Driven by Fire (Fire 2)

“I think anything’s possible. We just need to get through the night. There’s a small village a mile or two to the left, and I’m going to see if I can get us some food and gasoline.”

She stared at him. “Have you been here before? How do you know there’s a village nearby?”

“I can smell smoke and farm animals on the wind.”

Jenny took a tentative sniff. “I can’t smell anything.”

“You don’t have my training. Just sit tight and I’ll be back.”

“You’re leaving me?” she shrieked.

“For God’s sake, lower your voice! You never know who’s around,” he said irritably.

“And again I say, you’re leaving me? To those mysterious marauders?”

“I’ll leave you my gun.”

“No!” she said in horror. “I’ve already killed one person today—that’s about my limit.”

He came over to her, and she’d forgotten how very large he was, how intimidating he could be. “You’re going to sit your sweet little ass down over there, wrap yourself in the jacket, and keep my gun in your hand. If anyone shows up and it’s not me, you’re to shoot first and ask questions later.”

“What if you don’t come back?”

“Don’t make me think you care one way or another, gorgeous. And you may as well accept the fact—I always come back. You can’t get rid of me until I’m ready to let go. You’re going to have an hour or two of sitting alone, and then I’ll be back and you can entertain yourself hating me.”

“I don’t hate you,” she said in a very small voice.

“Oh, yeah? You could have fooled me.” He shoved her down on the ground, wrapped a jacket around her shoulders, and put a gun in her hand. It was the same gun she’d had before, but back then it had simply been a tool. Now she could see Soledad’s face as she’d gone over the balcony, and she wanted to throw it at him.

He must have sensed her rebellion. “You want the Guiding Light to have a crack at you?” he said in a cool voice. “I’ll be back in time to kill them before they could finish with you, but if they happen to find you, you’d be in for a very unpleasant time.”

She tightened her grip on the gun. “Don’t be long,” she said.

For the first time in the entire horrid day, he smiled at her, and even though it was tinged with cynicism, she felt some vague stirrings of hope. “One might almost think you cared, Parker.” And then he’d melted into the underbrush as if he’d never been there in the first place.

One or two miles, he’d said. One or two miles through this dense foliage, following the scent of something she couldn’t smell. And then one or two miles back, following nothing but whatever kind of path he made on his way out.

He was never coming back for her. He hated her for doubting him, hated her for all the trouble she was. Traveling on his own would be a lot easier without her tagging along—he could hike or hitch a ride to the port city and fly out from there, complete with the sad tale of how she’d been murdered by rebels. Her father would probably breathe a sigh of relief as he made a substantial contribution to the church in her memory. If there was one thing you could say about her villainous father, he was a devout Catholic.

Who else would mourn her? Daisy, her paralegal, might be more worried about where her next paycheck was coming from. Her two older brothers wouldn’t give a damn.

As for Billy . . . she still didn’t know what to believe, and at this point she didn’t care. She’d gotten herself into this unholy mess because of a misguided need to save him, save someone who’d done something unforgivable, and her act of covering up for him was unforgivable in itself. Maybe she deserved all this.

It had all been for nothing. Ryder hadn’t seemed the slightest bit discomfited by the loss of the phone, but then, he’d already known about it, had already hacked it. Which meant there had never been the need for her to come with him, never been the need for him to hurt her. He’d already known most of the answers to what she’d been hiding, and he’d hurt her anyway, the sadistic bastard.

Except he hadn’t hurt her since. When they’d had sex he’d been almost tender with her, if such a strong man could be tender. She would have thought he’d feel wracked with guilt, but Ryder wasn’t the kind of man who let guilt faze him. Then again, what did she know about what kind of man he was? She was an idiot when it came to people—Ryder might be a secret saint or a sociopath, and whichever she guessed

would probably be wrong.

She drew her knees up to her chest, huddling under the blanket, as his cruel words came back to her. “You fuck like a virgin,” he’d said. She could think of a thousand comebacks now that it was too late, but in truth she just wanted to put her head down and cry. She hadn’t really liked sex, had never liked it, until Ryder had crawled into her bed, and his touch had been such a revelation she’d been foolish enough to think it was mutual.

He wasn’t going to come back for her. Why should he? She’d destroyed his piece of evidence, she’d lied to cover up for her brother, she fucked like a virgin. What possible use would he have for her? He’d know well enough her father wouldn’t be grateful for her return, particularly since Ryder was going after Billy. So what possible use would he have for her? He’d be much better off on his own.

He was probably lying when he said he could smell civilization a few miles away, just using it as an excuse to get away from her. There were wild animals in the jungle, jaguars and pumas and . . . and snakes.

She hugged her knees tightly. Maybe she was going to die from one of those snakes, maybe that explained her lifelong, irrational fear. Deep inside she’d always known they’d bring about her death, and she’d been terrified, knowing those coils would wrap around her, slowly, squeezing the life from her, crushing every bone in her body so that he could swallow her whole . . .

“Stop it!” The sound of her voice in the jungle was a shock. Her throat hurt from Soledad’s clawlike fingers—if she hadn’t shoved her away Soledad might have killed her. But she hadn’t meant for Soledad to go over the ledge—it had just happened. If only she didn’t keep seeing Soledad’s pale, surprised face as she went spinning, gliding downward to smash against the sharp rocks of the ravine. She would see that face in her nightmares when she was in her eighties, she knew it. She’d killed a woman. A woman who’d already been shot, an evil, murderous woman. None of that made a difference. In the end she’d taken a life, and she felt forever changed.