe she needed it, but his entire body suddenly craved water.

“That’s a pretty nasty scrape there,” said the woman, who had taken the liberty of examining his leg. “And let me get a look at that shoulder wound.”

“I’m fine,” Crispin said, wiping his arm across his mouth.

She leaned back. “Clearly not. You have a head wound, and your face is pretty beat up, and you’re bleeding and?—”

“Thanks for the rescue.” Only then did he see that the fire burned on the opposite side of the dirt road, the “tree” an electrical pole. Awesome. He’d lit an entire forest on fire.

More collateral damage. He was attaining epic status.

He pushed himself up. Oops, no go. His head spun, and again he grabbed a tree limb. She stood up and steadied him, her hand on his arm. “Let me radio in for help. See if we can get a chopper out here.”

He shook his head. “I’m good. My place is just up the road. I just need—” He’d taken a step and clenched his jaw against a groan.

“What you need is medical attention.”

He turned to her and got a good look at her. Blood scraped her jawline, and she leaned a little on her Pulaski. “So do you.”

“I’m fine.” Clearly she had a case of the Crispins.

He gave a laugh that had nothing to do with humor. “Right. What happened? You get hit by a tree spur?” It happened—the snags from burnt trees came down on firefighters working the line.

“My chute got caught in the trees. I had to lower myself down. Not enough rope.”

Which meant she’d had to jump the last bit to the bottom, probably, hence the tender ankle? “What’s your name?”

“Jade. Yours?”

He sighed. Why not? “Crispin. Where’s the rest of your team?” He took another swig of water, then handed her back the canteen.

“Other side of Flatiron Mountain. West of the fire. My chute malfunctioned.”

She said it like it might just be another Tuesday, no hint of panic in her voice. Interesting. She lifted her glasses away and tucked them in the brim of her yellow helmet. Pretty eyes—brown, with hints of gold.

“It’ll take a bit for me to get picked up—too much attention on knocking down the fire. Which you started, I think.” She raised a brow.

He didn’t know why that irked him. “Yeah, I did that on purpose. Because there hasn’t been enough fire around here.”

“I was just stating a fact.”

“Here’s another fact. There was a deer. I swerved. The electrical pole got in my way. Thanks for the save.” He took a step. Fire burned up his leg, but it didn’t give out. And he didn’t wobble.

“How far is your place?” She followed him, as if to catch him.

“Could be a mile, up the road and to the east.”

“Perfect. Let’s go.”

He stilled. “I can make it.”

“Listen, I have to call in for a ride anyway. I usually carry a tracker, but…anyway, I can’t seem to get radio reception, so I’m on the hunt for cell service. I can’t in good conscience let a clearly injured man limp off into the woods alone, so?—”

“I’m not limping.”

“You’re practically staggering.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. “Yeah, well, you’re not running any marathons.” He indicated her near-limp as she took a step toward him.

“Bet I could outrun you.”

His eyebrow rose. Shoot, now he sort of liked her.

“Okay, hotshot, try and keep up. You can call in a ride with my sat phone.”

Phone.

He headed back to the car. Yes, staggering a little. Perfect.

Kneeling, he reached around the twisted carcass of the seat. There. Hopefully it wasn’t a dried-up hamburger bun.

Nope. He pulled out his burner phone. But his swiped overalls didn’t contain a pocket.

“Give it to me,” said Jade.

He handed it over, and she put it in her leg pouch.

“And I’m a smokejumper, not a hotshot.” Then she stepped right up to him and put her hand around his waist. “Put a sock in it, Crispy. You need help.”

Crispy?

He didn’t push her away, however, because she just might be right. For now, as they picked their way to the road and as she used her Pulaski to balance them, he’d hold on.

They were a pair, hobbling up the dirt road together, bloodied, the forest blackened on one side, the haze of smoke in the air.

All he could think was…this was a bad, very bad idea. Because who knew if The Brothers had found his house? Already gotten into his weapons cache. Maybe set up a perimeter, watching the screens in his office or even from inside his garage-bunker, ready to pick him and his come-along off as they stumbled into his compound.

Or worse, waiting to capture him again—no, capture them —and then he’d get to watch as another in-his-periphery victim got tortured and murdered.

He should probably ditch this woman before being in his airspace got her killed. But she had a pretty good grip on him, and frankly, everything hurt, so…

So he just prayed—yes, prayed , because he’d never fully jettisoned the hope his mother was right. That indeed, God hadn’t abandoned him, despite evidence to the contrary.

And that this time, please , he wasn’t walking into an ambush, taking pretty Jade the Smokejumper with him.

* * *

Jade had lied.

That fact only worsened with every step. Because Jade had landed hard—too hard—on her ankle coming out of that tree, and every step made her want to yelp, but…

But Crispin—she still couldn’t believe she’d called him Crispy—had gotten under her skin a little with his I-don’t-need-help-even-though-I’m-bleeding-and-can-barely-walk attitude. How she hated tough guys. So he needed her, and if he thought she might be hurt, he’d be the one insisting on carrying her.

She’d met too many tough guys—ahem, her brother Jed, and maybe her entire Midnight Sun firefighting crew, along with various SAR types that seemed to congregate in the last frontier state—so she knew how they operated.

Always had to be the hero.

This hero happened to be walking in bare feet too. She’d noticed as soon as she’d pulled him from the crumpled car, but he’d said nothing, so she hadn’t either.

But, weird.

“How much farther?” she said, keeping the pain out of her voice. Because she could do hero too if she had to.

“There’s a drive just up ahead, and the cabin is about five hundred yards in.” His voice emerged a little tight, so she guessed he might still be in more pain than her. Probably, he could be suffering from exposure, too, the temps last night having dropped despite the summer air. Given the state of his face, he’d hit the dash pretty hard, although some of the bruising looked faded?—

Old wound, he’d said. Bar fight? But she didn’t smell alcohol on him. He was wearing overalls, so a working man—maybe a plumber. One who’d lost his shoes? He wore a scruff of a dark-brown beard, and his body, despite the weakness, seemed lean and strong. His arm was draped over her shoulder, and he stood maybe eight inches taller than her, so she guessed around six three. He did have interesting eyes—hazel-green with flecks of gold, and a look in them that suggested pain along with a hint of anger. Clearly hiding something.

Maybe that story about the deer running him off the road. Except, again, no liquor smell. It didn’t matter. He needed help, and she needed a phone. Or a signal.

Mostly, she needed to get back to her team.

As if reading her mind, he said, “So, you’re with the Jude County smokejumpers?”

Interesting. But probably, with the summer of fire, everyone knew the JC fire team. “I’m just here to fill in as crew chief while the other one is on the mend. Came down from my team in Alaska. Although, I’m familiar with Ember. My brother, Jed, was the crew chief for a hotshot crew for years here. He’s down in Missoula for the summer with my sister-in-law, Kate, who was another Ember legacy firefighter. I’m bunking at his place while I’m here.”

They turned down the dirt road, the grass high between the tire trails. “How long have you lived here?”

“Not long. It’s just up ahead.” He’d slowed, however, seemed to be scanning the area as if—“Actually, how about if you hang back for a second?—”

“What, you have an ornery hound dog that’s going to bite me?”

“Something like that.” He lifted his arm from her shoulder. Scanned the area. Between the trees sat a small cabin with a front porch, surrounded by towering Douglas firs, set in the middle of a cleared-out swath of land. A small outbuilding that looked like a garage. A woodbin and a grill sat on the porch, along with one Adirondack chair.

So, the guy lived alone.

He took a step, grunted, and that was just enough.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. I can handle a dog.” She put her arm back around his waist. “C’mon.” She practically dragged him into his yard, his arm tighter around her.

He picked up his pace then and hustled her to the front door. Despite the rustic exterior, it held a keypad, and he keyed in a code.

The door unlocked, and he practically shoved her inside.

Pulled the door shut behind him and locked it.

“You’re not a serial killer, are you? Because I do know how to use this.” She held up her axe.

“Just stay away from the windows.”

Huh?

Small but clean. A big room with a wooden planked floor covered in a braided wool rug, a worn but comfy-looking leather sofa in the middle of the room, and a potbellied stove that sat on stones in the corner. Behind that, a small kitchen held a table in the center, a pantry to one side, and a small vintage fridge and stove to the other. The sink overlooked the forested backyard.

He disappeared into one of the two rooms off the main.

She followed him in.

Stilled.

Monitors hung on the wall—six of them—and he must have tapped into some underground electrical line, because they all hummed with pictures of every angle of the yard, including the drive. Now she tightened her grip on the Pulaski. “Are you some sort of prepper?”

He had fired up his computer that sat on a simple wooden table and now studied the screens. “Something like that.”

She picked up her radio, turned it on.

“Wait.”

He walked over to her, and she stepped back, held up her axe.

“Wait for what? You to drug me and shove me into your basement? You’re right—this was a bad idea. I’ll just step outside?—”

“You’re not going anywhere.”

And with that, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. “I think I am, buddy?—”

He held up his hands, and just like that, his expression changed. “Oh, wow. Sorry. Um…okay.” He swallowed. “There are people after me, and I thought maybe they’d staked out the house. I’m not sure they haven’t, but…” He let out a breath. “Let’s get some ice on your ankle. I know you’re limping.”

He did?

She didn’t move.

“I really promise that I’m not a murderer living in the woods.”

“That’s what a murderer in the woods would say.”

He smiled at that. Shoot, he had a nice smile. A non-killer-in-the-woods smile. And when he added the smallest twinkle in his eyes, he was almost handsome. A John Krasinski action hero kind of handsome. “Yep,” he said. “So I guess you’ll just have to trust me.”

She narrowed an eye but moved back to let him pass. He headed to the kitchen and pulled an ice pack from the inner freezer of the ancient green fridge. Handed it to her.

“You keep this at the ready?”

He lifted a shoulder.

“Because of your MMA side gig?”

He raised an eyebrow. She held up a flattened hand and waved it in a circle in front of his face. “You have a sort of Conor McGregor post-bout look about you. I have a hard time believing the steering wheel fought back.”

Another twitch of his mouth. But he walked over to a small room, opened the door. Bathroom.

She sat on one of the straight-back kitchen chairs and undid her boot. This could be a bad idea, given the swelling might make it impossible to put her boot back on. But, ice. She eased it off, closing one eye.

The water ran in the next room, and after a moment, during which she put her foot up and iced her ankle, he came out, a little cleaner.

And with his shirt off.

So, not a plumber. Or maybe the fittest plumber she’d ever met, not an inch of fat on his toned, ripped torso, a smattering of black hair dusting his chest. But oh. My. The guy had certainly taken some McGregor hits, his torso blackened with old blood, green and still purple in areas. A bandage at his shoulder spotted with dried blood. She leaned back. Folded her arms. “Who are you?”

“Just a guy. Ran into trouble in town. But…I need you to take a look at my stitches.” He turned and, yep, blood ran down his back. He’d taken off the bandage, revealing a small, puckered seam of skin, stitched. Blood had escaped the edges. “Are they ripped?”

He crouched, and she leaned in to examine the wound. And it hit her—“Is this a gunshot wound?”

“Are they ripped?”

“Yes, a couple. But the rest are intact.”

“Tape it up.” He held a roll of medical tape over his shoulder.

“Who are you? Jason Bourne?” She ripped the tape and then closed the open parts, pulling one edge into the next.

“Nope.” He stood. Took the tape. “Just a murderer in the woods.” He winked.

Aw, she didn’t know what to believe.

He disappeared into the other room—probably his bedroom, because he came out with a pair of shorts and a black T-shirt. Paused. “There’s a sat phone in the office. Feel free to call your team.”

Right.

Then he disappeared again into the bathroom. A moment later, the shower ran.

Her ankle throbbed less, although she still gritted her teeth as she got up and headed to the office.

Conner answered her call on the first ring. “Chief Young.”

“It’s me, Jade?—”

“Where in the Sam Hill are you? The team is losing their minds.”

“I’m fine. Chute malfunction, and I got blown into the trees. No radio service, but I’m calling from a cabin. It’s off South Fork Road, maybe ten miles from Ember, east of the jump site. And I repeat, I’m fine. But I found an injured motorist. We both need pickup, but it’s not urgent.”

The shower had turned off.

“Okay, I’ll get someone to get up there and pick you up. You okay to sit tight for a bit? Could be tonight, even.”

“The fire’s that bad?”

“The wind stirred up the main blaze to the west, although your team is working fast. Logan’s at the helm.”

“Everybody okay?”

“Now they are.”

Right.

“I’ll be in touch.” He hung up.

“Hungry?”

She turned, and Crispin slash Bourne stood at the door, the black shirt stuck to his body, his dark hair tousled with the towel he held in his hands, shorts on. He’d done a quick shave, leaving only stubble on his angular face. A line of blood trickled from his shin, the scrape a shallow line, not needing stitches. Just another rip in his fine exterior.

Frankly, she couldn’t decide if he looked fierce and invincible or just barely holding himself together.

“I could eat.” She got up.

“I hope you like eggs?—”

A gunshot took out the glass of his front window, and just like that, Crispin took her down, his body over hers, his hands braced on either side of her.

What—

She gasped, but he moved—faster than his body seemed capable of—rolling and scrambling to his office. “Stay down!”

Another shot and absolutely, no problem, she was down, down! But she would scramble behind the sofa, thank you, because—“What is going on!”

He emerged from the office, holding—seriously?—an AR-15.

Which seemed way too appropriate for a murderer in the woods.

He hunkered down at his broken window and fired. “We’re under attack.”

Of course they were.